February 23, 1919

Alice sat, legs crossed, on the edge of her bed staring unseeingly at the blank wall across from her. Pictures flashed in and out before her eyes as she processed her surroundings. This was the place, the place from her visions.

A soft, gentle knock came on her door. Alice didn’t hear it; she was too deep in thought. The door silently opened and Alice was aware of someone entering the room with her. But she still didn’t look away from the wall; she was still deep in thought.

“Mary Alice?” a soft, handsome voice questioned. The sheer perfection of the voice is what finally made Alice turn, to see what the object of such beauty might be. She gave the man a blank stare, though she was in mortal shock on the inside. The man wasn’t a doctor, he was much too young, but possibly one of the men that trained as interns and helped with patients when the doctors were otherwise occupied. And this young man, about eighteen, was the most heartbreakingly beautiful man she had ever laid eyes on.

“Alice,” she whispered, for that was all that she could manage.

“Yes, my mistake. How do you do, Alice?” he responded. Then something occurred to Alice. This man was oddly familiar.

“Do I know you from anywhere, sir?” Alice asked politely.

“No, I’m quite certain that you haven’t,” he sang in that musical voice of his.

Then it dawned on Alice. This was the man from her visions. The man who would comfort and provide for her while she was in this dark place. The thought she had tried to comfort Cynthia with for so many years was finally standing before her. A weak smile spread across Alice’s face.

“What’s your name?” Alice asked, curiosity burning inside of her.

“Patrick,” he said, holding out his hand for her to shake. This was a peculiar gesture because all of the other people had treated her as if she were a child. And of course she’d told them, with at first fervor but now with anger, that she was eighteen years of age and she could take care of herself just fine, but they wouldn’t listen. Much like Cynthia had said that Alice wouldn’t listen to anything. In a way it was definitively ironic. The thought made Alice laugh.

Patrick walked closer and asked, “What makes you laugh, Alice? Is my name that hilarious?”

“No, no, it’s not your name, Patrick, but the thought of how you treat me like a human. Aren’t I here because I’m insane?”

Patrick frowned and said, “I don’t believe that you are insane, Alice.”

“Then what am I? Do tell me Patrick because I ache to know.”

“You are graced with a gift that they lack. And the thought that you could have a power such as this over them, frightens the living hell out of them.” Patrick grabbed the only chair in the room from the small writing desk and sat down facing Alice.

Patrick’s face took on an ashamed look and he pulled out a small paper cup from his jacket. It didn’t rattle, though Alice could clearly see the five pills sitting inside.

“I’m not taking that. I won’t take it until you prove to me that I’ve gone crazy!” Alice yelled. She remembered the first month, how they had forced them down her throat. How the pills made her see things that she didn’t wish to see and how those things frightened her, night after night. She wouldn’t take those pills. She couldn’t. Unless she was told that she truly was out of her mind.

Patrick smiled a bit and handed her the cup anyway, steadying her hand so that they wouldn’t drop to the floor. His hands were ice cold.

“Take them, Alice. These are sugar pills. They give them to people who think they are sick to make them believe that they are well again. These pills won’t give you nightmares. I promise.” And with that he stood up, kissed the top of her head and left the room.

Alice jumped up and ran a little ways after him calling, “Do you work the ice baths, Patrick?”

Patrick started walking back. “Why? Do you need one?”

“No. I was just wondering because your hands were so cold.”

“Oh. Yes. I do, Alice.” And he was gone.