Lacy Shivered every time she saw the new aid, Miss Masters. Perhaps it was her always-slightly-ironic smile. Perhaps it was her rosy cheeks paired with those deep, mocking eyes. Perhaps it was her voice, always too sugary to be sincere. Pr perhaps it was the way she watched the patient in room 217, like something she wanted to eat. But Lacy was a nice girl, so she never voiced her concern.
Everyone had laughed at her when she'd gotten that double major in art and psychology. What on earth was she going to be? They asked, well this was what she was, an "art therapist", employed by the psych ward at the local hospital. They had the most state of the art equipment, so they got the truly disturbed. Lacy enjoyed her work. She derived a strange sort of pleasure at being able to peer into the minds of the seriously ill. Nothing interested her more than reading the distinct language of symbols and colors that exists only in art and the human mind. Schizophrenics were her favorite. All she had to say was, draw what you see, and they were an open book. The best part was she wasn't really expected to fix anyone, simply offer a new form of expression. The psychiatrist was supposed to drown their problems in medication. Sometimes she wondered if she should be in with the crazies (as she affectionately referred to them in her mind), but mostly she'd come to terms with her…idiosyncrasies.
The patient in room 217 was her current fascination. He sat on his bed all day, never saying a word, never moving. He was frankly rather attractive, somewhere in his thirties, he had wavy, dark hair and baby blue eyes. There was something deep about his face, as if he had seen more than he could tell. She wanted to know what he was seeing behind that heavy brow.
Today was her first day working with him. No amount of drugs could make him sleep or even blink. He never touched his food, and often jumped when people walked into the room. Miss. Masters was pretty attached to him. She made sure no one but her delivered his food or meds. When Lacy entered the room she was there, leaning over the patient. She whispered softly in her sugary voice. He didn't respond. Lacy cleared her throat and entered. Miss. Masters smiled and left with nothing more than amusement on her face.
"How are you feeling today, Mr. Novak?" Lacy smiled, "Do you know who I am?"
He looked up at her slowly, "Your name is Lacy Bryant, you've spent have your life drawing pictures and the other half volunteering. You consider yourself a Christian but you haven't been to church since your sister died five years ago of leukemia and you wonder every day whether or not you could have saved her. I don't want to draw pictures with you, please just leave."
Lacy felt tears filling her eyes. Part of her wanted to slap him and part of her wanted to just run all the way home. She did neither. She put one pink pump in front of the other and sat down on his bed. She pushed her tears away as if they never happened and smiled softly, "How about I draw then?" she took out her sketchbook and a piece of charcoal. She didn't think about how he knew those things about her. She drew his profile, sitting perfectly straight. It was some of her best work, she even managed to capture that deep expression. "What do you think?"
He took the picture, glanced at it and handed it back to her.
"If you're not a good artist that's okay," She smiled, "Just do your best."
"My own ability is not of any concern to me," He winced. "I don't want to draw, I want to be alone."
"I didn't ask you what you wanted." She chuckled. "Let's just get this over with Mr. Novak."
He took the offered paper and pencil. "How many times will have to see you?"
"Oh come on," she patted his shoulder, making him pull away immediately, "I'm not so horrible."
He didn't respond. Instead he handed her a picture of a sleazy looking man in a lab coat. He was grinning in a way that made her put the paper down, "Who is this?"
"This is what you look like to me." He put his head in his hands, "Believe me I wish it were different. I'm sure you're very beautiful."
Her eyebrows pulled together, "That's….interesting. You've really got it bad."
"I deserve this."
"Now why would you say that?"
He didn't respond.
"Mr. Novak….whatever you think you did…you don't deserve to be sick."
He turned and gave her a look that was a mix of hopelessness and irritation, "And how would you know?"
"Because I watched my sister die," she said softly, "And no one deserves to be sick."
He was silent. She hadn't meant to be so personal, but something within her bled for the man. After a long time he said quietly, in his rumbling voice, "Imagine the worst person in history. Then multiply what they've done and multiply it by a thousand. That doesn't even compare to what I've done."
She raised an eyebrow, "Hon, you might think it's the end of the world, but I'm still here, you're still here and things seem pretty normal to me. So it's not the apocalypse yet."
"It will be." His voice sent chills down her spine. For a moment she believed him.
"What do you mean?"
"You wouldn't understand."
She handed him a blank piece of paper, "Show me."