Blackwell Academy
Arcadia Bay, OR
Nathan Prescott,
2600 Center St. NE
Salem, OR 97301
Dear Nathan,
When I was a kid, I wanted to go to Salem because I wanted to meet a witch. I would bug my dad every weekend to drive me over there and he'd say no every time. I had no fucking clue that Salem, Oregon was different from Salem, Massachusetts. Pretty dumb, right?
How's Salem treating you? I don't know when you're receiving this, but I was there yesterday on October 12th. It wasn't exactly what I thought. I think a part of me was still expecting mystical witchy shit. Salem seems like just another Oregon town. Bigger than Arcadia Bay, sure, but still very Oregon-ish, you know?
I grew up in Arcadia Bay. I'm not sure if you did too, but if you have then that means you must have lived here pretty much all your life, huh? I wonder what that's like, for your perception of the world to be based on one small sleepy town? I moved to Seattle when I was 13 and it really opened the whole world up for me. Suddenly it wasn't just dingy diners and a quiet beach. It was a whole hustling and bustling city full of life and opportunities. Sure, I've been to Portland and all, but it was different actually living in the city than just being there on a visit, you know? I knew then that I liked the city life.
But coming back to Arcadia Bay feels like something else. I've been gone for all of 5 years. It honestly feels like I've come home. And this got me thinking. The lights in the city can surely be blinding, but at the end of the day when we go to bed, what do we do? We turn off the lights and are perfectly happy with just that one night light. That's how I feel about Arcadia Bay. It may be a dim night light compared to the city, but it's the only one I really need.
All the best,
Max Caulfield
Nathan – fifth day institutionalized
A nurse hands him a letter at breakfast today and it baffles the fuck out of him because he can't for the life of him remember any damn 'Max Caulfield' from Blackwell. He couldn't even figure out if they were a student or a teacher or staff member or whatever-the-fuck. Was Max a boy or a girl? He thinks Max is most definitely a boy's name, right? But they talk so sentimental, he thinks they've got to be a girl.
Nathan knows one thing for sure though. This person has no idea who the fuck he is. Because if they do, they wouldn't ramble on about shitty ass places he doesn't give a single crap about. How would he know anything about Salem? The only ever time he's been here is to be locked up in this damn loony bin. It's not like he can go sightseeing on a tour bus or something. And he couldn't be less interested in Arcadia Bay if he wants to either. The whole godawful town hates him like ungrateful shits who—let's be honest—would be nothing without the investments his family has made for the development of the town. So whoever this person who's written this letter is, he thinks, they're really fucking stupid.
But at least they've written to him because no one else has damn given enough fucks to. Granted, he hadn't known he could even receive letters so maybe no one just knows they can write to him. His sister, Kris, has gone to see him everyday since he's gotten here, but he knows she's only here because she feels guilty for abandoning him in their fortress of a home with their tyrant of a father. He can't entirely blame her for taking off though. He probably would have the first chance he gets too. At least she gives him someone decent to talk to on the rare occasions he wants to be a little less antisocial. But how could he not be when everyone in the goddamn hospital is either driving him nuts or constantly analyzing him?
Every day since he's arrived here, Nathan's days have gone exactly the same. He wakes up. Lines up for what he likes to refer to as 'mind control' pills—which they may as well be called. Pretends to take them but just hides them under his tongue. Goes to group therapy. Says nothing and instead entertains himself with the morons crying their hearts out. Goes to whatever class they're offering that day and pretends to be the least bit interested. Crafts. Finger painting. Flower arranging. Whatever-the-fuck. What he really wants to do is get back into photography. But there aren't any cameras in the whole damn place—at least not the kind he needs. None of the prisoners—patients—are allowed to have smartphones either. He's tried to steal a nurse's phone once. It goes well for about fifteen minutes until they catch him and then he's back to being phone-less.
He supposes things could be worse for him. He could be dead. Like Chloe Price. He doesn't remember much of what's happened. He can make out flashes of her bleeding chest. The cold bathroom floor. Sometimes he almost thinks he can still hear that gunshot going off. The police tell him that he's murdered her. Murdered. Like he's a criminal. The worst of all scums. A murderer. He should be in prison, they say. But they also say he's not fit for it or some shit. That he's unwell. Insane. Guilty Except for Insanity.
What the fuck does that even mean? He isn't guilty because he's insane? As far as he's concerned, he's far saner than anyone in this fucking asylum. They're treating him like some kind of lost cause. His family sure think so. They won't hesitate and have shipped him off to fucking Alcatraz if they could. He bets they're fuckin celebrating now that he's out of their sights for good.
But if he isn't insane then is he guilty? He hadn't meant to shoot her! He doesn't remember why or how but he swears he doesn't mean to do it. He isn't a murderer. He isn't insane either. He's… he's…
He's responsible. That fucking asshole. That devil parading in his good little fucking angel costume from goddamn Spirit. Everything is his fault! His life has only gone to deep shit since he met him. He just doesn't know what he's supposed to do. He kicks him down in one second and pulls him back up in the next. He says he could make him great. He says he could make him proud. He's the only one who's really understood him. He can't call it quits and throw his one chance at making his miserable life any less meaningless.
That's why he needs that motherfucking camera no one is letting him have. To prove them all wrong. They're all conspiring against him. They all don't want him to succeed—nobody fucking does. They all want him to fail. They're keeping him in this hellhole because they don't want him to become the hero. But he can't give up now. He needs to get his hands on that camera.
He just has to get the fucking hell out of these goddamn restraints. But they're not the worst thing in the world. At least they make it just uncomfortable enough for him to stay awake. Hell knows as godawful the real world is, they don't have shit against the world in his head.
Thank you for reading! Please tell me your thoughts. I'm a bit worried about how I wrote this chapter, to be honest.
