Fire & Rain

1

I think the room just got smaller, or maybe warmer.  I can’t tell.  Chopin is still playing softly from the game room.  I don’t know which song – I’m not even sure it’s Chopin but he’s the only composer I can name now.  We play it to calm them down.  I guess it works – maybe it just works on soothing our sanity while we listen to their insanity.  The record’s been playing all night, the soundtrack of our unforgettable evening.  Tonight Chopin failed my sense of reality; every line I ever thought existed is gone.  Erased.

The detective is saying something to one of the newer officers.  I assume he’s new – he just vomited all over the crime scene.  Part of it anyway, the entire facility is a crime scene now.  It took them an hour to get to us - an hour of staring at the mounds of blood and flesh clinging to every inch of the marble floor and papered walls.  A full hour was plenty of time to lose whatever marbles I might have had left.  I wonder why detectives always wear trench coats.  Of course, it is raining.  I can hear the light patter of water leaking through one of the windows at the end of the hall.  For how much our patients families pay you’d think they would fix the leaky windows and roof, but no.  It’s funny; the raindrops are falling in time with the ivories.  I never knew rain could be musical. 

Soon that detective will come to question me.  He’ll tip toe his way to me, careful so as not to collect any blood on his wingtips, and open that drenched trench coat revealing a cheap suit of either brown or grey and pull out a little notebook from one of his many pockets.  Half listening he’ll jot down whatever snippets from my story he finds worthy with a chewed up nub of a pencil.  But no matter what I say I know what his conclusion will be.  I’m the only one left, who else can they blame?

I’m so tired.  I just want to rest my eyes.  Only for a bit.

Someone stopped the record.  But there’s no silence in its stead – I can hear the screams again.  The cracking of bones, the ripping of flesh and every soul shattering cry for help is assaulting my ears again.  They’re dead but their cries linger on floating in the stagnant, putrid air.  Only the music can make it stop.  Oh God please make it stop!

His loud hacking cough nearly scared me out of my seat while the rancid smell of cigarettes and whiskey followed close behind it. 

“Somebody turned the music off.”

He seems surprised that I spoke first.  “Ah yes, they did.”

“Could they turn it back on?  I find it comforting.” I tried to swallow down my fear and the screams as best I could.

“Of course.”  He snapped his large, plump fingers at a nearby officer who, in his haste, slipped on an unidentifiable organ and nearly landed face down on the hollowed out carcass of Nurse Spinelli.  Old bitch.  I never liked her anyway.  “I need you to go and turn the record back on and tell the others to keep it on.  Our witness finds it calming and we need him to remain that way.”  He half whispered not really caring if I heard him or not.

It is hard to hear through all the screaming.  I wish it would stop!  There’s nothing I can do for you, why are you screaming?  Ah . . . the music’s back.  They were right.  It really does slow the mind and stop the voices.  I closed my eyes for only a second and he’s already coughing again.  Not a real cough, a cough to remind me that he’s towering over me scrutinizing my every behavior.  Let him.  I have nothing to hide.  While I had my eyes shut he had produced his little notebook and pencil.  I missed which pocket it came from, most likely his suit coat and I was right – it’s brown and cheap just like the liquor he smells of.

“I’m sorry.  My eyes are feeling a little heavy.”

He chuckled and hacked some more, spitting all over the few notes he’d already taken.  “Understandable Mr. Prinn after the night you’ve had.  It’s getting chilly in here.  How’s about a hot cup of coffee to warm you up?  It should help with your droopy eyes too.”

I don’t want coffee, never really been a fan of it, but I nodded yes and watched another young officer go running through the trenches to fetch some.  I can tell he’s nervous, the detective.  His hands are sturdy and his frame still and strong – it’s his eyes that give him away.  He has to work to keep them open and they fidget, not knowing where to rest because there is nowhere safe to look. 

Finally . . . coffee’s here.  That silent gap felt like an eternity. It’s black and pungent and wisps of steam continue to rise from its surface.  I don’t want to drink it.  The more I stare at it the more it reminds me of the gateway, the blackness behind the stained wall.  My hand is shaking.  I can’t keep the coffee still and I know the detective has noticed.  I’m the only thing he wants to concentrate on in this building.  I’m the only thing living.

“So, Mr. Prinn.”

“Jonathan.”

The scent of whiskey is strong.  So strong it’s hurting my nostrils.

“I’m sorry?”

“Jonathan.  My name is Jonathan.”

“Alright, Jonathan.  The police officers did a preliminary count of the bodies here at Grey Manor and the numbers don’t match.  It seems there are some patients missing.  Do you know who they are or if they happened to make it out?  Or are they the ones that did this?”  His voice was breaking.  He’s angry and he’s not hiding it as well as I’m sure he’d like.

“I know whose missing.”

“Give me their names.  And if they are patients I want to know what they were being treated for.”

Should I give him their names?  I guess it doesn’t matter, he can’t hurt them.  Not now.  “Martin Vance is gone.  We were treating him for depression and pica.”

“Pica?”  The look on his face is amusing but I’m not in the mood to laugh.

“It’s rare.  Part of his therapy was drawing, releasing his tension through art.  Martin was actually an amazing artist and worked mostly with charcoal or chalk.  The problem was he kept eating the charcoal after finishing sketches.  There were a few times I caught him eating his own artwork if he didn’t think it was good enough.  Martin also ate hair, nail clippings and grass.”  His look soured.  I think he understands what pica is now.  I’ll try to simplify the rest of them so he doesn’t have to ask what he doesn’t want to know.  It reminds of me of talking to family members who would come to visit or pay.  None of them actually cared.  They only wanted to know that their wealthy family member was still breathing.   “Then there’s Rebecca Finnegan,” I continued.  “She’s schizophrenic.  She heard voices and had vivid hallucinations and talked with them regularly.  Last is Gregory Levine, pyromaniac.  He was fascinated with fire and mixed with his deep-rooted insecurities and explosive temper it made him a dangerous patient.”

The detective was furiously scribbling down every word.  No doubt the medical terms were misspelled; even I have trouble with those.  He underlined his last note.  Probably thinks Gregory is the culprit.  Little does he know he’s wrong.  Classical music is so beautiful.  I don’t ever want to stop listening.

“How did this,” he motioned around him without taking his eyes off me, “come about?  How did your evening begin?”  There is the beady, probing look I’ve been waiting for.

“You’re not going to believe me.”

His mouth crinkled into a wry smile.  “How will we know that unless you tell me?”

Fair enough.  But I know once I tell him it’s the end for me.  I’ll end up in a place like this only worse because I have no money, neither does my family.  As long as I have Chopin though.  “It started the same as every other night.  I work the evening and night shift.  I got here in time to serve them dinner like always, then afterwards we spent time in the game room listening to records or playing cards.  The only thing out of the ordinary was Rebecca.”

“The schizo . . . schizoprof . . .”

“The schizophrenic, yes.  I remember she was having a particularly volatile conversation with the voices.  They were arguing.”

   

2

“Leave me alone!  I don’t want to talk to you.  I told you I’m not interested!”  She started banging her fists against the green papered wall.  The game room was crowded but most of the patients had no problem ignoring her.

“Those voices giving you problems again?”  Gregory leaned against the wall beside her and began stroking it with his free hand.  His other hand was in his pocket stroking something else.  “I can help you get rid of them.”  Rebecca didn’t blink, instead she spit on his face.  He groaned and the hand in his pocket moved a little faster.  Disgusted she shoved him and with only one unoccupied hand he fell hard on the cold floor.  “What the hell is your problem?”

“I don’t want to talk to him,” she screamed and pointed at the smudged wall, “and I don’t want to talk to you!”  She stormed off to the opposite end of the room because they weren’t allowed to exit the game room until bedtime.  But even from her distant corner she kept a wary eye on the wall.

Martin had watched the whole scene.  All he ever did was watch.  He left his table and the image of a mountain he’d been drawing to help Gregory up.  He knew which hand not to grab so he had to wait until Gregory begrudgingly offered the hand that hadn’t been playing pocket pool.

“What’s her deal tonight?  She’s being a real bitch.” 

Martin only shrugged – he didn’t speak much.  Really he didn’t speak at all.  If he had something to say he would take the charcoal from his mouth and scrawl a note on whatever was nearby.  Gregory was still talking but Martin didn’t hear any of his rants.  He was looking at the wall where Rebecca had been arguing and as he touched it he started looking for something, feeling for something.  Like he knew something was there.  Out of impulse he pulled a long, thin piece of fresh coal from his pocket and began drawing.  It didn’t have a shape or purpose; instead it looked like a gigantic black hole.  Gregory had wandered away mumbling and when Martin was done filling in the enormous blob he went back to his drawing as if nothing out of the ordinary had just taken place.

Rebecca stealthily made her way back to the charcoal spot that would need scrubbing later and pressed her hands and face to it reminiscent of a young child peering into a toy store.  “A window.  Martin you made a window.”  Martin took no notice of her present state of wonder.  She was smiling and giggling to herself as if she were actually staring at something other than markings on a wall.  Whatever happy sights Rebecca’s delusions were showing her quickly soured.  “No.  No, he can see me.  Martin he can see me!”

She clawed at the spot only smearing it making the spot larger.  Her hands and face were covered in the black dust as she cried obscenities and begged for help to remove the drawing.  “He’s coming – it’s not time.  Somebody help me!”

  

3

“What happened then?”  The detective is taking very diligent notes, or doodling.  I can never tell if people are actually listening – I can’t see listening.  At least not when their eyes are down.

This coffee’s bitter.  I don’t want anymore but they keep refilling my cup trying to keep me awake.  “Is there any cream for the coffee?”  He merely nodded and the assisting officer went to fetch yet again so I’ll assume that’s a yes.

“Now, Jonathan, tell me what happened with Rebecca.”

The black coffee does look so much like the window.  I should have cleaned the wall then.

“Mr. Prinn?”  For the first time tonight his voice sounds warm.

“Of course, sorry.”  I pinched my nose between my eyes.  I can feel a headache creeping up.  “After Rebecca’s fit I sedated her and left her to sleep it off in one of our locked observation rooms.”

He seems confused and hasn’t written that down yet.  I would think a suspect being drugged and locked in a small room with only a tiny window in the door would greatly decrease their ability to have been the culprit and would therefore be a noteworthy piece of information.  But then again, I am not the detective.

“Why an observation room?”

“It’s policy.  When a patient’s behavior becomes erratic we are required to lightly sedate them to ease their mental breakdown and induce sleep and then to observe them overnight to ensure they don’t harm themselves.”

He nodded.  His graying pomaded hair bobbing and falling into clumped strands over his forehead and eyes.  “That sounds reasonable.  Continue.”

I don’t want to.  I only want to close my eyes and wake up somewhere far away from here.  He could have at least questioned me someplace where the nights victims couldn’t stare at me with bulging, terrified eyes and bloated tongues that hung from missing or bloodied lips.  I understand now the agony of surviving.  Wishing that you had been mercifully massacred with a cleared mind instead of having to crawl your way through the rest of life hearing the cries and seeing the chunks of coworkers, friends and patients in every dark night’s dream.  My stomach is cramping.  If its nerves I can hold out – if it’s not I hope he doesn’t mind postponing story time.

“Besides Gregory releasing himself on Nurse Spinelli that was the highlight of the evening before the patients went to bed.  Like I said earlier, Rebecca was in observation but the rest of the patients slept in their private, unlocked dorms.  Myself and Darren, another male attendant, made rounds every thirty minutes throughout the night to make sure they stayed in their rooms and to act in case there was an emergency.”  The scowl spread across his face so rapidly and looks so at home I almost can’t remember him having had another expression.  “Everything was fine for the first few hours.  The patients were all asleep and the overnight nurses were having coffee in the break room.  It was all quiet until Darren came back after his rounds around one.”

Look for the conclusion to Fire & Rain next Thursday