LUMP

by Claire L. Fishback

  Once again, I woke to the sound of the closet door creaking open. I jerked awake. I hadn’t checked the closet before I went to bed. My heart hammered again. My eyes searched the darkness. I reached to flick on the bedside lamp, but the closet door swung open and hit the wall. Chuckles the clown stood inside. I could see his eyes glinting in the light from the window.

  “You threw me away,” he said. “You grinded me into pieces.”

  “Get out of my house,” I tried to yell, but it came out a whimper. He came closer. I trembled and pressed myself against the headboard. He was at the foot of the bed. I slowly reached into my pocket and pulled out the knife. He came around to the side, claws clicking together. I gripped the handle of the knife and gritted my teeth. He lunged. I swung the knife up through the sheets. It plummeted into his chest up to the hilt. I felt hot blood on my hand and released my grip and jumped from the bed. I turned on the light and gaped.

  Brian lay on my bed, dressed as a clown. Like a fish, he gasped for air. I must’ve hit a lung. I called an ambulance and the police. The ambulance took him away while the police questioned me.

  I explained to them that he was one of my patients and that, until now, I found it hard to figure out what was wrong with him.

  “He had a delusional disorder and a personality disorder,” I said. “He read this book so many times that he believed he was the main character.” I took a deep breath. “He also believed he was Chuckles the clown.”

  The next day I got a call from the police. It had been a few years since a murder, and usually the victims were children, but it was confirmed that he was the killer known as The Clown. His trademark was the clown figurine.

  It was about eight months after Brian was taken away when I arrived home and saw a box on my front stoop. I picked it up carefully and examined the box. I shook it, but only heard Styrofoam peanuts moving against the sides. I took it outside and threw it into the dumpster.

  Old O

  HE DREAMED THOUGH HE never slept. Cloudy eyes stared at nothing, saw nothing. His massive form, once powerful with thick muscles, sat atrophied by lack of use. Nothing perked his attention anymore. Not even Trisha.

  Trisha, wearing gray leggings under a short black skirt—an outfit too young for her middle age—sauntered into the lab scowling. She unlocked the door to her office, went inside and slammed it. Throwing her messenger bag into a corner, she slumped into the chair behind her desk and placed her face in her hands. Her black hair fell around her cheeks. She took a few deep breaths.

  “He did it again, Cornelius,” she said aloud to the bird in a cage hanging from the ceiling. “He did it again. He does it every fucking day.” She pushed herself back in her chair and looked up at the budgie, who had his head cocked at her. Trisha deepened her voice and puffed her chest, “Hey Trish, they’re going to kill him, you know—Gah!”

  A knock at her office door made her compose herself. She didn’t bother to plaster on a fake smile, “Come in.”

  Dr. Sylvia Andrews, the only scientist who understood Trisha’s distaste for the lab, stepped inside. “We want you to be there,” she said, flipping her long auburn hair over her shoulder. “We need you. Old O needs you.”

  “Old O doesn’t know who I am,” Trisha said. Sylvia stepped closer to Trisha’s desk.

  “I know it doesn’t seem like he does, but I believe, deep down, he’s still the same guy he once was.”

  “He hasn’t been the same guy for eight years,” Trisha said through gritted teeth. The burn of tears in her nose made her close her eyes and hide her face behind her hands.

  “Please, Trish,” Sylvia’s soft voice pleaded.

  Trisha sat back and crossed her arms. She stared at the picture on her desk. A picture from what seemed like another lifetime ago. The photo depicted a lovely young veterinary scientist, lighter hair, no dark liner around her eyes, pink polish on her fingernails. Trisha looked at the chipped black polish on there now and huffed. Old O’s dark eyes stared directly at the camera, penetrated the lens and gazed deep into the soul of anyone who looked at the photo. His orange fur fluffed from his head and body, his tongue stuck out. She smiled, remembering that he could never keep that thing in his mouth. He blew hundreds of raspberries, as well as kisses, over the course of their relationship. Back then his name was Owen, and he was the best behaved, most intelligent orangutan in the lab.

  “It’s all my fault,” Trisha whispered, picking up the picture.

  “Trisha,” Sylvia said. “It’s time. Will you come?”

  Trisha nodded and followed Sylvia down a corridor to the sleep lab.

  The left side of the room hosted computers analyzing data retrieved from wires. The right side, a multitude of test subjects ranging from rats to chimpanzees. All of them slept peacefully.

  In the center of the room, in a circular holding pen, sat Old O. His once fiery orange fur looked dusty and dull. He sat slumped, his face drooping. His eyes shocked her the most, as they always did upon seeing him these days. The sight of him made her take in a shaky breath. She cleared her throat and stepped toward the pen, keeping close to Sylvia.

  “Why do they want me here?” She asked Sylvia in a whisper.

  “Because you’ve known him the longest.”

  “What does it matter?” Trisha’s voice rose with emotion, and she cleared her throat again. She turned to the other scientists, gathered together like a flock of sheep. “I’m here, now what?”

  There were three of them: A man with a thick shock of highlighted blonde hair, a woman with a severely pointed face, much like the rats, and an assistant who moved to a computer when she saw Trisha.

  “We wish for you to be present for some of the testing we have scheduled today,” the male doctor said with a sneer. His nametag read Dr. Quota, and his eyes looked Trisha up and down. The sneer turned to disapproval.

  Trisha looked at Sylvia, who gave her a weak smile in return.

  “What do you want me to do?” Trisha asked.

  “Touch him,” Dr. Quota said.

  Trisha looked at the great orangutan before her; his breathing suggested he was asleep though his eyes were open. Years ago, she would have been excited to pet or hold her primate friend, but now? He wasn’t the same ape. He didn’t even resemble the Owen she once played games with, teased, tickled.

  Trisha reached out, pulled her hand back slightly, then, swallowing hard, pushed forward. Her fingertips brushed the coarse fur on his forearm.

  “No change,” the harsh, monotone voice from the assistant said. Trisha looked at her through eyes slit with annoyance.

  Dr. Quota cleared his throat. “Touch his face,” he said, licking his lips.

  Trisha moved her hand and, leaning out as far as she could over the rail that served as the holding pen, touched Owen’s cheek.

  “Hold on,” the assistant said. “There is a change.”

  Trisha’s heart thrilled. Did Owen remember her?

  “Owen,” she whispered. “It’s Trish.”

  Dr. Quota grabbed her hand and swung her away from Owen. “You are to touch, not talk,” he said, gripping her wrist tight.

  “Doctor,” the woman said. “Brain waves suggest he is in REM. Dreaming.”

  “Damn,” the doctor said, throwing Trisha’s hand at her. She clutched it to her chest. “If only we could see what he’s dreaming.” Dr. Quota hit the rail with his hands.

  Trisha saw the change, but the doctor did not. Owen heard what happened. He heard it in Trisha’s voice, heard it in the clang of palm against rail, heard the doctor’s aggression.

  Old O didn’t move to the untrained eye, but to Trisha, he exhibited the slightest twitch of anger. The hair on his arms rose slightly, his cheeks puffed just enough. Yet, his brain still registered REM sleep.

  Trisha smiled, but then she saw it. The blood. His scalp had blood on it where wires jutted from the top of his head.

  “This is so inhumane,” she said. “His head is bleeding!” She tried to step close, to comf
ort her Owen, but a large, burly man came out of nowhere and grabbed her by her upper arms and held her back.

  “Let her go immediately!” Sylvia shouted.

  In the foray, no one heard Old O grunt, no one saw him bare his teeth ever so slightly. No one, except Trisha.

  “WE’VE DONE IT!” A MAN in a plaid shirt and holey jeans scrambled up the hall waving papers. “We’ve done it!”

  He ran past Trisha and into the sleep lab. She glimpsed Owen as the doors swung shut, considered going inside to hear just exactly what they’d done, but went back to her office to look at her schedule for the day.

  Several appointments glared at her from her appointment book, but none of them interested her. She had to dress burns on a dog, euthanize several rats—her job sucked. When she went to veterinary school years and years before, she didn’t realize this was the work she would fall into. She wanted to help animals in need, not animals that were forced to need her because of scientific testing. Her only reason to stay was Owen. She thought of how he chose to sign ‘mom’ when talking about her and addressing her. Right hand on his chin, fingers extended.

  Selliria Laboratory, a privately-funded research lab, was the only lab left in the United States that still used animals for research. No thought about how the testing would damage the animals ever went through the scientist’s minds. They were animals; thus, they were expendable.

  Trisha glanced at the rat euthanasia appointment.

  “Poor guys,” she said. “I bet they didn’t know they would be shot up with rabies.”

  As Trisha made her way to the exam room and the rat appointment, Sylvia stopped her in the hall, just outside Owen’s door. Her faced beamed with a giant smile.

  “We’ve done it, Trish,” Sylvia said. “We can see his thoughts.” She gripped Trisha’s hands and looked into her eyes. “All he thinks about is you!”

  Trisha’s heart swelled, and hammered in her ears, flip-flopped like a gymnast on the uneven bars. “You can see his thoughts? How?” Her voice came out high. She swallowed.

  “The guys in IT have been working on a way in which to view the thoughts of test subjects for years. They’ve finally done it. We have preliminary software—” Sylvia stopped talking when she looked at Trisha’s face. “Trisha, are you okay?”

  Trisha’s head reeled. Black spots danced in front of her eyes. Her stomach rolled over and the contents sloshed around like wet clothes in a dryer.

  “Did you hear me Trish?” Sylvia’s voice sounded like she was standing at the far end of a tunnel.

  “I need to lay down.” Trisha backed up to the wall, slid down, and sat on the floor. She put her face in her hands, elbows resting on her knees.

  “This is great news, isn’t it?” Sylvia crouched next to Trisha.

  “I don’t know,” Trisha said. Thoughts ran through her mind a thousand miles an hour. “I don’t know.”

  Sylvia left and returned with a cold bottle of water and a bag of Reese’s Pieces. “This is all the vending machine had that I thought you would like,” she said with a chagrined smile.

  “Thanks.” Trisha took the water and gulped it but didn’t touch the candy. “I don’t know what to think about this,” she said. “This is good, right? I mean, you guys can see what’s going on in his head, and maybe the testing will stop soon so he can live the rest of his days in a habitat somewhere warm with other orangutans.” Trisha dropped her head and looked at her hands, at the class ring she still wore, the hangnail threatening to snag on something.

  “Why don’t you come on inside now. Maybe seeing this for yourself will help,” Sylvia said, touching Trisha’s shoulder. The overhead fluorescents sparkled in the doctor’s huge engagement ring. “He’s thinking only of you.”

  Trisha gulped the remaining water and nodded. Taking a shaky breath, she got to her feet and prepared herself for what she might see inside the lab.

  Owen sat the same as usual: Unmoving, unaware. A monitor close to his enclosure showed blurred pictures on it. Trisha fought back tears as she watched his thoughts of her unfold on the screen.

  Trisha, pushing him in a swing, like a child. Owen asking for more fruit in the sign language Trisha taught him. Trisha hugging him, holding him, swinging him around in circles while his strong hands gripped her forearms. Memories she dreamed about every night, wished she could have with him again.

  She covered her mouth. A tear escaped and glided down her cheek, betraying her tough façade.

  “Can this be over now?” She wondered aloud in a whisper.

  Dr. Quota laughed, a harsh and raw sound among the quiet whir of machines, and Owen’s rhythmic breathing. She closed her eyes.

  “Can this be over?” Dr. Quota mocked, stepping too close to Trisha. “We’ve only just begun.”

  She could smell his stale deodorant and cheap aftershave. When she opened her eyes, he was walking away toward a control panel.

  “If only the images were clearer,” he grumbled. Trisha leaned forward toward Owen.

  “Owen,” she whispered. “I’m here.”

  Brilliant colors displayed on the screen, though the great ape didn’t move.

  “What happened, what was that?” Dr. Quota asked, hitting the side of the monitor. The colors faded to dark, slashed with red. “What is this?”

  “Doctor,” the severe-looking woman adjusted her glasses. “It seems as though those are his emotions registering on the screen. Watch,” she motioned to Trisha. “Say something.”

  Trisha leaned in again. “Hi Owen,” she said.

  The brilliant, bold, and full-forced hues swept across the monitor.

  “Now you talk,” the woman whispered to Dr. Quota.

  Dr. Quota cleared his throat. “Owen, this is Dr. Quota.”

  The screen darkened and jagged rays of red and brown smashed into the black. An angry thunderstorm.

  “He obviously doesn’t like you,” Trisha said under her breath, through gritted teeth.

  LATER THAT EVENING, when nearly everyone had left for the day, Trisha tried to get into the sleep lab. She peered through the small window on the door before trying the handle. Of course, it was locked, and, of course, she didn’t have access. Owen’s form sat hunched in the shadows. The screen continued to play the memories. Suddenly, his form jolted, and the images became frantic, full of blurred forms.

  Trisha wanted to get in. She wanted to see the memories that made him move. He hadn’t moved in months, maybe over a year. She pulled on the door, frantic. Her heart pounded. Owen was in distress. She could see it. She could sense it.

  A firm arm pushed her away from the door, swiped a card, and opened it.

  “Hurry, before anyone sees,” Sylvia hissed. They slipped into the lab and watched in horror as the events of Owen’s life unfolded.

  Small. So small. His mother cared for him so well, did so much to protect him from the dangers of the Congo. His father. So large. An emblem of strength, cunning, and beauty all at once.

  The poachers came quick. Owen’s mother hid him among a pile of large leaves. He never saw her again.

  The bright sun. Piercing bright through the leaves of the canopy. Owen, lifted, coddled. Human smells, human hands. Introduction into a new home, a new habitat. A lonely mother, bereft of her baby took him in, cared for him as her own. Owen took her for his mother.

  Owen’s head jerked, his eyes squeezed shut. His breath came as sharp grunts.

  More hands. Strong hands. His new mother fell, asleep. He was taken away.

  A lab. The first of many. Still young. Easy to manipulate. Testing. Memories lost. Memories regained. Strange smells. Wires, plugs, tapes, monitors. Beeps, whirs, clicks. Dr. Quota. Wires digging, gouging. Harsh hands, strong hands, pain. Trisha . . . Trisha . . . Trisha . . .

  From there, the Trisha memories started over. Owen’s face relaxed. His breathing returned to normal.

  Trisha, eyes wide, looked at Sylvia. “He can’t know this happened,” she said, speaking of Dr. Quota.

&nbs
p; “He will know,” Dr. Quota’s voice came from the shadows. “I knew you would come here,” he said. Owen’s breathing remained the same, though the jagged and dark colors pierced the blackness of the monitor. “Thank you for that display.”

  “It wasn’t a display,” Trisha said. She reached out and touched Owen’s arm. “It’s okay Owen, I’m going to get you out of here.”

  Dr. Quota grabbed her wrist. “You’ll do nothing of the sort,” he said through his teeth. “He belongs to this lab.”

  “He is a living creature. He belongs to no one!” Trisha wrenched her arm loose and backed away from Dr. Quota. “Don’t ever touch me again,” she said. She looked at Sylvia’s helpless expression and ran from the lab.

  All Trisha could think about on her way home, was Owen. His memories, his sad and tortured life. She cried and hit the steering wheel with her fists.

  “It isn’t fair!” She screamed. “It isn’t fair . . .” Her cell phone buzzed. Sylvia Andrews. She let it go to voicemail, then listened to the message when she got home.

  Trisha, it’s Dr. Andrews—a deep sigh—I think it’s best if you don’t come into the lab anymore. I wish it didn’t have to be this way, but Dr. Quota didn’t like what happened. I’m sorry. I’ll watch over him for you.

  Trisha gripped the phone hard. It was all she could do to keep from hurling it against the wall.

  “I have to get him out of there,” Trisha said. “He isn’t safe.” Tears rolled down her cheeks as she slid to the floor, still holding the phone. “What am I going to do? What can I do?”

  She went to bed and after a fitful night, woke up the next morning feeling nauseous. She decided to stay home until after noon, hoping to feel better by then.

  AT THE LAB, AFTER WORKING overnight on the new monitoring device, the monitor displayed Owen’s memories in crisper images.

  “Perfect! Just perfect!” Dr. Quota exclaimed. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, addressing the room full of people invested in this new technology. He lifted a bottle of champagne and popped the cork. “This is a great day. Last night, new information was gathered from Subject O’s mind and recorded via this new technology.”