The Kidnapper

Chapter 25

Taylor

Right after we left the police station my mom drove straight home and as I was about to get out of the car, she stopped me and made me wait.

I felt weird seeing my house again after several months. I felt a bit nauseous, and I didn't really know why.

My mom came back twenty minutes later, carrying three suitcases in her arms.

I watched her curiously as she put one of the luggages on the backseat.

"Taylor, this is your stuff. You're going to an institute for people that are mentally ill. It's just outside the city. It will do you good. I'll visit you if you get better. You won't be there long, baby, I promise," she said.

A fucking mental hospital? Since when was I 'mentally ill?' I had just come back after months and she already wanted to send me away?

She waited for my response but I didn't react. Sighing, she put the rest of my stuff in the trunk and climbed to the driver's seat. We drove in silence to the institution she was talking about.

As soon as she parked the car, I climbed out and took my suitcases out of the trunk.

I walked to the entrance without saying a word to her. Not a single goodbye. I finally turned around and noticed she was watching me, tearful. She waved and I gave her the middle finger, then went inside.

There was some of the staff waiting for me. As soon as I came inside, they took my stuff and went somewhere and only a girl remained with me.

"Hello, Taylor, I'm your guide for today. My name's Josephine and welcome to CMFBL!"

I nodded and looked around in silence. Many patients were staring at me and pointing at me.

"These people are very friendly, trust me. I think you'll like it here! Wanna see the rest of the building?"

I nodded and rolled my eyes, following closely behind her.

****

Every day, I talked to loads of strangers. I answered the same questions every single day, like a routine. It was tiring.

After my daily counselling session I would have lunch alone, but sometimes one of the patients would come and sit with me. After lunch, I attended group therapy with some of the other patients.

"Taylor? It's time for your session with Dr. Ryder!" Nurse Jill said, knocking on my door.

Sighing, I got up from my bed and walked out of the room with her, quietly making our way to Dr. Ryder's office.

"Taylor's here," she said. She nodded at me and took off.

"Ah. Taylor, come in!" Dr. Ryder said. "How do you do?"

"Oh, the usual. Stuck in this annoying place. I don't belong here."

"Mhm, and why do you feel this way?" He asked.

I raised my eyebrow. "Every single person I met here is crazy. I'm not crazy. I may be fucked up, yes, but I know I'm not crazy."

"No one said you were," he replied.

"Well then, why did my mom bring me here?"

"Because, she was concerned about you."

I sighed and rolled my eyes, not saying anything.

"Anyways, you've been coming here a lot and from our conversations I've been able to get an idea of why you're here. Would you like to know?"

"I guess."

"It seems, Mr. Clair, that you may be suffering from a rare phenomenon called 'Stockholm syndrome?'"

"Stockholm what? What the hell is that?" I exclaimed.

"Stockholm syndrome, is a psychological phenomenon where hostages have positive feelings toward their captors, and it can sometimes get to the point where they start defending and identifying with their captor. It goes both ways as well, the captor can also feel that way about his hostage."

"Oh, Jesus Christ," I say, rolling my eyes for the third time. "What causes it?" I ask.

"Well, staying for a long period of time as a hostage can be one of the causes. Or when the captor is nice to his hostage."

I didn't respond.

"Taylor, you're going to take these pills twice a day," Doctor says, handing me a small container. "I'm telling your nurse so she can ensure that you'll be taking them correctly."

Following my lack of response, he carries on.

"You'll need to get lots of sleep as well. Sleep is good for the soul. You'll also be visiting me every week. I want you to get at least 16 hours of therapy per week. Understood?"

I shrugged. "It's not like I have a choice."

"Right. You don't," he admitted, looking at me with cold eyes. "But, this is for your own good."

I sighed. "Just give me the pills."

***

After two months of being confined in this institution, the doctor deemed me fit to get out. So I was finally able to go back to my house.

My mother came to get me, and when she tried to hug me I pushed her away. She had a sad look on her face but she seemed to understand and didn't utter a word to me.

I rode the car with my mom in silence, I was still angry with her. She had dumped me in this stupid fucking institution to get rid of me and didn't visit me once!

"Don't take me home," I said, speaking up for the first time.

"What?" She said, frowning.

"I'm not going back home with you. I don't want to see your stupid face again. Take me to a hotel, I can live alone."

"Please, Taylor, don't do this... We can talk about this at home, please darling?" She begged, her eyes wide.

"I said, take me to a damn hotel," I hissed through gritted teeth.

She nodded reluctantly and made a U-turn, going in direction of the hotel.

She came with me inside and helped me get a room.

"Let me help you bring your stuff inside, please?" She pleaded.

"Okay. Whatever," I replied, rolling my eyes.

She came with me to my room, carrying one of my suitcases. I brought the two other luggages up myself.

"So, this is where we say good bye, mother," I said. "Don't visit me. I'll find a job and move in an apartment, eventually."

"But, Taylor-"

"You made me feel crazy! You made me believe I was deranged, you fucking put me in a mental institution. You didn't even visit me once! I hadn't seen you in months, and the first thing you do after everything is take me to fucking rehab! Fuck you, mom. You don't give a shit about me? Well I don't give a shit about you either," I snapped.

Her eyes brimmed with tears but I didn't care.

"I'll send you money each month," she whispered.

I nodded nonchalantly and showed her out. I knew that I'd never be seeing her again, but again, I didn't care. Good riddance.

Had the whole situation made me careless, numb, void of emotions? Was I really fucked up?

Yes, Taylor, you are fucked up.I thought to myself.