The Prison

by Amy Cross

  “What's her name?” Amanda asked.

  “I think you know her name.”

  “But... Is this Chris?”

  “Christine Bradford,” the doctor replied, making her way over to the bed. “I couldn't tell anyone about it, because I wanted to buy myself some time. The poor girl has suffered so horrendously, she went through so much pain before I managed to sedate her. Her father came to look for her, you know, but we had to send him away empty-handed. He'll be back at some point, I'm sure, but hopefully by then I'll be able to be honest with him. I want to be able to give him some good news about his daughter.”

  “What happened to her?” Amanda asked, hurrying over to the bed and looking down at the white bandage that was covering Chris's face. A small amount of blood had begun to leak through already, and it was clear from the shape of the bandage that sections of flesh around the nose and cheeks were missing.

  “She's a drug addict,” Doctor Bell continued. “That's the root cause of her problems. She was placed into isolation on her first night here, and she was properly restrained using all the usual procedures but still... She literally fought so hard to get her hands free that she de-gloved herself and scratched most of her face away. That's not even something I ever believed could be possible.” She held up one of her own plastic-gloved hands. “Somewhat ironic, don't you think?”

  “Why would she do that?”

  “The mind of the drug addict is very difficult to understand. My best guess is that she hallucinated something that filled her with terror, in which case we might find, even if we're able to bring her around, that her mind is damaged beyond repair. There are, I believe, some sights that, once seen, can never be forgotten.” Reaching down, she brushed the hair from across Chris's bandage. “It's not a very popular thing to say, but all lives have a point of no return. Cross that point, and you can never get back to how you thought your life was going to be.”

  “But you told her father -”

  “I'm not a bad person,” she continued. “Really, I'm not, I just couldn't tell him what had happened, not while I had no hope to offer. You see, I blame myself for this, I should have done more for the poor girl. It's not my fault that she's a heroin user, of course, but once she was in my care, I really should have done whatever was necessary to save her from herself, and now I feel an obligation to help her, to fix her somehow...” She paused, before turning to Amanda. “You can't tell anyone about this. Even the governor thinks that poor Chris is dead. I needed to buy myself some time.”

  “Can't you send her somewhere else? Maybe a specialist facility -”

  “I can do everything for her here. I change her bandage daily, I monitor her vital signs, I spend hours online looking for anything that might help. So far, however, all I can manage is keep the poor girl from feeling too much pain.” She paused again, before taking a roll of bandages and a pair of scissors from her pocket and setting them on the side of the bed. “I need to show you how to do this, so that you can do it sometimes, when my hands are particularly bad.”

  “Do what?” Amanda asked cautiously.

  “You'll see,” she continued, pulling off the pieces of tape that were keeping the bandage in place over Chris's face. “My hands,” she muttered, “they're not able to perform delicate work, especially not when the temperature is low, they kind of seize up...” After a moment, she began to lift the bandage away, revealing the horrifically destroyed face beneath. There were still pools of blood in Chris's eye sockets, but the rest of her face was a red-and-pink mess of torn and churned flesh, with clear liquid seeping from some of the deeper wounds, running down and staining the bed-sheet a pale yellow color.

  Instinctively, Amanda took a step back.

  “Cell plasma,” the doctor said quietly, keeping her voice hushed. “The damage is immense.”

  “How can she even be alive like that?”

  “Think of it as a much bigger version of that girl's knee from earlier,” Doctor Bell continued, taking a small bottle of clear liquid and dripping some of its contents directly onto Chris's face. “This is the same iodine solution, in fact. We're looking to prevent infections while promoting the optimum conditions for regrowth. It's not easy, and obviously regrowth in this context means little more than the formation of scar tissue, although there's no hope for the wound to close itself, there simply isn't enough skin left. A graft might be possible, though. The aesthetic results would be poor, but it could form the foundation for more extensive reconstructive surgery in the future. Given time, anything is possible, or at least that's what I keep telling myself.”

  Setting the bottle aside, she began to unwind a section of bandage from the roll.

  “At first I drained the eye-sockets, but they just filled up again so I decided to leave them like this. I honestly don't know what I'm going to do about them in the long-run, but look...” She took a pair of tweezers and, with her trembling right hand, dipped the tip into the pool of blood that had filled Chris's right eye-socket. A moment later, she pulled the tweezers out again, this time with a small white-and-yellow string-like item clamped in place. “This is all that's left of the optic nerve on the right side,” she explained, holding the strand above the surface of the blood-pool for a moment before letting go and allowing it to sink back beneath the surface. “I'm praying that as medical science advances, something might be possible. The deterioration is far worse on the other side.”

  Carefully, she placed a section of gauze over Chris's face, and then a fresh white piece of fabric.

  “So you change this every day?” Amanda asked, sickened by the sight but unable to look away.

  “Every day.” She took a roll of tape from her breast pocket and began to fix the bandage in place. “Do you think, in future, you might be able to take over?”

  “You want me to do all of that?”

  “It would help me a great deal. It would also help Christine, obviously.” She stared at Amanda for a moment. “You can do it, you know. You've already shown great aptitude, and this might seem rather forward but... I believe in you.”

  “But this is an actual medical procedure,” Amanda pointed out. “I don't know if -”

  “Relax,” she replied, taking a syringe from the shelf and filling it with a clear liquid. “I'm not asking you to do anything too invasive. I'll still administer the injections.” With that, she slid the needle into the side of Chris's neck and depressed the plunger.

  “What's that for?” Amanda asked.

  “Just a pain-killer. Nothing more.” She pulled the needle out again, as Chris let out a faint moan.

  “Is she conscious?”

  “Not to any useful degree. She responds to certain external stimuli, but -”

  She paused as Chris moaned again.

  “What's she doing?” Amanda continued, feeling a shiver pass through her body.

  “It's probably just a reflex action. Trust me, she can't feel any pain, not while I'm giving her the injections.” A faint smile crossed the doctor's lip. “Well, not that we can detect, anyway. One can never truly know what is happening in the mind of a patient who has suffered such injuries.”

  “I really don't know if I can do this,” Amanda told her. “I mean, it's -”

  “There was a fire,” the doctor said suddenly, interrupting her.

  “A fire?”

  Slowly, Doctor Bell began to remove her plastic gloves, until her scarred and damaged hands were bare.

  “It happened when I was at university,” she continued. “There was a terrible fire in the dorm room, it took hold in a matter of minutes. My roommate was trapped, I could get out but I couldn't bring myself to leave her there, not when she was screaming, so I tried to reach through the flames and help her. The pain was intense, like nothing else I've ever experienced, but what else could I do? She was my best friend. Even though I could feel my skin burning away, I had to keep trying. Eventually the fire response team arrived and pulled me back. I was screaming, not because of the pain but bec
ause I wanted them to let me try again. I had to go through six months of agonizing work to restore my hands, and my plan to become a surgeon was ruined. For a while, it seemed as if I might never be able to use my fingers properly again, but in fact I've recovered a great deal of use.”

  She held her hands out and turned them so that Amanda could see the full extent of the damage. Wincing slightly, she clenched her fists briefly before opening them again.

  “I wear the gloves because I don't want people to see them,” she added. “However, if we're going to be working together... Touch them, please.”

  Not wanting to cause offense, Amanda reached out and took the doctor's hands in hers, holding them for a moment.

  “Are you disgusted?”

  “No,” Amanda said quickly. “I'm just... What happened to your friend? The one you were trying to save?”

  “She burned to death, screaming in agonizing pain.”

  Pulling her hands away, she began to slip them into a new set of plastic gloves.

  “I'm sorry,” Amanda told her, “I can't imagine what that must have been like.”

  “I still dream about it sometimes,” the doctor replied, “but the biggest problem, as you've seen, is the trembling. That's why... Well, it would just be very useful if you could take over a few of these jobs for me. I don't really know what possessed Mr. Dunne to bring you to work with me, but he seems to have been very astute. I think you'll fit in extremely well here. If you're willing to do so, at least.”

  “Of course,” Amanda replied, looking down at the bandage on Chris's face, which was already starting to show a hint of blood leaking through the fabric. “I can do this,” she said finally. “Totally. Maybe you could watch me the first time, tomorrow, but after that... I'm happy to do anything that might help.”

  “You have no idea how glad I am to hear you say that,” the doctor told her. “For now, however, I think we should leave the patient alone. There's always a chance she can hear us, and it must be awfully distressing for her.” Leading Amanda back to the door, she stopped and looked over at the bed again. “I will find a way to help this poor girl,” she added. “Even if it has to be my life's work, I will save her.”

  With that, she switched off the light and shut the door, leaving Chris once more in darkness. After a moment, a faint moan came from under the bandage.

  Three years ago

  “I remember feeling... strange,” Emma said as she sat in the psychiatrist's office, “and then, I don't know, I just felt this urge to...”

  She paused, staring into space.

  “Go on,” the psychiatrist said after a moment.

  “I just felt... no, I knew that I... I had to do it. I didn't have a choice, it was like I was a robot and suddenly someone had changed my programming.”

  “And do you think you're a robot?”

  She shook her head.

  “Has anything like this ever happened to you before, Emma?”

  She shook her head again.

  “And this urge to kill your boyfriend... It just popped into your head?”

  “It was like a switch,” she replied, “and then as soon as it was over, it switched back and I saw what I'd done.”

  “And how did you feel at that moment?”

  He waited for a reply, but Emma seemed lost for a moment, as if she was reliving every painful second of her experience.

  “Emma,” he said finally, “how did you feel when you saw what had happened to Brad? What was the first thought that came into your mind?”

  “It should have been me,” she said, turning to him. “He was the most wonderful man in the world. I'm the one who should be dead. I should have used the knife on myself.”

  “I really don't think that's a healthy way to look at things,” the psychiatrist said, before hearing a knock at the door. Turning, he saw one of his colleagues waving for him. “Just wait here a moment, Emma,” he continued, setting his folder down and getting to his feet. “I just need to speak to someone.”

  Emma watched as he made his way out of the room. Through the small glass panel, she could see them talking, and she was convinced that she must be the topic of their conversation. Looking over at the psychiatrist's pen, she noticed that the lid featured a sharp, tapering edge. She leaned over and grabbed the pen, removing the lid and running the tip of her finger against it. Realizing that she didn't have long, she decided this was probably going to be her only chance: she began to gouge the sharp end of the lid into her neck, with enough force that after just a few seconds she'd already managed to break through the skin.

  “No!” the psychiatrist shouted, spotting what she was doing and rushing back in to stop her. “Emma! Give me that!”

  Grinning, she continued to cut.

  Today

  “Lights out!” the guard shouted. “Into your cells, ladies. Time to get your beauty sleep! Some of you need it a great deal more than others!”

  “Don't leave me!” Emma hissed, grabbing Robin's hand.

  “I don't have a choice!”

  “You can't leave me alone in here!”

  “Em -”

  “Maybe we can explain to them,” she continued desperately, with tears in her eyes. “Tell them something, tell them anything, even the truth, just don't leave me alone in here tonight! They'll understand, right? If we just tell them what happened, they can't just leave me to die!”

  “You're going to be fine,” Robin replied, trying to help her stay calm. “The most important thing is that you stop letting yourself get hysterical. There's no ghostly little girl and nothing's going to happen to you. Just focus on getting a good night's sleep, and try not to magnify every bump in the night until it seems like something awful. The human mind can really twist things, you know.”

  “Don't go, please,” Emma continued, following her to the door and finally grabbing her arm, as if to physically prevent her from leaving the cell. “We have to find a way for you to stay!”

  “Em -”

  “Hide! Just hide under my bed! They won't notice!”

  “Ladies,” Ferguson said as he reached the door, “I hate to interrupt, but you'll have to finish whatever you're doing in the morning.” He sniffed derisively. “What's up, we got a budding romance going on, have we? I never would have guessed that you were each other's types, but I suppose it's a free world.”

  “Emma's just a little jumpy,” Robin explained, “and I was trying to calm her down.”

  “Well, it's lights out now,” Ferguson said, reaching out and pulling Emma's hand away from Robin's arm, “so you'll have to pick things up in the morning.”

  “I can't sleep alone,” Emma told him, as her level of panic continued to rise. “I'm sick, I'll die!”

  “What's wrong with you this time? You've already had one trip to the medical unit today.”

  “Nothing's wrong,” Robin interjected, “she just... Is there no way she can be moved to a shared cell for the night? I know it's against protocol, but if an exception could be made...”

  “Give it a rest,” Ferguson replied, turning to Emma. “Get in there. Now!”

  “Please,” Emma whimpered, with tears running down her face, “don't do this! I don't want to be alone in there! You can't make me!”

  “I can't make you?” he asked, pushing her back into the cell. “Really? Are you actually aware of where you are, eh? It's a prison, and I'm a guard. I bloody well can make you stay in there.” With that, he stepped back and swung the door shut, ignoring Emma's attempts to force it back open. “You want my advice? Sleep it off. Things'll seem much better in the morning.”

  “No!” Emma screamed, banging on the inside of the door. “You can't do this! She's going to come for me!”

  “Is this more of that ghost bollocks?” Ferguson asked, smiling as he closed the cover on the little glass window. Turning to Robin, he grabbed her arm and began to lead her back to her own cell. “God, you women really do sit around nattering about crap, don't you?”

  “Can you d
o me a favor?” Robin asked. “Can you at least get the night-watch to check on her regularly?”

  “We check on all of you every three hours. That's more than enough.”

  “Check on her more,” Robin continued. “She's... She's scared, and I'm scared for her.”

  “You think she's gonna get a visit from the gray lady, do you?”

  “I think she could get so wound up that she hurts herself. Listen to her, for God's sake!”

  Stopping, Ferguson looked back along the corridor. Emma could still be heard banging on her cell door and desperately calling out for help. Her cries were echoes throughout the wing, and even with the door closed it was clear that she'd be causing a disturbance.

  “There's nothing we can do for her,” Ferguson said finally. “She's just gonna have to learn not to be afraid of the dark, isn't she?”

  ***

  A couple of hours later, curled up in the corner of her dark cell, Emma stared at the door. She'd spent so long crying out for help that her voice had begun to become hoarse, and finally she'd decided to sit in the corner, hoping against hope that somehow the ghost might not notice her if it came.

  And now she was waiting.

  She barely even dared to blink, convinced that at any moment one of the shadows in the room would shift its form and take the shape of the same little girl she'd seen earlier. In her mind, she kept replaying that moment over and over, thinking back to the way the girl's eyes had seemed to look directly into her soul.

  “Why me?” she whispered eventually. “What do you want with me? I never did anything to you, I never did anything to deserve this. There are so many people here, why are you coming after me?”

  She waited, her eyes darting about the room, looking for even the faintest hint of a presence.