John stepped into the room, the other patients watching him now. He contemplated for a moment if he should say hello and introduce himself, but such etiquette felt forced. Before John could make up his mind, the door behind him slammed shut, leaving him in complete darkness.
He stood still, his eyes straining to adjust, searching for light that was not there. He felt exposed just standing there, so he slowly began to walk in the direction he remembered the bed had been, taking slow, careful steps until his toe bumped against the edge of a mattress. His hands stretched out in front of him, he felt around for the top of the bed, careful to make sure no one was already there before lying down.
After a moment, he heard a body in the bed next to him shift and rollover, the mattress springs creaking under his weight.
John willed himself to go to sleep, but his mind felt restless. He tried to imagine he was back home in Southend, back home with his wife. He had hoped the memory would bring him peace, but instead, he felt a sob begin to rise in his throat. He swallowed it down.
No, don’t do that to yourself, John thought and shook the fantasy from his mind. This is not home. This place is not safe. Stay alert, pay attention, he chanted to himself.
Someone cried in one of the rooms across the hall, a low, heartbreaking wail. John pinched his eyes shut harder and tried to block it out, taking deep, slow breaths as he willed every muscle in his body to relax, forcing on the calm face he always wore whenever someone told him he was worthless. But they were right, the unwelcomed thought came to his mind. I’m here, aren’t I? They were right.
John had no idea how long it took him to drift off to sleep, but that night he dreamed. It was a memory from his childhood he had forgotten until now. He was in the forest with his friends, playing a game of hide-and-seek. As another boy counted down from ten, John and the rest of his friends ran into the trees, taking off in every direction. He searched for the perfect spot, determined he would find the best hiding place in the history of the game. “Seven, six, five…” he heard his friend shout. He was running out of time. Then John saw it, a large blackberry bush with a gap in the branches just big enough for him to squeeze through. Surely no one would follow him in there. Crawling through the brambles, John crouched inside the bush just as his friend exclaimed, “Ready or not, here I come!” One by one, he heard his other friends be found until he was the only one left. He suppressed his giggles as he watched them wander back and forth, calling for him to come out. But he was determined to stay hidden. Soon enough, their voices began to fade, and curled up in the shelter of the bushes, John rested his head on his knees and fell asleep. It was nighttime when he finally awoke, the forest cold and pitch black. Wandering alone in the dark, John called for his friends but was answered by silence. He tried to recall which direction his house was, but he was so turned around now and none of the surroundings looked familiar. Alone and lost in the dark, he began to cry, calling for help that never came.
Morning came unexpectedly, and John woke with a start at the loud click of the door unlatching. Light flooded into the room from the hallway and John could already see the line of patients shuffling wearily down the hall. Unsure of where to go, John followed the crowd until they led him to the mess hall. His stomach growled in hunger and relief at the prospect of finally getting something to eat.
John collected his food, found an empty table and slowly began eating his scant breakfast. It was hardly the meal he had hoped for—a single piece of dry bread. John chewed it slowly, hoping the repetitive chewing would somehow trick his stomach into thinking it was receiving more food than it was.
Everyone was already divided into groups, mostly by when they arrived at the asylum. It was obvious who the newcomers were. They sat alone, bewildered and terrified. But the largest divide existed between those in gray uniforms on one side of the hall and those in red uniforms on the other, a row of empty tables serving as a buffer between the two. No one crossed over the imaginary line on either side.
A man sat next to John. He wore a gray jumpsuit, just like John, but his eyes were unusually bright, especially compared to the present company. He couldn’t have been John’s senior by more than a year, but the man’s long, unkempt facial hair made him look older, wilder. John guessed by his appearance he had been at the asylum for a while now.
The man held his hand out towards John and introduced himself as Amos. John took his hand and gave it a single weak shake. “John,” he replied, dropping Amos’s calloused hand.
“I saw you this morning,” Amos said. “You’re the new patient that came in last night. The bath’s hell, huh?”
John didn’t answer, he just stared down at his food.
“I guess that makes us roommates, at least ‘til I get cut and sent on my way. Should only be a couple more weeks. I’m expecting ‘em to call me in for my checkup any day now.”
“Checkup?” John asked.
“Yeah, they call ya in a week or two before the surgery to make sure you’re healthy ‘nough for ‘em to cut ya up.”
“How thoughtful of them.”
Amos cocked his head. “Where you from?”
“Traverse Street, in Southend,” John said into his plate.
“Huh,” Amos snorted, “ya don’t talk like you’re from Southend.”
“Grew up working on a Northridge Estate.”
Amos snapped his fingers. “That must be it. Yep,” he continued, “I should get called up any day now. I’ve already been here going on four months now.”
“I was told the wait was six months.”
“It is for ya latecomers. The knifer gets more backed up the further into the season we get. The first batch was in and out in a couple weeks, but by the end it takes months. Our punishment for putting it off.”
“I guess so.”
“How old are ya, John?”
“Nineteen.”
“Well shit, you’re just a kid. Breaks my heart to see ya youngins in here.”
“I’m no more a kid than you are.”
“Yeah, but once ya hit twenty you’re not so cute anymore and people stop caring if ya get to keep your balls.”
John smiled tentatively, unsure whether that was supposed to be comedic or tragic.
“It’s okay, you can laugh. Just ‘cause we’re getting fixed don’t mean we have to cry about it the rest of our lives, ya know what I mean?”
“Maybe you should tell him that,” John said, nodding to the man crying in the corner.
“That’s Oliver. He’s…” Amos took a moment to find the right words, “having a hard time adjustin’. From what I heard, his family refuses to visit him. I think he even had a fiancé, but she bailed as soon as he got arrested.”
“That’s terrible.”
“It’s pretty common, actually. Happens to a lotta unfits.”
John looked around the room at all of the faces surrounding him. Except for a few like Amos, every one of them looked broken, surrendering to the fate that awaited them. If there was a hell, John imagined it felt very similar to this. A place where people came to be forgotten.
“Well, seeing how we’re roommates and all, I suppose it’s my job to give ya the rundown. First lesson at the asylum, never talk to the reds. Heck, don’t even make eye contact with ‘em if possible.”
“Are they really that bad?” Surely the Head Keeper must have been exaggerating.
“Of course. Only retards and psychos get sent to the asylum for life.”
“That doesn’t make them dangerous.”
“‘Cept the violent ones usually kill everyone else right away. You’d think getting castrated would calm ‘em down, but I swear some of ‘em just get worse. Like they’re compensating for something.”
“Thanks for the warning.”
“I can give you a tour if ya like. Unless you need more time to finish your breakfast.”
John allowed himself to laugh at the poor attempt at a joke.
Amos showed John around the asylum, but there was
not much to see. Every room was practically empty except for a few broken pieces of furniture. The keepers had removed anything that could have been considered dangerous or used as a weapon, and apparently everything fell into that category. The art room only contained a few dried-up lumps of clay and some scraps of paper. Amos informed John most of the supplies had been confiscated after a patient tried to stab someone with a pencil.
John asked Amos about the library, but he waved him off. “Not worth your time. Nothing there but a bunch of ripped schoolbooks and Old World nonsense.”
The yard was where all the patients spent their time—an open atrium at the center of the asylum where you could pass the day in the fresh air and sunshine. It was also the only place where the temporary and terminal patients were physically separated with a chain-link fence running down the center.
Most of the yard on the temporary ward’s side was in the shade, the position of the sun relative to the asylum cast a large shadow that covered all but a two-foot sliver right against the fence. It was unbearably cold in the shade, the autumn breeze sending a chill down John’s spine. Their side of the yard wouldn’t be in the sun until the evening, just in time for the yard to be completely off limits to all patients. John looked around at the other men, huddled in tight circles, their arms wrapped around themselves. The patch of sunlight looked so appetizing, but it was clear why no one dared to venture over there. It was too close to the fence. Too close to the reds.
The terminal ward’s side of the fence looked pretty much exactly like the temps’ side, except they got to enjoy the early afternoon sun. And, unlike the temps, they were not concerned with keeping their distance from the fence. Most of the men either leaned against the chain-link or crowded around a handful of small, haphazardly placed round tables with built-in benches that were covered in rust.
Every table on the terminal side was hopelessly crowded with bodies, except one table in the back corner of the yard. Only two men sat there. They sat close together, the man on the right leaning in and whispering furiously to the other, who stared off into the yard, his arms folded against his chest, seeming as if he barely noticed he was being spoken to. There was something unsettling about the way he scanned the yard, his eyebrows pushed down. He was at least twenty years older than any of the men in the temp ward, his eyes creased with wrinkles and his black hair speckled with white along his temples.
At second glance, John realized the two men were not alone. At least a dozen other men stood around them, some leaning in to hear the conversation while others talked amongst themselves, but all carefully positioned to block the two men from the rest of the patients in the yard.
John tapped the side of Amos’s arm. “Who are they? The men sitting at the table?”
“That’s Skinner,” Amos replied, indicating the man sitting on the left. “Fancies himself the king of the reds. He’s another one you’ll definitely want to avoid. Guy’s scary as hell. Even the keepers leave him alone. He’s some sort of serial killer or something.”
“How do you know?”
“Don’t know for sure. That’s just the rumor around the yard.”
“Do you believe it?” John asked.
“Hell, yes, I do,” replied Amos. “I’ve seen him kill at least three people just since I got here.”
“Shouldn’t someone like that be in jail instead of an asylum?”
Amos shrugged his shoulders as he scratched his patchy beard. “I dunno,” he said. “Seems like half the guys in the terminal ward should be in jail, but they’re here instead so we get to deal with them. Right next to Skinner is his brother, Laurence.” Amos pointed to the large, broad man with greasy black hair sitting next to Skinner, whispering in his ear. “He’s another one you’ll wanna avoid.”
John noticed another man standing just off to the side of Skinner and his brother Laurence, hovering just on the outskirts of the group. He looked rather pitiful overall, as if he had just lost a nasty fight. His hair was a mess and his left arm, which the man kept tucked against his chest, was wrapped in soiled bandages.
“And who’s that?” John asked.
Amos turned to see who John was looking at. “Him? I dunno. I’ve never seen him in the yard before. He’s probably new. See how his arm is all wrapped up?”
“What does that have to do with him being new?” John asked.
Before Amos could answer, a commotion at the front of the yard pulled their attention. A pair of keepers had entered the yard, and whatever reason they had for being there was, apparently, very important, because the temp side of the yard was now buzzing with excitement as the patients formed a semi-circle around the keepers.
“We will read the names of the next group to meet with Dr. Smith,” one of the keepers announced. And although he sounded utterly bored, the entire yard hung on his every word. “If we call your name and you’re not here, too bad.”
“What’s happening?” John whispered to Amos.
“They’re calling the next group that’s going to get sterilized and released,” Amos replied.
“Edward Collins,” the keeper called. Cheers erupted from the crowd and a man happily sprang to the front of the yard towards the keepers.
“See,” Amos continued, “the whole sterilization process takes a little less than a week.”
“Frederick Brown.”
“They call a group of about a dozen guys or so and take ‘em to meet with the knifer, Dr. Smith. He gives ‘em a look over to make sure they’re healthy and everything, and then a few days later they’ll be fixed. Then it’s just a night of rest in the hospital wing, and you’re sent on your merry way.”
“Jim Cooper, Abner Fields…”
As John’s mind began to wander from the conversation, so did his eye—exploring the faces and happenings in the yard around him. An old man in a red jumpsuit stood by himself in the shadows on the terminal side of the yard. His hair was white and disheveled, and his face was lined and weathered, but his eyes were clear and sharp—and staring right at John. Looking away, John thought maybe he had misjudged. Perhaps the old man was just looking in his general direction and not directly at him. As discreetly as he could, John glanced back towards the old man. Nope, he was definitely staring at him, and John wondered just how long the man had been watching.
“And Leon Miller.”
A loud, disappointed groan erupted from the rest of the yard as the last man of the day joined the line.
“Damn it!” Amos exclaimed. “I thought for sure I would get called.”
“There’s always next time I suppose,” John said.
“Yeah, you’re right. Oh, shit—”
“What’s wrong?”
Amos nodded to a group of men walking towards them.
“Keep your head down. Maybe they won’t notice us,” Amos whispered as three men approached.
“Look at this. Amy got himself a little friend,” one of the men said, the tallest and thickest of the group.
“Good morning, Cyrus,” Amos said.
“Shut up, Amy. No one was talking to you,” the man called Cyrus hissed. Although taller than his two lackeys, Cyrus was a good inch shorter than John, and probably weighed twice as much, or at least he did once upon a time. John never realized someone so plump could look so emaciated, but that was the only way to describe Cyrus with his hollow cheeks and sagging middle. Turning to John, he said, “Who are you? What you in for, buddy?”
“Same as you, I suppose,” John replied.
“He means which part of the test did you fail,” a small, rather pale boy standing behind Cyrus corrected. “Me, I failed the physical,” he said, waving his hand to show only four fingers.
“Amy here got caught early,” Cyrus said. “Couldn’t even make it past the written test.”
“Never been good with tests,” Amos muttered.
“We’re all friends here, Amy,” Cyrus said, slapping Amos so hard on the back he almost fell over. “You can admit you’re just an idiot like the rest o
f us.”
“At least I can read.”
Cyrus shot Amos a dangerous look. “Lotta good it did you. Hardly had time to put down your pencil before they arrested you. You gotta embrace who you are, Amy. Like I did. I’m an unfit, just like my daddy was and just like my baby boy’ll be no doubt.”
In his periphery, John could see the old man was still watching him.
“So, John, which part got you caught?”
John turned back to the conversation. “I’m sorry, what?” John asked.
“What part of the test did you fail?”
“Oh, the blood test, I suppose,” he replied.
“Kid damn near made it to the end,” Amos muttered.
“Rough break,” said Cyrus. “I’ve heard rumors of the bad blood arrests. Never actually met one in person though.”
“Bad blood arrests?” John asked.
“Ain’t you heard? There’s some new blood sickness popping up all over Southend the last few rounds. It’s a bad one too from what the keepers say. I’m sure the knifer will tell you all about it at prep.”
“What the hell is he doing?” Amos asked abruptly.
The whole group turned to see what Amos was looking at.
The man John had seen crying earlier that day, the man Amos had said was named Oliver, stood on the outside of the railing several stories up, high above the yard. One end of a makeshift rope fashioned out of a bedsheet was fastened to the railing beside him, the other end was wrapped around his neck.
Oliver stared at the ground beneath him, watching the patients below scatter to get out of the way. Tears ran down his face as he stepped forward off the ledge. For a sickening second, Oliver fell, the yard below collectively inhaling as they waited for the rope to pull taunt, to leave him hanging in the yard just as he had planned, but that moment never came. He continued to fall—down, down, down, until a sickening crunch echoed throughout the yard as Oliver’s body slammed into the ground, the rope dangling loosely from the railing above and running down to his neck like a leash.
The yard was silent for a moment as several keepers and patients ran to Oliver’s limp, broken body, blood pooling around his head like a crimson halo, his limbs twisted and bent at impossible angles. John watched, hypnotized by the gruesome scene until, unexpectedly, laughter erupted throughout the yard. Genuine laughter.
Unfit Page 7
