Michelle Underwood

I don’t just write weird, sad blogs; I also write fiction. This is the prologue to the book I’m working on. Read it and share your thoughts, please. But gently.

NOW

I silently count to ten, then open my eyes and assess my surroundings just in case they’d changed since the last time I checked. I had, after all, been known to see things that might not have actually been there.

White ceiling? Yep. I slowly turn my head to the right and then the left. White walls? Yep, again. I take a shaky breath in a pitiful attempt to quiet my brain, which is currently in full-on freak out mode. Since I’m still shackled to the bed, there’s nothing to do but panic so I prepare to start screaming for help. A quiet cough sounds from somewhere in the room. I look around frantically, and sigh when I spot her. Even trapped in what I assume is the nut house I can’t escape her. Staring at me from the chair in the corner in the room sits the girl who got me here – my imaginary friend, Sage.

“I take it there’s nothing you can do to help me,” I say. She shrugs.

“You know I would if I could,” she starts.

“But you can’t because you’re not real,” I finish, ignoring the pain that flits across her face. We’ve been over this a dozen times before. I only said it to hurt her because I was still angry with her. I might be angry with her forever. “Do you think you can at least – “

“Quiet!” She hisses, cutting me off. “Close your eyes. Someone’s coming. If they hear you talking to me, they’ll just force more pills down your throat.”

I do as she says, just as I always have because she’s always right. I close my eyes and make my breathing slow and even, trying to ignore my thundering heart, hoping they can’t hear the blood rushing frantically and fearfully through my body like I can.

The door opens then closes, and I feel someone lean over me.

“Come now, love, no need to feign sleep! You’re actually not very good at pretending.” I hear the grin in his voice as he speaks and, forgetting myself, I open my eyes indignantly. At first glance, in his white coat and official-looking badge and stethoscope, I assume he’s the doctor but then I notice his shoes. I’ve never known a doctor to wear dirty Chuck Taylors on the job. Suspicious and a little afraid, I look back toward Sage who’s staring at our intruder wide-eyed with shock.

“You’re not the doctor, are you.” It’s not a question. He shakes his head and my panic grows. “I didn’t do anything wrong!”

“Generally speaking, sweets, I’ve found that when a person proclaims their innocence before they’ve even been accused of anything, they’re probably guilty.”

“Who are you?” I whisper.

Dramatically, he whisks a key from his pocket with a “ta-da” flourish, smiles and says, “Pardon me; I nearly forgot to introduce myself. I’m Oliver Logan and I’ll be your hero today.”