Taking Stock

by Scott Bartlett

  I close my eyes and open the door. I reach inside. My hand closes on a book, and I take it out. I open my eyes. It’s Mom’s Bible.

  I never knew Mom to believe in God. She bought this shortly before she died, and I have a hunch she did start believing, then. I think she was right to believe. When she died, I think she found herself in heaven.

  Recently, Mom’s been sending me signals. In the form of 37.

  I don’t know how I didn’t see this before.

  I open to page 37, and start reading. I’m surprised to find that the stories are all about me.

  How have I missed this? I’ve read Bibles. But I never noticed that every single sentence is about me. About how, all these millennia, history has been leading to my birth.

  I start flipping to random pages, amazed at how blind I’ve been. Every passage bears a coded message, meant for me. The hairs on the back of my neck are tingling.

  I learn that I had a life before this, which spanned eons upon eons.

  I lived in Hell.

  I am the antichrist.

  Mom knew this—the Bible tells me that, too. She tried to teach me to be good, but the guilt of having birthed the antichrist became too much. When Herman Barry ran her down, she welcomed it.

  As the antichrist, I am fated to end the world.

  “No,” I whisper. I’m crying.

  I am good. I won’t participate.

  Destiny can be averted. All I have to do is die.

  I go to the kitchen and open the cutlery drawer. I select the longest, sharpest knife I can find.

  I go into the washroom and plug the tub. I turn on the hot water and wait for it to fill up, kneeling on the floor. I roll up my sleeves and lean with my forearms against the lip of the tub. The knife dangles from my fingers.

  When the tub is full, I place the blade against my wrist. I breathe deep. I don’t want to do this. I’m afraid. I’m afraid it will hurt, and I’m afraid to die. I want to live.

  But if I don’t go, everyone else will. I think about Theresa. After I lost Mom, I convinced myself I didn’t need anyone.

  I need Theresa.

  But I won’t let her die. I’ll kill myself before I let that happen.

  My hand shaking, I pierce the skin.

  This isn’t right.

  I think I’m supposed to do this in the shed, instead.

  I stand up and walk back through the apartment.

  Sam is standing in the living room.

  I bring the knife behind my back. “I didn’t hear you knock,” I say.

  “What are you doing with the knife?”

  I give up trying to hide it.

  Sam takes a step backward.

  “Please put that down,” he says.

  “Get out of my way, Sam.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “No.”

  “Then please put down the knife.”

  I drop it. It sticks in the carpet and doesn’t fall over.

  Slowly, Sam moves forward. I watch as he grasps the handle and pulls out the knife. He brings it back to the kitchen, and then returns to the living room.

  “Sit down.” He points to the couch. I sit.

  “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?” He sits beside me.

  “I—” I can’t say anything, because I’m going to cry again.

  “What’s the matter?”

  Tears run down my cheek. I manage to speak: “I don’t feel like I’m real.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I feel like I’m dead, or something. Am I dead, Sam?”

  He shakes his head. His eyes are wide. “No. You’re not dead, Sheldon.”

  “Can you hold my hand? Please.”

  His eyes narrow, and his own hand twitches. “Why?”

  “Please. I feel like I’m going to disappear.”

  I’m the most frightened I’ve ever been.

  Sam takes my right hand in his left. I look at his face. My vision blurs, and his face becomes distorted. It twists around. He becomes ugly.

  “Sam?”

  “Yes?”

  “You look like a demon.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No offense, I mean. I didn’t mean—”

  “None taken. What’s going on?”

  “I think I have a drug problem. I can’t quit. And last night, I smoked a joint with Gilbert, and I’m still high. I haven’t come down yet. It’s been hours and hours. I don’t understand why it won’t end.”

  He stands up. “Come with me. We need to get you out of here.”

  I follow him outside. There’s a brown car parked in our driveway. He sits behind the wheel, and I sit in the passenger seat.

  “Who owns this car?”

  “My cousin. He’s visiting, and he let me use it to go search for you.”

  “Why were you searching for me?”

  “Never mind that.”

  We drive. I look at the clock. It’s 7:37. I watch until it changes. It takes a very, very long time.

  “The clock just took like 15 minutes to change, Sam.”

  He glances down at it. “I don’t think so.”

  “Did you mess with it? Are you playing a joke?”

  “I’m not.”

  “Where are you taking me?”

  He clears his throat and doesn’t say anything. He turns on the radio.

  It’s a talk show. “He throws all his junk in the backyard and leaves it there,” a lady is saying. “It’s an eyesore, and he doesn’t care one bit. I’ve put in several complaints to the Town, but no one listens. That trash heap he calls a yard is reducing my property value. It’s not at all fair. If he moved to Australia tomorrow, I wouldn’t miss him. Not one bit.”

  “Sam?” I say. “Are you taking me to the airport? Are you sending me away?”

  “No, Sheldon.”

  I think he’s lying.

  A commercial comes on: “His name is Bubbles Z. Clown, and he’s the funniest clown around town! He does kids parties of all ages, and he’s even been known to keep a roomful of adults entertained. Juggling, balloon animals, jokes, dancing, and laughter—these—”

  “Sam?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you think I’m a clown?”

  “Let’s turn that off, okay?” He hits a button, and the man’s voice cuts out.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “The hospital, Sheldon. I’m taking you to the hospital.”

  *

  While we wait, Sam lets me use his phone as much as I want. I try about 20 times to reach Gilbert. He’s still not answering.

  I told a nurse everything that’s happened. Sam and I have been sitting around for hours since then. I get the sense there’s something he isn’t telling me, and I spend most of the time wondering what it could be.

  “Sam?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Is Capriana pregnant?”

  “Who’s Capriana?”

  “Never mind.”

  *

  Throughout the day, Sam grows more and more agitated. His answers to my questions become terser.

  He keeps checking his watch.

  Finally, nine hours after our arrival, a nurse tells me the doctor is ready to see me. She leads us through a series of corridors. Sam holds me back until we’re out of her earshot.

  “If they give you a choice,” he says, “between staying in the psych ward and going home, tell them you want to stay.”

  “But I don’t want to. I hate it here.”

  “Trust me.”

  “You just want to get rid of me.”

  “No. Wrong. I’m giving you very good advice.”

  After hearing what’s happened over the last 12 hours, the doctor says it seems likely I’m experiencing acute psychosis brought on by marijuana use. She says that for a small percentage of users, high doses can trigger this. She gives me the option of either staying in the hospital’s psychiatric ward and awaiting treatment or booking an appointment and being treated as an outpat
ient.

  “What do you think I should do?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t make that decision for you.”

  I hesitate. “What time is it?”

  “10 after five.”

  I clear my throat.

  “I’ll stay, I guess.”

  *

  No one ever smiles, in here. If you smile at someone, they’ll only look back at you, blank-faced. I haven’t personally tried smiling, but I’ve seen it happen.

  Sam brought me my essentials—toothbrush, MP3 player, Velcro shoes.

  “What am I missing, Sam? What’s going on?”

  But he remains silent, and stares into space, his jaw set. Eventually, I stop asking.

  I guess sometimes the mind just skips, like a CD. You can try taking it out and putting it back in. If that doesn’t work, you can try cleaning it off with your sleeve. And, as a last resort, you can buy one of those scratch repair kits.

  If all else fails, you throw it on the trash heap.

  I see another doctor the day after I’m admitted. She prescribes a half milligram of an antipsychotic—another drug that’s supposed to correct the chemical imbalances that plague my brain.

  I refuse it.

  They call Sam, and within a half hour he’s standing with me in front of the Nurses Station. We both stare down at the little half-pill sitting in the tiny plastic cup.

  “I don’t want it,” I say.

  “Taking it is part of staying here, Sheldon. They’re trying to get you back to where you were.”

  “I don’t like where I was.”

  “Then aim for a better place.”

  “It’s another drug, Sam. The doctor said it was marijuana that caused all this.”

  “This pill isn’t pot. This pill is designed to rebalance your neurotransmitters. Pot did the opposite.”

  “You smoke pot. It doesn’t do that to you.”

  “Your brain is different from mine.”

  I take a deep breath and flick the half-pill into my throat, washing it down with water from a paper cup. Sam and I look at each other, and he gives a small smile. “It feels like it’s stuck in my throat,” I say.

  I spend most of my time in here feeling guilty. My doctor seems to pick up on it, and now she questions me about it every session. But I have no answers for her. All I know is that there must be a reason I keep ending up here.

  At first, I was convinced that everyone I’ve ever known secretly hates me, and is working to make sure I’m stuck in this psych ward forever. A lot of the people I see look very familiar—patients, nurses, doctors, visitors. One woman resembles one of my seventh-grade teachers, and I wonder if it really is her, in disguise. Another woman resembles my deceased grandmother. Did she really die, or did she just pretend, so she wouldn’t have to see me anymore?

  I include Sam in this—he drove me here, after all. He’s probably done with me. Just wants to make sure I stay put. Once and for all.

  And where’s Gilbert? I try to call him every day. I feel like it’s important that I reach him.

  For a few days, I believed I was the star of a reality TV show. The most popular one in history. Incredible ratings. Viewers on the edge of their couches—amused and enthralled by my suffering.

  But now, I’ve concluded that I’m really in Hell. Not the fire-and-brimstone Hell you’ve heard about. Hell is nothing like that, it turns out.

  Hell is a place where you hurt the people you love, without meaning to.

  I realized yesterday that I’ve been in Hell for a long time, without knowing. As for how long, exactly, I believe there are two possibilities.

  One is that I got here a year ago, when I tried to commit suicide. Except, I really did succeed in killing myself. My memory was simply altered, so I believed that I was still alive.

  The second is that I’ve been in Hell all my life. I lived a life before this in which I sinned a lot, and now I’m paying for it, by spending a second lifetime in Hell.

  If the first possibility is true, then I assume Sam is Satan. He’s the one who escorted me into Hell, after all—by ‘saving’ me from hanging. Plus, the names are sort of similar.

  If the second possibility is true, then a patient named Lou must be Satan. It’s pretty conspicuous, actually—Lou could be short for Lucifer. Also, he keeps challenging me to play chess. I think he wants to play for my soul.

  As for how I feel about all this, I guess I’m taking it in stride. Or rather, I’ve grown accustomed to the fear that’s been with me since I found myself walking alone on the side of the road. Becoming accustomed to fear is a lot like being calm. Other than the jitters, and the jumping at every sound, and the wide eyes I see every time I look in a mirror.

  At any rate, I’m certain I deserve everything that’s happening to me.

  On my fourth day, I’m visited by Paul and Cassandra. They’re a couple, now.

  “Your belly’s big,” I say.

  “Your hair is all gone,” she says.

  Cassandra knew I was here, because I sent her an email and told her. Patients are allowed access to the internet between 1 and 2 PM, in the Occupational Therapy room.

  They do most of the talking. Sam says I’ve barely said anything since I was admitted. Cassandra tells me a publisher accepted Paul’s novel, and they’re even paying him a small advance. (Now that’s the kind of irony you’d expect in Hell.) Apparently his editor thinks Paul really captured the ‘zeitgeist’, and predicts the book will sell well.

  “Why did you ask Cassandra to come here, Sheldon?” Paul says.

  I hesitate. “I just wanted—I want to—”

  ‘Apologize’ is the word that’s sitting in my brain, waiting to be said. But what am I supposed to be apologizing for? I know there’s something.

  “I think I figured something out,” I say to them instead. “I think that marijuana was my personal forbidden fruit.” Their faces are blank. “I wasn’t supposed to smoke it. See? Smoking it put me here, and in here, I have knowledge of good and evil.”

  I take a breath, and go on: “I now know that in order to live, you have to kill. You know what I mean? You have to kill, or someone has to do your killing for you. Life consumes life. The symbol for eternity is a snake eating its own tail. And a snake told Eve to eat the apple. But the Bible doesn’t even mention an apple. I googled it this morning, and in certain texts that apple is referred to as fruit from a ‘forbidden tree.’ So why not a forbidden plant—that is to say, pot?”

  Paul seems angry, now. “Pot isn’t why you’re here, Sheldon. It’s not what caused your brain to break.”

  “Paul,” Cassandra says.

  “What do you mean?” I say, slowly.

  “What do you remember from Friday night?” Paul says. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

  “Stop it, Paul,” Cassandra says. “The doctors told us—”

  “What are you talking about?” I say.

  But Paul is silent. He glares at the wall, and Cassandra avoids my gaze, too.

  “How is Matt?” I say.

  They look at each other.

  “Matt was arrested,” Cassandra says.

  “What?” I say. “Why?”

  “He attacked Eric with a knife from the Meat room. Eric managed to get it away from him, and then called the police.”

  “I always thought he was a little off,” Paul says.

  “Didn’t Matt say why he did it?”

  Cassandra shakes her head.

  “Eric sexually abuses Matt. That’s why he attacked him. Eric threatens to hurt his family if he tells.”

  Paul stands up. “Come on, Cassandra. I’ve had enough.”

  I stand, too. “You have to believe me. Please.”

  Paul puts his hand up. “Back off, Sheldon. Don’t contact us again.”

  They walk toward the door.

  “Wait,” I say. “Have you been talking to Gilbert?”

  “No one has,” Paul says. And they leave.

  *

  Later, a
nurse finds me in the common area and says there’s someone here to see me. She leads me through a couple doors that she has to open with a key. She holds them for me and watches as I pass. I’ve noticed that the nurses never turn their backs to me.

  She brings me to a room with a long table, and closes the door once I’m inside. I hear her lock it.

  There’s a police officer standing with his hand on the back of one of the chairs. A doctor is sitting at the head of the table—she’s the one who admitted me.

  “Hi Sheldon. I’m Officer Benson. Have a seat.”

  I sit. He sits across from me.

  “I have a few questions for you.”

  I look at him in silence.

  He clears his throat. “Are you acquainted with Gilbert Ryan?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know his whereabouts?”

  “No. Do you? I’ve been trying—”

  “I don’t. That’s why I’m asking you.”

  “Okay.”

  “Are you acquainted with a young man—younger than you and Mr. Ryan—named Leonard Reynolds?”

  “No. Who is that?”

  “Where were you on July 13th, at 2:32 in the morning?”

  I consider this. “I can’t remember exact times,” I say. “I was either at a party or in Gilbert’s car.”

  “Were you intoxicated?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was Mr. Ryan?”

  I don’t say anything.

  “It’s a crime to lie to a law officer, Sheldon. Was Mr. Ryan intoxicated?”

  “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want,” the doctor says.

  I hesitate. “He was drunk,” I say.

  “What happened during your car ride?” Officer Benson asks.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “I was in the car, and then I was walking on the side of the road. I don’t remember what happened in between.”

  “So, you claim to have localized amnesia.”

  For a few seconds, Officer Benson looks at me, and I look at Officer Benson. Then he stands up. “Thank you for your time. Another officer may come by another day, for another chat.”