2019-04-11 - Where We Belong

The pharmacy is not a place where one wants to spend a portion of their day, but Mary claims the fill request was never put through the system and so now Violet waits. The plastic chair in the very back of the pharmacy is hard-backed and uncomfortable; Violet sits with her ankles crossed and a book in her lap. Not a trashy bodice-ripper that only an identical twin sister could love, but a rather cumbersome book written on medical interventions in the 1920s. You know, juts a little light reading. But even so absorbed in the history of hysteria treatments, it was hard not to pick up the hushed murmuring happening behind the pharmacist's counter, just a few feet to her left.

"What does she even need this for?" There's a bright chime of laughter, before Mary's assistant realizes she's likely being too loud and opts to scoff instead. "Birth control. As if anybody would want to bring that home with them. You think she's got some kinda condition?"

The HIPPA violations were real. Violet breathes out through her nose, licks her forefinger, and flips to the next page.

"I heard she had a car sitting outside her place all night," Mary replies as paperwork is shuffled. "The shrimpy doctor, the one that just moved out here? Gary's wife, you know they live in the apartment just behind, well she said she saw him walk into the shop and not come out until half past noon the next day!" There's more laughter. "But when he finally did, he ran out. Kept his head down and everything. Talk about walk of shame, you know what I mean? Poor thing though. Just because he's little doesn't mean he couldn't find a good woman here in town." Mary clicks her tongue in a pitying sort of way while her assistant laughs on.

"He's real handsome, the doctor," says the assistant. Now it's Mary's turn to laugh. "What? He is. I could forgive him for not knowing any better. Them out of towners, they don't know, and her daddy's always saying that she's got the devil in her. Maybe he doesn't realize she's off her rocker. Or maybe her daddy finally got a doctor to step in and assess her so they can put her upstate, too," she points out. "I should go have a chat with him, fill him in on the truth about this place. Mm, I bet he's real good in bed, too, at least with the right girl. You know those short one's always have something to prove.. and just 'cause he's short don't mean his dick is! HA!"

"Excuse me." Violet ahems from where she was standing now at the counter, tapping knuckles far too politely on the surface, and causing the assistant to choke on her own peeling laughter. She would not be happy about that, no she would not. "Is my prescription filled now? I'm sorry to rush you, Mary, I just have to get back to the shop to meet the delivery guy..." She couldn't sit here another minute, listening to that. Mary rolls her eyes, but a small white paper bag is tossed in Violet's direction. "Thank you," she murmurs, tucking the prescription into her satchel along with her book. As she turns on her heel, she can hear Mary behind the counter, no longer trying to keep her voice down: "You should do it, Jane. Ask him on a date. You know he'll say yes, goodness knows you're a far better catch than that batshit crazy girl. I hope to God above he's using a condom if he is fucking her, though. I don't want you to contract her insanity."

The air feels damp on her face as Violet steps out of the pharmacy and onto the sidewalk. She furiously rubs at the corners of her eyes with the heels of her hands, frustrated at herself for listening at all. It was just talk, it was always just talk. She keeps her head down, focusing on the cracks in the sidewalk as she walks the path back to the antique store, trying to put that overheard conversation behind her. Maybe she'd text Alex once the deliveries were taken care of, maybe they could go have coffee in the park. Was that why he had insisted they stopped until he'd gone to the pharmacy? All those trips back and forth from the closet. No, no, of course he didn't think he needed a condom to protect himself from 'insanity', that was preposterous. He was a doctor, for God's sake, he couldn't believe something as dumb as that. No, Violet, he clearly was using a condom to protect all the other girls he's sleeping with from whatever devil you've got in you.

Jane from the pharmacy, Marilyn the receptionist. That pretty barista that couldn't take her eyes off of him at the coffee shop. Hell, maybe even Mary herself. Surely you didn't think you were the only one, did you? Stupid, crazy little girl.

Her ballet flats skid to a stop when she realizes she wasn't anywhere near her shop, but instead had somehow wandered all the way from the pharmacy to the hospital. That was several blocks away; certainly she hadn't been walking that long? Wisps of fog linger in the too green grass and landscaped flower beds, and there was a single solitary ambulance in the drive. No, not an ambulance - just a plain, windowless white van, with a small blue light fixed atop.

"Violet." The voice of her father rings crisp and strong; he wasn't slurring, he wasn't drunk. It seems to come from behind her, from in front of her, from all around her. She whips around in a full circle until she seems him, standing by the van with his arms crossed over his chest. He was standing on his own two feet. His eyes were clear, he was utterly and completely sober. "It's about time. Thank God the doctor called when he did, and we can get this whole mess sorted out. It's such a goddamn shame this has gone on for so long. But we owe Doctor Reyes... everything." Her father's eyes lift up to one of the windows of the hospital; Violet's own gaze follows. The forms in the window don't ever fully take shape, but she can see a flash of blonde hair and pale skin curling around a darker-haired form of olive complexion. In the sky above, the clouds darken, and in the crash of sudden thunder rolls, and around the edges there is breathy laughter and Spanish poetry, a deep and familiar voice rushing words into a cellphone: "Hmm. My diagnosis? Delusional. Psychotic. She needs to be committed, immediately. You have the wrong girl."

"He's with her now," her father was saying. Above, a jagged bolt of lighting shocks through the sky, sending jolts of electricity through the clouds. The thunder booms, but her father's voice is louder. "She's where she should be. And you will be too, Violet. Just go with them. They won't hurt you, at least not yet. Just go. Let us be happy. Everyone is finally going to be where they should be."

She feels them before she sees the looming shadows. Men approaching from behind. She doesn't have to look to know they carry a straight jacket that was the perfect size for her, and meant to throw her in the back of that van. She tumbles forward, she tramples through the landscaped flower beds, crushing marigolds under her feet. "VIOLET!" Crash goes the lightning, BOOM goes her father's voice, like thunder from above. "JUST LET THEM TAKE YOU!" She runs faster, and the shadows chase.

"So yes, Alex. They do bite. They just don't usually leave marks that anybody can see." That's what she'd told him, not more than a handful of days ago. That was true tonight, but also not, as the shadows leap and she feels the gouges they take in their wake. She makes it to the highway before she realizes where she's at, hears the rolling waves of the bay in the distance. It was pitch black, as though someone's snuffed out all the lights; not even the lightning bolts cutting through the sky provide any sort of brightness. Her legs were burning, her lungs on fire, blood leaking down to form puddles in her flats. "Vi," a sister's voice, soft and distant, comes through the air on a calm breeze. "You could jump before they catch you, Vi. Maybe you'll grow wings and fly away. Or maybe you will die, and everyone will be where they are meant to be."

A hand grasps her as she finds herself on the edge, drags her back. He smells of shit and the sea, a dozen seashell necklaces around his neck. His eyes are wild but familiar, and his dirty fingers dig into her arm. He's got track marks down either arm, but all of them are old. "Don't you dare," he hisses. "You're too good to let them win, girl. It's just a bad night for us all."

He holds her until the storm overhead passes and the one within goes with it. Until the street lights start to turn on, flaring bright one by one. In the distance, an ambulance comes screaming by. The man with the seashell necklaces cups her cheeks in his dirty hands, wipes her tears, and kisses her brow. "Call your doctor, sweetheart. Tell him you're all right, make sure he is, too," he advises, like the wise old homeless former heroin addict that he is. "Tell him you're right here. And that you're where you're meant to be."

Violet wakes in her room, covered in blood and sweat. The stink of the sea and shit clings to her skin. A seashell necklace hangs on her neck, a reminder of a beautiful evening and so much more. She reaches for her phone, the text she punches into the screen simple but familiar:

(TXT to Alex) Violet: Hello Alex. It's me. Violet.