by J. R. Tate
“Look, kid, we are here for a well check. Let us in so we can make sure he’s okay.” The cop finally speaks up, stepping forward as if he thinks he’s going to barge right in.
“He’s not here.” I stand my ground, not moving.
“So there’s no harm in letting us in, now is there?” the cop replies.
He’s right – If I keep fighting them off, it’ll just make us look even more like we are hiding something. If they come in and search and not find him, maybe they’ll lay off a bit and give us more freedom to do what we need to do.
“I just don’t want you in my house, but come in. I’ll prove to you he’s not here.” Damn, I hope Dad hid somewhere well. I have no clue at this point where he is and if they find him, I’m not even sure what will happen.
I lead them through, and if they start digging through stuff, that’s when I’ll make them leave. I glance over at the computer, and the screensaver is on. Hopefully they won’t bump it and see what we were doing. They’ll really want to know why I am reading up on insane asylums.
Carla looks at the staircase and I take her up those as well. I try to be somewhat loud with my footsteps in hopes to alert my dad. I know he’s up here, I’m just not sure where. I open doors to closets and bedrooms, and let out a sigh of relief when he is nowhere to be found. Carla looks at the cop and back to her phone, typing something in.
“I told you he wasn’t here. You’re wasting my time and yours.”
“Have you been here alone?” Carla asks. Shit, here it comes.
“No. My aunt is in the process of moving in with us.” I hate that the lying has gotten so easy, but I have to save myself from getting taken away.
“Your aunt?” The cop questions me, his intimidating demeanor back.
“Yes. My dad’s sister.” My dad has no sister and I hope there isn’t a way for her to figure that out.
“Where is she now?”
“At work. She has an early schedule.”
Carla looks at me in disbelief, and I really don’t blame her. “I’ll be looking into that, but for now we have nothing here. Listen, I know you view us as the bad guys, but we really want to make sure your father is okay. It is in his best interest to stop by my office so we can get him some help.”
She hands me her card and I look at it, fighting the urge to rip it up in front of her face. Maybe she is sincere, but she’s right, at the moment, she is the bad guy. She’s the hitch in our plan to try to have some semblance of a normal life.
We go back down the stairs and I let them out, locking the door behind them. Peering through the peephole, I watch as they discuss something down in the driveway. It isn’t the last we’ll see of them. She knows something is up. But this will buy us a little time.
They finally get in the police cruiser and drive off, and I give it a few minutes before I feel it’s safe for my dad to come out of hiding. With my luck, they’ll show up again and we’ll be caught off guard. Taking the stairs two at a time, I call out for him.
“Dad, they’re gone. You can come out.” I listen for him, but the house is silent. “Dad? Where are you?”
A door slams and I turn in the direction of where it came from, relieved when he hurries down the hallway toward me. He’s covered in dust and spider webs, and I help him clean them from his hair.
“How’d you get them to leave?” He asks, coughing.
“I let them look through the house. I didn’t want to at first, but figured they would never go away if I fought them too much. Now, where the hell did you hide? I was sure they’d find you.”
“Crawl space up in the attic. Guess it was a bit much. All I needed to do was get up there, but I didn’t want to take any chances.” Dusting himself off, he smiles. “You’re really having to put up with a lot of bullshit lately because of me.”
“It’s fine. I had to lie and say you had a sister moving in. They were questioning if I was here alone and stuff.”
“Good call. Chances are, they’ll find out where my dad is and go talk to him. See if I’m there. They’ll learn quick there is no sister, but at least they’re gone for now, which means we better get back on track.”
This time, he sits in front of the computer and clicks the screen back on. Cracking his knuckles, he skims through the article about Sunset Canyon, his focus shifting back to the hospital’s history.
I lean on the couch and feel my body giving out. I’m exhausted and despite wanting to stay awake to help, I allow my body to relax in the cushions. What good will I be if I’m not rested anyway? Dozing, my eyelids win the battle and everything around me goes black.
***
Nathan
After about an hour of reading about Sunset Canyon and its history, my eyes start burning. There is no mention of Mr. Dawson anywhere, even after I searched for him several times. I hear Rusty snoring on the couch, and he makes sleep look good. I’m so tired that I can’t focus or comprehend much else, so I head up to my room and draw the curtains since the sun is up now. I lay down, but as soon as my head hits the pillow, I feel like I’m wide-awake. I must be at the point where I’m so tired that I can’t sleep, and I roll over on my side and face the side of the bed where Rose used to sleep.
There was a time right after her death where I’d lay on her pillows and snuggle up with her covers – I could still smell her scent on the sheets, but now it has all faded after washing them. I long to see her again – not the ghost in her form, but her in the flesh. If I close my eyes and think about her hard enough, I can smell her hair, I can taste her kiss, and I can feel her right next to me. It is so real, that when I open my eyes again, I expect her to be right there, but it’s nothing but an empty bed against the wall.
Balling up the comforter in my fist, I try to fight off the sudden sorrow I’m feeling. The pain never will go away – though it has gotten bearable, tonight it seems to be just like the day I lost her. I guess her being back has opened a wound that hasn’t quite healed yet.
I cover my face with my pillow and beg for sleep. I’m so tired that my own mind is playing tricks on me, and with everything else happening, I’m having a hard time telling what reality is. I’m driving myself insane, literally.
I take a deep breath and count to three, and for the first time since Dr. Clint told me to do it, it actually works. My body settles into the mattress and the heavy, sinking feeling is gone. Maybe now I’ll sleep. Just a few hours – that will work wonders.
“Nathan, come with me.”
It’s like I blinked my eyes and I’m awake again, only I’m not in my bed. I’m in a dirty, dark hospital that smells of something I can’t pinpoint. Like dust and mildew, with a stench of something dead. I can’t see who is calling me, but it sounds like Mr. Dawson, so I do as requested.
I walk through a crowded hallway and it’s like I have tunnel vision. I know there are people around me – I can hear them, but it’s dark except where I’m looking. It almost has the feel of a mental hospital, though it isn’t familiar to me. And though the voice has stopped saying anything, somehow I know I am still following him. It is so disconnected that I question if it is really happening, but when I feel the hand on my arm, pulling me in an opposite direction, I know it is definitely happening.
I fall into a side room and the door slams behind me with a loud whoosh. There is a nurse dressed in what looks like modern day scrubs, though this has a very old vibe to it. She’s holding a syringe with a long needle, grinning as she beckons toward me.
“Come this way, Nathan. This is a new drug we want to try you on.”
She’s petite, but her grip on me seems like that of a man. I try to pull away, but she holds firm. The needle scrapes at my skin and she tries hard to break it through to my vein. I can feel the scrape of the metal just seconds away from plunging into my system, but thankfully I pull in enough energy to fight her off, pushing her away.
I run out of the room and back into the dimly lit hallway. My lungs burn and my body aches. Did some of the drugs g
et into my bloodstream? It feels like I’m trudging through mud, but I press on. I can’t let them have me, and Mr. Dawson is urging me to continue to follow him. He is trying to show me something, and I’m almost there.
Looking down at the floor, I gasp when I see the long blood trail. Was this from Mr. Dawson? Is he leading me to where he died? The stench of rotted flesh hits my nose and I gag. It’s overpowering and with the force of the scent, there has to be more than one person suffering wherever we are headed. More hands reach out, touching me as I pass by. They cover my body, hitting, slapping, and scratching me as I pass. Do all of these souls need me? Do they want me to help? There is no way I can accomplish this. I have to help Mr. Dawson first.
“This way, Nathan, we are almost there.”
I glance to the side and see a sign that reads Ruthardt Lunatic Asylum. I make mental note of it. Am I back in time, witnessing the blood shed that took place here? Is Mr. Dawson giving me a glimpse into the world he experienced before he died? If this is how it was, I would’ve wished death to come. Again, the scent of death hits me, and I wretch, but there’s nothing in my system to puke up. Dry heaving; I double over, on the verge of losing control. It feels like we are in a cramped tunnel. The ceiling feels like it is getting lower with every step and I wonder if I’m dying along with him. I feel worse as we go, but there’s nothing else I can do. If I turn around, I’ll run into the nurse again. If she injects me, there’s no telling what will happen.
I try not to panic, but my breathing is labored like I’m having an asthma attack. With each breath I take, the burn in my lungs gets deeper.
“Almost there.”
“You keep saying that!” I yell back, and it echoes against the walls.
We finally enter another room and the ceilings are back to normal height. I’m taken back by what I see – it is a room full of dead bodies piled on top of each other. Mr. Dawson is standing in the corner, hovering over the mass grave he has exposed me to.
“What is this?” I ask, though I know. “Is this where…” I trail off, unable to stomach that this really did happen. “Is this where they dumped you?”
He doesn’t respond to my question. He stares at the bodies, the sad look on his face back. Something grabs me from behind – one hand on my mouth, the other on my neck, clenching down so tight that I see stars. I try hard to fight them off, but there’s no chance of getting away. They twist my neck in an attempt to break it, and the pain is so unbearable that everything goes black and I grow numb.
Landing on the floor with a loud thud, I jolt awake and sit up. Looking around the room, I see I’m back in my bedroom, in my house, but I’m on the floor and not on the bed. Sweat drips into my eyes and I swipe the moisture away. I’m unable to catch my breath, but I relax when I realize that I’m safe – My neck isn’t broken and I’m not on the floor of the dirty hospital.
I look at the alarm clock – it’s half past nine. I wouldn’t say that I slept for three hours, because I’m not rested, but I was in bed for that long. Closing my eyes, I fight back the tears that flow from the corners of my eyes – I’m not crying, but it’s my body’s reaction to the trauma I’ve just endured, even if technically it was a dream. I have to remember all the details – they’ll be beneficial to putting the pieces together and figuring out Mr. Dawson’s complete story.
I grab a note pad and jot down what I can remember – just like with most dreams, everything is jumbled, and only bits and pieces flash into my memory. I let my hand do the work and before I know it, I have taken up two pages worth of notes. My handwriting is sloppy as I frantically write it down, but when I read over it, I realize that I’ve remembered more than I thought.
Looking up, I see Mr. Dawson standing in the threshold of the door, staring t me.
“You want me to show the world you didn’t commit suicide, right?”
Nodding, he approaches me and sits on the floor across from me. “I want you to show that the hospital did this to not only me, but others before me. Even others after me.”
“Didn’t they find you at the pond? They say you killed yourself there, right?” My voice shakes. This is so much for me to take in and I have to calm my brain down enough to think a rational thought.
“They did say that. They brought me out here. They knew Lenora was buried there and knew it would look realistic if I took my life near her grave. We lived in this home.”
“Didn’t people know you were in the hospital? Wouldn’t they have wondered if you somehow showed up back here to end it all?”
Mr. Dawson shakes his head and looks at the floor, the sorrow never leaving his eyes. “No. No one spoke of where I went. And those who did know did not care. I was labeled a lunatic. When I died, to them, it was just another insane person gone and something they would not have to worry about. No one asked questions. It was ruled suicide and everyone went on with their own business.”
“What about your wife? She would have known, right?”
“She lost touch with reality before I did. Her family took her home and hid her away on their farm. I never saw her again and then they captured me. That was the end of our marriage. That was the end of it all.”
I stand up and fight the vertigo. I’m exhausted both physically and mentally, and my body is failing me. But there’s no time to rest. “So, you want me to expose what happened at the asylum? But, all of the people there, they’re all dead now. What good is it going to do?”
Mr. Dawson also stands, mirroring my actions. “Not just for us back then. For people now as well. You were a patient. You have seen how it is behind those closed doors.”
“They didn’t try and kill me,” I reply, even though they did fry me like a piece of bacon.
“You weren’t there long enough. You had a good doctor who listened. They don’t kill them all – just those of us who they can’t brainwash, who they can’t fix, and the ones so far gone they’d rather let them die than let them be part of society. The one’s whose families have abandoned them to rot. They have souls. They are human beings. And they still have a voice. Don’t just do this for me. Do it for everyone, past, present, and future.”
I lean back against the wall. My legs are like noodles and his request hits me blindside. He essentially wants me to take down a state hospital. How in the hell am I going to do this alone? No one will believe me. No one takes me seriously right now.
Scrubbing my palm down the side of my face, I close my eyes to try to get a moment of peace. When I open them, Mr. Dawson is gone and I’m left alone in my room. I feel like the walls are closing in on me and I fight the anxiety that comes on strong.
“I’m not even sure where to begin,” I say, and though I appear alone, I know I’m not. Rose is there, Mr. Dawson is there, and so is Sammy. I guess they’re waiting for their turn, ready to pounce on me if I survive helping Mr. Dawson.
“Go with your heart, Nathan. Go with your heart.”
I never have known what that means or how to do it. I guess in comparison, it’s equivalent to going with my instincts in a fire, and the mere thought of it makes me miss my job. I’ll never be able to go back and work on a truck. There is no way. By now, I know the caseworker has contacted everyone in my life – my father, my chief, and with me being MIA from work, there’s no way he can cover me any more. He’s done enough and now his hands are tied. I’m going to have to accept that my firefighting days are pretty much over.
Right now I can’t focus on that – I have to do what Mr. Dawson is requesting. Rusty’s and my life depend on it. I pad to the bathroom and cup a handful of cool water, splashing in on my face. It is refreshing, and I brush my teeth, attempting to freshen up as best as I can. Maybe it’ll energize me. Looking in the mirror, just like before, I don’t recognize my reflection. I’m morphing into a man I don’t know anything about. I need to shave. I need a steaming hot shower and a good night’s rest. I need to close my eyes and not worry about what I’ll see. But right now is not the right time for it.
Toweling my skin off, I go down the stairs and Rusty is at the table with a bowl of cereal, turning the pages of the newspaper.
“Morning, Dad.”
“Morning, Russ. Sleep any?”
“Not really. I heard you. You were really dreaming.”
Sitting beside him, I pour some corn flakes and drench them in milk. I hadn’t realized how I hungry I was until then, and I scarf them down as if I haven’t had a meal in days. Which I guess, I haven’t.
“Mr. Dawson visited me. I know what he wants, I just…” trailing off, I pour another bowl.
“What?” Rusty finally looks up, arching his eyebrow with curiosity.
“He wants me to expose Sunset Canyon. Wants me to prove they have corrupt practices. Apparently they’re still killing people and labeling it suicide.”
“Did you see any of that when you were there?”
I look down at my cereal – suddenly it doesn’t seem as appetizing as before. “My views were a bit clouded, Russ. I was drugged up a lot of the time and well, was sort of in my own little world. I didn’t really pay attention to anyone else. I was just worried about getting out of there. But yeah, I mean, I was scared. I wasn’t sure what they’d be capable of.”
“So why do you look so worried? Now we have something to work with.”
I lie back on the couch and stare up at the ceiling. Damn, I’d just love to sleep. Just thirty minutes of sleep and nothing else. “Because it’s too much for one man to take on by himself. Sunset Canyon is a state facility, Russ. I can’t just march in there and point fingers. They have high paid lawyers. They can claim libel and slander.” I sit up again. “I’m a patient. My credibility is out the window, if I ever even had any. If I show up, they’ll throw me back in.”
I stop myself again as an idea hits me. What I’m thinking is unnerving, but it also makes complete sense.
“What is it, Dad?”
“What if I voluntarily let the caseworker take me? Let them admit me, but this time focus on what is happening with everyone. Try to keep a sound mind. Cheek my meds when they give them to me.”
