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Welcome to the Book Blast for
Asleep by Krystal Wade
presented by Blaze Publishing!
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"To cure fear, you must use fear."Rose Briar claims no responsibility for the act that led to her imprisonment in an asylum. She wants to escape, until terrifying nightmares make her question her sanity and reach out to her doctor. He’s understanding and caring in ways her parents never have been, but as her walls tumble down and Rose admits fault, a fellow patient warns her to stop the medications. Phillip believes the doctor is evil and they’ll never make it out of the facility alive. Trusting him might be just the thing to save her. Or it might prove the asylum is exactly where she needs to be.
Asleep by Krystal Wade Publication Date: February 16, 2016 Publisher: Blaze Publishing
What Readers Are Saying:
"This was hands down one of the best thrillers I've read in a long while." - Martina McAtee, Author
"It's amazing how this book can bring so many emotions out of me and leaves me being a sobbing mess in the end!" - Gina, A Thousand Books
" It is 100% a book that you need to experience completely for yourself." - Lauren, Wonderless Reviews
“Hey,” Rose said, feeling stupid and idiotic for even trying to start a conversation with someone in a mental institution. “My name’s Rose.”
The guy didn’t respond. He merely stared at her the way she would a model in Life Drawing class, his intense brown eyes hooded by his forehead and lined by thick black lashes, soaking her in, memorizing her, making Rose feel raw and exposed. Every now and then his jaw clenched and popped. So much emotion simmering just below the surface, so much insanity. He’d make a perfect model himself with all that silent misery, hair swept to the side, broad shoulders and muscles stretching the sleeves of his white, cotton shirt, muscles he’d never get to use because he was stuck in here. Rose could almost envision him in one of her drawings, this guy standing in the background, still, hands in his pockets, staring at a girl in the foreground.
Shaking her head, Rose snapped out of her daydream. Drawing was part of the past that no longer mattered.
“Lights out,” Nurse Judy called, startling them both so badly they bumped into the table and left it quaking. She laughed. “Didn’t mean to scare you, dear.”
“It’s okay,” Rose said, rubbing her sore knee. “Keep it up, though, and I’ll have bandages everywhere.”
“My eldest daughter Isabel tells me I’m always sneaking up on her too. I insist she must have a guilty conscious to be so jumpy, but with you, I’m not so sure.” The nurse smiled again, kindly, her eyes glazed over, and Rose knew the woman was thinking about her daughter. “Well, I’ll try to be more careful in the future. But for now, off you go, to your room.”
“Good night,” Rose said to the guy.
But he didn’t respond, not that she expected him to. He gave Judy a long, hard glance, then got up and marched to a door on the opposite side of Hall A. Judy didn’t pay any attention to him as she wrapped her arm around Rose and ushered her off to bed, holding out a pill cup.
“Here you go. Meds and rest, Rose. Meds and rest. The best thing for you, aside from being open and honest with Dr. Underwood.” The nurse smiled in a way that said she knew open and honest hadn’t occurred earlier today.
Closing her eyes, she brought up the image of Phillip on the rooftop, where the moon showered him with its glowing essence, where his expression was sadly stoic as he stared out into the lawn, hands in his pockets, shoulders broad and strong. Rose set her charcoal to the canvas, prepared to draw the moon as a melting clock, Phillip’s face, the tree’s rounded, naked branches as well. But she couldn’t give this up. This image was too beautiful, too personal.
This image belonged to Rose, not to this institution.
She turned her face toward the ceiling and shouted, “No.”
Something warm and wet splattered onto the canvas, something red. Rose jumped up and backed away from the easel, trembling with each step that brought her closer to the wall. She tripped over the tray of food, scattering bits of eggs and bacon all over the floor, then backed into the door knob. She pulled on it, banging and shouting and screaming for someone to help her.
To get her away from the blood. That had to be blood.
“Please, please help me!”
No one came. Nothing but the sounds of the baseboard heater and the occasional drip of more red fluid reached her ears.
That was the first time he’d spoken her name, and she would have celebrated the fact she’d made a connection with someone—anyone—had her world not been spinning.
“Betty just gave me something before I came outside.”
“Something’s changing, something big.” He nodded once, agreeing with himself most likely. “You’re like me.”
The sounds of the door opening and closing, the women squabbling near the oak tree over who drew the better picture in the dirt, and people’s feet crunching on the gravel path leading to the door all felt trapped inside her head, loud and somehow touching her, upsetting her system more. God, even the smell of antiseptic made it out here and into Rose’s nostrils...
“I think I’m going to throw up.”
“You are.” Phillip gently placed his hand on her back and rubbed small circles. “And they’ll get you.”
“I don’t understand. What’s changing? Why do you keep saying I’m like you? Who’ll get me?"
He was paranoid. Crazy. Unpredictable. Yet part of him seemed to know things, to understand, to want to help. How much of what he said was real? How much was just crap made up in his head?
“Different. Everything’s different. Except it’s not. And you . . .” He fell to the ground with Rose as she began vomiting. Phillip held her hair back and talked softly, the lunatic whispering, “It’s okay,” a couple times and touching her raw wrist before continuing, “I wish you never had to fall asleep again.”
The horrid commute gives me plenty of time to zone out and think about my characters in full, brilliant details (I’m a safe driver; don’t worry). Stories give me a way to forget about the sometimes smelly strangers sitting next to me on the fifty mile trek into town (I pick up hitchhikers every day. True story. Check out www.slug-lines.com if you don’t believe me). I’ve been a part of organized hitchhiking for nearly fifteen years, but that’s just one small aspect of my oh-so-large life. When I’m not working, commuting, or chasing after my three children (four if you count the man), you can usually find me outside talking to my chickens like they’re the cutest things in the world (they are), or training my amazing dogs how to herd said chickens (which they love), or curled up on the sofa with a good book (why can’t that be 100% of the time?). I hope you love my stories (or just like them a little; that would be okay, too). And I hope that one day you find your passion, because there’s nothing in life better than doing what you love while surrounded by people you love.
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