Break

By Ken Bagnis

Seventeen-year-old Trey Barrow has lost everything—his home, his family, and possibly his mind. Pursued by a threat that only he can hear or see, it’s getting harder for Trey to decide which of his experiences is more terrifying: the “real” world, where he woke up restrained to a bed in a psychiatric hospital, or the “fantasy” world where he’s being hunted by a death-dealing shadow from the spirit realm.

Then he meets fellow patient Pearl Parker, a streetwise mystery who starts hospital riots for laughs. Pearl is the first and only person to believe in Trey’s looming threat, and she convinces him they need to escape. Now, before the fate of the entire world is lost.

Realizing he doesn’t have to face this nightmare alone, Trey follows Pearl down an endless road of infinite possibilities, hidden motives, an unintentional kidnapping, and not nearly enough snacks. But as their stolen car blazes a Bonnie-and-Clyde-style escape across the Southwestern US, the police and Trey’s dark visions are never far behind.

• Language: English
• Publisher: REUTS Publications, LLC
• Release date: Aug 29, 2022
• ISBN: 9781942111900

Book preview

1

They think my brain is broken. That I always dress like a superhero who made his costume from the sale rack at American Apparel. My radiant, neon-yellow sweatpants are at least two sizes too small. They pinch in all the worst places, but pair perfectly with the rest of my outfit––an untied hospital gown and retro Adidas Superstars. If I could walk, the shoes would flop right off my feet. The laces were yanked out as soon as the ambulance drivers strapped me down. I have fuzzy memories of helicopter spotlights and the entire Long Beach freeway being shut down. I’m told that my naked butt made an appearance on the ten o’clock news. Yup, my dignity has been pretty much flushed down the toilet. Right along with any hope of putting a few hundred miles between me and Los Angeles.

I watch the red, circling second hand on the clock. Hypnotic entertainment. Its arc completes once again, drawing my eye higher to the air-conditioning vent. There are fourteen slats on this vent. Two are slightly bent. I’ve spent the better part of the past hour distracting myself by wondering how this blower of arctic air might have been damaged. Twelve minutes ago, I decided that the most amusing explanation is that it was damaged from the inside. Rats nibbled and pawed their way into some experimental, radioactive medication, its glowing green aura an alluring bait to the unsuspecting rodents. The Norway rat, also known as the California sewer rat, has four large toes on its front paws and five on the back. Imagine the lab technician’s confusion when he discovered the glowing tracks of eighteen toes and two glowing drag marks. One line from its tail, the other . . . a weapon. Now chemically transformed, the highly intelligent, hat-wearing, sword-wielding rodents travel inside the ventilation system, attempting to obtain more of the experimental medication. The super-rats can read, sort of. So they call the glowing green serum, New Clear. Their short-term plan is to share some of this magical mixture to a murder of local crows. How else could the rats be permitted to fly on their backs? For what reason, or to what destination, I haven’t decided yet. I’m leaning toward some kind of epic turf war against feral, cigar-smoking, crime syndicate cats. This introduction of antagonists makes me think of—and very much miss—my cat. And my piano.

Risking round ten with the hospital staff, I give a discreet, but forceful tug at my restraints. They keep probing for triggers. Expecting me to explain how someone managed to top my soft-serve with rainbow sprinkles and PCP. I’ll admit, an angel dust sundae might begin to explain the night I had. But the truth is, the only drug I’ve ever tried is weed. That was over a year ago, and the only strange effect it had on me was that I ate a half a loaf of Wonder Bread and thought that Flash Gordon was the greatest movie of all time. Which it very well might be. A New York Jet soars on a rocket cycle to save the Earth from the evil emperor of a distant planet named Mongo? So good! I mean, The Godfather didn’t have a Queen soundtrack. Am I right?

But they’re not buying any of that. 

They only hear what they want to hear, so I had to raise my voice. One of several mistakes I made last night. There was an inspiring amount of chaos. Excessive hostility, they noted. I’m trying my best to appear excessively peaceful now. Truth is, I don’t have any fight left in me. No longer a danger to myself or others, I’m tired, sore, and more scared than I’ve ever been. They think that my hold on reality was left on that path near the school, but I know what happened to me was real. I remember everything about yesterday . . . 

A Saturday morning, starting no more or less spectacular than any other. I remember the shutters on my window that never close tight enough. The rays of morning light and tiny floating dust that swirled together like fingers to pry my eyelids open. My throat had a little itch in the back, so I knew I had a visitor. Clark Griswold slinked out from under the sofa. I touched the Band-Aid stretched across my nose, a stinging reminder of how big an asshole my cat can be. The orange assassin stalked and obliterated a dust bunny before jumping up onto the piano. His whiskers twitched as he pawed out the first four notes to Happy Birthday, which might sound odd. It was––my seventeenth birthday is a full three months away.

By the twelfth note (the furthest he’d ever gotten), my mother half-hissed, half-screamed down the stairs into my basement bedroom. Her panicky tone had me checking my phone to see what time it was. Nine-thirty. Early-ish. No piano this morning! Your father is still sleeping, and we have a very long flight ahead of us! You’d think you’d remember that!

I wanted to yell back that her shrieking was way louder than my cat’s performance. That she should be blown away, or at least impressed, that Clark knows more piano than some of her eight-year-old music students. That international flights have long security lines, and they should have left an hour ago. Even better, twelve hours ago. But I knew where that kind of attitude would get me. I learned a long time ago that being good got me ignored. Being bad got me ignored, and a therapist I had to see every Thursday afternoon. I decided to pick my battles wisely and picked Clark up off the black and white keys . . . 

Good morning to you, Mr. Barrow. A nurse with a thick Jamaican accent checks the bag of whatever is dripping into my left arm. Interesting choice of pants you’re wearing. Were you on your way to cheerleading camp? 

She laughs. I don’t, even if it was a pretty damn good line.

I force my lips to pull into a non-hostile smile. You can call me Trey. Don’t you guys have a pair of jeans or something I could borrow? These are pretty uncomfortable. 

She sets down a tray with what I assume are more pills for me to take. I’m teasing you, friend. You’re lucky we found those pants for you. When they brought you in, the only thing you were wearing was that Band-Aid on your nose. Naked as a jaybird. She lets out a slow breath that sounds like half-frustration, half-exhaustion, and pumps some hand sanitizer onto her palm. Making all that noise.

I tug at my leather restraints. Lucky me. 

I’ve never felt so defenseless. Total torment all night long. They took the restraints off twice, only to force me back into them. I’m usually pretty mellow, but last night I was in a really different kind of mood. I wasn’t myself at all, and I needed some serious help. I mean, I don’t know what kind of relief I needed, but this place was not what I was looking for. Almost as bad as the nightmare I was running from. First, the police with their Taser (way off-the-charts painful). Then, the paramedics and doctors agreed: "Psychotic agitation." I have an itch on my nose that I haven’t been able to scratch for the past two hours. That will make a person crazy.

I tug harder. I am not insane. I am uncomfortably aware that I’m talking to myself. Maybe not the best idea in an adolescent psychiatric hospital. Still, it needed to be said. Out loud, this time. 

You’re gonna be okay, Mr. Trey. The thick accent again, coming from somewhere behind me. 

My eyes slam shut, embarrassed that someone heard my private plea. Oh. Um, I was just thinking out loud.

The nurse smiles at me. Her teeth are bright white. The doctors would call that responding to internal stimuli. Try not to do that around them. Understand?

I clear my throat. Yeah. That’s probably some good advice. Thanks. 

She stops in front of my bed. Looks at me with sympathetic eyes. So young. Too young for all of this. She shakes her head. I wrote in your chart that you rested peacefully the last part of the night. You didn’t, though. We both know that, don’t we?

Sleep was not gonna happen. It got extra cold just after midnight—right after they put me in the restraints the second time. Teeth-chattering cold. The clock on the wall, just below the entrance to the nuclear-infused mouse highway, hummed for a split second before each click of the minute hand. The hum got twice as loud just before both hands landed on the twelve. 

The green pad they call a mattress can’t be more than two inches thick. It smells like piss; there’s a pretty good chance it’s mine. I hope it is, anyway. I felt like I might doze off a few times. Hard not to with whatever they injected into my left butt cheek. It hurt. It still hurts. And it’s way too cold in here. I knew I should have stayed home last night. Finished one of my paintings. Taught Mr. Griswold to play Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star on the piano. If I would have done anything except walk to that football game at the high school, I might have ended up in my own bed. I knew there was a reason I hated sports.

The nurse with the kind eyes makes a quick exit when a new doctor slithers in my direction. Must be a shift change. Good morning, buddy. How are we feeling today?

Buddy? We? An intensely angry answer, heavy on the sarcasm, is just dying to explode out of my mouth. I resist the urge. My nose isn’t gonna scratch itself. Good morning. I’m doing much better. Just riding the mellow. Seriously, if there were coffee and donuts, I’d be like, decaf for me, please. Maybe I’m selling this too hard.

Glad to hear that, Mr. . . . His eyes dart to the top of his clipboard. Barrow. Trey Barrow. This doctor is younger, with a phonier smile that separates each of his sentences. Way too chipper for the night I just had. Probably still riding the buzz of his seven-dollar Starbucks drink. I’d pay double for one right now. He runs through a lot of the same questions the others have asked: What’s today’s date? Where am I? Am I thinking about hurting myself or anybody else? What’s one hundred minus seven? I don’t get why they ask this one, but I answer. It’s better than staring at the ceiling tiles, and I’m pretty good at math. He keeps asking me to subtract seven more, until we get to seventy-nine. 

I lose my patience at ninety-three. Um . . . Dr. . . . ?

He shakes his head and smiles again. No. I’m your social worker. You can just call me Matt. He chuckles. I guess I should have started with that.

Matt sounds like something a real doctor, someone in charge, would wipe their Birkenstocks on. I’ll ask, anyway. "Okay, Matt. Seventy-two comes next, if that speeds things up. I’ve had a really rough night. Do you know that light above me never gets turned off? Doors get slammed all night long, and do you smell that Lysol mixed with human pee? Because I sure do. That smell never goes away. I think they pump it out of the vents. In the vents with the rats and their swords . . . I realize I just blurted out something that will feed into their insanity narrative. Matt’s eyebrows raise. I breathe in and let it out slowly. Never mind. I’m sure there are no rats. Matt, I’d like to go home now. Can that happen anytime soon?"

My sunrise social worker flips through his papers. I’m not even sure he’s looked at me for more than a second or two. Well, given the dramatic circumstances that brought you in here last night, the judge has ordered that you stay with us a bit longer for stabilization. I’m afraid you’ll be here for a couple of days. He clears his throat. Did you say something about rats and swords? He smiles his counterfeit smile, eyes scanning the page. Did he say ordered? Two days?! Seriously, fuck that! There is no way that’s gonna happen. And it looks like we haven’t been able to contact your parents yet. That really complicates things, you being a minor and all.

My face feels hot. I can hear my heart beating in my ears. My parents. Where are my parents? I blink, trying to remember. They’re on an airplane. A long flight to India.

Indiana? His face brightens. I did my undergraduate work at Notre Dame. Go, Fighting Irish! That’s only a three- or four-hour flight, if I remember correctly. 

Idiot. "No. India. Like naan bread and the Taj Mahal? Something like twenty hours with the layover, I think. I remember my dad mentioning it. I can feel a drop of sweat roll down my forehead. Listen, I can’t stay here for two days. I can’t stay tied up like this for two more minutes. Please!" 

He holds up his hands, like some bad attempt at a Jedi mind trick to calm me down. The nurse is coming right back to remove these restraints. As long as you can stay calm and follow the rules, we can get you out of these, and you can go and eat some breakfast. You’ve got to be hungry, right? While we’re waiting for the nurse, could you answer a few more questions about what happened yesterday? About what scared you so badly?

I’m not huge on sharing. I feel like anything I say will only give them an excuse to keep me here longer. I count my top teeth with my tongue. It helps me think. . . . Nine, ten, eleven, twelve. I’ll tell you what. Once my hands are free, I promise to answer your question.

He perks up, proud of the apparent therapeutic connection he’s making with me. Deal! And they told me you weren’t going to cooperate.

He waves the nurse over to speed the liberation of my limbs. My IV needle gets replaced by a cotton ball and piece of tape. She pulls at my restraints and squints, searching for reassurance. Her autumn-brown eyes are weary and gentle. A trace of red is creeping into the farthest edges of her smudged eyeliner, a memento of how hard I made her work last night. Look at me now, my friend, Mr. Barrow. You’re not gonna jump around my hospital again, are you? It’s too early in the morning for any monkeyshines.

I have no clue what she’s talking about. At this point, I’d agree to anything. Even a monkey. Shined or dull. For sure. I’m cool. Really, I promise.

Velcro tears. My hands are freed. I scratch my nose, then rub it, then scratch some more. I pick for good measure. I don’t care who sees. It feels wonderful. 

Matt clears his throat and hands me a tissue. His pen taps out a rhythm on his clipboard, an impatient and obvious cue. 

I hate to disrupt all the itch bliss happening, but I did make a deal. Okay, time to answer your question. Yes, Matt. I am totally hungry.

2

Breakfast consists of barely warmed oatmeal, a piece of cornbread, a tiny carton of 1% milk, and a cup of orange-colored juice. Calling it actual orange juice would be a major stretch. It tastes like orange popsicle with extra bitter food coloring. I’m so hungry that the cornbread actually tastes good. It’s lumpy, and I can’t figure out what the lumps are, but it’s edible. The smell of bleach drifts from streak marks on the six empty tables in the room. I try to blink away the subtle burning creeping into my eyes, but I’m sure a much worse headache is minutes away. I either missed breakfast with everyone else, or they’re keeping me isolated. A Pepsi machine hums on the other side of the room. I notice all of the selections offer the same thing: bottled water. This place has issues with sugar, I guess.  

My only other company is a television securely protected behind a sheet of Plexiglas. Holes are drilled near the speakers. The volume is disturbingly high, echoing around the sterile, chilled space with no remote control in sight. It’s set on Fox News. I really am in hell. 

A guy wearing purple scrubs, almost as wide as he is tall, checks on me every few minutes. He wears a watch on both wrists and doesn’t say anything. He just sticks his head in the room, looks at me for a second, looks at the watch on his right wrist, then the watch on his left wrist, and walks out. 

I try to get his attention. Excuse me? Hi. Could you please turn the volume down a little? Maybe turn the channel so I can watch a CSI Miami rerun? Anything but this would be great.

He looks at me for a second, then the television, then both watches, and walks out of the room. 

It makes me nervous every time he pops in here. I can’t figure out why he’s watching me. Or what the second fake Rolex is for. Why would anyone need two watches? Does he go and scuba dive on his lunch break? I must ask him. Don’t ask him! Why do I get this special kind of silent supervision? Does he think I’m gonna steal the salt shaker? Is he watching to see if I eat too fast? Or too slow? Why does he care how I eat? And why doesn’t he speak? I don’t trust him. I think he might report back to the doctor that I need to stay here longer. That I need more painful jabs of drugs and needles.

I take a deep breath, hold it, and look up at the clock. Go! Alabama, Alaska, Arizona, Arkansas, California . . . West Virginia, Wisconsin, Wyoming. I exhale. A wave of relief washes over me. Fifty states in seventeen seconds. All in alphabetical order. There was some screaming in the hallway right around Hawaii and Idaho. It freaked me out enough to slow my time down. I can do better by at least five seconds. 

I wander over to my silent guardian of two time zones sitting just outside the door. Is everything okay?

He grunts at me. Huh?

I heard screaming. It was pretty loud. You must have heard it?

He points at my food sitting on the table. Don’t get involved with other people’s business. Eat. You’ve got ten minutes, kid.

I peek past him. I don’t see anyone else in the hallway. No one in need of any help. I’m afraid he might say that I’m the only one who heard it. That I’m psychotic. So, I head back to my chair and pull my tray closer. 

I notice the cartoon of a sleeping cow on the back of my milk carton. A joke is printed underneath: "What do you call a sleeping cow?" I search my brain for cow words. A cow word that has to do with sleep. Udder-ly tired? That’s got to be it. I turn the carton to find the answer: "A bull dozer." Damn it. I like my answer better. Two days of this? I really hope they have some art supplies or books around here somewhere. 

I spin the carton of milk back to the joke, then snap off three prongs of my plastic spork. With the last remaining spike, I begin to drill into the cow. I’ve got nothing against cows. Serene animals. But there’s something even more peaceful about watching pasteurized ooze cascade from the sleeping mouth of a cartoon Holstein. Maybe I’m just bored. Maybe I’m bitter about getting her lame dad joke wrong. Either way, this is more entertaining than drinking it. I pick up the carton and watch the cow puke into my congealed oatmeal. I pull the carton a little closer and let the milk pool onto the table. A thin white river inches its way toward the edge. I scoot my chair back.

Drip, drip. Between my shoes now, milk puddles on the floor.

Drip, drip. Onto the seat of my father’s new car. It feels like a lifetime ago, but I guess it’s only been four years. Before high school started. Before therapy every Thursday after school. Before failing Spanish and Italian. Right about the time it started to feel like there was this black string tied around my neck, pulling me away from the things I cared about. The things and people that I used to enjoy. I know that sounds dramatic, or overly poetic, but that’s the best way I’ve ever described what was going on with me in one of those Thursday psychotherapy sessions. 

In a nanosecond, the drip was a full-on gush. Not milk that day, but a barely sipped cup of Razzmatazz Smoothie. According to my mother, Jamba Juice was the perfect snack before a soccer game. The purple surge was in my lap in an instant, drenching my shorts, the seat, and the floor mat. 

My father pounded the steering wheel. "Trey! Tell me you did not just spill that! God damn it! This car is six days old! We have leftovers in the fridge older than this car! That’s gonna stain!"

I panicked. Boy, did I panic. I’m sorry, Dad! Oh, no! I’m so sorry! I ripped off my hoodie and began sopping up the mess. It’s not so bad, see?

My father pulled the car into the Monroe Elementary School parking lot. The big field in the back is where my Saturday games were played. 

He sped into a parking spot and hit the brakes hard. Just leave it, Trey. Just stop. You’re gonna freeze without your sweatshirt. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. I shouldn’t have yelled at you, but you know I have one rule. Just one. No eating in the car. My six-day-old, beautiful car.

Technically, I was drinking, not eating, and he had way more than one rule. But I didn’t mention those facts. He was groaning when he wasn’t talking, possibly near tears, which made me feel even more panicky. I decided to say nothing and climbed out of the car. It felt Back-East cold, and the sky was so foggy that I couldn’t see the top of the flagpole. Blended banana and strawberry dripped from my shorts onto my socks and the painted lines on the parking lot. 

Get back in the car, Trey. I’ll take you home.

I considered this option for a second. No. I’m fine. I’ve got a game in a few minutes. Just go do your thing.

His eyes never left the spill. Me or your mother will pick you up in a couple of hours. Try not to freeze, and have some fun out there, okay? 

I pulled at my wet shorts, halfway to frozen. Okay. Thanks. I really am sorry, Dad.

I watched him pull