I am sorry for the late update for today... i have been quite busy... and important note: DO NOT SKIP THIS CHAPTER!!!! I might not like Tanveer in the show, but in this FF Tanveer is one of the most important character... no offense... this chapter the scraiest i have ever written!
I hope you like it!!!! Enjoy and freak out a little... then comment and like (if you do)...
Chapter 13: Tanveer
ONCE ASAD AND the others leave for the tunnels, I start flipping through the folders, searching for my grandmother's name. Since she was once a patient here.
I know it's not rational. I know the odds of finding any trace of her are slim to none. I mean, there are files everywhere in this place. It's hard to walk and not step on somebody's medical history. But I have to try anyway. Because after my grandmother was admitted here, it's like her whole entire family forgot about her.
But I'm not forgetting.
I may not have been around when it happened (I hadn't even been born yet), but I'm here now. And this visit is long overdue.
My older sister Nuzhat has only filled me in on bits and pieces of what happened. She says that our family became ashamed of it—the idea of having someone in an asylum. She expects me to understand, to see their side of things, to consider the fact that my grandmother was admitted here long ago—when people were more private about things.
But I don't understand. And actually, when I really stop to think about it, it makes me sick. Because, what if something like that ever happened to me? What if I needed to be institutionalized? Would my family forget about me, too?
And so my grandmother lived here.
And then died here.
And no one even bothered to visit her.
Until now.
Imran plunks himself down next to me. "Come here often?" he asks, giving me the smarmy eye.
"Is that supposed to be funny?"
"Come on." He laughs. "Where's your sense of humor?"
"I'm here, aren't I?"
"Yeah, but something tells me you're not in this for the laughs."
"Oh, really," I say, somewhat surprised by his perception. I mean, the guy's an absolute clown. To prove me right, he slips on the clown mask I found. It's the kind that has elastic across the back to hold it in place. A plastic version of Bozo, complete with a bulbous nose, happy lips, and fluffy red hair.
The sight of it creeps me out. "Take that off," I snap.
"Not into clown kink, I take it." He takes the mask off.
"What's with the black eye?" I ask, ignoring his attempt at humor, remembering how Asad had asked about the black eye yesterday at the diner, but how Imran had laughed it off.
"First answer my question," he says. "What's with the chip?"
"Excuse me?"
He reaches over to rub my shoulder. "There's a pretty bad one right there."
It takes me a moment to get it, and when I do, I can't help but smile. "Pretty clever."
"A curse I have to live with." He smiles back, his light brown eyes crinkling up. It's the first time I notice the dimple in his cheek. "So what's the deal?" he continues.
"No deal."
"Something tells me you have an have an agenda," he pushes. "So what is it? Something more interesting than combat boots and a 666 attitude, I hope."
I shrug, glancing down at a profile sheet. "Gus Newman," I read aloud, avoiding the question. "Age seventeen. High school senior."
"Let me guess," Imran says. "Too much funny dust?"
"Social anxiety issues," I correct, reading from the chart. "It says here he had difficulty relating to his peers. Sound familiar?" I raise an eyebrow at Imran.
"Nope. Not to me," Imran says, using the clown mask as a hat now.
I flip through the pages, looking for something meatier, some legitimate reason for Gus to be locked up in this place, but knowing that it happened all the time— that sometimes people got checked in for the wrong reasons. "I once read about this boy whose parents dumped him off here, saying he was too rambunctious for them to handle. A couple years here, and no word from his par-ents—and the boy really did go crazy."
"Sounds like something my parents would do."
"That explains a lot."
Instead of responding, Imran pulls the clown mask back down over his face and sticks his tongue out through the lips.
"Do you know how many germs that thing probably has?"
"Does that mean we can't make out later?"
"You can't be serious."
"Try me," he says, his tongue flailing away.
I go to rip the mask off, but Imran does it for me. "Maybe later?" he asks.
"There isn't enough mouthwash or money on the planet," I say.
At that he gets up, stretches his arms, and readjusts his headlight. "Playing hard to get? I like that." He winks.
"Wait, where are you going?"
"Just thought I'd pop over to the brain lab on my way to get some shock treatments."
"Seriously," I bite.
"Seriously, come on," he says. "Let's go for a walk. When was the last time you were in an asylum? Let's be crazy!"
I flip another page in the folder. "I'm busy."
"Well, unbusy yourself. Because I have to take a leak, and you have to come with me."
"Not a chance," I say, making a face.
"Come on," he begs, dropping to his knees. "You need to protect me from the evils that lurk."
The boy makes me laugh. I want to despise him, but I'm too busy laughing at his lame-o jokes. After squabbling over it for a few more moments, Imran finally agrees to go wee-wee by himself. Still, he assures me that he'll be just down the hallway, by the cafeteria, and that if I need anything I should call him on the walkie-talkie.
Meanwhile, I continue to page through the folders, reading some pretty intense stuff: several people who thought they were Jesus, a woman who liked to eat toilet paper, a guy who thought he was a chicken, a bunch of people with multiple personality disorders, and a handful with schizophrenia.
I pause at this one lady's chart. It seems she had people inside her ranging in age from 1 to 101. I try to make out what the doctor scribbled on her treatment page, but then I hear something—a creaking sound behind me, like someone is moving across the floorboards.
I turn to look, but there's no one there—just a bunch of windows that are all boarded up.
"Imran?" I say, looking around. I pick up one of the candles for added light. But I don't see anyone.
And so maybe I'm just hearing things.
I turn back to my reading, and reach for the journal. Even though it was kept in wax paper, it's still yellow with age. The corners are frayed and the back cover's almost completely torn off. Someone's decorated the front with decoupage—magazine cutouts of laughing children.
Dozens of them.
Little girls with open-mouth smiles and boys with huge, happy grins.
But now there's an orangey-golden glaze that stains their faces, making them look almost sick.
I flip the journal open, noticing the name inscribed on the inside cover. It's written in pretty cursive, a vine of roses outlining the letters, and thorns digging in from all four sides—Nikhat Khan.
My skin tingles just seeing her name, knowing for sure now that the watercolor picture was indeed hers. I flip through a few pages, eager to read more about her.
But that's when I'm stopped.
"Tanveer?" a voice whispers from somewhere out in the hallway.
My heart jumps. "Imran?"
But no one answers. And it's pitch black out there. My headlight only shines about eight feet, barely reaching the doorway.
"Imran, is that you?" I wait a couple seconds and then pick up my walkie-talkie. I press the TALK button. "Imran?"
But it doesn't seem to be working. I don't hear that familiar static sound like before when we were in the woods.
My heart beating fast, I let out a breath, trying to get a grip, wondering if this is just my imagination. Or if maybe Imran is trying to get me back for not taking a walk with him.
I decide to ignore his lame attempt at scaring me, and focus on the journal:
June 10, 1981
It's a full moon tonight. And everyone here—all the patients—are wailing at the top of their lungs. It's the most chilling thing I've ever heard. You can probably hear the wailing for miles.
I look around as everyone does it. It's like a big game—who can sound the loudest. And yet the nurses don't even seem to care. Some of them think it's funny. Others ignore it, acting like they can't hear anything at all.
It makes me wonder if everybody's gone crazy.
I pull my blanket over my head, but it doesn't help. Jessica is right outside the covers, hovering over my bed, wailing as loud as she can to try and scare me.
And it's working.
My insides are shaking. My skin is cold. I want to be sick.
I take a deep breath, tempted to gouge my ear with this pen, to push it into the canal as far as it will go and draw a little blood. I bet it would win me a trip to the doctor. At least then I could be with someone sane. Because this place is making me crazy.
More tomorrow.
I go to turn another page, but that's when I hear something else. The sound of water running.
"Imran?" I call out again, my voice sharper, more pissed off. I head out into the hallway, toward where the cafeteria is, my headlight shining the way. "You've got my attention now, donkey," I say, moving through the cafeteria doors, startled by the creaking sound of the hinges.
There's a giant oven right in front of me, and what appears to be a loading dock to the left. I move across the linoleum flooring, still trying to get my walkie-talkie to work.
But it's definitely dead.
"This isn't funny," I say, peering around the cafeteria. There are doors and windows along all four walls, making it look more like a hallway. The only real tip-off that this is a place where food was prepared is the giant mixing bowls—twelve of them—practically up to my waist. And the lingering smell of boiled cabbage.
"Come out now!" I call again. My voice echoes.
I move to the center of the cafeteria, noticing two separate dining areas—for the males and females, maybe. And then I notice the American flag. It looks like it's torn, like someone ripped the thing in two. But when I strain my eyes, I see that it isn't an actual flag at all. It's just a picture of one. Someone's painted it on a door glass. But now there's a hole it in—a big chunk missing—like someone threw a rock.
I take a deep breath and continue to look around, watching for a flashlight beaming or a shadow moving. But it appears that I'm alone.
Even though I feel like I'm being followed.
I feel like there's someone standing somewhere behind me, watching my every move. The skin at the nape of my neck itches, like ants crawling down my back.
Breathing hard, I turn around—to head back to our meeting place—but I smack into a table, whacking my leg. Making a huge echoing bang.
I take another deep breath and try to calm the thumping of my heart. Maybe I should head downstairs and see if I can find Asad and them—tell Asad what an absolute jacka** Imran is being.
My leg throbbing, I move out into the hallway, back toward the reception room, the smell of stale water—of mildew mixed in mustiness—all around me.
"Tanveer," a voice whispers again—a female voice. It's followed by the sound of running water—even louder than before.
"Who's there?" I call. "Zoya? Humaira?" Is it possible that this is someone's stupid idea for a plot? That Asad has agreed to let Humaira and Ayaan take over with their stupid scripts?
I clench my teeth, getting more pissed off by the moment. I mean, what the hell? This isn't what I signed up for—a bunch of high school adolescents playing haunted house in an abandoned asylum.
I peek into the reception room—still empty—and then head down toward the female wings, following the sound of the running water. It's getting louder with each step, leading me to a room at the end of the hallway.
"This isn't funny!" I shout, trying to remind myself that this is a joke, that there's some logical explanation.
"I'm not laughing," a voice breathes. I let out a gasp, but then realize the voice is coming from my walkie-talkie. I press the TALK button. "Imran?"
But the piece of crap goes dead again.
I reach into my pocket for my cell phone and try to dial. But it's not getting a signal.
My heart pumping hard, I move closer t o the room. It's pitch black inside. "Imran?" I call out. "If you're in here, I'm going to kill you." I take a couple steps inside, wishing I had an extra flashlight or that I had brought along a candle. The narrow beam of my headlight shines over a bathtub. But it isn't running.
And there is no water.
But I can still hear the faucet; it sounds like the tub is filling up.
For hydrotherapy.
I step back, dropping my walkie-talkie. It makes a cracking sound against the tile floor.
Above the tub is a mural—a happy swan bathing in a pond with a fiery orange sun behind it—like that's supposed to make the hydrotherapy bearable. But even more twisted are the words splotched just above the scene, causing my skin to ice up, and my heart to beat even faster. Written in dark red letters, the words "I've been waiting for you" puncture right into my heart.
And make me scream.
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