Vol. 1 Issue 2
Margaret notices a mysterious pen.
Margaret’s heartbeat was thrumming in her own ears as she stared at the pen. Who left a pen out here? It was sitting on the table in the rec room, where the coffee carafe and a pitcher of water stayed ever-present. There was a pile of books—dull, donated, Christian fiction—crayons and coloring sheets. The carafe and the pitcher and some cups. Then there was the pen.
It sat there menacingly. Enticingly.
It would be perfect for the temple.
…
She couldn’t sleep that night. The flashlight flickered into her room at intervals. Sometimes Paul would say her name, “Miss Margaret, do you need something to help you sleep?” She wouldn’t respond, just wait for him to leave.
She could hear the other patients on the hall: their occasional groaning, their occasional outbursts. One of them came out and asked for some water and some Melatonin. They gave it to him. Margaret sat up in bed, pulled her knees to her chest. She stared at the pictures taped to the wall ahead of her. Suddenly, none of them looked adequate.
…
In the morning, she went to get her vitals taken, and she lifted the pen from the table at the front of the rec room.