by Amy Cross
"She is?" Mr. Taylor asks. It's crazy, but I swear he's paler than normal. It's as if he's terrified of this Cymbalista guy.
"That bed hasn't been changed in nearby a week," Mr. Cymbalista continues. "I pay fucking good money for her to be here, and I expect her bed to be fucking changed on a regular basis. It's like the most basic fucking human decency. What kind of operation are you running here?"
"I can assure you," Mr. Taylor replies, "that we're running a very caring and thoughtful operation". He turns to me. "Juliet, you must go and change Barbara's bed immediately. Didn't I tell you repeatedly to do that? Top priority. Go!"
"Not now, you fucking ass," Mr. Cymbalistsa replies. "She's going to sleep. You think I want her turfed out of bed just so you lot can do the job you should have done hours ago? Change it in the morning". He pushes past us and heads out into the hallway, before turning back to us. "Actually, you know what? Maybe you should change it tonight. At least that way she'll be able to sleep. Don't make me report your asses!" With that, he storms out into the night.
"Change her bed," Mr. Taylor says.
"Sure," I reply.
"I mean it," he continues, turning to me. "That guy'll be back tomorrow to check. You have to change her bed. Do it right now. Go and turf her out. No excuses, Juliet. Piotr Cymbalista is a bomb waiting to go off. He spends most of his time driving trucks inter-state, but every few months he gets home and sure enough, there's always trouble".
"Okay," I say, "I'll do it".
"And lock this door once I've gone," he says. "Tonight has to run smoothly. If anything goes wrong, both our asses are on the line". He takes a deep breath. "Okay, Juliet. God speed. Just do your job to the best of your ability, and I'm quite certain you'll be fine. You're a very, very capable young woman. Now go and change Barbara Cymbalista's bed!" With that, he turns and hurries out toward his car, leaving me to close the door and slide the lock across.
Turning to look across the reception area, I realize with a sense of dread that, apart from the residents, I'm completely alone here. After just a few weeks on the job, I've been left to look after the place overnight with no help at all. Taking a deep breath, I remind myself that it shouldn't be too much of a problem. Provided the residents just sleep through the night, all I have to do is stay calm and do the rounds every few hours, checking each of the bedrooms to make sure everything's okay. This must be my twentieth shift, and as long as it's uneventful, I don't see that I'm going to have any problems.
"That was kind of funny, don't you think?" says a voice nearby.
Turning, I see Jennifer Mathis standing over by the door.
"Funny?" I ask.
"The way he talked about you being alone tonight". She steps toward me. "You're not alone, Juliet. I'm here. I was planning to have a quiet night, maybe leave you alone... But seeing as you need help, I suppose I could come out of retirement and lend a hand. It seems only fair".
"I don't need help," I tell her, feeling a little suspicious of her motives. I still haven't quite worked out what I think about Jennifer, but I'm certain I need to be wary around her.
"But surely you'd like some company?" she continues. "It's going to be very boring, sitting around here for the next eight hours all by yourself. Wouldn't you like someone to talk to?"
"I can manage," I say. "I just need things to go smoothly".
"You think I'd cause trouble?" she asks. "I'm hurt, Juliet. All I want to do is keep you company and maybe help out with a few mundane chores. I thought that's what friends do for one another".
"Friends?" I stare at her. Does she really think we're friends. Sure, she helped me out with Lizzie's body, but I'm not sure that makes her my friend. Accomplice, maybe; but friend?
"We're friends, aren't we?" she says, looking a little hurt. "It gets so lonely out on the abandoned ward. I'd love to spend some time through here, just keeping you company while you go about your routine. Even if it wouldn't help you, will you let me come with you? For my sake?"
"I need to go and do the first checks," I say. "You can come if you want".
She smiles. "I was hoping you'd ask".
Turning, I walk through to the ward. I know she's a few steps behind me, shadowing my every move. I guess I'll never be alone, not while Jennifer is with me. Still, there's something about her constant interest that makes me a little wary. Why does she seem so fascinated by what I do? What is it about me that attracts her attention?
Chapter Two
Eleven years ago
"Why did you kill her cat?" asks Dr. Larson.
Sitting in a chair that's too big, with my feet dangling several inches above the floor, I stare at him. We're sitting in his study, and he's been asking me the exact same question for the past ten minutes. He never changes the phrasing, or the emphasis of the words; he just keeps saying the same thing over and over and over again. Whatever I say, it seems I can't give him the answer he wants. I guess he's trying to make me realize that I can't wriggle out of the interrogation, or something like that. There's probably some complex psychological theory that explains why this is a good approach to take. The problem, for him, is that it's not going to work.
"Why did you kill her cat?" he asks again, his voice calm and unwavering.
"I already told you," I say, glancing over at the door.
He stares at me.
"I told you," I mutter. "I don't know".
More silence. He's leaving a void, hoping I'll fill it with an answer. I won't, though. Even if I knew what to say, I'd keep quiet. The last thing I want to do is make him think his stupid strategy is working on me.
"Why did you kill her cat?" he asks for the hundredth time.
"I don't know!" I say again.
We sit in silence for what feels like an eternity.
"Why did you -"
"I don't know," I say firmly, feeling a little breathless. Damn it, I was determined to ensure he couldn't grind me down, but right now I'm getting impatient. I just wish he'd move on to another question.
"Why did you kill her cat?"
"I don't know," I say, kicking my feet together as I look down at the floor. I thought I could withstand his barrage of questions, but the whole situation is becoming intensely annoying.
"Why did you kill her cat?"
I sigh, swallowing hard. I can feel tears starting to well up behind my eyes, but I know they won't break through. Something about my eyes always stops the tears from getting out. I think maybe I don't have the right holes, or ducts, or something. "I don't know why I killed her cat," I say. "I just did".
There's more silence. "Why did you present it to her in a box, as a gift?"
I look back over at him, relieved that he's finally changed the question. Then again, he'll probably do the same thing again. Maybe I'd better just give him an answer. It doesn't have to be the right answer, or the truthful answer; I just have to tell him something that makes him think he's getting through to me.
"Why did you present -"
"I wanted to see her face when she opened it," I say, interrupting him. "I wanted to watch her go from a smiling face to a sad face".
"Why?"
"Because..." I pause for a moment. "She's always so fake. I wanted to see her real expression".
"And do you think you saw her real face when she opened the box?"
"Kind of".
"And how did she look?"
"Upset".
"And how did that make you feel?"
I take a deep breath. "I don't know," I say. The truth, though, is that it made me smile. To be honest, I had to work hard not to laugh. I don't know why, but whenever I see someone get really upset, I have this involuntary urge to smile. I know it's wrong, and I know it can make other people think I'm a bad person, but it's just some weird reflex in my facial muscles. I try to fight it, but it's too powerful. It's almost like some invisible person is grabbing my cheeks and forcing the smile onto my face. So when Martina opened the box, I looked away, hoping she wouldn't see me smile, and I spent the wh
ole time thinking about how weird my face gets.
"Martina died that day, didn't she?" Dr. Larson asks.
I nod.
"Just a few hours later, is that correct?"
I nod again.
"In a car crash".
I nod. I don't get why he's asking me this. He knows what happened, or at least he thinks he knows what happened. Like everyone else, he has no idea about the jack-in-the-box, although I'm slightly worried that it'll be found in the wreckage. My father has been so busy dealing with the aftermath of Martina's death, he hasn't had a spare moment to consider the truth about what really happened to her. It's possible that he thinks she was upset when she drove away, and that this contributed to the accident; I'm certain, though, that the jack-in-the-box hasn't entered his head.
"Do you wish you'd got to see her again?" Dr. Larson asks. "Do you wish you'd been able to get on better terms with her before she died?"
I stare at him.
"Juliet, do you understand what that question means?"
I nod. "I haven't thought about it," I say.
"Can you think about it now?" he replies.
I take a deep breath. "I don't think she was totally mad at me when he left," I say eventually. "She'd calmed down a bit".
"Do you think she'd managed to get over the cat's death?"
I stare at him.
"How did you kill the cat again, Juliet?"
"With scissors," I say, feeling a little uncomfortable.
"And how do you think the cat felt as you stabbed him?"
I pause. "It was quick," I say.
"But not so quick that he wouldn't have felt pain".
I feel my heart getting a little tight. Why is he asking stupid questions about the cat? "I don't know," I say. "I don't know how cats feel".
"Do you know how people feel?"
I stare at him.
"How do you think I'd feel if you stabbed me with a pair of scissors?"
"It'd hurt," I reply, staring at him darkly. I want him to stop asking questions.
"Tell me about your mother's death," he says suddenly.
I sigh. Why does he keep jumping from one topic to another? It's hard to keep up when he's talking about Martina one minute, and her cat the next, and then my mother.
"Do you think about your mother a lot?" he asks.
I look over at the door again. "Aren't we done soon?" I say. I immediately realize that by dodging the question, I'm providing some kind of answer.
"We're done when I've finished talking to you," he says. "Answer the question, Juliet. Do you think about your mother a lot?"
I take a deep breath. Every time anyone mentions my mother, the same thing happens: I get this weird, wobbly feeling in my body, and I feel tears behind my eyes, and then everything goes kind of blank.
"Juliet," Dr. Larson says, speaking firmly and clearly. "Do you think about your mother a lot?"
"Not really," I say, staring straight at him. I swear to God, I wish I could just make him disappear; I wish I could stare at him so hard, his head would explode; I wish he'd just shrivel up and die, and never be able to ask me any more questions.
"Do you want to hurt me, Juliet?" he asks.
I feel a cold chill run through my body.
"Do you want to hurt me?" he asks again.
Glaring at him, I imagine ripping his head off and squeezing all the blood out of his neck; I imagine taking his head home and watching it rot for months and months.
"The way you're looking at me," he continues calmly, "is rather menacing. It makes me wonder whether you have strong, negative feelings about me". He pauses for a moment. "I want you to remember that anything you say to me is strictly confidential. I won't tell anyone. Not even your father. Do you sometimes want to hurt people, Juliet? Do you have urges to make people feel pain, or to make them go away?"
I stare at him a little longer. "No," I say eventually. My heart is racing; how did he know what I was thinking? Is there some way he's able to get into my head and read my thoughts?
We sit in silence for a moment.
"Okay," he says, smiling suddenly, "I think we're done for today. I just need to talk to your father for a few minutes, so why don't we go and find him?"
I get out of the chair and walk over to the door, feeling slightly shaky. That conversation ended up twisting in ways I'd never expected. As the door opens and I emerge into the corridor, I find myself feeling that I just lost the encounter with Dr. Larson; he definitely got into parts of my head that I'd decided were off-limits. I sit on the bench while my father goes into the office, and eventually I get up and walk over to the door, hoping to hear what they're talking about.
"She quite clearly has some emotional problems," Dr. Larson is saying, keeping his voice low in an attempt to make sure I can't hear. "I think they're relatively benign for now, but they could grow if they're untreated. She's a classic example of a child who's showing signs of aggression and emotional repression".
"Is this because of her mother's death?" my father asks.
"No, I don't think so," Dr. Larson replies. "I think she has some deep-seated psychological issues that likely go back much further. This couldn't have developed so quickly. Whether you choose to believe that this is due to some environmental factor, or alternatively something more deeply rooted in her personality, is up to you. There are arguments in both directions, and frankly I don't think it's worth trying to untangle all the conflicting theories. The important thing, though, is that she gets the help she needs. She can absolutely overcome this, but only if she's treated effectively".
"Her mother was always very soft on her," my father says. "After we divorced, she had primary custody. I knew it was a mistake from the start. She let Juliet live in this kind of fantasy world. The kid's got no real social skills to speak of. I tried to talk to Amanda about it over and over, but she just said I was being too hard on her. She said she'd grow out of it".
"It can be hard to take a step back and look at your child objectively," Dr. Larson says. "What we need to do right now is to set some sessions. I can help Juliet, but it's going to take a little time and it won't be easy. Nevertheless, the sooner we tackle these deficiencies, the sooner we can help her to overcome her very considerable problems".
"I'll do whatever it takes," my father says.
"Does she have any friends?" Dr. Larson asks.
"No. That's one of the things that's always worried me. She seems to drift through school without making any kind of social connections".
"That's very unusual," Dr. Larson says. "She should have at least one friend by now. The fact that she doesn't, suggests there's some kind of trauma holding her back".
"She needs help," my father replies.
"I think weekly sessions are required," Dr. Larson continues. "An hour at a time should do it. I'll work to break through the barriers she's erected in her mind. I'm confident that this time next year, she'll be a very normal and happy young girl".
"I should never have let her mother take custody," my father says, sighing. "I knew it'd damage her, but I never thought things would get this bad".
"Don't worry, Mr. Collier. You've done the right thing in bringing her to me. I've treated girls with very similar problems in the past. I don't want you to underestimate the scale of Juliet's problems, because they're severe and potentially very damaging for her life. But you can rest assured that I can get her into shape. By the time I'm done with her, she'll be the perfect daughter".
I go and sit back on the bench. I'd hoped this session with Dr. Larson would be a one-off, but now it's clear that I'm going to be coming back here regularly. I need to come up with a strategy, because he clearly knows what he's doing. The last thing I need is for some guy to start poking about in my head. He got much, much closer to my real thoughts today than I'd ever thought possible; looking down at my hands, I see that they're trembling slightly. I take a deep breath and remind myself that I still have a week or so before the next session, which means I
have time to come up with some new way to protect myself. By the time the door opens, and my father and Dr. Larson emerge smiling from the office, I've calmed down a little. This is going to be okay. In fact, messing with Dr. Larson might even turn out to be fun.
Chapter Three
Today
"Are you sure you want to do this?" Jennifer asks as we stand in the rec room of the abandoned ward. It's just gone midnight, we've double-checked all the residents, and now we've come through to this part of the building. Despite all my reservations, this was actually my idea. I wanted to come here.
"What's the problem?" I ask, crouching in front of the cupboard. It's less than twenty-four hours since I stuffed Lizzie's body in here, so I'm certain there won't be any sign of decay. Still, I'm fascinated by the way the body degrades after the point of death, and I want to check on Lizzie every night so I can watch as she slowly changes. "It's just a body," I say, psyching myself up to open the cupboard door. "It's just a chunk of flesh and bones".
"But you killed her," Jennifer says. "Doesn't that make you feel... anything?"
I take a deep breath. I know I should feel bad, but I don't. Lizzie was abusing the patients, and she attacked me when I caught her with Kenneth Jenkins. I didn't mean to kill her when I hit her with the fire extinguisher, and I only hid the body because I knew no-one would believe my story. I have to keep reminding myself that I didn't do anything wrong.
"Go on, then," Jennifer says. "Get it over with".
Before I can change my mind, I grab the handle and pull the door open. My heart skips a beat as soon as I see Lizzie wedged into the small space. Her head is pressed down against her chest, and her eyes are open, staring straight at me. I swear her eyes were closed when I put her in here, but maybe I'm getting everything mixed up. For a split second, I'm filled with the thought that she might somehow be awake, but then I realize her expression is glassy and empty. She was dead from the moment I smashed the side of her head.
"She looks the same as yesterday," Jennifer says, sounding a little bored. "I was expecting maggots and discolored flesh. Maybe in a month, she'll be more interesting".
