The First Stain

by Dakota Rayne et al.

  And I mostly believe him, considering what he’s done for his folks. This guy would do anything for his people, I think. At the expense of others, Mom reminds me, which I find strange, considering what we do, without even the alibi of starvation.

  Mom rolls her eyes again like I talk nonsense. It’s not like I admire Alex, though. I mean, I don’t like people who’d literally do anything for their people. I’d rather live in a world where you shouldn’t have to choose between your people and others, in a world where all people had their needs met.

  That doesn’t make sense, Mom says, although, the way I see it, that’s the one thing that makes perfect sense.

  When Dad died, they named a street after him. That doesn’t even begin to make sense, cuz Dad did a bad job, taking advantage of people in need.

  People will surely remember him though. He made sure of it, buying his way into eternity by doing charities from time to time, not because he cared, but only as an exchange for the things he did. I think Dad had a plan, only he didn’t have time to complete it.

  You see, death doesn’t come with an appointment. Death comes when you least expect it.

  Dad must have thought that sooner or later, he’d give to society what he had taken from it. That’s probably what kept him going. And sane. Otherwise, he couldn’t have done the job.

  I think all of us have an adjective in mind by which we’d like to see our picture in the dictionary. I still haven’t figured out mine, but visionary must have been my dad’s preferred adjective.

  He didn’t have time to complete the plan, yet strangely enough, people seem to appreciate his offer and are willing to consider him as a visionary. He could have kept all the money for us, Mom says.

  I say bad people humanely die, yet they live on, like zombies, buying their way into eternity. People buy their way into immortality. We name streets and hospitals after them. The filthiest of people live on in this city, years after their death, my dad among them, while decent people are gone and forgotten.

  At night I dream I’m a scientist, and I find the gene of humility, hiding behind the gene of arrogance that shouts—I’m here, find me first!—but I choose to ignore it and don’t mention it at all. But other scientists come to kill me, along with the humble gene, and then I wake up in cold sweat, short of breath, and Alex wakes up too and hugs me.

  You were a Siren? he asks. And I tell him he misheard but I realize he’s right; I’m a Siren, but a good one, for I don’t fool people like I normally do, I only choose the proper truth.

  He then tries to calm me down. He has read about mindfulness and all, cuz he can’t handle the emotions this world evokes either and that helps, he swears.

  So he taught me the STOP skill; stop, take a step back, observe, proceed mindfully. He didn’t need to. Songs had already told me about it. At first the Primitives warned me. To not go too fast. But I didn’t believe it, the song was so fast-paced I thought it ironic. Then the Rolling Stones convinced me time was on my side. So, I patiently wait for everything to make sense.

  We do have a plan, Alex and I, and we slowly, mindfully, proceed. We want out, that’s for sure, so we’ve decided to rob a bank.

  Robbing is bad, Alex says, and I have to remind him he’s the one stealing stuff from people. He frowns like I don’t understand. Like I don’t know how it feels to be poor. I have to admit he’s right, I don’t have the slightest idea.

  Stealing is the last resort, he claims, you can’t correct a bad thing doing something worse. That’s where I disagree though; robbing a bank is innocent, compared to what he does.

  It’s not happening tomorrow but it will happen. It wouldn’t be a plan if we were impulsive. For now, we take walks. We walk out of our comfort zone, but only a little distance. Too far away triggers anxiety, yet too close puts us in default mode, like everything is familiar and old and sickening and nothing ever happens, which sounds comforting and safe and good sometimes, only it isn’t life at all. It isn’t the life we want.

  It’s getting dark now and I see another customer walking in. And I hear the emergency sirens from afar and I feel like I live in the movie The Crow, it’s devil’s night and the world is bad out there, but there’s still love and hope and kindness. And I think of Pearl Jam then, and their song about some different kind of Sirens, and I imagine nothing bad has happened, it’s only the Sirens calling me away, not into death and oblivion, but into a better world, where everything makes sense.

  Mileva Anastasiadou

  About the author

  Mileva Anastasiadou is a neurologist. Her work can be found in many journals, such as the Molotov Cocktail, Jellyfish Review, Asymmetry fiction, the Sunlight Press (Best Small Fictions 2019 nominee), Ghost Parachute, Gone Lawn, Ellipsis Zine, Queen Mob's Tea House, Bending Genres, and others.

  Little Grays

  By Shea Ballard

  Blue eyes stare ahead, unblinking. They appear to be focused on a point on the wall, but they aren’t really looking at anything. The man to whom the eyes belong sits motionless in a chair, like a statue. Were it not for the rise and fall of his chest with each breath, one might mistake him for a corpse. Although, this corpse spoke.

  His speech is quiet, the under-the-breath kind. It’s also rapid, resembling that of an auctioneer. There’s a rhythm to it. The words are almost a chant, like a priest reciting a memorized prayer. But the contents are nonsensical. If one could hear what the man said, it wouldn’t make any sense. Not to anyone. Not to anyone except Stan.

  Stan is a disheveled mess. His greasy black hair is uncombed and unwashed. He’s dressed in layers, despite the fact that it’s summertime. His clothes are wrinkled and mismatched. A three-day stubble grows on his oily face. He wears no deodorant, his sweaty pits offending anyone who gets too near. The thirty-two-year-old man slowly rocks back and forth in his chair as he talks to himself.

  “I don’t know why the devil . . . I lost that book. . . . Little Grays . . . and then I told him . . . and then he said, ‘Fuck you, Stan . . .’”

  One of the psychiatric techs approaches Stan.

  “What do you want, Moby?” Stan asks. The younger man with glasses reminds him of “Moby,” a 1990’s techno musician. He remembers seeing the music on the radio back when he lived on the outside.

  “You okay there, Stan?” asks Moby.

  Stan glances up at the tech, a creepy grin forming on his lips. “The Little Grays know what you did. They told me.”

  “I see. And what did they say I did?”

  “You know. That thing you do. That disgusting, perverted thing.”

  Moby laughs. He sits down in a chair across from Stan. “Let’s do some reality-testing. What’s more likely? That little gray aliens are talking to you though mental telepathy? Or that you have schizophrenia and have been refusing your meds again?”

  Stan shakes his head. “The Little Grays always use telepathy. Everyone knows that. Don’t you watch movies, Moby?”

  “Stan, don’t you know the doctor has asked the judge to force you to take meds? If the judge agrees, you won’t have a choice anymore.”

  “I won’t be here to take them. Little Grays’ll get me out.”

  The psych tech nods, stands up, and pats Stan on the shoulder. “Good talk.”

  Stan watches him walk away to the back of the dayroom, and then resumes his self-talk, or what the doctor tells him is called “responding to internal stimuli.”

  Moments later, another patient plops into the chair across from Stan. He’s a short, chubby kid, about twenty years old, wearing headphones and looking for a song on an MP3 player.

  “Why’d they have to take my phone?” he says to himself. “These MP3 players are shit.”

  “You said it, buddy,” says a fellow patient sitting in a chair next to him. “They take our phones, but let the staff keep theirs. It ain’t fair.”

  “I’m not your buddy, Greg,” the young man replies without looking up.

  Greg shrugs and returns his attention to his o
wn MP3 player.

  Stan stops his rocking and looks up at the youth across from him. The kid is neither looking at Stan nor talking to him. Stan’s blank expression shifts. His eyes narrow as he stares hard at the young man with the MP3 player. “You better shut the fuck up about me, Anthony.”

  The youth casts a wide-eyed look at Stan.

  “I know you’re talking about me.”

  “You’re crazy,” says Anthony. “I didn’t say shit about you. I’m listening to my songs, man.”

  “Stop telling the devil what I’m doing. I know you and he are in cahoots.”

  “Shut up, fool. I ain’t talking to you.” Anthony shakes his head and resumes focusing on his music.

  Stan smiles. “I know you and Satan are lovers. In fact, he told me he fucked you last night.”

  Anthony looks up from his MP3 player and scowls in his direction. “You better shut the fuck up before I pound your face in.” He sticks his pointer finger out in warning.

  Stan rises from his seat with a speed of which belies his previously placid appearance. He shakes his fist at the young man. “You wanna fight then, motherfucker? Let’s go.”

  Anthony looks up at the scowling man with a start. He leans back in his chair, trying to put distance between himself and Stan. “Man, I didn’t say nothing to you. Sit back down.”

  Moby sighs as the raised voices reach his ears. He looks up from his newspaper, puts it down, and stands up. These two are gonna fight again, aren’t they? Behind the nurse’s station, a nurse glances up from her computer and cringes.

  Stan lunges for his young cohort. Anthony tries to run, but it’s too late. Stan grabs him by his shirt collar, yanking him towards him before his fist connects with the kid’s face.

  Moby curses, lurching up from his chair and running over to Stan. Previously quiet patients look up from the TV, now more interested in the real-life drama unfolding in front of them. As soon as Moby reaches Stan, he grabs Stan by his shirt collar and pulls him to the floor.

  The nurse stands up. “Call a Code Gray!”

  A second tech arrives and helps his counterpart keep Stan from getting back up. They each secure an arm, attempting to hold him down.

  A third staff member arrives moments later. Speaking into his radio, he calls the code for security backup. “Code Gray, Desert Rose East dayroom! Code Gray, Desert Rose East dayroom!”

  Anthony sits on the floor holding his nose, blood dripping from it.

  Stan is on the floor, too, but lying on his stomach. The two psych techs hold him down, each grabbing an arm with both hands. The third tech then grabs Stan’s legs in a tight hold to keep him from kicking.

  A nurse arrives to help Anthony with his bloody nose.

  As chaos mounts in the psych unit dayroom, a female patient decides to enter the fray. She struts up to the two techs restraining Stan. “You better leave him the fuck alone.”

  “Tina, you need to move away,” Moby replies. “This doesn’t concern you.”

  “Like hell, it doesn’t,” she says, hands on her hips and an angry scowl on her face. “That’s my friend you have on the ground.”

  Stan struggles against the techs’ hold on him. “You’ll be sorry. . . . little grays . . . not liking how you’re treating me.”

  The nurse tending to Anthony sits in the chair right next to him. She holds a piece of gauze to his nose. “Hold this in place,” she tells him before getting up and approaching Tina with a placating gesture. “Tina, we just don’t want you to get hurt.” She attempts to put a hand on the angry patient.

  “Get off me!” Tina yells and jerks away.

  The nurse steps back.

  The tense situation is interrupted by a loud sound coming over the PA system. Like someone dialing an old touch-tone phone.

  “It’s the Code Gray tone,” comments Greg. “We’re about to get sent to our rooms.”

  The voice of the hospital operator then blares through the speakers. “Attention all units. We have a Code Gray on Desert Rose East. Dayroom. Attention all units. We have a Code Gray on Desert Rose East. Dayroom.”

  Security and extra staff burst through the door to the unit. Several of the additional psych staff assist in restraining Stan, a couple others go to take care of the belligerent Tina, and a few more help clear the dayroom of all the other patients.

  Not long after, another nurse arrives with two syringes in hand, each topped with a long hypodermic needle. Getting down on the floor, she pulls down Stan’s pants just enough to expose a tiny corner of butt cheek. She administers each shot quickly. Ativan to relax him, and Seroquel to calm the voices.

  As soon as the medication has been given, the nurse steps away and the techs pull Stan to his feet. At this point, he has stopped fighting. Physically, at least.

  “Don’t take me to seclusion,” Stan pleads.

  “Sorry, buddy,” replies Moby. “You know we gotta put you there until you’re safe again.”

  Moby, another tech, and two security officers escort Stan to seclusion.

  They soon enter the seclusion area’s anteroom. In it are two seclusion rooms, side by side. Both empty. A single chair sits in front of one of the rooms.

  Dragging Stan into the room on the left, they get him up against the back wall. Security still holds his arms securely.

  “If we let go of you now, are you going to start swinging at us?” Moby asks.

  Stan shakes his head, sobs threatening to send tears down his cheeks.

  Moby nods to the others assisting in the hold. They simultaneously let go and take a step back. True to his word, Stan does nothing. He stands limply in the spot where he was left, a blank look on his face. Moby and the other men slowly back out of the room. A tech locks the door behind them, leaving Stan alone in the tiny room with hard-padded walls. A light just above the door handle changes from red to green, indicating the magnetic lock has been activated.

  The room is silent for a short while until Stan suddenly snaps back to life. He charges the door. “Let me the fuck outta here!” He pounds the glass with his fists.

  “Not until you calm down,” says Moby.

  Stan screams and beats on the seclusion room door. “Come on, Moby! Let me out!”

  “You just hit someone. You’re not coming out of there until you’re safe. Now go lay down and let the medication take effect,” says Moby.

  The nurse enters the anteroom. “What time was he locked?”

  “Just now,” replies Moby. He pulls out his phone and checks the time. “17:15.”

  “I’ll go get the order,” says the nurse. She jots the time down on a form, hands the clipboard to Moby, and then leaves the room. The security officers follow.

  Stan is amped up, the adrenaline still surging through his veins. He paces the room. “Little Grays, Little Grays, get me outta here.” He looks out through the seclusion room window. Moby and a tech that looks like Liam Neeson stand, talking to each other. “I’m in over my head, Little Grays. I need extraction.”

  He continues to pace back and forth inside the tiny padded room. The anger has left him, the injections now starting to take effect. His mind has slowed, though he still retains a lot of nervous energy.

  Outside the seclusion room, Moby and Liam discuss what just happened. Liam is a younger man, brand-new to the field. He’s taller, with a full head of black hair, but cut short.

  “Dude, what the fuck happened?” asks Liam.

  Moby shrugs. “Stan lost his shit and attacked Anthony.”

  “Yeah, I saw that, but why? Stan was just sitting there. Did Anthony provoke him?”

  “Not that I could tell.”

  “Not at all?”

  “There’s always a reason, but unless Stan can tell us later what it was, we’ll never know. He could have been responding to voices telling him to hurt Anthony again. Or he might have thought Anthony was a threat somehow, got scared, and tried to fight back.” Moby shrugged. “It’s impossible to say.”

  “Dude, he’s crazy.�
�

  “It’s psychosis. You and I might get ideas about the world that are unrealistic, but Stan and others who suffer from schizophrenia completely lose touch with reality. It’s like their dreams become real for them. They can’t tell the difference anymore from what’s real and what’s the dream.”

  Liam shakes his head in disbelief.

  “I’ve seen patients go from zero to sixty, just like that.” Moby snaps his fingers. “Work here long enough, you’ll see more of that, too.” Liam remains speechless. Moby cocks his head in the young man’s direction. “Hey, can you hang out for a minute. I gotta use the loo.”

  “In lieu of what?” asks Liam, chuckling at the very British word.

  “In lieu of me peeing my pants. I’ll be right back.” Moby leaves the seclusion area.

  Liam seats down in the chair and settles in with a game on his phone.

  Back behind the locked door, Stan continues to pace, his movements getting slower. His eyes grow heavy. He starts to nod off, but a wave of energy and alertness wakes him. His head springs up, eyes growing wide at the odd vibration. “Yes, I hear you Little Grays. Transmission received.” He looks out the little window in the door to see Moby and Liam chatting about something. No doubt him. Now was his chance. “I’m ready, Little Grays.”

  Moments later, a low, rumbling sound emanates from the outside. Stan looks around, trying to locate its source. It seems to be coming from everywhere around him. A subtle hum resonates throughout his body.

  Liam notices it, too. He looks up and stares at Stan through the little window in the door. Stan stares back. After a moment, he looks away.

  Stan turns his attention to the back wall of the seclusion room. It is shimmering like a mirage. It starts out as just a tiny point, but quickly grows to encompass the entire wall. The padded wall now resembles a TV screen with a poor-quality image. It’s pixelated, little dots the same beige color as the wall, jumping up and down at great speed.