Dawn of the Courtezan: Phase 01 (The Eighteenth Shadow)

by Grafton, Jon Lee

  Is that cyan?

  The color of a sour, polluted ocean made of synthetic leather.

  Ugh. If you want to wear leather, wear it. Don’t buy the fake stuff.

  The skirt was made of common synthleather produced from hemp and a plastic polymer. It was too tight. Stockings too tight. The nurse’s whole life… too tight. And here came her awful attention once more, eyes scanning Tara twice as long as any of the other patients.

  She hates me. And if she hates me, the eyes won’t… crap.

  After her introductory speech, which always made Nurse Fossbender glow on the inside, the woman moved on, precisely at minute five, to the Greetings & Admittance stage of the Bmod rehabilitation meeting.

  Tara Dean thought the nurse sounded like a parrot being strangled, “Since we’re all here for the same reason, well, with the exception of me of course,” the nurse curtsied playfully and tossed her wiry hair, causing the flesh beneath her neck to wriggle anew. “We’re going to move on to the meet and greet for our three tardy members! As I said to the rest of you yesterday, the first step in dealing with alcohol addiction is to admit that you have a problem. So,” she turned her head to look at the Afghan man who stared at the far wall as if in a trance, “together we’re here to help you do just that.” She clutched the holotab in her lap like it was a weapon, “I’m going to come around the room and shake each of your hands so we can be all be friends officially. After I say, Hi, I’m Marlene, I want each of you to say back, Hello, my name is… and I’m an alcoholic. Sound good?”

  Tara looked at the red headed man beside her, formed her right hand into the shape of a gun beneath her chin and smiled as she pretended to blow her own brains out.

  Melky O’Brien laughed heartily.

  “Well!” the nurse’s voice cut the laughter. “Since you find things so funny, sir, we’ll start with you.”

  She lumbered towards Melky O’Brien, her outfit squeaking. O’Brien’s expression soured.

  This was not Nurse Fossbender’s first rodeo. She had dealt with plenty of troublemakers. Patient 373-B was no different. The key would be to make the rest of the patients single her out as an obstacle to their quick, easy passage through Bmod. Nurse Fossbender knew that all these people wanted to do was get out of the hospital as quickly as possible, with as little embarrassment as possible.

  In the time it took her to walk thirteen steps across the therapy room to where Mr. O’Brien was seated, eyes on Tara Dean the whole time, she decided that she hated the girl. Passionately. The emotion was crystal in its purity, like the time she poisoned her neighbor’s yowling cat.

  Of course no one wants to hear about that.

  Nurse Fossbender stepped decisively in front of Melky O’Brien’s chair and extended her hand. Tara noted the woman’s nail polish was the same awful orange color as her shoes and buttons.

  “Hi, I’m Marlene Fossbender.”

  Melky O’Brien extended his enormous, freckled mitt hesitantly, “Hi, we met earlier in my room. I’m Melky O’Brien.”

  Nurse Fossbender laughed gaily, “I know your name, Mr. O’Brien! Remember, this is the first step to getting sober, admitting that you have a problem. So you would say…?” She cocked her head towards the man and raised her eyebrows expectantly, as though the firefighter was a five year old struggling with arithmetic.

  Lines of frustration crossed the nurse’s brow, as the voice she heard next was not Mr. O’Brien’s, but rather Tara Dean’s, “You don’t have to say anything, buddy. Not a damn single word.”

  Nurse Fossbender’s voice broke with anger for the first time, “Ms. Dean is it? Please be respectful. It’s time for Mr. O’Brien’s admittance statement, not yours. For the record,” she turned to the group, “We do have to admit that we have a problem. If you didn’t have a problem, why else would each of you be sitting in an alcohol reform hospital?”

  The silent majority nodded in pitiful agreement.

  Melky O’Brien looked around, nervous, “OK, OK yeah, I get it…”

  “You don’t have to say dick,” said Tara defiantly, staring at Nurse Fossbender.

  The nurse parted her lips to speak, but the man beat her to the punch, turning briefly to Tara Dean then back to the nurse, “It’s cool, miss, it really is. My name is Melky O’Brien. I’m a fireman for the city of Lawrence, and I’m an alcoholic.” He turned to Tara Dean and smiled wanly, “See? Not so bad. I’m an alcoholic. You?”

  Tara Dean took pride in her eye rolling ability. She was so perpetually unimpressed with the world that she privately feared her eyes might one day roll back into her head and disappear forever.

  She folded her arms over her chest and rolled her eyes away from Melky like a practiced thespian, uttering one word, “Ugh.”

  “Excellent!” chimed Nurse Fossbender. “You’ve taken an important first step today, Mr. O’Brien.” She tapped a notation on her holotab, nodding at the man, “Good job.”

  Then the nurse turned her attention where she really wanted it. Patient 373-B. She took a step to the right and stood directly in front of the girl’s chair.

  She extended her hand graciously and donned a gratuitous half-smile, “Hello. I’m Marlene Fossbender, and you are?”

  Tara Dean threw her head back. The black hair sticking out beneath her baseball cap swung over her shoulders. Every eye was on her. She did not unfold her arms or extend her hand.

  Instead she smiled, lips pouting as she said breathily, “Hi, I’m Tara Dean. My mother’s a trapeze artist, and my father juggles beavers at a circus in the sky! Oh, and little old me? Well… I’m just another victim of the war on booze.” She cocked her head and looked irreverently at Nurse Marlene Fossbender with a wink, “That what you were looking for, Orca?”

  Melky O’Brien whistled under his breath. The whole room chuckled uncomfortably.

  Nurse Fossbender grew red in the face, “Ahh good,” she glanced at the rest of the patients, clutching her holotab with swollen fingers, “there’s one in every group.” She turned back to Tara Dean, “I’ve never liked the phrase, War on Booze, dear. It has such reprehensible connotations. I prefer to think of it as a public health initiative for freedom.”

  Tara Dean drew her legs into the chair, hugged her knees and glared back, “How does freedom involve locking people up?”

  “We live in a democracy, young lady. You know what that means?”

  “I might be a drunk, but I’m not retarded.”

  The nurse was unphased and cackled on, “That means the health of the many outweighs the selfish needs of the few.” She turned with self importance to address the class, “Alcohol has been outlawed for almost forty years for a reason. It destroys brain cells, poisons the liver, incites violence and is a gateway drug to harder substances like heroin and cocaine. So naturally, our benevolent approach, as a conscious society, is to get users the help and understanding they need in a safe, secure environment.”

  Tara Dean’s tongue lolled out of her mouth while her eyes crossed the whole time Nurse Fossbender spoke. She had tried to make a joke of it, but she was too furious and unable to listen. She jumped up as soon as the nurse got done talking and walked to the center of the room, hunching over so she was at eye level with the rest of the patients.

  Tara pointed enthusiastically to an elderly woman who looked like the dictionary reference holo for a grandmother, “Excuse me, ma’am. Have you ever done heroin?”

  The woman shook her head weakly.

  “No? That’s a shock!”

  Tara next pointed to an Indian boy, barely eighteen, who wore the expression of someone caught masturbating, “What about you, son? You look like you do cocaine for sure! Ever tried it?”

  “No, Dog no,” the boy said defensively.

  Nurse Fossbender’s voice peeled, “Patient Dean, that is quite enough! You cannot address the group unless the MC is talking to you directly!”

  Tara spun towards the nurse and flashed a jade eye of rage, “MC? What? You a rapper now?” She tu
rned back to the group, going down the line, “What about you, friend? Tried cocaine? No? What about you? Heroin? PCP? No?”

  The Indian boy said absently to the woman beside him, loud enough for all to hear, “I don’t even like smoking marijuana.”

  Tara Dean wheeled back to him, “Oh no! You’re in the wrong place now, son! Better learn to like that mary! Cause apparently you only got three options! Which is it gonna be? Weed, nicotine or coffee? All three? Now, what about you, buddy?!”

  The middle aged man in a crisp polo said, “Coffee makes me poop. I like Didrexastym.”

  Tara Dean spun on Nurse Fossbender and looked her square in the eye, “This guys likes styms! What? Speed’s okay since a doc pinged the dude a script? Someone please give me a float?! Bmod is a charade. And we’re the dupes paying for it!”

  Nurse Fossbender could have passed for an angry walrus, “Ms. Dean! Kindly return to your seat and I’ll be happy to tell you that yes, styms are acceptable if they’re prescribed by a physician. They assist citizens diagnosed with chronic fatigue syndrome. Addiction treatment is not a joke. It’s a public health service provided by the government for all North Americans who need it.”

  The two women squared off in the middle of the room, Tara Dean shouting right back, “Provided by the government? Until tax season rolls around and the rest of us have to foot the bill!”

  Several people in the group laughed out loud.

  “I mean tell me, nurse, why doesn’t the bill for a motorized heart transplant go on my taxes? That’s covered? But we have to pay for this crap out of our own pockets?!”

  Tara Dean had known herself long enough to realize when she had not only reached the line, but crossed it. Satisfying the fury of the moment was all that remained.

  Nurse Fossbender barked angrily, “Young lady you WILL sit down or I’ll be forced to call security. All we are asking for is an admission of guilt before moving on to the next…”

  Tara Dean interrupted, her own face turning red, “Admit that I’m guilty? Of violating a bullshit law?”

  “The law exists at the will of the people. Not your will, Ms. Dean. It’s a law designed to keep you from finding this sort of trouble in the first place!”

  “Horse crap!” scowled Tara. “Did you ever stop to think that maybe the law is the problem? Not us?” She swung her arm around gesturing to the whole group, “Maybe we work our asses off four days a week, pay our taxes, and when we get home we wanna make up our own minds about how to get high!”

  Nurse Fossbender took on the gaze of a rhino preparing to charge. “Enough!” she spat, eyes bulging. “Either you sit down or I ping security. Which is it?”

  Tara Dean sidled up until she was twelve cm from Nurse Fossbender’s nose. She had to look up to meet the big woman’s gaze. The nurse’s face was red and puffy.

  It made Tara happy to see the nurse shaking as she enunciated every word, “I’d rather spend 29 days in solitary than listen to you spew this regurgitated CNED filth.”

  Nurse Fossbender sniffled and raised her chin, looking admonishingly around the room, “Here we see firsthand the deleterious effects of alcohol induced psychosis.” She pulled her holotab free and made a couple of busy swipes, then looked straight at Tara Dean and spoke as though a dove was nesting on her tongue, “You pitiful thing. Even after twenty four hours in the hospital I can smell the booze on your breath.”

  All 50 kg of Tara Dean bowed up and got even closer to the nurse’s face, “Yeah Bertha? Well, I can smell your pussy from here. Maybe I should be the one pinging security since it smells fucking toxic, you fat cow!”

  That was it. Nurse Fossbender had dropped her holotab on the floor as Tara Dean said the words fat and cow. The whole room made an audible, Ooohh… at the sound of the device’s cracking glass.

  The nurse pressed the combud interface on her jaw to re-ping security and screamed, “You ungrateful little California slut! You WILL NOT disrupt my therapy group! Security has been notified! Kindly get out of my personal space before I lock you up and eat the key!” She pushed her finger into Tara Dean’s chest.

  Tara Dean latched onto the big woman’s arm and twisted, but the weight advantage belonged to Nurse Fossbender. She grabbed Tara Dean’s forearm and hurled her easily across the room, knocking over one horrified male patient and a couple of empty chairs folded against the wall.

  Tara Dean landed square on top of the man with her breasts in his face, “Sorry about that.”

  The man smiled like a fool, “Not a problem…”

  Nurse Fossbender made fists as she screamed at her combud again, “SECURITY! GROUP THERAPY SIX!”

  Tara Dean pushed herself off the fellow like he was part of the floor and charged. Voices and footsteps could be heard in the hall. Nurse Fossbender readied herself for another toss, but Tara Dean was small and fast.

  She spun behind and grabbed her red hair, causing the nurse to shriek wildly, “Cunttttt!”

  Nurse Fossbender tried to reach around and grab the girl, but Tara was too agile. Instead, Fossbender elected to fall over and pin this maniac patient to the floor. The two women tumbled sideways, knocking into Melky O’Brien and the Afghan, scrambling and scratching across the thin commercial carpet. Everyone in the room was on their feet shouting, light plastic chairs flying about as the two kicked and wrestled.

  The other patients began heckling as though it were a boxing match, “Ooh, that looked like it hurt! Damn! Momma nurse got that shit! Oh-oh! She bit her! She bit her!”

  The door’s security magnet scanned green, and two large men in all white uniforms pressed in past the circle of Bmod patients excitedly watching the fight. The orderlies grabbed Nurse Fossbender and Tara Dean to separate them.

  Another nurse and orderly appeared seconds later.

  The new nurse raised his hands and spoke emphatically to the patients, “Everyone, this meeting is over. Please return to your rooms.”

  The patients began to file out, each systematically looking over their shoulders at Tara Dean with awe as they passed single file into the hall.

  Tara was breathing heavily. Her t-shirt was ripped, and there was blood under her fingernails. Her cheek was bright red where she had been slapped by the wedding ring. In her right hand, she still clutched a fistful of wiry, red hair. The two orderlies detained her as a third grunted awkwardly, trying to help Nurse Fossbender get back on her feet.

  The orderlies held Tara Dean back as she howled, “Do I still smell like booze, bitch?”

  Nurse Fossbender stood cattywampus in one orange clog. Her oversize blouse was untucked, missing a couple of buttons, allowing her substantial, pale belly to hang out publicly. She had scratch marks on her neck and her eyeliner was running down her cheek in a great black smear. One of the orderlies bent over to pick up her other shoe and hand it to her.

  She grabbed the shoe and hissed at the man, “Lock Ms. Dean in her room for the duration of her stay. She’ll be handling her recovery in isolation.” She turned to leave, then grabbed the orderly’s wrist as an afterthought, “Mark, also, get an appraiser down here from IRS to assess the damage to the therapy room so we can make sure to add the expense to Ms. Dean’s claim.” Her eyes squinted malevolently, “I’m sure her mother will be pleased to pick up the tab.”

  The Lawrence Journal World – December 17, 2079 – CAR EXPLOSION / MUTILATION IN HOSPITAL DOCKING LOT. Your Ten-Sent Federal News by Martin Wringle, LJW

  Lawrence, KS – Fire Fighters and Sheriff’s Deputies were pinged to Douglas County’s Greystone Behavioral Modification Hospital shortly after three am this morning following reports that a hovcar had exploded in flames in the docking lot. Remote (drone) witnesses say the perpetrator, a Ms. Tara Dean, aged 25, from New Riverside, California, is suspected of using black market gasoline in the arson. Citizen Dean was released from Greystone Bmod December 15th after serving a standard thirty day rehabilitation for Level II Federal Citizen alcohol violations perpetrated in the state of California and has now been
re-institutionalized as an L3 violator by emergency Federal directive. Anonymous sources, citing complications in the patient-caregiver dynamic, assume that this arson was an act of reprisal against the owner of the hovcar, Greystone Bmod RN, Marlene Fossbender.

  Complicating events further, four organic German Shepherds used as guard dogs on the grounds of Greystone Medical were savagely mutilated in the minutes leading up to the hovcar’s explosion. Two human security guards were on their way to intercept the trespasser, Ms. Dean, when, as one guard (also speaking to us on condition of anonymity) stated, “We saw something black rushing along the perimeter fence. Our dogs went wild and gave chase, run off behind one of the out-buildings and next thing we hear this hideous yipping, then our dogs screaming, this noise, it was unnatural.”

  Chief of hospital security, Andy Gordon, says that by the time human guards arrived on the scene 45 seconds later, there was nothing left of the German Shepherds but bones, blood and fur. Chief Gordon is quoted directly: “These Sheps were tough, in… in the prime of life, so whatever killed them… I can’t, I’m sorry, no more questions.”

  At present there is no known connection between the arson event perpetrated by Tara Dean and the attack on Greystone Medical’s security staff.

  Thank you for reading today’s Ten-Sent Federal News – Sponsored by GEODRONE©

  January 2080 – Two Years Nine Months Before Event.

  Nurse Fossbender put her hand in the seam of Tara Dean’s hospital gown and ripped it open, exposing the girl’s breasts.

  She bent over and put one of the perfectly round nipples in her mouth, giving it a little suck while saying, “Do you like the way this feels as much as I do?”

  Tara Dean did her best under the bio-brace to keep her head turned away, still trying to focus on her blue jeans hanging in the closet. The vocal inhibitor on the side of her neck burned. It felt like a stale biscuit lodged in her esophagus. No matter what happened, blue would always be her favorite color. A thin trail of saliva from the woman’s mouth rolled down the soft curve of chin flesh and soaked into the fabric of Tara’s gown.