The Brink
I love my boyfriend. When I have time, I try to be a dutiful girlfriend. But I have a confession to make: I never visit him at work. In fact, I can’t stand to go to his office. And you’ll understand why, if you’ve ever heard of the Brink.
Zach works as an art therapist at an insane asylum. I have no problem with asylums: I used to sneak into an abandoned one late at night, when I went goth as a teenager, and believe me, I had some good times and some good scares. But that doesn’t compare to the Brinkvale Psychiatric Hospital. In a nation of wretched institutions, it’s the wretchedest I’ve ever seen.
As you probably know, the Brink was built in a quarry. The first floor starts at the top. The rest of the floors go down, underground, nine stories into that quarry. The electricity’s shoddy and the staff don’t make much. And the most hopeless cases in New York find their way down there.
Friday, Zach asked me to swing by.
“I forgot my lunch,” he told me, calling on my cell. I had the day off for a doctor’s appointment and some gaming, and I had no excuse. He knows I hate the Brink, but he hates buying himself a lunch. I paused on the phone, too long to sell an excuse. Dammit – I’d have to go over there.
The thing with the Brink: it gives me the heebies. At the same time, I’ll admit I’m intrigued. The last time I visited, I had a shocking sense of déjà vu as I realized what the entire setting – the bare grey walls, the flickering lights, the childish scrawls on the official bulletin boards – looks like a video game. But is it a survival horror? Or a first-person shooter? When the crazies come, do I get to shoot back?
