After My Fiancé Locked Me in a Psychiatric Ward

Lucian came back at midnight.

I didn't see him. Didn't need to. I heard the gravel crunch in the parking lot. Heard the low murmur of voices at the side entrance. The night guard's laugh. Then silence.

I lay in bed with my eyes open. The sedatives sat heavy in my blood. They wanted me to sleep. I bit the inside of my cheek. Hard. The pain was bright and clean. It kept me awake.

Twenty minutes passed.

Then I smelled it.

Smoke.

Not cigarette smoke. Not the burnt-coffee smell from the staff room. This was different. Electrical. Chemical. Wrong.

I sat up. My hands moved on their own. I grabbed the sketchbook from under my mattress. Five years of work. Every design. Every date. Every note about what I was feeling when I made it. Proof.

I ran to the sink. Turned the water on full. Soaked the sketchbook until the pages were heavy and dripping. Wrapped it in my pillowcase. Pressed it against my chest.

The smoke was thicker now. It poured under the door in gray waves. I could hear crackling. Somewhere down the hall, someone screamed.

I tried the door. Locked. Always locked.

I ran to the window. Reinforced glass. Wire mesh between the panes. I'd stared at it for five years. Now I looked at my bed.

The frame was metal. Old. Institutional. One of the legs was loose. I'd noticed it months ago. Never said anything.

I yanked at it. Once. Twice. It came free with a screech.

The smoke was at my knees now. I couldn't see the door anymore.

I swung the metal leg at the window. The glass cracked. Not enough. I swung again. Again. My shoulder screamed. The glass spiderwebbed. One more hit and it shattered.

Wind poured in. Cold. Rain. I looked down.

Three stories. Concrete below. A strip of grass. Mud from the rain.

Behind me, something exploded. The lights went out.

I didn't think. I climbed onto the sill. Held the sketchbook tight. And jumped.

The fall lasted forever and no time at all.

I hit the ground and everything went white.

Pain. Everywhere. My left ankle folded wrong. I heard it snap. Felt it. My shoulder wrenched out of place when I tried to catch myself. I couldn't breathe. Couldn't move.

Then I did.

I rolled onto my side. The sketchbook was still there. Still wrapped. I pressed it against my ribs and started crawling.

The grass was wet. Mud sucked at my elbows. My ankle dragged behind me like something dead. I didn't look at it. Just kept moving.

The fence was chain-link. Eight feet tall. Topped with barbed wire. I couldn't climb it.

But at the bottom, where it met the ground, there was a gap. Maintenance never fixed it. I'd seen it from my window. Watched rabbits squeeze through.

I flattened myself. Pushed the sketchbook under first. Then my head. My shoulders. The metal scraped my back. Tore my scrubs. I didn't care.

My ankle caught. I bit down on my hand to keep from screaming. Pulled. Something tore. I was through.

The highway was twenty feet away. I could see headlights. Hear the hum of engines.

I dragged myself to the shoulder. Lay there. The rain hit my face. I couldn't feel my hands anymore. Couldn't feel anything except the sketchbook pressed against my chest.

A truck slowed. Stopped. A door opened.

Footsteps. A man's voice. "Jesus Christ. Hey. Hey, can you hear me?"

I opened my eyes. He was older. Flannel shirt. Work boots. A face that looked kind.

"I'm calling 911," he said. He was already pulling out his phone.

"Wait." My voice was barely there. "Wait."

He crouched down. "You're hurt bad. I gotta call."

"Call them," I whispered. "But tell them something first."

"What?"

"Tell them someone tried to kill me."

He stared. Then nodded. "Okay. Okay. I'll tell them."

He made the call. I heard him talking. Heard the words *fire* and *injured* and *hurry*.

I closed my eyes. Held the sketchbook tighter.

I was still holding it when the ambulance arrived.

---

The emergency room was bright. Too bright. Fluorescent lights that made everything look flat and unreal.

A doctor leaned over me. Young. Tired. "Can you tell me your name?"

I looked at her. My mouth tasted like blood.

"My name is Elaina Ward," I said. Each word was clear. Deliberate. "Someone just tried to kill me. Call the police."

She blinked. Looked at the nurse. The nurse looked back.

"Call them," I said again.

The doctor nodded slowly. "Okay. We'll call them."

She stepped away. I heard her talking in a low voice. Heard the word *Briarcliff*. Heard *arson*.

I lay back. Stared at the ceiling.

My ankle was broken. My shoulder was out. My back was shredded.

But I was alive.

And I still had my sketchbook.

Lucian thought he'd buried me.

He was wrong.