A wrongfully imprisoned Girl tries to escape the confines of an abandoned mental asylum.
They were professional Government sanctioned agents (or so their inner pocketed badges pronounced them to be), and I was an amateur lacking the much needed expertise to be anywhere, near their level of skill-set.
I was sandwiched among the two of them, one of each side as we made way down the Hospital corridor. They weren’t trying to conceal they were my chaperones, but dressed in those suits—that were missing their identification badges on the front—they could have been anyone really; one thing was evident: They were transporting me in the out-most friendly manner in regard to my persona. At least so I thought.
Outside, in the parking lot, my armpits were voltage’d with a stabbing pain, just as we approached an unmarked white van.
I felt groundless, an Agent’s hand each under my armpits, with meaty sausage like fingers soaking up the sweat that was seeping through my hospital rags (can you believe they allowed me to pack, but not change? Must be some sort of a psychological warfare method being implemented), and I was off the ground, suspended momentarily in midair before they put me down on the armoured plated transportation vehicle's floor.
They administered orders for me to take a seat on the metal bench moulded in to the info-structure of the van, and apprehended my left wrist with a metallic bracelet that made a very annoying clanging noise.
The doors were slammed shut, tightly locked, someone’s hand rhythmically tapped twice on them to signal readiness and the transfer of myself as nameless contraband—even when opened and sampled, I would be cut with numerous lies to keep my identity a secrecy—began.
A surge of continues pain soared upwards my imprisoned arm. When I looked down, I couldn’t help but to grimace at the speckles of blood that began to peer underneath the shinny metal, wiped to perfection with some corrosive substance that stung bitterly at my crustily healing wound.
Vaulted inside this mortuary on wheels, I began to debate the reasons I was being treated like a political prisoner, or a war criminal.
I guess I had to thank my politically correct pariah of a father for that; for teaching valuable life lessons to his not-yet-to-be eighteen out-of-control teenage daughter.
An insignificant little girl standing before a man and a cause, not just a man, a man with a vision; a vision of a Utopia, a Mesopotamia right on the steps of Capital Hill.
I wondered under what name I was committed; what carefully chosen words (courtesy of his Speech Writers) were used on the forms to describe the seriousness of my condition.
There wasn't an identification tag clipped to my one piece Goodwill bargain bin dotted partly see-thru garment, no “Hi! My Name Is..." so-so, are you here for the same reason as me conversation starter sticker. And therefore, I should introduce myself, my name at the time currently described, was Michelle. I had it legally changed afterwords for my own safety, after the events I am about to transcribe to you in this Dear Diary testimonial–confessional-affidavit that’s going to end up in the fireplace the moment it is completed.
A literally composition of an unsuspecting victim’s struggle to expose the treachery of an intensifiengly bloodthirsty few. Would be great if it could ever be seen; sadly even with another name change, this systematic recording could be used as an aid to lead the enemy to my whereabouts. Now,where were we?
The unseen driver’s foot applied the brake and the velocity of the moving vehicle decreased noticeably. Around the next sharp turn, a clandestine creation, misplaced in the middle of no where, welcomed me enthusiastically with two towering brick arms.
It took a moment for a city dweller, not to mention an absent–minded one like myself, to acclimatize to the new surroundings.
A hard reddish brick projection, unmistakable resembling an abbey which underwent slight renovations, enlarged larger than life in my dilated pupils, as the vehicle approached for my closer inspection and their human postal delivery.
I couldn’t help to take notice that the ceramic mountaintops weren’t adjacent, but instead connected by a passageway corridor which ran the lengths of the Courtyard, on which sides the two towers were placed.
Not exactly a place one desired association with, and what glorious joy, for I had the sole pleasure to be a lessee there. This detached, awkwardly isolated godless abomination to all five senses of perception, would be my new home for the next little while.
Exhaustible weeds, covered a dry rugged terrain my feet stepped on, when we finally came to a halt. I was told the ground was infertile and subjected to heavy pesticide spraying every evening at a scheduled time to kill the mosquitoes.
In my humble opinion, the soil had immune deficiency, like a cancer patient to cure itself, long before the architectural blueprints for this structure were even approved; the earth was never fertile to give flourish’ment to a single planted crop. It was for no better word, dead.
What was worse, is that prolonged glimpsing at it, placed you in a comatose condition of mind, you felt singled out and simply unaware of the little—but still existing motion around you.
You became engulfed in the deathless stillness, which simulated a sensation of premature termination, from the very face of the earth. It reduced you to an infantile state, standing below a crimson red awning of the front doors, with my hand fastened around the handle of my suitcase, I wasn’t going to deny being awash’ed with an overwhelming feeling of dread, refraining to take the first self-assured step, followed by more steps in successive stages, towards my rehabilitation.
Thankfully, Dr. Brown was there, the tradesman of commodities such as favour’s. You do him a one, and he does you one back. All he asked of me, was to come inside the colossal enormity, and in return… well that I never got to find out, you see, because he was discovered laying face down in the boiler room, three days later being attacked violently by nasty little vermin’s.
The headline read, "ASYLUM SCANDAL, or WHAT'S A 'PHD' TO A RAT." It’s hard to paraphrase from memory, but the first line went something like this, “Boiler room rats have a banquet… dismembering, mutilating and thawing on a celebrated Doctor in the field of…” The newspaper even mentioned, when the police discovered him, they momentarily thought he was still alive, but it was just a bunch of rodent’s that somehow gotten underneath him and were rattling his corpse back and forth.
He did have a sway about him. He worn me out with it and made me come inside. Plus, he offered me his services at a bargain, now that I think back on it.
The room I was staying in, wasn’t a significant improvement over the already mentioned first impressions of that day. It was an air tight compartment for heat, with no proper air circulation system installed, not to mention it smelled of hydrogen peroxide.
Do you know how a photo album, is used for the insertion of photographs? Well this room was much alike, bare top-to-bottom and waiting to be filled with eye catching homely objects that would make the patient feel right at home.
In its current state, I was sequestered to what must be known as The Alternative Room, the bare minimum, lacking the large quantities of furniture set pieces and essential wardrobe storage space for my clothes, even though I couldn’t even fit half of my things from home in my measly singular suitcase.
What I had to work with was a commode, lacking a mirror usually attached to the top, whether by the age of the design (it almost looked antique) or because it was removed, considered a potential tool, that could be used by patients to harm themselves in its shattered form. I guess looks can be dangerous. Especially, if it’s the last imagine, imprinted in your consciousness, before you tether through some ligaments.
One step ahead... that’s why you had to be two ahead of them. A window at dusk could alternate as my personal mirror; outside of a slightly askew reflection it was better than nothing.
Minus the aforementioned bed (or have I not mentioned it before? It’s a bed, what additional details can I give? It’s a double with railings on each side), there was an enclosed closet; don’t delude yourself in to thinking, that’s it’s one of those spacious walk in one’s, every teenage girl dreams of having. It was small, cramped and you had to bend in half like a gymnast to fit inside. The hangers were plastic (God forbid they would have wire hangers you can untwist and jab in to your jugular vein or whatnot), and suspended from an aluminum crosspiece bar, that extended the lengths of the closet, screwed in to the surface of the wall on each side with two bolts.
I guess, if you are looking for withdrawn seclusion, this was it; the perfect example of that actually, the closet was capacious, the commode uh commodious? The bareness and sterility of a Sanatorium.
Does a premediated action against yourself make you the victim or a culprit?
This great debate was going on in my mind, as my wrists were strapped down by Two Orderlies, only two hours in to my stay. I can’t justify my actions; I've lost control, sharing the contents of my late breakfast (a glass of orange juice and an English muffin) with Dr. Brown, instead of past remembrances of specific damaging memories that contributed to my breakdown in the present.
So, I couldn't really blame the Two Orderlies, with their bulging muscles, the immaculate white uniforms and the carelessness for their in-humane actions by self-classification that it’s simply their job—because it was.
How else do you deal with regurgitation and hysteria, except with containment and sedation? It was time for the two red pills. I wasn't too sure what they contained then, and I am not too sure now, but they were swallowed down my esophagus under the watchful eye of Dr. Brown.
He stuck around afterwards, the last time I would ever see him, perhaps even the last person except his killer(s), but he wasn’t there to negotiate, simply to remain close, monitoring the affects of the therapeutically friendly medicine on my body, as it calmed what he probably classified in his jotted down notes as, exhibition of maniacal tendencies.
Every two to four hours, Dr. Brown, good humouredly, would signal the Second of the Two Orderlies—after the First one has given me an intake of pills and a glass of water to wash them down with—over to my bedridden side. A finger encased in a skin-tight latex glove, containing baby powder on the inside, would slither down my gums, bulgingly moving down the upper and lower lips of my mouth. He would then ask me to “open wide,” in a mechanized voice lacking any room for sensory feelings, while shinning a thinly narrow flashlight—activated by a clockwise rotating head—down my throat.
With all three parties satisfied with the absorption and current digestion, they left me alone to rest. To them, I may have seemed to be in a favorable bodily state, in reality, I felt like a hollow revolving cylinder undergoing imminent changes due to the atmospheric pressure hopped up on antibiotics that are supposedly supposed to kill bacteria and germs.
But is being prompt to suicidal tendencies, the same as having some nasty bug that could be potentially destroyed from within, by a scheduled daily dose in-take of a set of red and blue pills?
For the rest of that night, and partly the next day, I was mostly heavily sedated. I awoke when I felt the medication was finally helpless against my body's affluence, so I staggered out of bed and perennially starred out the only window in my room—which gave a good view of the Courtyard.
Staggering to that window felt like the most physically strenuous activity I have done in a while. Facetiously I explored the unknown terrain with my linger-ously ponderous eyes. The proximity of any landscape always seemed quixotic behind a set of perpendicular bars blocking the window.
The Courtyard itself (just like my room's window) ended with barbed wire fences that reminded me of the cages I had seen in Guantánamo Bay, when my father was conducting some business with the officials.
There was a firm knock on my door, before I could even utter a question of whom it was, a stranger just barged in uninvited, and once again, before I could ask him of his identity, he was sweeping my right hand in pumps of a handshake, in the process of which, admiring my distinguishingly wrist-al beauty marks.
Right from the start, there was no mutual attraction between me and Dr. Murray, just friction as he elaborated on the details of being Dr. Brown’s replacement.
He was robust, full of manly vigour; he daily risked his professional reverence in his selfless cause to get to the troublesome roots distorting the human psyche, not just gloss over the problems. He was the type to make an emotional investment, while corroborating with you every step of the way. He desecrated the much favoured principles, instead choosing to diversify the common treatment techniques for more experimental ones. Venturing in to the depths of the unknown, while hibernating in this institutional catacomb; departing the molecular structure of the brain.
This is how his patients described him and he decided to quote them. To me, he seemed like a double-faced hack from a well-bred family, polished to perfection on the outside, perhaps a bit vulgar somewhere deep down. He didn't exactly exude trustworthiness, especially when I had the privilege to sit in the shorter chair by comparison to his own highly elevated superior position during our initial get-to-know-one-another session. He was off to a bad start.
"I have really high standards of myself, give me a second."
"No offence, but you can’t be serious about having high standards,especially when you tried to commit suicide."
"I was holding in over three months of depression, and that’s how it came out. I thought you were supposed to encourage my progress for not attempting it again, not criticize me for something that’s behind me now."
"Is it behind you? Only reason you haven't tried anything recently is because you are being constantly supervised and monitored. It’s almost like being back home isn't it? You are being pampered like a child. Let me tell you something, no one attempts suicide without locking the bathroom door, and having your older sister three feet away."
"Step-sister, and are you calling my actions premeditated?"
"Murder isn't the only thing you can advocate. I read your file carefully; you're the perfect student, in your mom's eyes you are still her little girl, the neat and perfect little over-achieving angel that would never willingly inflict pain on herself."
"But I did, I indulged selfishly."
"You planned it, and calculated exactly what the results would be. You wanted to draw your mother’s attention to yourself. I mean she was obviously too busy with your other two sisters-sibling rivalry can be a scary thing. But there’s a reason she was focused on them, they are her husband's children, who she is trying to welcome to the family, especially when one has a drug addiction and the other isn't very good at picking her suitors."
"Look, maybe to some extent I reviewed my actions before I executed them. But sitting on that floor, moments before I passed out, I realized my life could be so much more."
"Suicidal tendencies are so derivative, especially for a young woman simply exhuming femininity, yet fretting over courtship to such an unhealthy degree."
"Why did you assume it was over a guy?"
"Well wasn't it? The final detail falling in place that caused the walls of your common sense to crumble."
"Perhaps partly, but it didn't say that in my file."
"I know it didn't. That piece of much-needed-to-be-documented-knowledge was kept in the confines of your mind, only reason I discovered it, was by assuming."
"Going by the basis of assumptions can get you in a lot of trouble Doc, especially with a PHD plaque on a wall certifying you as a man of scientifically proven methods, not just fortune teller predictions."
"You will have a chance to sue me for malpractice once you're released. Now, tell me what happened."
"That night, he came over... and said a couple things that hit me really hard. When he left, I fell apart, like completely apart and then...."
"And then, something happened that’s too early to talk about during our first session Doctor."
"I really think you should talk about this."
"And I respect that, but I am hard headed and stubborn so for someone to penetrate that with, "I really think or and then..."
"I can rephrase myself; I have the vocabulary for that."
"And I am sure you do, but that’s for when we get to know each other a bit better, a bit more intimately."
"Tell me at least, if this guy's rejection of you, was what pushed you over the edge. Perhaps you are just afraid to admit I am right?"
"Would I lie to you doctor? As I had said earlier, it was in-part, but there was something else, something for another time." Of course I was lying through my teeth, this was it, and he nailed it. There wasn't much more to it, but he was starting to really agitate me, so I falsified my answer. Lying under oath to tell, “The Truth, the Whole Truth, Nothing But the Truth… so help me, God?” But this wasn't the court room scene I had to face, time and time again, during my parent’s ongoing custody battle, so it was quite alright in my mind that I was being irreverent to God, as far as this counsellor with his bulky frame and telescope lens retina's breathing hard and watching me like a hawk, not everything I said was discreditable. He just had to wait and see how much was.
I walked out in to the Courtyard, before returning to my room. It was a much welcomed getaway from the yielding pressure of discussing a deeply personal subject matter with a complete stranger.
The sunlight was brilliant, each ray simply piercing with warmth, starring at it for a long time caused blotches of discoloration within my eyes and I had to obliterate the out-bursting heavenly light by closing my eyelids.
Extinguishing that oozing transmission of light made me realize that for the last thirty perhaps thirty-five hours, I have been stripped, sightless and in a blackened state of mind deprived of insight, track marks on my arms indicating repeated violent injections with bayonet like needles. But, basking in this sunlight, smelling the aromatic warmth of a large tree's sap, which I retrieved by breaking a piece of bark off, and rubbing it like balsamic ointment in to my wrists, made me think; really think.
What daunted me when I walked back in to my room was the denseness of the dust covering the well used, compact furniture; the fact that there was none. The microscopic particles of debris just evaporated in to non-existence. Maybe they became one with the wind-current circulating my room from the window, that one wasn’t capable of opening even with the precautionary bars, and the fan the staff didn’t allow the patients to have in the room.
Maybe not, so this left only one possibility, my rights were infringed upon and there was a clear violation with complete disregard for my private property.
At the next conversational therapy session this was brought up to Dr. Murray’s attention, “Why was my room searched?”
“I guess they didn’t do a professional job after all.”
“You didn’t expect a bunch of amateur physicians, to break in and thoroughly go through a girl’s private belongings, without leaving a trace or, did you?
“I think if you are old enough to use a knife, you are old enough to be called something other than a ‘girl.”
“Dry, very dry. But how about answering my question, I have the courtesy to answer yours.”
“But not all.”
“Takes time to open up, remember that Doctor, you told me that yourself. Don’t be impatient. (Pause) What were you looking for anyways, something specific?”
“We just wanted to make sure you weren’t in possession of something you could have hurt yourself with. That’s why we are always watching you.”
“You watch me?”
“Are you being sarcastic Michelle? You perfectly well know we are. Even outside the compound when you went for your walk in the Courtyard. You had seen us observing whether you want to admit it or not. You aren’t stupid; I realized that a long time ago. You look before you make a step, a step we usually would try to anticipate to our best abilities.”
“Are most patients privileged to this tasteless treatment? Come to think of it, you know I haven’t seen anyone other than myself here.”
“That’s because there’s no one else here Michelle, this facility is about to be demolished, the land used for construction of something else. There’s just you and me and many unanswered questions that need to be filled in.” He took a moment to subdue his bursting laugh. A hearty chuckle. “You have a schedule Michelle, that’s why you don’t see anyone out in the yard.”
“Do everyone else?”
“No, because for everyone else this is the end of the line. The last stop. That’s why we monitor them as a large group, with low risk for attempts.”
“Attempts at what exactly?”
“And I am at a high risk Dr. Murray?”
“Well who wouldn’t be, when they were about to be adopted by their estranged father whom you have repressed anger issues over after he left your mother and you to pursue his political career.”
“How do you know about that?”
“A well publicized and heavily documented fact that your father is currently involved in a legal feud with your birth mother and is trying very hard to get custody of you? You can’t be serious Michelle. It’s simplicity at its finest. Which draws me to the conclusion: that you, as well as I, both know that when you get out, you are his property. Why wouldn’t you try to run?”
That was the first lie he told me; he was allowing emotions, such as anger, tongue tie him in the middle of an important conversation. That was even sloppier than the job they did on my room.
Before I was forcefully taken and brought over here, my mother visited me in the hospital, where she confidentially divulged to me, the high risk probability of the judge's ruling decision in favour of my father.
A man, with a brand new family, a cottage in the Hampton’s and a lavish condo on the Upper East Side; a man who took such careful precautions, wouldn’t dare let anyone publicize this event in the midst of his campaign-oral battle.
Plus I was there for a period of two and a half days, I was brought fresh newspapers with my breakfast in bed and the TV was installed in the wall opposite me, there were no compromising columns or detailed broadcasts that would inform someone like Dr. Murray here, about my situation.
It was obvious he was lying, but why was he doing it? Maybe he was on my dad’s payroll, knowing that I would try to run and shoot me like a rabid dog for even trying. What would he do then? Cover it all up as a suicide?
The sympathy my father would receive… maybe just enough to grant him a victory with the voters. He tried so hard not to let the story of the daughter from his first marriage attempting to commit suicide leak, doing his best to provide for her by placing her in a Wellness Centre (nicer name for what this place is, the press would eat it up) and then due to some staffers mistake by not checking if her door was locked one night during his rounds, she got out and got her hands on say, a paper cutter, and let the blade sink in to flesh that hasn’t recovered from the previous attempt.
Would anyone even care, if I screamed bloody murder from the top of my lungs, before they forced medication down my throat or injected a syringe in my arm? Both could be justified as means of quitting me down, after they show up in the blood stream during the autopsy.
Maybe they were all in on it? But who was there? I only seen Two Orderlies, and one other Doctor, Dr. Murray was a familiar face on the other hand, maybe the only face. Now this was brilliant, truly brilliant. Which meant also that, the information he was gathering now, was for my suicide note, which would written on some stationary paper bearing the facilities symbol. This would bring the place in to a negative light, but not enough to close it, just enough for my father to step in as the new proprietor and become the saviour who renovates it using the brightest minds in the fields of the medical profession. What a public spectacle, the people would clap.
So, all that was missing now was the reason that made me snap in the first place. And he already had that; he just didn't know it yet.
My thoughts were absurd, paranoia clearly setting in. This man was here to help me. He wants me to keep talking for my own benefit. Imagine if the only reason I was alive is because I had something to say that he hasn’t heard yet? Or thought he hadn't?
Later that night, he stood over me, as I pretended I was asleep. “I must make you understand Michelle,” he uttered without any self-reproach. “…and what better way than through the means of torture? It’s a rhetorical question you don't have to answer; I guess you couldn’t even if you wanted to, with a pillow smothering your face and all..."
I recoiled from my trifling lapse of judgment; a rallying cry began to overtake me from the ill-timed predicament I faced just now.
He enveloped the bed, swiped a pillow from under my head and with debauched swiftness of Marquis De Sade began to deprive me of oxygen—with the pillow firmly pressed over my face.
Dr. Murray was a conscientious killer, there was no reprehension in his exoskeleton frame, he was never wearisome about what he was doing, there was no pivot once he took the first step, and he was simply pitiless.
“Nothing says affirmation more than asphyxiation." He said as he sneered at the made up macabre rhyme, and I began to convulse under his arms that were constricting my breathing and confiscating my life.
My face felt puffed up, there was absolutely nothing to gulp at, the air wasn't there; there was absolutely nothing there except death.
Just when, he overpowered my will and I couldn’t grapple, just when; the air inside my lungs felt condensed, just when; I was steadfastly becoming immovable, just when; my pupils began to dilate, he spoke these words, “It is not uncommon curiosity for the victim to wonder how their life would be taken. At least now you know," and my precariously balanced being became one-sided and the inevitability of my approaching death now seemed fully eminent; my mouth became insipid and I relinquished myself to my persecutor.
But like in life, there is no permanence in anything; eventuality is that even the actions of my torturer were transient. When he was finally satisfied, he discarded what remnants of humanity were left inside my body as he slackened his grip around my neck and I started loosing consciousness.
When I regained partial awareness, the surface seemed to have been slanting, my body was at a higher altitude than usual and I tasted a gelatin residue from the painkillers I didn't recall giving my consent to digesting. Each blink of my eyes attested my worst suspicion of still being inside the fortified building, I would have tried to take painstaking steps of retrieving fragments of my distorted recollection, if it wasn't for the prevailing monotonous internal pain of the clenching of my temple muscles.
That’s when all that didn't seem to matter one bit as a warm rubbing sensation swayed over me, fluctuating which way with a wavy rippling pattern. Its direction seemed to alternate but the objective remained the same: inducement of pleasure, stimulation of the rigid muscles etc I let go of everything that has happened, I just let go of all the suppressed emotions and slowly allowed the bathtub I didn't quite consciously realize I was in, to engulf me.
Subsiding in this liquid made me care less about whether or not I had the miraculous fortune to live another day, the water was flowing relentlessly, but it assuring me that everything was alright, at least for this very moment. But was it really? It sure started to heat up as if someone unintentionally cranked up the central heating a notch too high.
I finally opened my eyes on to a macabre nightmare; I was submerged in abysmally hot liquid that was progressively incinerating my bare flesh, inside of an oval shaped tub, dressed only in my nightgown, which wasn't doing much except absorbing the incoming precipitation and stinging me as it clung tightly to my skin.
The room began to gradually fill with vapor, at this point only the tips of my toes were jutting above the water surface. I felt like a mollusc entangled in transparent conducting material that was short circuiting. Claustrophobic, mute less, with absolutely no control of my bodily functions, and to top it all off the smouldering heat reached an all-time boiling point and started generating enough steam to make the tiles fissure as well as everything else.
Rapid cries began to form, but were immediately stifled, my throat felt like a valve for a chimney releasing precipitous sighs instead of words. The steam continued its expending voyage without a care, terrible pain began ascending over me and boiling me alive. And through all the mistiness, no steam generated disguise could hide the sneering facial expression on Dr. Murray's face as he observed me with steady eyes.
My heart was thumping loudly and irregularly by now, my skin was a chestnut coloring with certain areas having an epidemic sized breakout of distinctly evident blisters that repeatedly burst—when the little bubbles became too infused with hot air.
What pushed me over the edge of common sense in to the No Trespassers Allowed territory of madness, was him dipping his surgically encase gloved hand and making the water vibrate with the rapidity of his hand’s movements. Artificially engineered miniature tidal waves ravished my flesh making it scarlet when they splashed down. Each cycle, the water elevated higher than the level it was at before.
He didn’t attempt to interrogate me, or be an incessant talker, he remained smooth-tongued, a playwright frolicsome with his venomous witticism and simply stuck to the point, “Talk.”
A mushroom cloud now hung in the air from the condescend air, but Dr. Murray didn’t seem at all concerned, to him this was just a personal home hazardous Volcanic meltdown kit—who knew a common household product could be turned in to a state of the art torture chamber.
When water droplets landed on the ridge of my nose, I felt very mortal knowing perfectly well that, not only was I perishable, but my lifeline depended solemnly on the change in temperature. So, what could I do but say, “YES! Yes I want to live.”
It was Now or Never. Time was of the out-most importance, and it was running out. I was only given a few moments to change out of my uncomfortably damp clothes while he remained close by, his hand rhythmically tapping the surface of the door on the other side.
I patched my wrists with bandages, which by now were pouring lips for droplets of blood. My heartbeat pulsated rapidly, returning vitality to my bodily functions that nearly faced permanent cessation.
Mathematically calculating my steps, I retreated inside the closet, the crossbar was unscrewed beforehand using the blunt end of the nail clipper I’ve stolen from his desk during our second session, and was now prepped across one of the walls.
Darkness that defaced all light in my room that night, was sliced with a cutting shaft of light, abruptly moving upwards and widening with the opening door. Dr. Murray's intensely glaring/protruding eyes and a bulky frame illuminated crystal clearly in the light.
With sufficient care, a sense of purpose, he guided himself across the room, although always remaining observant of his surroundings, towards the long narrow pillow placed under the bed sheet he suspected of being me.
The second’s hand off my CASIO wrist-watch dropped sharply, I erected upright as much as possible solidifying my grip firmer on the crossbar piece in my hands. Brace yourself I told myself, be fearless, break through this obstruction, and discontinue succumbing emotionally to this man.
I rushed out letting out a great bellow; he didn't have any apprehension of the danger that faced him beforehand, so when the damage landed squarely on his forehead, he couldn't help but to collapse suddenly. I heard the explosive sound of splitting skin; the bloody gaping hole was quite suitable to the wearer, nothing a little interlacing stitches and cosmetic treatment couldn't cure.
I handcuffed him to the hospital bed's railing closest to me, and gave him a little farewell speech, "A pint of hasty preparation, an ounce of forceful manner and a teaspoon of greedy desire to eat, what do you get Doc? A conceited fool lacking any refinement for the profession he is in, nothing but a prostitute catering to high raking government official. Problem with you guys is that you always need confirmation of your opinion, affirmation of your thoughts. Well, I am a walking and talking reassurance of your historical failure. And what do you think is going to happen now, when he hears you messed up? Are congratulations really in order when you broke the terms of the contract binding you to this job? You are as good as dead Doc, so there's no point for me to do anything else. Goodnight Dr. Murray. Sleep well."
The rest my dears was a happy ending to an intensely fascinating tale. She not only lived but got away. Obviously, not before jabbing a needle filled with a drug inducing liquid I found in Dr. Murray’s lab coat’s pocket, in to a napping Orderly’s neck out in the hallway, when he showed signs of awakening as I tried to crouch past him. He must have heard Dr. Murray’s muffled moans to be rescued while poor Dr. Brown was being dragged down to the boiler room in a crude manner by the first Orderly’s companion, to start his eternal incarceration with the rumorating animals.
Dr. Murray's prized possession, his Chevrolet Corvette was parked out front, I just got in and drove away, the scandalous aftermath was for the news anchors to be reported on, I had a new life and a few secretive Caribbean bank accounts to get me started.