The One Who Got Away - L.A. Detwiler

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was here … I saw someone.’ I want to ask why he didn’t come sooner, but something stops me from uttering the words.

      The man crosses the room in three quick strides. ‘Get back to bed,’ he orders gruffly, not waiting for me to explain.

      ‘Sorry, there was someone—’

      ‘Come on, old woman. There’s no one here. Get in bed.’ He grabs my arm, the same one the person – there was a person, wasn’t there? – was grabbing. He roughly hurries me towards my bed, ignoring the scratches and blood dripping on my arm. My skin burns at his touch, the flesh still raw. I fall a little before he forces me into bed and roughly adjusts the blanket around me. He cocoons me in as if the blanket will keep me hostage in the bed and he won’t have to deal with me again.

      ‘I won’t be having any more trouble, will I?’ he asks, raising an eyebrow. He leans in now, closer and closer. He is centimetres from my face.

      ‘No, sir,’ I whisper, a new fear gripping my heart.

      ‘Goddamn right, I won’t,’ he whispers harshly into the space between us, and I shudder at the way he looks at me. It’s a threatening glance, one that challenges me to defy him. I don’t dare consider it.

      He backs up, looking at me for an uncomfortably long moment, before pulling the lamp cord. But before he does, I notice a nametag. I see the familiar name.

      Jones.

      Why do I know that name? Why is it ringing a bell? I search in my mind for the answer. Was it the knitting lady? Did she say something about him?

      My head throbs as I try to sort all of it out – the mysterious figure, the nurse, the name. Jones curses again under his breath, the darkness plummeting about me, as he leaves the room. When he’s gone, I begin to wonder if there’s more to worry about on Floor Three than I could have ever imagined.

       Chapter 5

      A hand startles me awake, and I sit up, gasping. It takes a moment for me to recognise where I am, the sunlight now streaming through the windows and illuminating the room. I stare at the pink wallpaper, faded to a dusky, decaying rose colour. The floral pattern is so muted and miniscule that it looks like scratches on the wallpaper instead of the ornate design the decorator probably intended. My eyes absorb the depressing sight of the room, my home now, as I take another deep breath. Exhaustion pounds in my skull, crackling against my brain. I didn’t sleep well, not at all, and my neck is stiff from the tension.

      ‘Mrs Evans, it’s breakfast time. Are you going to the dining room to eat with the others, or shall I bring your morning meal to you?’ I peer up at the nurse standing above me. Her red hair is pulled tight into a bun, the pasty skin on her face stretching back so tautly her cheek bones look like they might rupture through. Her face is placid, stoic, as she says my name with tart condescension mirrored in her eyes. I’m not sure if she’s just got a permanent poker face or if her hairstyle prohibits any expression from showing through. My head spins and aches. It craves to be plopped back down on the pillow and to let sleep wash away all of last night’s calamities.

      ‘Can I just take my meal here today?’ I ask.

      ‘Fine. I’ll bring it back around when I get to it.’

      With that, the harsh-looking woman is off to jostle Rose, who doesn’t have a choice in the matter since she can’t speak up. The woman flings back the curtain, the only semblance of privacy in our room now foiled. Rose coughs and sputters, squealing at the sight of the nurse. As the serious woman rousts Rose up from the bed, my frail roommate stares at one thing – me. Her arm, trembling from the effort, rises just a bit. I notice her hand, curled into a fist, is shaking violently. Is she shaking it at me? I don’t have time to decide because harsh woman is complaining about the mess Rose has made and how she’ll need to tend to that before breakfast. I sigh in my bed, transferring my gaze to the window. There’s so much wrong in this place, but I feel a little guilty. It could be worse. Rose has it harder than me, for sure. I suppose I should be grateful that at least I can choose where to eat my breakfast. At least there’s still that.

      When the nurse has gotten Rose into the wheelchair with the assistance of some brute of a man, she wheels her out of the room. Rose’s head is cocked towards me, shaking to the side. She mumbles as they wheel her away. I feel terrible, but I am gloriously thankful when they are gone and the room is quiet again. I settle back into bed, but I find that sleep doesn’t return. I blink, lying on my side as I peer out the window into the dismal greyness of the day. What day of the week is it? I don’t much know anymore. It seems time in here is a whirling enigma. Truthfully, I guess it doesn’t matter much anymore what day it is. They are all the same, and I have nowhere I need to be. No one is expecting me anywhere, and no one is remembering me, in honesty. That’s a lonely thought. I decide to push it aside.

      I blink a few times, thinking about last night, about the arm on my hand. I think about Jones and his reaction. I think about the blood-curdling feeling that all is not well on Floor Three, that this place isn’t quite what it seems. The faux homey appearance they try to create with the dusty, dried bouquets of flowers sitting on archaic stands in the hallways. The cheery-coloured paint in the common room, the bird cage with tiny finches near the lift. It’s all a façade to make us feel at home. But this isn’t home. And something tells me I might not want it to be.

      Whoever was in my room last night had a warning, clear and painfully frightening. It’s not safe here. I shake my head and squeeze my eyes shut so tightly that I see specks in the forced blackness. It’s nonsense. It must be. What real danger could there be in a place like this? Who would come here to carry out malicious plots? What would be the point, after all?

      The harsh nurse drops off a tray a few moments later with a spot of tea, some eggs, beans, and what I suppose is meant to imitate breakfast ham. It looks rubbery and grey, an oozing film coating it in an unnatural, unappetising way. After wrestling with the thought of tucking myself back under the blanket and making this whole place disappear with sleep, I decide there’s no use. There will be no serene sleep today, my nerves battling my mind’s need to rest. I sit up wearily, gently folding the scratchy blanket back from my legs.

      After plodding to the loo, I gather my strength to get dressed. I’m supposed to push a button to ask for help to change. I find that insulting. I have a heart condition and some forgetfulness that comes and goes. I am not a child. I slowly, painfully pick out an outfit from the chest of drawers, tucking myself into a plain grey pullover and some comfortable trousers. I don’t dare look into the mirror. Goodness knows I don’t need to be any more depressed than I already am.

      I snatch the tea from the tray and I wander out of my room, glancing first towards the staircase. It still irks me that it’s locked. I take a breath, though, knowing it’s pointless to worry about it now. I need to focus my mind on other things. Thus, I turn to the right and set out for the common area, deciding that some exploring may do me good.

      I plod onward, peeking into rooms here and there, the doors all flung open. When I get to Room 312, though, I notice the door is still shut. Odd, I think. I stop for a moment to catch my breath and wonder what curiosity the room holds. I’m tempted to reach out and touch the door knob, to peek in. I don’t, though. Wouldn’t do to make enemies here by intruding. Still, there’s something unnerving about Room 312, a murky horror that evades all reasoning. I don’t know what it is, but something about the door both lures me in and repels me with all its might.

      I keep walking, passing a man in a wheelchair, his head slumped slightly backwards, his throat exposed. He rolls gently back and forth. His eyes pierce into mine, and I shudder, feeling like there’s something he wants to say but can’t. Agony drips from his watery eyes. It seems like tears want to fall from them but can’t. Slowly, methodically, careful not to trip, I march on until I finally reach the common room.

      ‘There you are. We thought you escaped already,’ Dorothy announces, cackling over a cup of tea. Another lady sits beside her in a wheelchair, but she just stares up

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