The Sinner Program

by B L Teschner

  The Sinner Program

  B.L. Teschner

  The Sinner Program

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2018 by B.L. Teschner

  ASIN: B07L8LLJ3V

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. No part of this material or artwork may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including but not limited to photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of the author.

  * * *

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  One

  Toby

  My forehead pressed against the back window of my mom’s silver BMW as I took in the sight of what would be my new home for the following two weeks. Mendukiah Lunatic Asylum was what it was called, or at least that was its name back when it first opened in 1891. I looked it up online but couldn’t find much other than what it was referred to as now, which was the Mendukiah Center for Healing. The name didn’t matter to me. The fact was that my parents were sending me to an insane asylum to take part in some ridiculous course known as The Sinner Program. I looked up the program online as well and saw that whatever it entailed, it had a one hundred percent success rate. There were rave reviews from parents who said their out of control teens were completely changed in the short two-week period they were there. Other than that, the information given on their website was minimal, as if they didn’t want anyone else to know the secrets to their trade. The program didn’t come cheap, either: fifty thousand dollars per “patient”. Referring to us as patients made me cringe, but apparently since we were being rehabilitated through a psychiatric-like program—in an old insane asylum, nonetheless—it was the preferred label.

  My dad opened the door and my forehead peeled away, leaving a greasy print on the window. He sighed and plucked the handkerchief from the front pocket of his suit, blending the smudge away into the glass. “It’s a good thing your mother wasn’t the one who opened your door; she would have a fit seeing what you did to her window. Don’t you wash your face?”

  I rolled my eyes and scooted off the seat, standing up beside him. “Yeah, Dad, I wash my face. Mom insists on driving in a sauna; I’m sweating.”

  “What do I insist on doing?” my mom called out as she came around to where we were standing.

  I reached back into the seat for my backpack and luggage before shutting the door. “Driving with the heater on even when it’s warm out.”

  “I like to feel cozy.” She stood in front of me with her arms crossed over her bright-red blazer jacket. “Now you behave yourself,” she said, her eyes looking me up and down with disappointment. “It’s not a cheap two weeks you’ll be spending here.”

  I pulled my backpack onto one shoulder. “Then take me home. You know I don’t need this program.”

  “Don’t tell your mother what you don’t need,” my dad interjected, his face set in stone. “You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t smoke pot like an idiot.”

  “It was one time, Dad.”

  “I don’t care. You’re going into your senior year of high school, and we’re not going to sit back and let you piss away your chance at receiving a football scholarship.”

  “But we have the money to send me to college without a scholarship…”

  “Yes,” my mom agreed. “We have the money; not you. You’ve been nothing but a disappointment to us recently. If you want to go to college then you need to work hard for it. And the only thing you do well is play football, so don’t blow it, because we’re done with handouts.”

  “Especially to a pothead,” my dad added.

  I bit the inside of my lip, trying to hold in the anger I was feeling. Everyone makes mistakes. I smoked pot one single time with friends and ended up getting caught. After that, my parents treated me like a felon. Years of being their golden child with unlimited possibilities was shot away because of a moment of peer pressure. And now I was worthless in their eyes. I never understood how they could suddenly become so cold to their only child, and I hated them for it.

  My mom sighed and dropped her hands to her hips. “Well, let’s get this over with, shall we? The faster you get help, the faster we can move on from this embarrassing snag in our family.” She turned around and looked up at the large building that towered menacingly in front of us. “Just look at that architecture. Beautiful.”

  My eyes cut up at the ominous structure. It was three stories high—not including the thick slab of concrete it was sitting on—and was made of original red brick that was in good shape despite its age. Steeples of various sizes sprung up from the roof and reached into the clear blue sky, making the building appear even taller than it was. A wide concrete staircase ascended the middle and ended at large wooden double doors that were nestled between white intricate columns, the doors themselves open to the public in a welcoming gesture like a mother’s arms beckoning her children. But I wasn’t fooled; this place was no refuge.

  My parents walked ahead of me as I readjusted my backpack on my shoulder and took the handle of my rolling suitcase, pulling it behind me. As I followed them I took the time to admire the landscape. At least that part of the “Center for Healing” was welcoming. Green lush lawns surrounded us and stretched far around the building in all directions. There were smaller trees that gave an ample amount of shade scattered around; large hydrangea bushes hugged along the front in random places, their bluish hue standing out brightly against the brick. It was serene in its own way.

  My mom’s red high heels clicked loudly as she climbed the staircase to the open doors, drawing my attention back ahead of me. That was when I saw the girl. She looked close to my age, and had brown hair that cascaded down her back, a slight breeze moving it as she stood on the top step, looking off into the distance like it was the last time she was going to see the light of day ever again. A woman standing in the doorway, who I assumed was her mom, called out and tried to jerk her focus away from whatever it was she was concentrating on. The girl snapped her head back in her mom’s direction and pulled her bag along behind her, hurrying inside. I didn’t know who she was, but I knew without a doubt that I wanted to find her once I got settled in.

  The wheels of my suitcase bounced up each step as I made it to the top and followed my parents through the entrance; I was immediately met with the smell of fresh paint. A metal detector stood tall right inside, along with a security guard who was manning it and searching the patients’ belongings. He opened the bag of a kid my age and took out a cell phone, handing it then to the kid’s mom, who in turn stuck it in her purse while shooting a frown at her son.

  I watched the mystery girl as she passed through the detector without setting it off. The guard searched her bag and came up empty-handed before letting her carry it away.

  “No cell phones, cameras, gaming devices, or recreational drugs of any kind,” the guard clarified as I handed him my suitcase and slid my backpack from my back, setting it down by his feet. “Any pharmaceutical drugs must be cleared by Dr. Sigtile and kept with the staff.”

  “Yeah, we read the rules,” I
said flatly as I passed through the detector.

  My parents followed behind me. “We made sure to check his belongings,” my mom chirped happily to the disagreeable guard as he performed his search.

  He ignored her and zipped up my suitcase, rolling it to the side. After an examination of the contents of my backpack, he handed it to me and sent us on our way, focusing on the next person in line behind us.

  Straight ahead was a woman sitting at a large antique wooden desk and she wore a welcoming grin as the mystery girl and her mother stepped up to her to register.

  As we quietly got in line and waited our turn, I took the free time to analyze my surroundings. From up one side of the hallway and down the next, the floors were covered with that plain hospital-style tile that didn’t really compliment any room. The antique-white walls were most likely the source of the fresh paint smell, and they were lined with generic paintings of flowers and landscapes that looked like they were done by an amateur artist. Antique chandeliers hung from the ceilings every fifteen or so feet, their bulbs glowing with a romantic light. Overall the first impression of the building radiated a soothing charm.

  I watched the other families with their problem teenagers scatter about the halls with rolling luggage and backpacks while they explored the different rooms. My mom muttered something to my dad about how delightful the ambiance was around us, whatever the hell that meant. I didn’t really care, because my new focus was the mystery girl in front of us. The woman with the large smile pointed up the hall. As the girl turned away from the desk she looked over in my direction, her green eyes stopping my heart mid-beat as she planted them on me. They were beautiful; I only wished they didn’t look so sad. A small smile tilted up the corner of her lips as her mom hurried her along.

  And that was that.

  My parents stepped up to the desk and I followed suit. The woman’s teeth beamed with an unnatural whiteness as she straightened her posture and leaned forward. “The Mendukiah Center for Healing welcomes you,” she greeted us with some sort of a southern accent. “My name is Jan; I’m the head secretary here. This is the welcome desk. My job is to help get you settled into your new dwellings.” Her happy eyes cut over to me. “Can I get your name, please?”

  I cleared my throat. “Yeah, uh, it’s Toby. Toby Red.”

  She dropped her head to a stack of papers on her desk and thumbed through it. After finding my name, she pulled it out and handed it to my mom. “I know you already signed the electronic agreement when you enrolled Toby online, but we need both you and your husband’s signatures on this consent form.”

  “What was this regarding again?” my dad asked while peering down at the paper from over my mom’s shoulder.

  “It’s giving us consent to treat Toby in our therapy program. It also states that you will under no circumstances come back on the grounds until the scheduled day to pick him up once he has completed treatment.”

  “Under no circumstances,” my mom chuckled down at the paper. “What if there’s a death in the family?”

  “Yes, we’ve had cases such as death come up. You are certainly able to call our facility and see if your child is available to speak. But you have to understand that if they are in a very fragile part of their recovery, then we won’t allow you to speak until the staff believes it won’t cause any disruption to them or the other patients.”

  My mom’s eyes left the page and went back to Jan. “Oh, that’s right. I remember reading something about being sued, isn’t that correct?”

  “Sued?” my dad blurted. “For what?”

  Jan smiled. “By signing the consent form you agree to abide by the no contact rule and if that rule is broken you will be sued by our facility for the interruption of our program and the healing of other patients.”

  My dad frowned as my mom took a pen from Jan’s desk and penned her name. “Seems a bit excessive,” he said before taking the pen from her and signing himself.

  Jan’s smile widened. “Yes, I’m sure it does. But you have to understand that the patients here become a family and are connected in deep ways throughout the duration of our program. If you remove your son before his therapy is over, you risk damaging his recovery as well as damaging the progression of other patients. It’s not just about Toby.”

  “I’m fine with a two-week break,” my mom said, sliding the paper back to Jan.

  My dad chuckled. “I’m with you.”

  “Can Toby call us if he needs to?” my mom asked.

  “Unfortunately, no. But we will certainly call you in case of an emergency.”

  “He’ll be fine, honey,” my dad assured her.

  Jan slid the paper into a folder of other signed consent forms. “Now, let’s see where they assigned you to sleep.” Her finger slid down a list of names that were typed on a sheet of paper and taped onto her desk. “Ah, there you are. Your bed will be located in room 2A, which is on the second floor; there are staircases at each end of the hall to get up there.” She looked up at me with a smile. “Just mosey on in there and find whatever bed is open; they’re unassigned.”

  “We’re all in the same room?” I asked, my eyebrows raising.

  Before she could respond, a group of teens and parents walked toward us who were being led by a woman who seemed to be important. My suspicions were right, because Jan rose from her chair and fanned her hand out in her direction. “Ah, perfect timing!” she beamed. “This is Martha Bane; she’s the head of the program.”

  My parents stared at her like she was the Dalai Lama. “It’s so wonderful to meet you,” my mom said first, extending her manicured hand to meet hers.

  “Oh, the pleasure is mine,” Martha said as she shook back.

  “It sounds like you have one heck of a great program here,” my dad put in. “Fantastic building and grounds.”

  “Yes, thank you. We pride ourselves in modernizing the structure while keeping the integrity of it. This building has been in my family for generations.” Her eyes cut over to me and she extended me her aged hand. “And who do I have the pleasure of meeting here?”

  “Toby Red,” I replied as I hesitantly took her hand in mine and gave it a solid shake before letting it go.

  That was the last time I wanted to ever touch that woman again. There was just something about her that I didn’t trust, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on, but I knew it existed somewhere in her soul. She was probably in her sixties, and she was tall and thin with salt-and-pepper-colored hair that was pulled back tightly in some sort of a girly twist. She had on a navy-blue skirt suit with lower high heels, much lower than what my mom wore, and her face was covered in makeup. It was the bright red lipstick that put me off the most. It stood out unflatteringly around her slightly-yellowed teeth and had even transferred a bit onto her front tooth. I couldn’t stop looking at it. To make myself look away I focused down at the two chain necklaces she was wearing on her neck. One held a silver whistle and the other had an old skeleton key dangling from it.

  Martha noticed my gaze and looked down, placing her fingers on top of it. “Ah, you noticed my key. It’s very old; original to this building. It’s a family heirloom of sorts.” I nodded as she faced the open front doors. “Would you like to join the group for a tour of the outside grounds? I will be going over some history of our building here.”

  “Um, no thanks. I think I’m just going to find my—”

  “We would love to,” my mom interrupted, eyeing me with that irked look I was coming to know so well. She nudged me forward. “Let’s go.”

  As we intertwined with the group it was easy to see the difference between the parents and teenagers. The parents were all happy and hanging on every word Martha had to say, honestly believing that some stupid two-week program was going to remedy any problems their so called “sinning” children had. The teens—myself included—were opposite, our faces pulled down with frowns, arms crossed, shoulders slumped. We knew we were in for two weeks of hell.

  “We have tennis c
ourts and a large in-ground swimming pool for the patients to enjoy after their counseling sessions,” Martha explained as she pointed to the large brick building as if we could see through it. “They are in the back. I will show them to you on our tour, but parents, please feel free to explore them more closely before leaving today. We take pride in the many extracurricular activities we offer here.” She clasped her hands in front of her as she continued to slowly walk the grounds. “Would you all like to hear a little history lesson?”

  “I know I would,” the father of one of the patients said, to which the other parents nodded and vocalized their enthusiasm.

  Martha took a moment to look over her shoulder at them with a grin. “Good; I love telling it.” She faced forward again. “This wonderful building with its many helpful and healing programs was founded by my great-grandfather, Richard Baxten, back in eighteen ninety-one. It has been in my family for generations.”

  “Wasn’t it a lunatic asylum?” I asked from the back of the group.

  My mom’s head cranked back over her shoulder at me, her lips set in a hard line. I couldn’t help myself, though; I had questions.

  Martha didn’t skip a beat. “Ah, yes, you’ve done your research. The eighteen hundreds were a very different time, one which used language that wouldn’t be acceptable by today’s standards. That’s why my family eventually changed the name of the facility to one more acceptable for today’s time, the Mendukiah Center for Healing. Now, isn’t that much better?”

  The parents chuckled.

  Martha snickered along with them as we rounded the corner of the building and walked along its shaded side. “Originally it housed up to three hundred patients at its fullest capacity. My great-grandfather ran an amazing facility that helped many people who suffered from lunacy. Patients came from all over the country to live here. It became so popular that he expanded it to house fifteen hundred patients. But when he passed away in nineteen twenty, the facility closed temporarily. His brother, my great-uncle Leonard Baxten, eventually re-opened it in nineteen twenty-five and decided he wanted to devote his time strictly to ones with the most severe mental and behavioral problems. He also lowered the number of patients to about five hundred to be sure they were each given an adequate amount of attention.”