The Burning of the Palace at Versailles (or, Butterfly) [REWRITING]

Chapter 18 - A Little Birdie

Getting out of the vent was immeasurably easier than getting into it. For the most part, Melody just needed to fall out and onto the bed. Melody laughed when she landed on the mattress and a strange, childish happiness filled her. Key laughed as well and jumped down, landing with a bit more grace.

"Thank you," he said when they stopped giggling.

"For what?" Melody asked.

"For listening to me." Key picked at one of the bandages around his wrist. "Usually, when I keep talking, people will get distracted. If you go to Psychology Today, they tell therapists to never even look at the clock during an appointment for someone with borderline personality. We go all off on them for not listening."

"Did you Google how to treat patients with personality disorders?"

"I hated therapy," Key said. "I wanted to know if I hated it because of me or because of the therapist."

"Which one was it?" Melody said, stepping off the bed.

"Well," Key said, "the therapist kept looking at the clock. But I hate therapy even with Doctor Riley. So maybe both."

"Yeah, I've always hated it, too. I hate talking about my feelings."

Key nodded vigorously. He sat down on the bed gingerly, like it was a landmine. "And it's so fucking expensive. My dad's insurance didn't cover it, so it was all out-of-pocket."

Melody laughed bitterly. "Yeah. And even if part of it is covered, a fifty-dollar copay adds up when you have to go four times a month."

"Or when you have severe asthma," Key said. "Once, I had to go to the emergency room because of an asthma attack. Three weeks later my brother broke his arm. My parents had to use our college savings to keep the house."

Melody frowned and sat down next to Key. "Where's your brother now?"

"Oh," Key said. "He's going to community college. And I'm pretty sure he's in therapy. My parents don't want me to know, but it's one of those things that you kind of figure out through what they're not telling you. Like, I'll ask where Eugene is, and they'll kind of pause to remember what they've told me the last three times. If they say he's out to dinner with a friend three days in a row, then that's suspicious. If they say he's at a movie, I'll ask what movie, and then there's a long pause when they try to remember a movie that's in the theaters. They once told me the name of a movie that came out eight years ago."

"Ouch."

"Yeah." Key nodded. "They don't want me to worry. That's why they don't tell me. But I always worry. Eugene was fine before." Key cracked two of his fingers nervously. "And I'm worried about Mom and Dad. People blame them, you know. Especially because PBD doesn't show symptoms until adolescence. I was normal when I was little. So first, they blame you. Then, they blame your parents."

"Hey, you're preaching to the choir," Melody said. "It's the same for me."

Key blinked slowly. "Oh. Yeah. What happened to you?"

"Do you mean that as in what happened to me to make me crazy, or what people said to my parents?"

"Both, I guess."

Melody shook her head. "Not tonight. It's late." Really, she had no idea what time it was, but she knew it had been late when the Bible study had ended, and she and Key had been talking for hours. "I'll talk to you tomorrow, okay?"

"Okay," Key said, and he watched Melody as she walked out of the room.

The house was quiet as Melody made her way up the stairs. She wasn't sure what she had been expecting when she got to Versailles— maybe she hadn't been expecting anything at all— but it certainly wasn't an almost startling quiet.