by Peter Butler
'Dr. Morrow.'
'Hello doctor, this is Douglas Cramer, I'm the head of Cramer Legal. I think we have met once at a fund-raiser for City Central.'
'I don't think we have, Mr Cramer.'
'Really? Malcolm Reynolds introduced me to a beautiful female doctor and I could have sworn it was you.' It was anything but a casual name drop, Reynolds was the Chairman of City Central.
'Perhaps I'm mistaken then Mr. Cramer,' she said, as the list of things to impress and daunt her that Douglas had laid before her, began to weigh on her mind. 'How can I help you, sir?'
'Please, call me Doug, doctor.'
Dr. Morrow was a woman in her fifties and very comfortable with her place in the world. She had a strong feeling that Cramer was a player - he was definitely smooth. And a lawyer. She didn't like being manipulated, but she wasn't completely sure that was happening. She almost said, Of course, Doug. And you can call me Doctor. But she didn't. Sarcasm could be a big mistake.
'Call me Raylene. What can I help you with?' She refused to use his name again as her way of letting him know she had her suspicions.
'Raylene, we have a situation in my home where my son is in a state of shock, due to an act of violent vandalism that happened in his bedroom. He is extremely agitated and prone to unprovoked violence. The paramedics from your hospital are with him at the moment, but they are reluctant to sedate him. I was hoping you could authorize them to do that. Believe me it is the safest option for everybody.'
'Is he injured in any way?'
'Not a scratch'
'And he has a history of unprovoked violence?'
'Sadly, Raylene. Yes.'
'The vandalism you mentioned. What happened?'
'His walls and belongings have been spray-painted,' Doug lowered his voice and turned his back away from where Zac was currently having his blood-pressure monitored, and said, 'He's claiming it was done by someone he calls the Retard, but I think it was actually him.' he paused as if deciding whether, or not, to make the next statement. Fat chance it would be left out - it was the sole reason for the phone call. 'I believe he's just become schizophrenic.'
There was silence on the other end of the phone as Dr. Morrow weighed up what she had heard. Cramer was obviously a well known and senior member of the community. Despite her earlier statement, she knew she had never met him, but she was well aware of him and could understand why he would be keen to restrict the number of people who knew his son was having mental issues. 'I'm sorry to hear that, Doug,' she eventually said. 'I gather you didn't mention this to the paramedics?'
'No. It's a sensitive subject. Hopefully I'm completely wrong in my diagnosis. But what I would like is to get him into hospital with a good nights rest and then have some qualified doctors give their diagnosis. I know Zac well enough to say he will not go to hospital unless he's heavily sedated.'
'To the best of your knowledge, Doug, is he doing drugs of any sort?'
'He smokes weed. Doesn't touch anything harder. I know that for a fact, Raylene.' And he did, Benny had told him. 'I love my son dearly, Raylene, and keep a very close eye on him.' Douglas couldn't help the small smirk that crept onto his face when he said that.
'Okay Doug. Hand the phone over to one of the paramedics.'
***
Larry almost wept with joy as he indicated to make the turn into his own street. The trip from the mansion had not only been his worst trip ever, it had managed to completely sober him. Having to endure sitting in his own mess and the accompanying stench that had now become embedded in the van's interior, was stretching Larry to his very limit. How he would deal with clearing that smell in the coming days was causing him a good deal of anxiety also - the commercial 'air-fresheners' that were advertised on TV actually made Larry laugh. The mere idea of freshening-up a room by adding, yet another odor on top of the existing one, was insanely stupid to his deeply analytical mind. That same mind could now only see those very products as his only potential solution, hence his anxiety.
Sobering up had also brought with it a level of guilt that he was struggling to deal with. His punishment of Zac was acceptable, indeed necessary to stop the delinquent, to make him understand first-hand, how much hurt he was causing. Larry's guilt came from the wastage and destruction he had caused. He was a frugal man, despite being financially comfortable, he would never consider just walking past a dime on the ground without stopping to pick it up. These days he was having to do that a lot, seemingly many in the community regarded them as insignificant garbage, unworthy of space in their pockets or purses. The damage and wastage he had brought about tonight was extreme, by any standard, and the weight of that was becoming increasingly unbearable as sobriety normalized his thinking. Larry knew that tonight he would need two sleeping pills, plus his anxiety medicine and the other pill, the pink one that Dr. Bohen had him take when he felt like the world was becoming too much. Tonight it was.
Larry had reconsidered and decided to endure the freezing water of his garden tap and wash himself in the yard. He had been backward and forward on this decision all the way home, the intolerable smell inside his van had eventually tipped the balance - he had no intention of bringing the stink into his home, as well. He wasn't looking forward to being naked outside as the air temperature was very low, and he knew the addition of almost freezing water to his bare skin would make it hard to keep himself from screaming like a little girl.
Maybe this was a good thing? Maybe it was God's way of rebuking him?
Larry was comfortable with the way his brain had plotted its way through all of this and arrived at an acceptable answer. He would take his punishment - Hopefully, like a man.
Being discovered by his neighbors, naked in his yard in the middle of the night, was the last thing Larry wanted, so screaming had to be avoided at all costs. As he neared his house he made a snap decision, he would kill the engine and lights and roll quietly up his driveway. This would definitely minimize the chance of the neighbors even knowing he had arrived home.
To make certain he had enough speed to accomplish this he sped up slightly, and when he judged he was close enough, he flicked the headlights off and then turned the ignition key all the way off. The motor fell quiet and the van rolled silently along the road at the appropriate moment Larry dabbed at the brakes to make the turn into his driveway. But the brakes seemed to be not working. He jabbed urgently again and again with his foot but the van only slowed a tiny amount. Then he understood why, but it was too late, without the motor running the brakes had no power assistance and as he turned his steering wheel he discovered it had been disabled also, because turning the ignition off automatically locked the steering.
'Arrgh!' he chastised himself for his stupidity.
The white van rolled silently right past Larry's house and kept on going. He hurriedly turned the ignition back a notch which gave him back control of the steering. Just as well as he was heading straight towards the brand new Honda Fit belonging to the ugly, skinny woman who lived three doors down. Larry's reference to the woman in such a derogatory manner in no way involved malice, it was simply a list of her major defining features and he would comfortably refer to her with those very words if they ever met. Strangely, none of his neighbors seemed interested in socializing with him. Larry really didn't care, it was their loss not his.
As the van slowed to a stop he fired up the engine again and slowly drove on. He went to the end of his street and turned back.
Lesson learned, this time he would only turn the key back one notch to kill the motor, but leave the electrics still active. When he was level with the Honda he carefully turned the key. The motor fell silent and then he turned off the lights. The house beside Larry's had a street lamp out front, but his didn't. No matter, he knew his driveway well and there was a tiny amount of spillover light to aid him. He dabbed at the brakes and turned the wheel, it was much heavier without the power-assistance but he was grateful that this time he had control and the van turned in, bumped ov
er the small ridge that defined the edge of the roadway and rolled silently up and onto his property. Clouds had moved overhead blocking most of the ambient moonlight and his driveway was in almost total darkness, but he knew his property well, there were no obstacles to worry about like kids bikes or stray trash-cans, so he rolled straight ahead to his normal parking area.
Something strange caught his eye in the dim light - the corner of his house seemed to be... different. His eyes concentrated on the roof and he was positive that it was different.
Maybe the low light and the hangover effects of the alcohol had impaired his judgment? He wondered.
Larry squeezed his foot down on the brake and the van pulled to a stop at the corner of the house, where he always parked. He looked closely at that part of the house he had thought looked different. It did look different. It seemed to be on an angle.
As his brain was absorbing this information a deep, terrifying roar suddenly enveloped Larry and the van began to shake. He had no time to register shock or fear because instantly the noise had become deafening, he felt a massive jolt shudder through the van, then miraculously, with his eyes wide in shock, Larry watched as his house went flying up into the night sky. Almost instantly his view of the house turned to blackness and he was very aware that the van was moving, but not in a way that a vehicle should; it was falling! Quickly. And tilting dangerously... and bumping against things... and rolling sideways. Larry was strapped in... locked in, inescapably, to his now toppling and rolling van. His head bashed into the metal door frame as it swung uncontrollably around. The blow stunned him. The vehicle kept tumbling and he blinked, fighting for vision of what was happening, and when his eyes cleared he realized he was upside down, his head still swinging and twisting in ways it was never meant to. Spinning blackness was all he was aware of. And pain, lots of pain... overriding all these sensations Larry was aware he was falling... crashing... and sliding into the bowels of the earth.
The van eventually smashed into something very solid and tumbled awkwardly onto it's side, this was immediately followed with a massive impact which jarred through Larry's body so violently it tore him and his seat out of its mounts. The seatbelt was ripped from its anchor point beside his shoulder freeing him from the seat. The metal compartment that held the coiled seatbelt webbing inside was flung free. It smashed into the side of his head opening a large gash above his left ear that cut all the way to the bone. Unrestrained, Larry's body bounced like a ball inside the hard metal shell he was trapped in. And then, almost as quickly as it had started, all movement ceased. He was mostly upside down, but also on his side. He could see nothing, but he could definitely feel pain... Lots of pain. But only in his upper body and head, below his waist seemed to no longer exist. The only other sensation he was aware of was a loud rumbling sound that seemed to surround him. Loud crashes which must have been caused by rocks cascading into the metal bodywork continued to remind him that was still very much under attack.
He was panicking, cold and in pain, but still capable of thinking and what he was thinking terrified him more than anything had in his entire life. Larry realized he had been taken by a sinkhole and that thought sent a shudder through his upper body.
He fought to control the enveloping panic by forcing his superior logic to analyze his situation. The sound had been deafening, so his neighbors must have been roused. Help will soon be on its way, he reasoned. He tried to move his shoulder as something sharp was digging into it and his skin tore as he twisted. Larry screamed... and continued screaming - like a frantic little girl, but the tearing of his skin was no longer what was making him scream; it was the sound, and now the feel, of running water. Cold running water... deathly cold... and it was seeping out of the surrounding earth and lapping around that same damaged shoulder and creeping slowly up his body as it relentlessly consumed the white Transit van.
Larry understood what was happening, he had clarity - he understood he was powerless but in that penultimate moment logic was still present. He knew God was giving him what he had planned and what he had asked for - his body was being washed with cold water in his own yard. But he also knew he must have pissed God off, somehow.
Larry's final thought was surprisingly free from panic. As the freezing water relentlessly crept up his face he calmly spoke to God: 'If you didn't want me to start my own religion, God... surely, there was another way to...'
***
In the morning Dillon escaped the tongue lashing and rebukes he had expected for his very late return home. The smile had not left his face, even as he slept, but it did when he entered the kitchen and saw the looks on his parents faces.
Normally his mom would have had breakfast ready, eggs and toast would be waiting, cornflakes and milk for him, coffee for his parents, but today the table was bare, except for two sad dejected people sitting with their heads buried in their hands.
As he entered the room his mother looked up, she had tears in her eyes. Then his dad looked at him and Dillon knew, he too, had been crying. It momentarily crossed his mind that they knew he was no longer a virgin, but he doubted that would warrant a reaction like this.
'Ah... Dillon,' she said quietly, as she sniffed away some moisture that had begun to roll down the inside of her nose and dabbed her eyes with a very damp tissue. 'Sit down son,' she pointed needlessly, to a vacant chair, 'we have some terrible news...'
***
After Zac had been subdued with a 20mg injection of Valium and wheeled away by the medics, Douglas had set to work. Although it was reasonably late at night he had no concerns making his calls to a handful of the most senior and responsible people in town. Most took his call immediately, picking up after two or three rings, those that went through to voice-mail were all returned within a minute or two.
Douglas Cramer was calling in debts and asking favors of those he hadn't yet helped to bend a rule or two. Not one of the calls resulted in Douglas being disappointed with the outcome.
Zac never knew what hit him. When he had woken in the morning he had found himself on a hospital bed restrained with handcuffs. None of the nurses or medical staff would tell him what was going on. 'Everything is fine, Zac,' they had pretty much all said to him. 'Just stay calm, the doctor will be here shortly.' He had screamed at them to release his arms. 'We can't Zac. It's for your own safety.' had been the universal reply.
Within his first hour of waking he had been visited by Manfred Drucker, the Cramer household's family doctor. The answers he had been promised by the other hospital staff were never given. Drucker had continued the same soothing lines as everyone else. 'You are going to be fine, Zac. The restraints are to stop you from hurting yourself,' he had said, then added, 'I know it is difficult for you, but it is hospital policy. I have no say in the matter.' After that very short conversation Zac had found himself being transported to the Simsearian Private Hospital on the outskirts of town. Still restrained with handcuffs. Within his first three hours in this new hospital he had been visited and questioned extensively by another two doctors, who he had never seen before. No one from his family had come to visit him and none of his friends knew he was even in hospital.
Both of these two new doctors had asked him questions that had seemed ridiculous: 'How well do you get on with your parents?' 'Do you ever have sexual dreams about your sister?' 'Have you ever seen your mother naked?' 'When you are painting, do you ever feel like you are attacking someone who has hurt you?' 'Do you prefer to paint penises, vaginas or anuses?
Zac had initially answered the stupid questions because the doctors had told him it would help resolve his situation and get him out of there quicker. But after a few minutes he had worked out that there were no ways to answer the questions they were asking, without sounding bad or at least weird in some way. After that he refused to cooperate. This did not help his cause and Zac spent the next few days in the Simsearian Hospital heavily medicated, alone and chained to his bed and having to learn how to use a bed-pan. His only highlight had bee
n the deeply intense sponge bath that a rather hot looking redheaded nurse with fingers like steel had given him on the second day. Zac had asked for a phone number.
But he wouldn't give it over.
Douglas had not visited his son and had also insisted that no one else in the family visit him. This did not mean that Zac was far from his thoughts. There were processes and procedures to follow. Also there were time constraints to work around, not to mention laws. But, the very bendable laws of the USA, were the playground that Douglas was happiest in. Armed with two separate, independent psychiatric reports and a recommendation from Dr. Manfred Drucker, Douglas had approached the bench and been granted a Conservatorship over Zac for the near future. Such powers were usually only given to relatives of the very elderly who were loosing control of their minds, or the mentally ill who might be a danger to themselves and the community. Zac had been placed on a list that effectively labeled him as insane and rather than have the State foot the bill, the judge had gratefully accepted one of the communities outstanding citizens taking responsibility for a family member and picking up the tab.
That was a loose transcript of the judgment that went on permanent record for all to see. A check of phone records would have shown the judge had been the recipient of one of the phone calls Douglas had made on that fateful night that Zac had succumbed to his illness. Coincidence? Who can say? Certainly neither the judge or Douglas.
Meridith had been to visit her son once. It had only been allowed after Douglas had set his son's future in concrete. The visit had gone badly with accusations made by the patient, threats and swearing had followed and when a bedpan had been dispatched in the direction of his mother, she had ended the visit prematurely rather than get something nasty on her new saffron, Givenchy jacket.
