Joe & Nelly: The Only Way Out
Joe sat across from Nelly in the dimly lit visitor’s room of the psychiatric ward. The sterile white walls pressed in around them, the fluorescent lights humming like an unseen force watching over them. She looked tired, worn from the weight of too many battles fought alone. Yet, even here, even in this place meant to break souls, she was radiant.
“The Portuguese Marilyn Monroe,” Joe murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.
Nelly gave a half-smile, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Marilyn didn’t make it out, Joe.”
“Then we make it out together,” he said, leaning forward. “The only way out is together.”
Her eyes, dark with old pain, searched his face for doubt. She found none.
“You don’t understand, Joe. They don’t let people like me go.”
Joe scoffed. “They don’t let people like us go. But I’m not leaving without you. I don’t care how many doctors, how many pills, how many locked doors. We walk out of here, Nelly. We walk out, or I tear this place down with my bare hands.”
For the first time in a long time, she believed.