Asylum

Chapter 1-1

1

It is time to jump.

A small bird—Andrew thought it might be a sparrow—landed safely at his feet. It stood calmly and confidently on the ledge Andrew balanced on precariously.

“What did you say? What did you say, little bird?” Andrew asked. But he did not expect an answer, for the voice was telling him what time it was in his head. He heard it, though not clearly. Many voices in his head vied for his attention, but this one’s suggestion seemed the most rational. He looked over the ledge and the voice grew louder.

It is time . . . time to fall.

A strong breeze blew against Andrew, carrying the sweet, dirty scent of a city summer across the dark blue sky. A few feet below him the scattered treetops shifted and flowed like a green sea,

Time for a swim?

He was afraid. He was only fifteen. Such momentous decisions should not be made by one so young. Tears crept down his cheeks. They were sad tears, but he wore them as a facial expression—like a smile or a frown, common and involuntary. One of the voices might have said no at that moment, but most of them said yes to jumping, spoke of other things, or spoke in gibberish. It did not matter. Andrew knew he was crazy.

Wacko, loony, mental. Oh, they didn’t call him that. They had much more complicated and technical words for him. Words like schizophrenia, mentally disturbed, even autistic were used by the doctors and psychiatrists who had seen him. But they all meant the same thing: crazy.

Andrew had known for a while that nobody else was like him. Nobody else heard the voices and saw the things he saw. The things he had done were not normal. The kids in school and in juvenile detention had known it. They had been normal, but not Wacky Andy. He would hear voices. He would curl up in a ball and scream for hours on end. Wacky Andy was scary and could not be trusted. He knew he was sick, but it had never been official until this morning. Dr. Hamurob had declared it in a private meeting with Andrew’s parents, unaware the loony in question listened at the door.

“I am sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Harland, that we have come to an impasse,” Dr. Hamurob said. “Your son is a unique case. He has many of the symptoms of a schizophrenic, but they vary in severity. Most of the time they are so mild as to be nonexistent; then the next day he’ll be in the throes of delusions that rival our most extreme cases.”

“So what are you saying? We should just give up?” Andrew’s mother asked.

“Good riddance. Lock him up somewhere and throw away the key,” his father interjected.

“No, no,” Dr. Hamurob said. “I am saying no such thing. But I do want to get him to a specialist. A doctor in Seattle runs a hospital and has agreed to take him on.”

“You’re talking about committing him, aren’t you, Doctor? To an insane asylum?” his mother asked. Andrew heard the catch in her voice.

“Committing yes, but not to an asylum. We don’t have those anymore. It’s just a hospital. You have to admit it would be better than the juvenile detention centers Andrew frequents now.” The doctor pulled a brochure from his desk. “I do have to warn you, though. The hospital does have a few patients who are criminally mentally ill.”

“Bingo! Right on the money, Doc,” Andrew’s father blurted out. “Where do we sign him up?”

Andrew had stepped back from the door then and stopped listening. He had known his father had no more love for him, not anymore, but he had never heard him speak with such venom and anger. Shaking, he had retreated from the door to the lobby, and there he had cried. Nobody had noticed.

Now here he was on the ledge outside his doctor’s office.

It seemed like too nice of a day to die. He supposed it should be dark or overcast, maybe even a light rain. That seemed more appropriate than this beautiful weather. Andrew used to love days like these—“barbecue days” are what his father had called them. They’d always had grilled feasts outside . . . that is, until his brother had been killed. Then everything had fallen apart. Everything had gone to hell. Now, on a beautiful barbecue day in June, Andrew found himself on a ledge.

His parents were down there, he guessed, speaking with the police or fire department as they inflated a giant airbag. It looked just like the ones they used for movie stunts, and Andrew would have loved to jump into it for the sheer thrill . . . if it would not have defeated the purpose. Perhaps even now his father was telling them not to bother, telling them to just clear a spot and let him jump. Maybe his father’s anger went that far. Either way, the airbag would be easy to avoid on the way down.

Chickens can’t fly.

Yes, he probably was being a coward, he admitted. He knew he would jump. He just hoped that, whatever afterlife might be on the other side, he would not see his brother. That single thought was what scared him the most. Just don’t let my brother be there.

The police at the window were trying to talk to him, but they didn’t come out on the ledge. Their voices simply blended with the insistent voices in his head, which were much, much louder.