Chapter 166

Chapter 166
I don’t want to be here.
The thought loops endlessly in my head as I sit behind the wheel, the engine off, the silence in the car too loud. The building looms ahead like a carcass no one buried, cold and indifferent in its stillness. Even the sky above it looks paler, like the clouds are holding their breath.
My fingers twitch against the steering wheel. My knee won’t stop bouncing. I glance at the glove box. Then I open it.
Only two left.
I fish out the pills and stare at them on my palm, debating...like I haven’t already made up my mind. I’ve had more of them in the last three days than I probably should, but it’s not like I had a fucking choice. Sleep’s been a myth, food tastes like cardboard, and my chest hasn't stopped aching in days.
I pop them into my mouth, swallow them dry before grabbing the half-empty bottle of water from the cup holder and downing what’s left. It’s lukewarm and tastes metallic, but it does the job. I sit there a second longer, breathing deep, waiting for the calm to slide over me like it sometimes does.
It doesn’t.
I mutter a curse, shove the bottle aside, and get out of the car. I feel like I’m walking into a graveyard that forgot how to stay buried.
The air inside is sterile. Cold. Too bright, like it’s trying too hard to seem clean, when all I feel is rot underneath the surface. Every step I take echoes in my ears like a countdown. The walls are whitewashed and dull, the tiled floor spotless, and still it all feels wrong, like the place itself is pretending.
I spot the reception desk, and the woman behind it gives me a practiced smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Good evening,” she says. “How may I help you?”
I stop a few feet away. My throat tightens. The walls seem closer now, the fluorescent lights humming too loud above me. I lick my lips, force the words out even though they taste like ash.
“ I'm here to see Monica Thompson.”
Her expression shifts. Not a lot, but enough. Thompson, not Crest. My father would’ve made sure of that. Can’t have the family name in here.
The nurse tilts her head. “And your relationship to the patient?”
I hesitate because saying it feels like swallowing glass.
“I’m her son,” I say finally.
Her eyes widen slightly. She studies me closer now. “ Are you by any chance Adam?”
I nod once. That’s all I’ve got.
“Oh,” she breathes. “She’s… she’s been asking for you.”
Something inside me flinches.
“But visiting hours are over,” she adds, glancing at the clock on the wall. And for a second, relief floods me. I can leave. I can say I tried, go home. But she keeps talking.
“I’m sure the supervisor won’t mind letting you in though. Quite the contrary, actually. Like I said...she’s been asking for you.”
Her words echo louder than they should. My spine stiffens. I nod again, slower this time, and glance down the hallway that stretches like a gullet into something I can’t name.
She asks me to fill in my details and I place my phone on the surface to grab the pen. It feels too light in my hand, almost slippery. I grip it tighter as I start scribbling in the visitor’s book, my name looking more like someone else's the more I write it. I glance at my watch, the one Layla gave me, noting the time just to fill the blank space next to Arrival. 6:48 PM.
“Good evening,” a voice calls out behind me.
I turn, not quite ready to engage, but I turn anyway. She’s standing a few feet away. A middle aged woman with deep brown skin and braids pinned neatly at the back of her head. Her glasses sit low on her nose, her eyes sharp but not unkind.
The receptionist straightens. “Mrs. Phillips, this is Monica’s son. Adam.”
The woman, Mrs. Phillips, extends a hand. “It’s very good to finally meet you, Adam.”
I hesitate. My limbs feel foreign again. That old, familiar recoil tugs at my spine, screams at me to shove my hands into my pockets and keep them there. But I don’t. I make myself move, fingers brushing hers. It’s brief, clinical. I feel skin...warmth.
And I hate it.
“Angela, could you lock up the East Lounge? The girls played games there today and left a mess.”
The receptionist nods and reaches for the keys.
Mrs. Phillips gestures. “Come with me, Adam.”
I nod. I don’t trust myself to speak. My jaw’s clenched too tight anyway. We walk down a corridor painted in an off-white that tries too hard to be calming.
“I’m glad you came,” she says after a moment, breaking the silence.
I don’t respond.
“For a while we started to believe Monica made you up. Said she had a son… said his name was Adam. You never visited, and there were no records. Some staff thought she was clinging to a fantasy.” She glances over at me with something like pity. “But she always insisted. Adam. Her boy. That he was real.”
I nod once, the movement stiff. My throat’s too dry to reply. We keep walking. My footsteps echo louder than hers.
“Did you hear what she tried to do?” she asks, voice quieter now. Like she’s afraid the walls might judge her for saying it aloud.
“I did,” I say.
She sighs, the kind that carries too much weight. “She’s been… unhappy for a long time. Withdrawn. Kept to herself, barely speaks unless she has to. But this—” she pauses as if choosing the least gruesome words... “this isn’t the first time. We’ve had a few close calls. But this one was serious. She would’ve died if the nurse hadn’t walked in when she did.”
My stomach turns.
“She’s slipping,” she continues. “Bit by bit. Like she’s letting go of everything. I think she’s given up, really. Except…” she stops walking and looks at me. “She only ever asks for you.”
My lungs tighten with every step, as if the walls are closing in, inch by inch. I’m not here. Not really.
I’m back in the place they’d sent me to. I’m back in that padded room with the peeling wallpaper and the hollow silences between screams.
She stops at a door at the far end. “Here we are.”
I freeze beside her, stomach twisting in tight coils.
She slips a key into the lock and opens the door with practiced ease. Warm light spills out, spilling across the hallway tiles in a narrow stream. She steps in first, leaving the door ajar for me.
I stare at the opening. My heartbeat kicks harder against my ribs, thudding like a warning. This is the part where I walk away.
I should....I could...But I don’t.
I loosen my tie instead, fingers trembling slightly. I shrug off the tension from my shoulders, but it clings anyway. Then I step through the doorway.
One foot after the other. Like a ghost crossing back into its old haunt.