The Fabric of our Souls

James pulls up to the pick-up bay of the hospital in his blacked-out Escalade. He’s worked really hard to get where he is, which makes me uncomfortable because I don’t know how much this institution is costing him, not to mention my hospital bills that he also demanded to shoulder from me.

It’s pouring rain today. The crisp scent of the world entering its slumber and the pitter-patter on the pavement soothe my anxiety. I stand under the awning with one of the medical assistants as the SUV pulls around the loop.

James gets out and thanks the staff member as I slip inside the passenger-side door. He has country music playing; I scowl at the sound of it, scrolling the sound all the way down before he gets back in the car. He throws my small duffle bag in the back seat and shuts the door a little too hard, tipping me off that he’s in a hurry.

“Long morning?” I ask after he clicks his seatbelt. I rub the sleeves of my oversized gray sweater between my thumb and forefinger, a nervous tick I need to shake.

He runs his hand through his brown hair, slicking it back with droplets of rain, and scoffs. “That’s an understatement. It’s been a fucking shit show trying to get all my appointments moved around today. I’ll have to hop into a meeting when we get to Harlow but it shouldn’t be more than thirty minutes. Then we’ll get all the paperwork wrapped up quickly so I can catch my flight back home.”

“I’m not a fucking dog that you’re dropping off at a pound… I can handle the paperwork. You don’t need to stay if you’re busy.” I try to keep the disappointment out of my voice, but it’s hard. He’s like Mom before she died, pretending like work is more important than anything else in life—like he’ll never die.

His eyes dart over to me, shock and a bit of hope brimming in them. “Really? That would help out a lot, actually.”

“Yeah, it’s my own ordeal anyway. I’m thankful that you came to begin with. You didn’t need to… but I appreciate it.” I sink in my seat a bit, just able to see the fields and city grow further in the distance.

Harlow Sanctum stands tall and lonely in vast, darkened fields beneath a dreadful stormy sky. Montana is a good place to be sick. The weather sucks, the winters are long, and the mountains beckon to you. Mountain sickness is what I’ve frequently heard it termed, where the higher altitudes fuck with your brain and make you depressed.

Part of Harlow’s marketing is that they are located in the northwestern part of the state, in the lowest elevation.

Great, out in the middle of nowhere.

I check my phone and am not surprised that there’s no service out here. It’s okay, it’s not like anyone has messaged me anyway. I’m looking forward to unplugging from the socials for a while. I don’t have any friends that will miss me.

The rain has hardly let up since we left the hospital over an hour ago. The closest town is Bakersville, which has a cute Main Street that we drove through to get here. They already have decorations for an end-of-summer Brewfest strung along the lamp posts and some flyers for their Fall Festival the weekend of Halloween.

I stare expressionlessly at the gray stone walls of the sanctum. This place looks like the castles I once saw in Ireland with James. Vines cling to the bricks. The stones are wet, drenched with relentless rain. Fancy black planter boxes filled with orange and yellow marigolds line the massive entrance, four on each side. A large, modern chandelier hangs from the center of the portico. James pulls up beneath it and I take in the large windows framing the front doors.

It’s straight out of a storybook.

Once James parks his car, we don’t waste any time grabbing my single bag from the back seat and rushing to the enormous front doors. They are black and modern, an obvious addition to the original structure, but they tie in perfectly.

“Hurry, I’m running late.” James checks his watch obsessively as I open one of the huge doors.

Musky air invades my senses as we step through the threshold and into the three-story foyer. Black marbled tiles make up the floors that stretch to many hallways on each side of the institute. Weathered wood pillars that could use another stain frame the massive room. Large chandeliers hang from the ceilings.

The lobby is quiet. A small elderly woman sits at the front desk. Her thick-framed glasses hardly manage to stay on her face; they cling to the very end of her button nose. Her gray hair is curly and short. She reminds me of my old piano teacher—except the wrinkles on this lady’s face are clearly from smiling, not scowling, like the witch of my past.

I frown as the dread of this place starts sinking into me. It looks a lot like a fancy hotel, except this place is depressing. Gray walls, black floors, gray everything else. It could just be in my head since I know it’s not some cool vacation spot. I know the people that dwell in here are sick.

We are the ghosts here.

One would think these places should be a little bit more cheerful. Maybe hang a smiley-face poster behind the clerk or something other than the white, black, and shades of gray.

I nudge James with my elbow. “I was picturing more of a bulletproof-glass walls, everyone-in-restraining-jackets type of thing.”

My brother scowls at me and sets my bag at my feet. “No, of course not. You’re not criminally insane. This is a rehabilitation center, and an expensive one too.”

I raise a brow at him. “We couldn’t afford anything better?” I jest.

James laughs sarcastically, making me flinch as he pats my back like I’ve just told the best joke ever. “I’ve got to get going. I’ll call you this weekend, okay? If you need anything, text me. Your motorcycle is already here and I’ve had the rest of your things put in a storage unit in Bakersville.” He hugs me tightly. “I love you—you’re going to beat this.”

I smile grimly into his shoulder, not bothering to even ask how he got all my shit sorted in such a short amount of time, including me. He’s efficient in that way, at packing people and their things away like crumbs under a rug. It’s what he did with Mom, it’s what he’s doing with me. I know in my heart he means well, he’s trying to make everything be simpler and easier for me, but I can’t help but wonder if I’d feel less disposable if he let it be more of a mess. “Yeah—I’ll try.”

He says his final goodbyes and I watch as the ridiculously big door closes ominously behind him, leaving me utterly alone and stranded in this unfamiliar place. I tap my phone again and there’s still no service. I’m guessing this is a Wi-Fi connection service type of living situation.

Groaning, I shove my phone back in my pocket and take a deep breath.

I can do this.

My nerves are on high alert and I’d rather be literally anywhere but here right now. I swallow the lump in my throat and glance back at the check-in desk. The little old lady is watching me through her abhorrently dirty glasses and it takes more than I’m willing to admit to not hand her a cloth and tell her to clean them.

I try to straighten my features into anything but a grimace.

“Um, hello.” My lips forcefully pull upwards in an awkward smile. I lean down and grab my bag before approaching her.

She’s even more petite up close. She smells like mildew and cats, and that’s about as unpleasant as it sounds. My brows pull together the longer I stand here with my stupid fake smile. Didn’t she hear me?

“I’m here to check in,” I mumble, rubbing the back of my head and glancing back at the door. Maybe it’s not too late to fucking bolt out of here.

The sound of paper sliding across the counter brings my eyes back to her. She slowly sets a pen on top of the small stack and taps on a line at the bottom.

I don’t bother reading the paperwork. I sign my name and nudge the pile back to her. I trust James to have already scoured this thing. I’m still not entirely sure what his job entails, but I’m pretty sure it revolves around contracts and finding potential issues within them. Nothing gets by James.

The clerk simply nods at me and taps a button on her desk a few times before spinning around in her chair and filing my papers in the cabinet behind her. Her nameplate reads Mrs. Abett.

My smile drops the second her chair swivels and I let out a long sigh. This place already sucks. If everyone here is as lovely as Mrs. Abett, then I’m not sure I’ll make it through the week.

“Hello, Miss Coldfox. It’s nice to meet you.”

I look up and find a pair of green eyes staring back at me.

“My name is Jericho Melvich. I am your program counselor.” The man extends his hand to mine and I shake it stiffly.

“Nice to meet you,” I mumble. He has a lot of hope in his eyes, too bright for my liking. He looks maybe two years my senior, the kind of guy who’s sexier with glasses rather than contacts. His jaw is sharp but not as defined as Liam’s. I glance down at my bag, where the onyx stone and ring he gave me are tucked away.

Jericho grabs my duffle bag for me and leads the way down the large hall to the left side of the foyer. Old photos of people who look entirely too happy to have been clinically depressed line the walls.

“Dr. Prestin gave me your file so I could get a good feel for your case. Of course, I can’t get everything from paper though, so tell me about yourself. What do you enjoy? I’d like to integrate anything you like into your weekly treatment.” He looks back at me thoughtfully before adding: “I didn’t expect you to have pink hair. That’s a surprise.”

I roll my eyes behind Jericho’s back when we resume walking, though a grin pulls at my lips as I think of something I do actually enjoy. “I like sex.”

He stops and glances back at me with knitted brows. “I’ve worked here since I graduated college, Miss Coldfox. I assure you it’s not the first time I’ve heard that heinous answer.” His cold green eyes inspect me like he’s searching for something.

I can’t help but wonder if he’ll find it.

“Well, you asked what I enjoy.” I shrug and cross my arms. “Do you want me to lie to you and say I enjoy cooking or something stupid like that? Because I don’t fucking cook.”

Jericho’s gaze narrows. His ears are turning bright red. “Right. Well, not to let you down, but I won’t be adding sex to your treatment plan. I’ll be sure to not have them set you up with cooking either.” He jots something down on his clipboard before we continue down the dark hallway.

The sound of people talking flutters through the air as we come up to a gathering room. It’s filled with nice leather furniture, fancy coffee bars and counters, and a few black oak tables. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch the length of the room.

Men and women in normal street clothes lounge on the couches or lean over the railing that lines the porch outside, smoking cigarettes and breathing in the cold fall air. Everyone seems… happy. Or at least content enough to not have that blank stare or dark circles beneath their eyes.

My eyes widen at the gorgeous baby-grand piano facing the windows, against a background of sage-colored fields and a lush, dark green forest mixed with orange maple trees. Clouds mist the pale blue mountains in the distance.

My heart aches a bit at the nostalgic songs flowing through my soul just from looking at the beautiful black and white keys.

“You play?”

I flinch, having completely forgotten that Jericho was standing next to me. The room transported me to a place I hadn’t visited for a while. Somewhere filled with both resentment and deep, unsettling pain. The music there is somber and distant. Cold.

“Yeah… I did,” I mumble, fisting my trembling hands at my sides. “I don’t play anymore though.”

“I’d like to include it in your treatment plan if that’s okay. Even if it’s just sitting at the instrument.” Jericho brings out his clipboard again, jotting some notes down as I nod, eyes still locked on the piano. I wouldn’t mind staying in this room for a while and just existing for a tiny, insignificant moment.

We walk further down the hall, my eyes lingering on the gathering room until it’s no longer in sight. The west wing turns into a section of dorm rooms. The walls are painted a lovely shade of gray, reminding me of impasto-style paint that has big clumps of texture smoothed in. Jericho stops at an intersection in the hall and waves at a few staff members who are carrying some blankets to what looks like a storage room. Besides Mrs. Abett, the staff seem pretty friendly, unlike the workers at the hospital. I wonder if it’s out of pity or whether they truly care about people like us. They don’t carry the disconcerting look that dealing with people like me is a burden, and that makes my heart lighten considerably.

“My brother said that my bike was here. Are we allowed to leave the grounds?”

“Bike?” Jericho says. “Oh, you mean your crotch rocket? Yes, it’s parked in the garage. We have several lovely roads you can drive in the area. We find that driving can be very therapeutic for our patients and encourage getting outside and looking at the scenery here,” he states proudly. It sounds rehearsed.

I nod. “So those gates we passed through a few miles back, I’m guessing we can’t actually leave?”

He shrugs and continues down the hallway. “Of course you can. This isn’t a prison. Many of the patients take to Bakersville on the weekends to go shopping or to the bars. I think you will really enjoy it here, Coldfox.”

I hate when people address others by their last name. It feels like a distancing tactic.

“That’s not what I expected,” I mutter as I look at the framed photos down the next hallway.

“Yes, well, this institute is very much unorthodox.”

I eye him with my brows pulled together tightly. Unorthodox?

We stop once we reach what I’m assuming is my room. The door is black, as is the one across the hall. The rest of the doors in the hall are brown.

Jericho knocks twice before he starts fumbling with his key ring to locate the right one. “The communal bathroom is just down the hall. For obvious reasons, we can’t permit you private ones,” he mumbles as he pulls out a black key and shoves it into the door.

“You’re worried about bathrooms but not about people offing themselves in their own rooms?”

He glances back at me and smirks. “Which is precisely why we assign you roommates based on your treatment plans.” I raise a brow as he pushes the door open. Light dapples across the wooden floor, and white curtains sway on a soft breeze that flows in from the open window.

“But I didn’t agree—”

“Yes, you agreed to it when you signed. Your brother didn’t tell you?”

My shoulders slump. No, of course he didn’t. I’ll have to send him a very long, wordy text later. I hate not having my own personal space to escape to.

A lone figure stands by the window, a man with dark hair and blood dripping from his forefinger.

He’s hurt.

Jericho doesn’t seem concerned as he walks across the room and wraps the man’s finger in a handkerchief. “I knocked twice, why didn’t you open the door?” he says with an annoyed tone. The bleeding man looks over at Jericho and my heart stills in my chest as those blue eyes slowly shift, connecting with mine.

“Liam?” His name leaves my lips on a breath.

Liam’s eyes widen before they flick back to Jericho. “She’s my new roommate?” He doesn’t sound upset, more surprised than anything.

Jericho smiles and nods, but before he can respond, I cut him off.

“What kind of rehab is this? I can’t share a room with a man.”

Jericho narrows his eyes at me but waves me off. “You signed off on it, Coldfox. We pair you up with a roommate ideal for your treatment plan. I know this seems odd, but our rehab has among the highest recovery rate. Like I mentioned before, we’re unorthodox. And didn’t you say you enjoyed sex earlier? Well, here you go. Liam Waters,” he says sarcastically.

My fists instinctively clench at my sides.

I can do this.

As weird as this entire place is, I owe it to James to try. Sneaky as he may be, I have to admit, this is all sort of… exciting. I hesitantly look at Liam again; he appears so calm and disconnected. He’s every bit the mysterious man from the first night we met.

I should’ve known.

He’s sick too.