She was now a body, supported and remembered only by those whose lives she had touched and the one who had taken her own. Namely, her husband Valentino Briefs, who had confessed to the crime immediately, leaving there no reasons for further investigation. Though no murder weapon had been found, a hole through her heart had been accounted as the reason of death, and I found myself saying “duh” at the obvious statement.
I ran my hand through my hair, curious to see how long this would take, or more specifically, how long it would be until my soggy hands would clutch the familiar cold of a liquor glass. I longed for the uncomfortable bench beneath me and the smoke filled room that would embrace my broken soul at the local bar, knowing even then as I do now that I was quickly reaching the point of alcoholism. But then, I didn’t care.
There wasn’t much information to begin with, my mind slowly grasping the idea that that was the point of my interview. To understand the workings of this monster’s mind. To learn his history and decide his fate. I truly hated my job at times, though consoled that out there truly existed souls more miserable then myself.
I drove in silence to the asylum, the leaves of the trees above casting their reflection over my dashboard, though I concentrated upon the road before me, hardly noticing the beauty of autumn around.
Was it three hours I had driven all those days to see him? Four? I laugh aloud now, remembering how frantic I had become to see my patient on those days, waking before the sun as my fascination bordered on obsession. And yet then, I simply drove, feeling the pain of loneliness creep upon me and my own mental guards breaking it down into the numbing feeling that captivated me on those days when I was forced to remember, forced to relive over and over and over and over.
Tears, pain, a choice.
But I pushed it down, letting the fog creep over my guilt as the rough bricks of the gigantic asylum came into view. Sad that time has even erased the name of that accursed structure, though I am partly relieved at my mind’s decay. Though it seemed the perfect picture of a college university on the outside, (if one were to ignore the thick, electric fence with barbed wire running in three parallel lines across the top) the inside was a place that made the sane go mad.
White walls. I dream of those white walls even to this day, awakening to find myself trapped by those that surround me. I absolutely hate white walls. But I suppose my pet peeves are of no interest to you.
The floor was cracked concrete, smooth and slippery, it gave off the feeling of an unfinished surface, the white walls on either side seeming almost blinding compared to the rusty gray of the cement. My expensive heels cracked upon the rock hard tiles, the sound accompanied by only the strange, unsettling moans and groans of those gone mad, some wandering aimlessly passed me as I marched through their territory.
The hallways seemed to narrow as my heels clicked through them, my gaze landing on the directions and maps upon the walls and glancing again to the photos and statements given about the crime.
“Date of birth….. June 8, 1956-1998. Body found at top of Brooding Cliff at precisely 6:23 P.M, husband lying soaked in blood next to victim.”
I saw many words stamped into the clipping. Horrified, disbelief, anguish. A glance below showed a blonde haired woman fallen to her knees, hands digging into her tightly pulled up hair, face twisted with unbelievable agony as she cried hysterically. Deep down I was appalled at the scene, disgusted at the desensitized being that could have so easily clicked a button upon his camera and made possibly thousands for such a lack of conscience. But I was mostly intrigued by the apparent pain, happy for this woman that she could so easily release what I, a man of stature and pride, bottled within myself, knowing all too well that it multiplied and magnified the self loathing.
“Justin! Justin!”
My blood went cold within my veins and my stomach seemed to drop to the floor at my feet. I even think my heart stopped for a second as I watched the character approach me, hand clutched to its chest as it dragged its head along the smooth wall, neck adjusted to a no doubt painful position.
‘W-What did you say?” I heard my own shivering voice demand, echoing through the tight corridor as the creature neared me, feet slithering and limping across the ground.
The man’s face was hideously scarred, a possible burn victim, drool and mucus dribbling from the crack of its deformed mouth.
“Custin! Custin!” It shrieked in a high pitched tone, confusion bombarding me.
“He said Custin.” Explained a calm voice behind me and I found myself face to face with a middle aged woman, a kind smile planted upon her soft features.
“Its probably best that you don’t ask him why.” She said humorously. “He tends to get emotional when spoken to directly by anyone other than his doctor.”
“You just let him wander the hallways like this?” I asked reproachfully, watching as her kind face fell slightly and her composure turned serious.
“Custin is harmless.” She said politely, gently pushing my back to signal a walk in the right direction. “He hates to be touched and would rather peel his own skin off then to do it to some body else. Just steer clear of him and he’ll be sure to do the same with you.”
I only stared forward, my pulse still irregular at my misunderstanding. Justin. Justin.
“I assume you’re here to inquire about Mr. Valentino?”
I had begun to take a liking to the small but straight forward woman, immediately complimenting internally on her intelligence and quick observations.
“Actually I’m here to interview him. I am Dr. Camden, psychologist.” I shook her frail hand, though we continued to walk in the direction which I assumed lead to where they kept the more dangerous criminals. It seemed the white walls caved in upon me and I was tempted to ask where a glass of water might be found.
“He’s a difficult one, that Mr. Valentino.” She commented dryly, staring straight ahead as though our destination lay directly in front of her eyes.
“Oh?” I asked, cocking my head to the side and raising a suspicious eyebrow. I remember the heavy feeling of dread bubbling forth inside me, foreshadowing all that I would learn from this creature. Difficult. God, that word could have so many meanings and yet only those of extremely negative connotation made themselves known within my complex mind.
There was a time when the mere idea of a challenging patient would have excited me, my interest perking up until even keeping my composure would have been a problem. But alas, as you may have imagined, those days were long gone in my tired and aged mind, the situation looking bleaker by the minute.
“Difficult?” I asked, silently pleading with her to elaborate, to explain what such a word meant. She only shrugged, her thin, wrinkled finger brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear, something that reminded me immediately of my wife Laura.
“Smart as any man I’ve ever known.” She mumbled, her eyes never straying from their position as her heels clicked sharply upon the concrete flooring.
“Attractive to the extremities I never even thought existed.”
I had to stifle a laugh at this announcement, my nose wrinkling slightly as air escaped through it. How very childish this was! But to this day, to this very day I can recall that dead serious look in her face as she’d turned to me. She didn’t think it was funny. After looking at her, neither did I.
“Like I said,” She continued, her eyes returning to their spot ahead. “He’s freakishly handsome and apparently knows it. Difficult hardly seems to do the bastard justice.”
She sternly turned right down a hallway, leaving me baffled at her strong words and scurrying to catch up. I had to dodge a medic and her patient as they meandered through the same corridor on a collision course with me. The patient never glanced at me, his eyes glazed with nearing death as he simply let his head dangle from his neck over the wheel chair.
I’m sorry. I had to pause for a moment. You see, though reading such words hardly seems as traumatic as living them was, it is ‘difficult’ you might say, to relay such information. Those moments, that misery, that torment within that desolated creature’s eyes. It mirrored my own. He was but a shell of a man, a soulless beast being pushed down a hallway, the spark of life burnt out with time. And I promise you, there was no way this boy could have been even twenty years old.
Silently, I still wonder what it is that could have made a teen look that way. Appalled as I was, I wanted to know. I still do admittedly. We hate death and yet it fascinates us so much. We want details, we want elaboration, the blood, the guts, the revenge, the consequences. And even then I knew that this boy’s story would never reach my ears. Or those of any one for that matter. He’d closed up eternally, his secrets, his journeys, his pain and his story gone just like the fire that had burned out within him.
Gone.
But it is too early for tears. Or perhaps too late.
One could play with the idea that the young man grew up, escaped the horrors of the asylum, tore away the insanity that inflicted his immature mind. Perhaps it is easier to pretend that he still lives, nurturing others, caring for a family, the model family, his years in the penitentiary nothing more than a bad dream.
Yes, lets simply leave it at that and turn away from the very real possibility that that child died within the year that I saw him.
Perhaps you wonder why I go on and on about this patient, this no one.
Does his name have anything to do with the plot? Will he play a vital role?
Rest from these questions my beloved reader. That boy had no name. None that I knew of anyways. But I shall tell you why seeing him meant something, why I bother wasting my time on this soon to be covered paper.
Because that boy was me. Or at least I mused such a horrible thing. He was who I would become, torn away from even my own consciousness by the pain of loss, the grief and the pounding guilt. Was that what I would eventually become?
I shivered as I shiver now at the thought. At the possibility. But the nameless doctor pressed on, I say nameless simply because I cannot remember at this time, leaving me to follow behind in her hurried tracks.
Oh yes. Now I remember. Margaret Maxin. That was her name.
She lead me into an office, requesting proof of identity, contracts, legal rights to an interrogation, papers and the like which I will not even bore you with. For it is not important. Let me skip ahead though I know how childish it is to do so. Perhaps a better author would have detailed and explained each event deeply, but again, I’m no writer.
It was not long before she had lead me once again to a thick concrete door, white, as seemed to be the color of choice, and a tiny, Plexiglas window to the right. Standing up straight, her thin fingers pressed in a code, jotted in much too quickly for even my eyes to catch. But it was of no concern as a loud twisting of metal was heard and the door opened by itself, introducing me to the world of which I would become part in the months to come.
The criminally insane ward.
I think even then the idea that they kept this suspect here, struck me as strange. Of what importance was I if the monster was already where they apparently imagined he belonged?
And so, with a heavy sigh and a straightening of my dress shirt, I once again found myself staring at the white lab coat of Dr. Maxin’s back.