Chapter Three

That night seemed like a new kind of punishment for Brady. He found himself longing for the familiarity of the normal punishments. The not knowing was enough to make him scream. He lay in the strange bed, waiting for it to start, looking up at the ceiling in a thousand yard stare, if he knew what that was. Every sound was a new threat, every strange smell was a new danger, and when the night nurse came in, a scream he'd held back for so long, tore out of him. People came running, more and more of them in their strange smelling clothes, and their hands trying to grab him and hold him back. He screamed and cried and fought them until he felt the familiar stab of a needle, and then relief as the dark swallowed him.

When he woke up again, he didn't know how much time had passed. He looked around cautiously, and dread started to fill his stomach. He was in a different room, on a bed that was more like a big plastic block against one wall with a mattress on it. There wasn't a pillow, but there were sheets and a blanket, and the mattress was soft. There was a window on one wall with bars on it, and a bathroom with no door, just a curtain. He sat up gingerly and drew his knees up to his chest and hugged them, trying to ignore his pounding headache. He was trying to figure out what might happen next when there was a knock on the door. A nurse came in with a tray of food. He shrank away from her, but she just set the tray on the end of the bed and walked out. The lock clicked behind her. Huh, locked in. He shouldn't be surprised. Hadn't he always been a prisoner of some kind, not allowed freedom, no matter where he went or what he did? He looked uncertainly at the door, and then back at the tray. The drugs were making his reactions slow, and he found it difficult to process his thoughts. He slid down to the floor next to the bed, facing away from the tray. What were the rules? What did they expect from him? What was going to happen? Everything was so overwhelming, and he couldn't think.

He was still sitting on the floor when someone came back in and took the tray away. He held his breath until they left, only exhaling when the door clicked shut behind them. But his relief was short lived when the door opened again. Someone came in, walked around the bed and sat on the floor a few feet away from him.

"Hi," it was the doctor from last night. "How are you feeling?" He sounded like he actually cared, and Brady caught himself starting to warm up to this man. He shrugged. "Dumb question," the doctor said, looking at him speculatively. "Are you hungry?"

"I don't know," Brady said, looking away at the same time as his stomach growled fiercely. The doctor slid a tray over to him, and got up.

"When you're up to it, we want to finish the tests from yesterday, and then get you in to meet with a therapist."

An all too familiar creeping voice in Brady's head whispered to him, "You're such a loser. No wonder no one cares about you. You're wasting the doctor's time." He pulled his knees tighter into his chest. He uncovered the food on the tray and ate, conscious of Carlisle watching him. After he was done, and after Carlisle had taken away the tray, he curled up in a ball on the floor and tried to sleep. But he couldn't relax. His head was full of people and places he didn't want to remember, always with those voices whispering that he was just a waste of space.

"After all," they taunted. "Why else would these things happen to you?" He jerked awake suddenly when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He pulled away sharply and a jab of pain sliced across his side.

"Calm down, son. It's me. I just want to help you get back into your bed."

Carlisle's voice floated down to him, but that voice whispered in his ear, "He wants to hurt you, just like everyone else. I told you so."

"No! Don't touch me!" Brady pulled away and pressed himself tighter into the corner, pain slicing through his ribs. He heard Carlisle sigh, and there was a soft thump, and then Carlisle's footsteps walk away, and the click of the key in the lock, and then silence. Cautiously, he opened his eyes after a few minutes, still half convinced that Carlisle hadn't actually left. But the room was empty. There was a soft blue light glowing next to the door, and the blanket from the bed was laying crumpled next to him. He looked from it to the door. Finally, he wrapped himself up in it, trying to go back to sleep.

Carlisle took the clipboard off the wall next to Brady's door. He wrote down a couple notes and sighed. It was cases like this that he dreaded, children who had gone through so much that they might not be able to come back from it all. He went to the nurse's station and sat at one of the computers to check the cameras in Brady's room. Brady had curled himself back into a ball in the corner. At least he was using the blanket. That was progress.

As he was heating up the dinner his fiance left in the refrigerator for him, he couldn't stop thinking about how he might be able to reach Brady. Intensive therapy was in this kid's future, that was clear, but in what form? He was pioneering a music therapy approach, and maybe there was potential for it here. He'd read that music could reach through a person's mental defenses and pull them out of themselves. A quick search on his computer brought up articles that confirmed his theory.

He took the plate into the living room to catch the news, and his fiance, Esme, was sitting in her favorite spot, watching some show. She moved over for him, and then with a glance at his face, she turned the TV off and turned to him.

"What's wrong?" She asked. He set the plate down and sat down heavily, shaking his head. How could he explain the situation?

"This patient," he said finally. "The one I told you about yesterday. He's so far gone. I've never seen anyone as defeated as he is. And I want to help him, but I don't even know where to start. The physical is easy. Or it will be if he lets it. But I don't know if he'll ever recover mentally. And then the idea of this being all there is for him just kills me. And even if he does recover, what's in store for him is either a home for troubled kids, or foster care until he turns 18 and ages out of it, and neither option is ideal." He let out a heavy sigh. "He needs a family."

"You're the best doctor I know. You'll reach him," she said. He wished he had the same confidence.

"I hope so," he said. "What about your day? Have you decided on anything for our wedding?" He couldn't help teasing. Esme was nothing if not indecisive. She shook her head, laughing.

"I don't even know if we should have an actual dinner after the ceremony or just the cake."

"You know I would marry you even if all we did was go to a courtroom and sign a marriage license, right?"

The next day, Carlisle met with the therapist assigned to Brady for the psych evaluation. They sat down together with Brady's file.

"I've read over what you said about music therapy, and I think it's definitely worth a try." She said as they walked toward her office. She flipped the laptop on her desk closed and slid it into its case. As she was leaving, on a whim she grabbed the guitar from the stand near the door.

She paused for just a moment outside the door before she knocked and went in. Brady was sitting on the floor on the far side of the bed, but he looked up sharply when she came in.

"Hi, I'm Alice. I'm the therapist assigned to your case, and I thought we could spend a little time getting to know each other while you're here." He eyed her, and then glanced at the guitar in her hand. "Do you know how to play it?" She asked, offering the instrument. He took it and ran a hand along the strings almost reverently. And then he started to strum it. It wasn't any song she recognized, but it was definitely something he knew. She watched him without comment, but she noted the way his face softened, and his eyes that were so dead before, lit up at the sight of the guitar. And then his hand stopped strumming, and his fingers closed over the strings.

"What happens to me now?" He asked. It was the first full, unprompted question he'd asked since he came here, and she knew it.

"You'll stay here for the time being, so you can recover. And once you're ready for discharge, you'll go to a foster home, or a home in Tampa for kids with disabilities."

"I'm not disabled," he said. She noted the set of his jaw, and the anger than flashed across his face. And the way it died almost too quickly to see.

"I know. But they have resources that you'll find useful if you go there." Absently, he began to play the guitar again, working out the melody for the Pachelbel Canon. He grew more absorbed with the music, and a faint smile ghosted his face. And then his eyes snapped to her and he stopped.

"When are my parents coming for me?" He asked.

"Your parents? They're not coming back," she said.

"They will," he corrected, shaking his head. "Nothing's going to stop them. They're going to kill me." Alice had heard a lot in her career, but the dead certainty in his voice was chilling. It was as if he accepted the fact that if he was here, then he was already dead. He shoved the guitar back at her, and wrapped the blanket more firmly around his shoulders. He tried to hide it, but it was painfully clear that he was holding back a tidal wave of emotion.