Vorner's Asylum was well-known for its seemingly beautiful grounds and buildings, but everything beautiful always hid something ugly. The Parisian architecture and green grounds dotted with towering oak trees and beautiful roses seemed more like a palace than an asylum, but at night, things looked different. Screams and wails could be heard down the halls, and the moon glowed on empty, black eyes. Here, Nebraska had stayed for a year, barely surviving. Here, she met him. Here, she lost him.
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Jack didn’t want to say he hated the asylum, but he did. He couldn’t tell if it was better or worse than the last one he’d been in, but he hated it either way. He hated the confinement. He sat in a chair, staring at the wall, bouncing his leg. He was struggling to keep it all together, as if being here was making him worse. He drummed his fingers on the side of the chair, then took out a pen and a notebook labeled JACK in big, sloppy handwriting. He had been drawing portraits of the other people there in his spare time, the one thing he had complete freedom with. He spotted a girl doing something at the other side of the room, and he drew her. He was mostly finished with the drawing before he lost interest, and set his open notebook down on his chair and got up, pacing by the wall. It was so hard to keep his attention for long these days.
She was wading into a lake, the black water void of anything living except for her own shivering self. Once she was in the center, she floated on her back, pale bare skin exposed to the whole sky, drinking in the moonlight. Something pulled her out, back onto the white of the snow. As she opened her eyes, there was something off about the setting. There were the familiar tulip trees, the empty nests that pooled the silence together with their crackling branches. There was the house, just a few yards away, impossibly welcoming and warm and worldly. And there was the man, beneath him, a fragile shell, staining the surrounding white red.
“Nebraska, darling? Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yes, Mother. I’m perfectly fine.” The potatoes needed salt. They were chalky, tasteless lumps to somehow contrast the limp, browning greens and the tough, dry meat. It was important, nevertheless, to at the very least appear to enjoy the meal. The faster her parents saw that she had forgotten everything, the sooner she could leave the asylum. Small talk had never survived long at dinner in the Blue household, and this was not an exception. Her father sat on her other side, chewing methodically and taking long gulps from the glass of cheap wine on his right. The asylum’s kitchen staff had tried their hardest to create some sort of pleasant ambience for the guests’ dinner. She couldn’t imagine how much money her parents must have been paying this place for them to care so much.
Dessert was yet another silent affair. Her mother’s thin, pink lips strained to smile the whole time, her father’s worn, tired eyes tried to stay dry. The melting whipped cream sat in the curve of her spoon, untouched and suspiciously yellow. Spoon. Ribbon. Letter. She blinked. Letter. To who? What did it say? There were so many holes in her memories that she could hardly piece anything together, but those words repetitively spelled out in her mind, as if reminding her that this was not her. This was not her.
For two blissful moments, Jack couldn’t remember anything. Then it all came rushing back, and he realized that he’d rather be unconscious than face his thoughts right now. He sat up, struggling to remember when he sat down on the… bed? When did he get in a bed? His head felt like it was going to explode. He touched his head gingerly, then winced, pulling his hand away. When the pain died down a little, he tried again, this time feeling the bandage around his head. Oh great, he probably had brain damage now or something. He was probably going to die from falling out of a chair. Jack sighed. Only he would be able to completely fuck up sitting in a chair. The nurse rushing towards him demanding that he keep the ice pack pressed against his head made him realize that he must be in the infirmary. He did as he was told, although he didn’t really want to. He knew he deserved the pain, he just didn’t know why yet. Maybe it was for letting Blue go, or maybe it was for the countless other things he had done wrong.
Eventually, the nurse went to get some dinner for both of them, because apparently she believed that his head injury was too severe to be walking around. Jack, of course, paid no attention to her remark, and was on his feet the moment she closed the door behind her. His legs were a little wobbly at first and it felt like he was balancing an elephant on his head, but Jack didn’t really care. He went into the hallway and started walking, not knowing where he was headed. He supposed his feet knew better than his head, as soon he was standing in front of the staircase that would take him up to the roof, and he realized that there was no place he’d rather be. He slowly trudged up the stairs, part of him terrified that it was going to be dark soon, and the other half- the part that was currently in control of his feet- didn’t care about anything. He found himself peering over the ledge of the roof, knowing he was visible to anyone who happened to look up, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Nothing really mattered now. His life was meaningless, and perhaps it had always been meaningless, but it took Blue leaving for him to realize that.
The wind howled tonight, and Jack hugged himself, wishing he had warmer clothes. He wanted to cry, he wanted to scream, he wanted to do something. But he just stood there, staring at the ground, wondering if he’d have the nerve to jump.
