Chapter 3: Perfectly Ruined

Charlotte's POV

11 MONTHS AGO

I was working in the garden the second time I saw him. Autumn sunlight slanted through the red, yellow and orange of the trees in the back of the property. Leaves drifted into confetti piles that I had to resist the urge to jump into, as I'd done when I was a child. It was warm for October, and the cinnamon scent of crushed leaves mixed with the aroma of my coffee mug. It smelled like heaven.

The garden was a relatively large area, backing up to woods so thick and wild that I had no idea what lay beyond them. I supposed that and some would say that it had fallen into ruin.

Not me, though. I thought it was exquisite exactly the way it was. If it was a ruin, then it was perfectly so. A wrought iron bench lay abandoned at the edge of the woods, and I had dragged it closer to examine the piece. It was lovely, with an intricately carved fleur de lis backing. As I inspected it, I felt as if I was being watched, and when I turned around I saw him again. Stephen stood just apart from the tree line, and appeared to have entered from the forest. He was tall and gorgeous, his long black hair slightly tousled by the breeze. In his long, black jacket he somehow appeared otherworldly, I thought for a moment, then smiled to myself at the absurdity of the description.

"It's nice to finally see someone taking an interest in this place," he remarked with a smile. His eyes were kind, I realized, and for some reason when I looked into them I felt comfortable. "That bench is over a hundred years old, by the way. You can tell by the maker's insignia."

"You can, where is it?" I asked him, completely forgetting to be self-conscious in front of him, which was unusual for me. That day I was dressed in jeans and my favorite old black sweater, my long, blonde hair was loose and wild down my back. I hadn't bothered to dress up, as it hadn't occurred to me that I would see anyone, least of all my handsome mystery neighbor. For some reason, that day, it didn't matter. He made me feel safe, and I didn't question it. It was like sinking into a warm, comfortable bath. It felt great on your aching body, and you didn't stop to examine why, you just enjoyed it. It was like that between us from the beginning.

"It's right here," he said, and pointed to a tiny heart in the center of the backing inscribed with the initials AO. "Alfred Omsford was a famous artist. He only created a few of those benches in the 1800's, and those remaining are worth a fortune." At that moment, I didn't care about fortunes. I cared about his bourbon and honey voice. I wanted to hear him tell me more, if only so that I could hear him speak.

"It's beautiful," I told him, and added, "It's a good thing that nobody else seems to know that. I love it, and I wouldn't want anyone taking it away to sell it!" For some reason, that seemed to please him, and he brushed the leaves off of the bench seat. He then took off his jacket, and laid it down on the bench. He sat down on it, and gestured for me to do the same. The gentlemanly gesture was sweet, and I complied.

"So, now that you know what it's worth, you wouldn't run off and sell it," he asked, eyebrows raised, "That's unusual. Most people would have hauled it away the moment they heard."

"I guess I'm not like most people," I replied wryly, thinking how true that was for a variety of reasons, "And it makes absolutely no sense to me to remove something from the place where it belongs. This bench, for some reason, looks as if it was meant to be here."

I had never really had a home of my own, not like that one. I'd spent years in the foster care system after my parents died. Eventually, I'd aged out, but I was one of the lucky ones. I'd gotten a full scholarship to a great college to study library science.

When I graduated, I had lived in a series of studio apartments, every one fairly terrible, and rent was always astronomical for my budget. I perpetually had to work two and three jobs to make ends meet. Tutoring, making coffee at the local cafe, anything to keep the money coming in. So when the lease ran out on my latest nightmare apartment, and this house appeared in my hunt for a new place, I packed my bags and moved immediately. It seemed like a dream come true.

"Then I need to show you something," he said with a mischievous smile, "Come on, it's down this path. No one knows about this either, and I think you'll like it." He stood, and offered his hand for me to take. Ordinarily, I would never have done that with a man I just met. I'd had some bad experiences in foster care. I was lucky to have avoided the worst of what humanity had to offer, but I'd had some pretty close calls with some of my placements. I knew the risks of accompanying a stranger into a secluded place better than most people. Still, my instincts told me that I could trust him, and I took his hand.

***

PRESENT DAY

It was time for my individual counseling session, and I dreaded it with every fiber of my being. These sessions were allegedly voluntary. And I guess they were, in the sense that they didn't drag you kicking and screaming to them. But if you wanted to ever see the outside world, ever again, they were non-negotiable. So there I was.

"Charlotte, you wanted to discuss the possibility of an outing, is that correct," Dr. Feelgood asked me, but it wasn't really a question. I knew exactly what he was getting at, and I felt my stomach churn. "Before we can begin to discuss that as an option, we need to talk about what happened the last time you left the hospital on a similar trip."

I didn't want to talk about that, but I realized that I didn't have much of a choice. I sighed and steeled myself for what was going to be a difficult session. There was no way around it.

"Yes, I know that what I did was wrong, and inappropriate," I told him, and attempted to project exactly the right amount of remorse for my actions, "I realize that now, and I will never do it again." And that much was true. I would never do THAT again. I knew better now.

"Ok, that's good, that's a start," Dr. Feelgood replied, and stroked the uneven beard that I thought made him look like a weasel with mange, "But I'm going to need you to explain to me why it was a bad idea, and what you were attempting to do."

Dr. Feelgood knew exactly why I had acted as I had, and he knew why. He just wanted to hear me say it. I took a deep breath, and tried to give him the answer he expected.

"I left to try to see Stephen, and I know that was wrong of me," I said, and kept my voice carefully neutral, "I knew that I wasn't permitted to leave the location, and I did it anyway. And I'm sorry, Doctor, truly I am, it won't happen again." I tried to determine the effect of my words on him, but he was wearing his shrink mask, and that was always impenetrable.

"That's true, and I'm glad that you've taken responsibility for your actions, Charlotte," he said, and I thought I was in the clear. But then Dr. Feelgood gave the sigh that he always gives before he lowers the boom. Before he says the one thing that would make anyone react, whether they were in an asylum or not.

"But let's be clear about this, are you going to try to see Stephen again," he asked, pen poised to take notes on my reaction, which already pissed me off, "Because Charlotte, we've discussed this. And I really think…" That's when I lost it. I knew what he was going to say, and I couldn't listen to him for a second longer. I just couldn't.

"You don't understand!" I heard myself scream, and I threw his precious glass paperweight against the wall. It shattered into a million pieces, which made me grin. "You don't understand ANYTHING! I LOVE HIM! AND HE LOVES ME! AND YOU CAN'T KEEP US APART!" He was already calling security to have me taken to solitary, so at that point, I knew that it didn't matter what I did. I started wrecking his entire office. I managed to hurl a potted plant against a wall, where it made a satisfying thump when it shattered. I was going for his framed degrees when two burly men grabbed me and hauled me out of there. Then I felt the pinprick of a needle, and the sedative kicked in. As I felt myself slip into unconsciousness, I realized that I needed to get a better handle on my anger or I was never going to get out of there.