by Celia Crown
I expected her to come back to me the day after I destroyed the isolation room with my fists. It wasn’t my fault I was there; it was that woman who did not keep her promise.
That doctor had assured me that my little girl was going to be with me soon. But the hours ticked by without her, even though I waited past the shift change. It was the woman’s fault for not bringing my Jessie to me, and I just showed her what happens when promises are not kept.
I rammed an aide into the wall and shattered his nose.
It’s the price they had to pay for lying to me.
“Hi,” Jessie greets me with a brighter smile this time.
The back of my skull is hot from the woman’s constant staring at me. She has noticed that the only time there is any difference in my behavior is when I interact with Jessie.
She stares at me in the same manner that I look at Jessie—hungry and demanding.
The woman is motivated to become an accomplished psychiatrist. I want something entirely different; all I want is for Jessie to never leave me.
“I came back,” Jessie says as she fidgets with her little fingers.
She came back three days later.
She’s here now, and I shouldn’t be nitpicking. While I say that to myself, I cannot help being irritable after not seeing her for three days.
She tries to joke but turns into that awkward person again. “I was at work when I got a frantic call from Doctor Carrey saying you hit someone again.”
I did. I made my need clear by striking the gut of another aide with my fist.
Every day that I don’t see my Jessie means violence towards anyone who comes near me. I’ve been in isolation every night. It’s gotten to the point that they are keeping me in the padded room longer now to see if the anger will explode on its own.
It only fueled more rage in me as time passed, and I don’t regret the blood lost by the aides.
This morning was no different. They concluded that my behavior has gotten worse since meeting Jessie if I cannot see her every day. Now they finally realized that the only way I will stay calm is to let me be with her.
“Are you okay?” she asks as she peers at my hands.
I had been planning to break something else in someone’s body. But then she came, and my anger quickly subsided.
Opening my hands, I show her the scarred knuckles that are still pink from hurting one of the aides.
It felt great when my fist collided with his chest, but it was the rewarding snap of his fractured bone that calmed the rampant fervor in my blood.
Jessie’s bold initiative in holding my hand has a muscle in my neck twitching. I relish the softness of her hands and let her examine my scars. I’m not particularly proud of them, but I don’t hate them either.
The instinctive need to hurt someone is gone. It’s been a while since I was touched without demanding blood in retaliation.
I don’t recall when it started; I just know I despise being touched.
It’s always been repulsive to me. There is no horrible backstory; it just happened over time. That woman insists it has something to do with child abuse.
According to her, this type of behavior is not normal. It always links back to some kind of trauma.
There was nothing traumatic about my decent childhood and healthy upbringing.
My parents were part of my life before I was admitted to this place. But they have stopped having any contact with me since because they don’t want me in their new child’s life.
They didn’t show up at the court hearing either, so no one found out who I am.
My aversion to being touched started long before my confinement in the asylum. Doctors say that a chemical imbalance can cause insanity in some people.
I have never felt a need to leave this place; I just never thought about it. I don’t have a strong desire for freedom, but I also don’t want to be restrained.
To sum it up, I just want to be left alone.
That intolerable woman won’t let it happen. She’s determined to annoy me by insisting on talking every day. I have nearly severed her limbs by using the wired glass in the window on more than one occasion.
“My day was eventful,” Jessie mutters with a soft laugh. “The marketing team has been split into two groups, and we can’t agree on how to launch the new product.”
“Everyone is friendly with each other, but it gets really petty when trying to decide who is right and who is wrong.”
Her laugh is melodic, soothing the hollowness in my heart. The notion of laying my head on her shoulder and closing my eyes sounds appealing. I could just listen to her talk, tune out the world, and gently fall asleep.
“Today’s pettiness got so bad that someone messed with the food in the communal fridge. That’s crossing the line. Thank goodness Doctor Carrey called my boss and got me out of there before someone accused me of doing it.”
Her issues at work are not of any concern to me, but I like seeing her smile. She’s beautiful when she does, but part of me thinks I will find it more endearing when she’s near tears.
I want her to look at me like she did the first time we met. She nearly cried but was stronger than I anticipated, and I lost the chance to see those first tears then.
I notice that the room has gone quiet. Everyone is gone now, but the doctor is watching me through the window.
She knows my volatile history but still left me alone with my Jessie, without a backup in case of an emergency.
That woman must have great faith that I won’t hurt Jessie.
But I do want to make my little girl cry.
I won’t be satisfied with being close enough to touch her and settle for just talking to her.
I’m a greedy man. I like being selfish and only think about what will be of greatest benefit to me. I want things that Jessie probably wouldn’t give me willingly, but she is a vulnerable soul.
Naïve is a better word, just too trusting.
Just because I haven’t hurt her yet doesn’t mean I won’t. She is the first person I want to hurt in other ways; to make her cry and become so dependent that she can’t survive without me.
“Jessie,” I whisper her name again.
My voice is rarely used, so it’s husky and croaks. Her shoulders jerk in surprise, and her cheeks turn pink. It is one of many endearing things she does.
Her body is more honest than any other part of her.
It’d be a shame not to use that for my own gain.
“I forgot that you can talk,” she mumbles in awe.
It won’t hurt me to entertain her. I wouldn’t give anyone else that privilege; my good little girl is special. Everything she does will be for me, directly or indirectly.
“Do you want me to talk?” I rasp as I lean towards her.
Her honeyed scent assaults my lungs once more, and I simmer in bizarre contentment.
“I think it would be good for you,” she says.
I cock my head and contemplate her answer, but my vision lines up with the window where the woman stands jotting down notes.
“I want you,” I begin as a test of my influence on her, and her cheeks turn a ferocious red.
I calmly block the woman’s curious eyes from seeing Jessie’s face. “I want you to speak your mind,” Jessie suggests.
That woman must have coached my Jessie to say whatever it takes to get me to talk. She’s going to report back to the woman about what we discussed. But this experience belongs only to Jessie and me.
There is no room for another man or woman.
“Only if you want to talk,” she concedes shyly, “I want you to talk only if you want to. Don’t force yourself.”
I wrap my hand around the leg of her chair. This time she’s prepared as she braces herself to get dragged closer to me. I hold the cold metal a moment longer before letting go in favor of the softness of her hands.
“I can talk for you,” I amend while stroking her delicate fingers.
There is an expression that
says, “actions speak louder than words.” Actions have spoken for me on many occasions. People learn better from actions inflicted upon them.
It’s how they learned never to touch me unless they want their bodies shattered.
“Do you want to talk to me?” she reiterates with wide eyes.
“Only to you,” I echo.
She beams a pretty smile and nods eagerly. “Okay, I’m all ears.”
Contrary to popular belief, despite being diagnosed as criminally insane, I know what is right and what is wrong. I just don’t care. I understand what I’m doing; I just don’t feel remorse.
A psychotic sociopath.
It has a nice ring to it. I never realized how much that label frightens people, especially those who have access to my medical records. Many avoid me as if I’m a reincarnation of the devil.
The tame patients have roommates, but they can’t take the risk of letting me kill a patient in his sleep. I like my space, and being stuck in a room with a moron would tick me off.
Everyone here has been admitted as a mandatory requirement by the court in exchange for not being hit with criminal charges.
We’re supposedly insane, so we’re not responsible for our actions. The system is flawed, and I just took advantage of that fact.
I consider myself lucky to have been transferred here so I could meet my Jessie. She volunteers here because seeing an actual prison would destroy her. A girl like her would not survive there, and the chances of meeting me while in a men’s prison would be non-existent anyway.
The choices I made that lead to our meeting here were great ones.
“John?” she whispers again as her eyes grow wider.
Bringing myself back to the present, I gaze at her doubtful expression and tilt my head as an indication to speak her mind. It takes her a moment to get the message, but she’s a bright girl who understands silence.
“Your hand,” she mumbles bashfully.
My hand had somehow spread across her thigh, flexing my fingers on the thin fabric of her pants to get a better grip. She squeaks adorably as her face flushes, and her words are a jumbled mess when she shudders.
“Jessie,” her name again rolling off my tongue so effortlessly.
“Yeah?” she mewls with fluttering lashes.
“Who hurt you?”
Her little pink tongue wets her bottom lip, and I am spellbound. The first half of her sentence breezes past my ears until I force myself to focus.
“It’s nothing serious; I had an accident,” she explains with a chuckle.
Her hand touches the fading bruise extending from her temple to the top of her cheekbone. It’s not noticeable with her hair covering it, but any skin imperfection is a problem.
I have seen a lot of violence, but never an accidental bruise on anyone’s temple. Someone hit her, and I will pry the name out of her.
“Everyone working here has a bruise or two,” she jokes lightly.
“Jessie,” I growl so quietly that it turns into a snarling hiss.
Maybe it is fear, or maybe she is in a stress-induced trance, but she blurts out a name that doesn’t ring a bell in my head. When she snaps out of it, she gasps and slaps a hand over her mouth.
“You fell?” I insist, twisting her words to give her peace of mind.
She will think she didn’t tell me the name and go about her day as usual.
“Yeah, I fell,” she mumbles with her brows furrowing.
It’s comical to see the confusion running across her pretty face. She’s questioning whether she said what I just confirmed. She didn’t, but I don’t want her to worry.
The patient who hurt her will never be a problem again.
“Enough about me,” she says as she waves her hand.
She breathes deeply and licks her bottom lip nervously. “How was your day?”
“Good,” I say.
My daily routine has gotten boring, so now I am focused on learning the structure of this place. The asylum functions like a well-oiled machine to ensure patients aren’t overwhelmed by change. But not altering their routines at least once a year is also their biggest mistake.
She smiles more faintly this time. “Not much of a talker, are you?”
I prefer hearing her talk, and I tell her that. Her voice calms me, and it’s been three days since I have felt this wave of tranquility. I want to take advantage of our time together before that wench comes in and disrupts us.
I let her talk to her heart’s content. She speaks about her day but then crosses over to her life and personal matters that should never be discussed with a patient.
None of those policies apply to us, though. She’s not a medical professional who would be risking her job to talk this way, and I’m not her patient.
I consider her a friend at this point. Yes, she is a friend. The selfish part of me wants more; I want more than this measly friendship.
“There is a stack of newspapers by the front door, but my roommate won’t cancel her subscription even though she doesn’t read them.”
Her lips pucker into a pout as she huffs. “They are collecting more dust than that box of isopropyl alcohol in the basement.”
Jessie shrugs her small shoulders and mumbles, “I don’t know why she has that either.”
“You don’t like her,” I say, summarizing my impression.
“It’s not that I don’t like her,” she tries to explain, “I just get annoyed that she always finds an excuse to pay her rent late but has takeout food every night.”
“Live with me,” I offer.
She giggles and waves me off. “I thought you can’t have roommates.”
I’m not talking about living here. There are many places we could go; it’s only a matter of time before I leave this hellhole. I have no intention of staying here. Jessie is the reason I want to get out from behind these walls and steal her away from the world.
If the world produced me, I highly doubt that mold has been broken. I’m not a saint, and I can guarantee someone just like me is out there somewhere.
I don’t want to be confined in this place when Jessie could be harmed without me by her side.
As I’m about to respond, the door opens, and the woman’s heels clack on the floor.
“Alright, that is enough for today.”
I glare at her from the corner of my eye. Fury rises in the back of my throat as I bite my tongue to stifle a growl.
Jessie jumps up, apologizing for taking so much time away from the doctor’s private therapy session. My time with Jessie is more fruitful than a forced meeting with the woman who hasn’t gotten anywhere with me for five years.
I just don’t understand why she is so damn stubborn.
“Please, escort John back to his room.” The woman motions towards me as I stand.
Two aides come over, but don’t physically haul me away. Jessie tips her head up and waves her little hand in farewell. It’s so endearing to see the easy smile on her lips.
“See you tomorrow,” she says.
I’ll hold her promise to my heart again. But she needs to keep it for her own sake.
There will be consequences if she doesn’t.
I keep my eyes on her until the door closes behind me. I follow the aides back to the new room they are keeping me in. I haven’t earned the privilege of being in a normal room, but I find the isolation unit more peaceful anyway.
I don’t have to listen to the wailing and disgusting sobs of my neighbor every night.
After they lock me in my room like a caged animal, I begin counting down the time. When I left the session room, it was a quarter after six. After counting for an hour, it’s now past seven.
The time one of the guards always makes his rounds.
I wrap a hand around a metal bar and twist harshly, forcing it loose while I keep my ears open. After the first bar comes off, the space is big enough for my arm to fit through so I can unlock the pathetic latch.
Every room here is exactly the same, so the d
esign of the metal door is what I expected based on my earlier experience in a different room.
Time is not of the essence in this place; I merely use it as I see fit.
The door moans loudly as I manage to crack it open.
A grin splits across my face.
Chapter Five
Jessie
Doctor Carrey must have pulled some strings. She gave me the option of either being paid to work here or continuing as a volunteer on the weekends. She spelled out the advantages and disadvantages, emphasizing how I would be helping John come out of his shell.
Whatever that means.
Lucky for me, the marketing firm where I work was shut down for a bug infestation. So, I have a couple of days to think about her offer before accepting and giving notice to leave my job.
I do find it satisfying to help John become a better person. He deserves to have a normal life like everyone else. But he rarely gives any indication that he is even alive except for expelling air.
Maybe one day he can leave this place and live outside these walls.
The stigma of violence is attached to every patient here, no matter how mellow they are.
It’s scary to think that I’m confined in a small space with people who could hurt me.
“What’s going on?” I ask, arranging my work clothes.
The mandatory white uniform is loose, so I have to tuck the shirt into my pants. The material is thin, but it’s not see-through.
Lisa presses a hand to her lips to calm her nerves as she shivers violently. I pat her on the back in a comforting gesture, but it doesn't slow down the shuddering.
Two aides are wheeling a cart filled with what looks like bloody sheets. The copper scent is disgusting when it drifts by, and there is more than one cart heading out of the laundry room.
“A patient died last night,” Lisa says with a gag.
“What happened?” I ask, shaking her shoulder when she doesn’t answer.
I have never heard of anything like this since I started volunteering here. It’s calm and peaceful; the patients usually just mind their own business.
“How did a patient leave their room when the curfew is at eight?” I question more urgently.
