Someone was watching me. I could feel it in the itching between my shoulders. Smooth metal walls curved ahead of me, distorting my reflection. I whirled, hoping to surprise my ghost watcher, but the corridor behind me was mockingly empty. Nothing stirred; no flutter of movement revealed itself to my searching eyes. Anger sparked bright metallic red, and I ran. I wanted to chase down the feeling, to corner it snarling in a dead end and take it by force. My feet slapped against the flooring, the thuds echoing hollowly in my ears, as I dashed down random halls. A door loomed before me, the inset window crisscrossed by black spider-web lines, and I stumbled to a halt as my reflection flashed in the glass. Reaching for it, my fingers met only a cool phantom touch as it mirrored my actions, trapped on the other side.

My hand fell to the cool ash handle, and I hesitated. It could be a trap. They could be waiting for me on the other side. My shoulders twitched, and I glanced up. The camera lens stared back at me, cool and collected and waiting for me to make a mistake. I couldn't risk a mistake, not when my children's safety depended on me. They refused to listen to me when I told them our home wasn't safe. I had to protect my children. I had to get out of here. My children were waiting for me at home.

The door whispered open, promising me freedom in soft tones. It lied. Like my husband lied, when he told me he wasn't having an affair, all the times Ed stumbled home, clothes reeking of alcohol, honey-words on his tongue, and a breath mint hidden under it. Like the police lied, when they told me I'd be out in a day. Like my mother lied, when she told me they would help me. There's no one to help my children except for me. There's no one I can trust.

Behind me, the air conditioning grumbled at being roused and I stepped through before it noticed me. Light glared at the pastel flowers pressed into the wallpaper. Large faded swatches of color that curved to form petals and leaves and stems, creating a garden without the mess of dirt or the hassle of watering. No doubt a committee had voted on what flowers to plant. Plastic wooden chairs sat in a semi-circle, quietly waiting for the next therapy session. The scent of ammonia lingered in the air. Pine would have been a better choice for an air freshener.

I knew this room. Three meals ago they had escorted me in and sat me down in one of the watching chairs. I tried telling them I didn't belong here, that I needed to leave, but they sat me down anyway. Everyone else had stared at me, even the drooling ones. They were gone now, the room empty except for Toby-the-doll slumped abandoned in the far chair, his patchwork head leaning against the desk. The doctor had introduced him to us cheerfully, smiling, and patting my hand when I objected. As if talking to a life-size doll ever helped anyone. It certainly wouldn't help my children or me. I moved to straighten him, a mother's habit, and then backed up until the desk pressed into my thighs. Perched on the desk edge, I realized the room was bigger from this angle. My gaze considered Toby, his blue button eyes staring at the ceiling. The same powder blue buttons from my son's corduroy overalls.

I don't like silence; it's not natural. It places demands on you. It waits, expectant, accusing, until you break down and confess all. Drives you insane. I talked to Toby instead.

Toby listened as I told him about the doctors who wouldn't believe me, about Ed who couldn't be trusted to look after our children, about how I needed to get home. I thought he understood, but he refused to give me directions on how to get out. I tugged at his body, wanting to shake his complacency from him, and he dropped from the chair like a sack of Idaho potatoes. Maybe he was stuffed with potatoes. Or maybe there was someone hiding inside. I kicked the body, gauging the results.

No grunt of pain, no flicker of response. Proving nothing. "You have to help me, Toby." My hand patted his head, butterfly light and reassuring, like the doctors did when they talked to me. I tried to keep my tone mild as I continued. I didn't want to scare him, or they'd come with the drugs again and I wouldn't be able to escape.

"I know you sided with them before, but that was just the therapist using you, pretending he was you. The therapist… is that who's inside you? Wearing you like a Halloween costume?" I pondered that for a moment, remembering the struggle to get my son into his outfit last Halloween. He'd insisted on being a pirate, complete with plumed hat, eye patch, and parrot. Despite my attempt at sewing the stuffed bird on, it kept falling over sideways. Like Toby had. Not even staples had worked. "Or like in that horror novel. The one with that psychopath who skinned his victims and made clothes out of them. What do you think, Toby?"

No answer. "Toby?"

Springing to my feet, I glared down at him. "Answer me, Toby." His silence infuriated me and I kicked him. Again, and then I reminded myself that I needed to be calm. "I have to get out of here. They're just waiting for me to make a mistake. My children are in danger." Calm. I shifted on the mahogany desk, the wood as fake as everything in here, as fake as promises.

"The people here are crazy, Toby. How could they put me in here with them? I'm not delusional. I have evidence. You should have heard those women talking about my husband's infidelity. Stealing glances at me to make sure I heard. I didn't know whether they were neighbors or vultures. And he claimed it was someone else's husband. Then he wonders why I don't want to leave our apartment, knowing they're waiting out there, gossiping about us. Telling lies."

"I know they're watching me, Toby. But I have to protect my children. Ed wouldn't be careful enough. He didn't notice when they poisoned the food. And Mother claimed it had just gone bad. If I hadn't thrown all of it out, we would've died. He works late most nights. And sometimes he stops for a drink after hours. My children need me to watch over them. What if a robber came? What if he found them there, all alone? I have to get out of here. I have to get home before they're hurt."

I was kneeling on the floor, clutching his hand when my stomach growled, reminding me I'd missed the morning meal. I glanced around, checking that nobody else had heard. There was food in my room, and no one would think to check for me there. If I could just stay out of their planned activities long enough, I knew I could find a way out of this place. "Goodbye, Toby," I whispered, "Don't tell anyone I was here." I slipped out the door, tracing my way back to my room.

Bert the Orderly was waiting on my bed, pinned by the restraining straps. He'd been very surprised to learn that I didn't have stomach cramps but a statue clutched in my hand instead. It wasn't as good as the ones Ed carved, but I rarely paid attention during class. Hitting Bert's head had cracked it and nearly driven a splinter into my hand.

"Hello," I greeted Bert. "I hope I'm not disturbing you. Just thought I should check in." I leaned against the bed, watching him. "I talked to Toby. He's really very therapeutic."

Bert growled against the sock I'd shoved in his mouth, brown eyes promising retribution. I had a dress that shade of brown. The shade of chocolate, of mocha, of Mother's dog Brownie who always stole her walnut brownies off the table. A dress with little yellow flowers covering it that I wore out to dinner, before I got pregnant. After the baby, our first baby, it didn't fit so well. But that didn't matter because Ed didn't take me out to dinner anymore. He went out alone most nights.

A bowl of congealed porridge lay overturned on the floor near where Bert had crumpled; plastic silverware scattered around it like modern voodoo bones. I wondered what they predicted for my future. I nudged the porridge with my foot. "Definitely not sanitary. You give me poisoned food, inedible food, and then criticize me for not eating. I'm not trying to starve myself. I'm just trying to survive. My children are in danger and no one is willing to listen. Of course, you don't have a choice about listening now, do you? Don't act like that. You gave me no other choice. How many times did I tell you this before?" I demanded.

The glass of water had survived my attack, placed out of the way along with my medication. Thorazine, the doctor had told me and described a list of possible side effects. Off-white pills shaped like slugs that I always wanted to bleach to a proper white to match all the white walls here. They tasted like the sawdust that got into everything whenever Ed settled on a new project. I'd stopped taking them several meals ago. Faking the restless agitation and tremors they caused had posed no problem.

I drank the remaining water, wincing as I registered a second too late that it was room temperature. The glass went next to the sink, upside down next to its sisters. I hoped it enjoyed the family reunion. Our last family reunion had been a mess. I told Mother that Ed didn't mean any of it, that he was just drunk. Mother didn't have to threaten him. I knew he would never leave me. Never abandon me with no job, no skills, and two kids. Not when our children were in danger.

Turning back, I noticed Bert the Orderly struggling with the straps. One hand had twisted around to scratch at the buckle. "You're not even paying attention to me," I accused. "Not that you have any reason to. I'm no longer your prisoner. I'm free now. Free," I repeated, turning the word over in my mind. Except that I couldn't get out of here. I had to escape before they discovered me, before they held me down and pumped drugs through my system, while my children were being murdered. The thought occurred to me that this had been the plan all along. To get me out of the way, so I couldn't stop them, couldn't save my children. My eyes flew to Bert's face, round and shiny with sweat, examining him for hidden signs of conspiracy. I removed the gag, sliding the spittle-coated cloth over his chin. "Did you plan this?"

"Anne." He took a deep breath, trying to modulate his tone. When he resumed speech, it was as if to a young child. "Listen to me, you don't really want to do this. This can all be worked out. Everything will be all right."

"Worked out? You've been saying that every time you bring one of my meals. My children are in danger!"

"Your children are-" he broke off. "You haven't been taking your medicine, have you, Anne?"

"I don't have time for this." I shoved the gag back in roughly. I had a suitcase. Mother had brought it on her visit, packed full of dusty memories and the musk smell of our closet. I dragged it out into the middle of the floor. "Clothes, shoes, underwear, socks," I muttered, running through the list. "Toiletries…" My toothbrush and toothpaste were hidden in the secret panel behind the mirror so that no one could poison them.

Swinging the door closed, I found myself staring into light green eyes. They blinked, registering surprise, and I tilted my head, studying the image. Pale skin, not enough time spent under sunlight, under any sort of natural light. Short black hair, slightly ragged, a bit overdue for her haircut. Baggy light gray sweater, with black blocky letters printed backwards for some reason, and white shorts. There was something wrong with her smile. Shaking my head, I continued with my packing, stealing occasional glances at her. She didn't notice Bert the Orderly sneaking up behind her, holding the chair like a baseball bat.

My eyes flutter open, my mind registering an unfamiliar room. The ceiling above me curves off to the sides, a dotted upside down landscape. I blink, but it refuses to change into the sky. There's a background hum, the hum of machines working that I loathe. Straps bind my arms and legs and I shift slightly to test the limits. Velcro. I remember my daughter's velcro shoes, the ones that always came undone with the slightest pressure. These straps are made of a different velcro.

If it weren't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all. Who said that? I can't move my head, my view of the room is restricted to the ceiling. I close my eyes, feign sleep as the door opens.

"We know you're awake, Anne," the doctor says gently.

I can picture him smiling above me, garbed in an angel white lab coat. "Do you have a daughter?" I ask. I plead. "A son? Please, my children are in danger. You need to help me."

"We'll help you," he soothes. He checks a clipboard, and adds something to the IV. His hands smell of disinfectant soap. "Just relax. Everything will be all right."

The clear liquid drips steadily into me, stealing my will. My eyes shut before I can even murmur no.

Blood. Dripping. Coating the walls like splashed paint. Rivulets slide down the walls, ever so slowly, stretching towards the floor. Gathering into sticky red pools. A step forward and it latches onto my shoes. There's a squelching noise as I take another step. "Ed?" my voice wavers. I know he's home, his belt is coiled snakelike on the table, except that snakes aren't splattered with burgundy. His latest figurine crunches under my feet, the figure jaggedly dismembered. It had gotten knocked from the shelf that morning, I remember, and the limbs had broken off. Ed had spent weeks perfecting the likeness, whittling and sanding and polished. I told the children they'd have to apologize when he came home. Ed was obsessed with his carvings.

"Sally? Jim?" I swallow nervously, slide another step forward. "Just come out now, I promise I won't be mad." Nothing except for the drip, drip, drip. Grocery packages slide to the floor as I hold my hand out, watching in fascination as the drops fall onto my palm, hesitate, and then roll sideways. Drip. They gather, dark, crimson and symbolic of something. Raising my hand, I take a lick. Warm, but nowhere near the 98.6 degrees it should be. "If it looks like blood, smells like blood, tastes like blood…" I let the sentence trail off. It's not blood. Wrong color for barbecue sauce. Red wine? "Probably doesn't go well with chicken, though. Or was white wine supposed to go with chicken? Ed would know. He's good with drinks." I laugh, and find myself unable to stop, even as it turns to sobs and I slide down the wall. My fingers curl, covering the red spot my tears cannot clean. The garage door snicks open, and a pair of black leather boots enters my vision. They need polishing, I note absently. Floorboards creak as Ed trudges to the sink and begins to wash. Water falls from his fingers like pink raindrops. I blink.

It's hard to swallow with my tongue swollen to twice its size and no moisture left in my mouth. My hands clench into fists and unclench as I struggle to move. The computer beeps pick up speed, rising in tempo to match the jagged peaks of my heartbeat. I flinch as hands covered in cool disposable plastic touch my face, raising an eyelid to study pupil dilation. I jerk my head free from them for a moment, not wanting to face to harsh florescent light.

Sally and Jim stare at me, holding hands. My Jim looks at me, shadows covering his face like mottled bruises. They'll go away if I can only find the light. "Mommy, why didn't you protect us?"

"They won't get you," I promise. Sally's dark-stained dress hangs oddly, the cotton print stiff and torn. She must have been playing in the mud. "I'll stop them. They can't keep me away from you."
"Why didn't you come home first?"

"This isn't working," the voice says, vaguely familiar. "She's not responding to the medication."

Another voice. It rasps, the auditory equivalent of a cat's tongue. He could do commercials on the dangers of smoking. Or act in westerns. "A different method?"

A sharp release of held breath. "She hasn't responded positively to any treatment so far. Five years…"

"She's not ready to face reality. Can't say that I blame her."

My children walk towards me, reaching for me.

"Why didn't you stop Daddy from hitting us?"

"Why didn't you save us?"

I stretch my arms out towards them. "I'll come for you. I'll save you."

My eyes close and the echoing voices are replaced by the steady drip, drip, drip of poison entering my veins. They can't keep me here forever. They can't watch me forever. My children need me.