Due to the delay of The Merchant of Nevra Coil, I’m not sure I should be posting more Legends of Windemere teasers for a week or two.  So I grabbed a random, unedited piece from that paranormal thriller I attempted to write earlier in the year.  Still not sure what to do with it though.  Part of me wants to publish it, but another wonders if I should just gradually put it up on the blog starting next year.  It was a tough, heavy thing to write and I feel bad that I might let it rot.  On the other hand, it was a tough, heavy thing and I’m scared to revisit the darkness.

Hopefully people enjoy it.  Not knowing the genre left me in the dark on a lot of things.  Anyway, here we go.

American McGee’s Alice

Rubbing his dark blue eyes and yawning, Ian Connors stares out the windows of Grace’s office. The new arrival is still curious as to why Raven’s Hold sent him a brochure, but he is no longer nervous. A brief tour of the school has helped him get over his fear that this is some kind of scam. Even though the interior is bland, the young man is impressed with the elegant surroundings that remind him of a resort. Not that he is any good at sports, but it is nice to know such amenities are available during his stay. Ian can already sense his staggering depression weaken and takes a deep breath that feels like it is the first one he has enjoyed in years. His mood falters when it falls on one of the scars on his arm, a harsh reminder of the reason he has been invited to the island.

“Thank you for giving me this opportunity, Dr. Rutherford,” Ian says, forcing a smile toward the patient doctor. He shifts in his chair while figuring out where to put his hands, settling for folding them in his lap. “I really want to get my life back together. Though, what you explained during the tour makes me think I don’t really belong here. You described some hard luck situations. I’m only depressed.”

“And yet your condition makes it difficult to get to work every day and hold onto any relationship,” Grace replies while tapping her pen on the desk. Leaning back in her chair, the doctor lets her knuckles touch the beak of a bronze raven on her bookcase. “Mr. Connors, I handpick every patient. Some I take on because I feel they are being failed by the more standard methods. Others, like yourself, I invite because they have given up on improving and I see that it is possible. You were whole once and you can be again.”

“That’s oddly poetic for a doctor. Not really professional either,” Ian cynically replies before he can stop himself. A flicker of guilt causes him to scowl and he stares at his knees. “I’m sorry about that, ma’am. That was rude and you’re only trying to help. People haven’t been the nicest to me since they think I’m holding onto my sadness for attention. So I occasionally react poorly to those that try to lend me a hand.”

“That reaction is more common than you think, Mr. Connors,” the doctor says, her smile never faltering. She rocks forward to push a clipboard across the desk and rolls a pen toward her new patient. “I need you to fill out these forms before I introduce you to our other residents. A few incidents have happened over these least five years, so we need to be on the safe side. I’m telling you this to create a bond of trust and honesty. As you stated, our patients tend to be hard luck cases and it occasionally results in violent outbursts. I’m sure you have nothing to worry about. Though your history requires that we keep you away from sharp objects until we are sure you won’t harm yourself.”

“I understand. The psych ward I was in after my first breakdown had the same rules.”

“You’ll find we operate similarly to such places, but with a bit more freedom.”

Not entirely understanding what the doctor is talking about, Ian decides to nod and focus on the paperwork. The forms are the same ones he has filled out at every medical facility that he has been brought to over the last three years. Completing them is practically second nature, so he stalls by pretending to think of the answers. Ian takes in the sight of the office with its leather couch, rows of books, and a gurgling water cooler. A small refrigerator is in the corner with a lock on the door and a few colorful magnets adorning the sides. For the first time, he notices several ravens scattered about the room. Some are statues and bookends while others are plush toys, making him guess that Grace named her institution after her favorite animal.

Peering out the window, Ian tries to catch a glimpse of the other patients who he can hear outside. His hand swerves and leaves a long mark across the top form when one of the distant voices starts imitating a screaming child. With his arms shuddering, the young man practically tosses the clipboard and pen onto the desk. His breathing is staggered and he could swear that something is pressing on his shoulders. An icy breeze coils through the open window and caresses his face, the scent of roses making his mouth go dry. It takes several minutes for him to calm down and reach a quivering hand to reclaim the unfinished forms.

“It appears you have more than depression,” Grace mentions while she gets the young man some water.