Chapter Eighty Four - Harper's Manic Escape

The hospital corridors were hushed at this late hour, dim pools of light casting long shadows across the linoleum floor. Harper's footsteps were soft but echoing as she made her way back from the bathroom, her mind still foggy with exhaustion and restless thoughts. The antiseptic smell clung thickly in the air, mixing with the faint scent of bleach and stale coffee from the nurse's station just around the corner.

As she neared the nurses' station, voices drifted through the cracked door left slightly ajar. Harper froze, the dull ache behind her eyes sharpening instantly.

"...look at this." One nurse whispered sharply, flipping through a thick folder. "Harper Lia Baldwin. Page after page of hospital visits and stays. Psychiatric admissions, mood episodes, and look at this—four admissions in the last six months alone. They say she's bipolar, but how do we know it's not just an excuse?"

"Right." another voice hissed. "And I heard detectives say about the gun found under her bed? Who keeps a gun under their bed like that? That's insane. What if she's dangerous?"

"Not just dangerous." the first nurse replied, voice dropping even lower. "There's the whole camp incident, then the murder of her grandmother. I mean, I know it's just gossip, but still... it all feels connected. Like she's hiding something. Probably more than we know."

Harper's breath hitched. Every word was a blade, slicing through the fragile calm she had tried to hold on to. Her heart slammed against her ribs, louder and faster, drowning out the sterile hum of the hospital lights.

"She's slipping through the cracks, if you ask me." the second nurse said. "They keep sending her back, but nothing ever changes. What if she's just pretending? Manipulating everyone? Playing the victim?"

Harper's hands clenched into fists, nails biting into her palms. The voices felt like a trap tightening around her, and her vision blurred with the rush of panic.

They're talking about me. They're all talking about me. They want me locked up forever.

Her breath came fast and shallow now, chest tightening in a way that made her dizzy. The corridor seemed to pulse — the lights flickering, the walls closing in — as a manic fire sparked deep inside her brain.

I have to get out. I can't stay here. They're all against me.

Harper slipped back into her room without a sound, the door clicking shut behind her like a lock sealing her fate. The small space felt suffocating, the white walls pressing inward, the harsh fluorescent light buzzing above like an accusation.

She paced frantically, her thoughts fracturing into a million jagged pieces. The whispers, the files, the endless admissions — they weren't just words anymore. They were proof. Proof that she was a prisoner, a marked girl with a shadowy past.

Her pulse raced, limbs trembling with nervous energy, breath hitching in erratic gasps. The manic wave washed over her, igniting every sense — the cold sweat slick on her skin, the pounding in her ears, the restless electricity in her hands.

They're lying. They're framing me. Everyone. I have to get out. Before it's too late. They can't keep me here.

Harper's gaze darted to the window — the latch gleaming under the flickering light. Her heart hammered in her chest as a sudden surge of desperation drove her forward. Fingers shaking but determined, she yanked the window open, the scraping sound sharp and raw in the silent room.

The cold night air rushed in like a wild promise of freedom, crisp and biting against her flushed skin. Without hesitating, Harper swung her legs out and dropped silently onto the grass below, the chill shocking her senses awake.

She didn't stop to look back. Her legs moved on instinct, pounding the pavement as the hospital shrank behind her into the shadows.

Her mind raced ahead, fueled by manic fear and frantic hope.

I have to run. I have to get away. They can't catch me. They won't catch me.

And so Harper ran — fast, wild, desperate — into the night.

The night was thick and heavy, draped in a cloak of silence broken only by the distant hum of traffic and the rustling of dry leaves skittering along the curb. Harper's bare feet pounded furiously against the cracked pavement, each step echoing her frenzied heartbeat. Her breath came in ragged gasps, misting in the cold air as her mind spiraled faster and faster—fragmented, urgent, and uncontrollable.

They're watching. They're all watching me. The nurses, the doctors—everyone's whispering behind my back. They want to cage me, to bury me alive in that place. I can't stay. I won't.

Her eyes, wild and unfocused, scanned the dark streets like a hunted animal. Shadows shifted around her, twisting into shapes that whispered threats. Panic coursed through her veins, amplifying the manic energy driving her forward.

Ahead, a glow appeared—a pair of bright headlights cutting through the blackness. Harper didn't slow. The street blurred as she stumbled out from the sidewalk onto the empty road.

The headlights flared directly into her eyes. For a terrifying moment, Harper froze—blinded, disoriented, caught in the beam of a car barreling toward her.

The driver slammed on the brakes. The tires screeched against the asphalt, the sound raw and screeching in the night. The car swerved slightly but managed to stop mere inches from Harper's trembling frame.

Behind the wheel, Millie's eyes widened in shock and fear. Her breath hitched, and she quickly shifted into park. The girl on the road was a wild figure—disheveled hair tangled in the wind, eyes wide and haunted, her whole body trembling as if frayed by invisible threads.

For a split second, their eyes met across the space between the car and the woman standing frozen in the headlights. Millie's heart lurched—it was Harper, but not the Harper she knew. This Harper was a ghost of herself, lost in a storm only she could see.

Harper's gaze locked onto the car but didn't register the familiar face behind the wheel. The manic haze enveloped her mind like a thick fog, erasing recognition and replacing it with terror and suspicion.

Millie's grip tightened on Harper's trembling shoulder once she got out the car, steadying her, but Harper's gaze flickered away—wild, unfocused, too far gone in her spiralling mind.

"Harper, hey!" Millie said, her voice dropping to a firm but gentle tone. 

"You're in a full mental jacket right now.. Look at me!"

Before Harper could respond—or even realise what was happening—Millie's hand came up and slapped firmly her across the cheek. The sting was sharp, sudden, breaking through the manic fog like a splash of cold water.

Harper's head jerked sideways, her fingers flying up to her burning cheek, her breath catching in a choked gasp. For a split second, her wide eyes locked with Millie's—confused, raw, and trembling.

"W-what?.. M-millie?"

Millie's face softened immediately, and she reached out, cradling Harper's face gently with both hands, her thumbs brushing away the tears pooling at the corners of Harper's eyes.

"Look at me, Harper.." she whispered, voice trembling with emotion but steady and strong. "You're not alone, okay? Hey, I'm here.. It's okay.."

Harper's frantic breathing slowed, the manic fire in her mind flickering and dimming like a candle struggling against a draft. The jagged edges of panic softened, replaced by a fragile, aching vulnerability she hadn't allowed herself to feel in weeks.

The night air wrapped around them, cool and sharp, but Millie's presence was warm, a solid anchor in Harper's chaos.

Tears spilled free as Harper leaned into Millie's touch, her body trembling with exhaustion and relief. The wild storm inside her began to calm, piece by fragile piece, as the big sister she never had held her steady.