by Amy Cross
"Hey, Annie," says Nurse Perry, who happens to be walking past as I emerge from my room. She stops and smiles, staring at me with her one good eye. Her other eye is gone, replaced by a bloody, pulpy red mess with a clear dark slit where the knife went into her head. It's hard not to think back to the feeling of the blade slicing through the eye and breaking through bone as it entered her brain. "How are you feeling?" she asks.
"I'm okay," I say, feeling a little dazed. That new pill seems to have really taken some of my energy away. "I napped."
"That's good," she replies. "You've had a big day."
"Are you alright?" I ask.
"Me?" She seems surprised that I asked, and for a moment she doesn't seem to know what to say. "Of course I am," she continues. "I'm always alright." She puts a hand on my shoulder. There's something comforting about Nurse Perry, as if she genuinely cares about her patients. "Do you know something, Annie? In all the time I've been at Lakehurst, I don't think a patient has ever asked me if I'm okay. You're a very special and kind young woman, do you realize that?"
I stare at her. It's impossible to stop looking at that bloody mess that I caused when I stabbed her. I swear I thought she was dead as the car hit the tree, but now she's walking around as if nothing happened. I'm a little sore in my neck, but otherwise I seem to have got out of the accident remarkably unscathed as well.
"Is your eye okay?" I ask eventually.
"My eye?" she asks, and I see a flicker of recognition cross her face. It's as if she knows what I'm talking about, but she refuses to acknowledge what happened. "My eye's fine, thank you Annie. Both of them, in fact. Why do you ask?"
"Just..." I pause for a moment. "No reason," I continue. "I just... I just wondered."
She smiles. "It's grits for dinner, Annie," she says. "You like grits, don't you?"
I nod. It's a lie, but I figure there's no point causing unnecessary friction.
"If you're still hungry after you've eaten your portion and you want more, don't be afraid to ask. You need all the strength you can get."
"Okay," I say.
"I'll see you in there," she says.
"I'm sorry about Dr. Campbell," I say suddenly.
She looks sad for a moment. "There was nothing anyone could do," she replies. "He's in peace now." She turns and walks away, heading through to the kitchen, leaving me to wander into the main recreation room.
"Dinner'll be five minutes," says one of the guards as I walk past him. I head across the room and eventually I find another of the patients, a girl named Amanda, sitting and staring out the window. I haven't really spoken to Amanda much. She arrived a few weeks ago, during the period when I was almost catatonic following my first bout of special treatment. I still haven't quite decided what I think about her, although she seems friendly enough.
"Do you see them?" she asks, not looking up at me. Her eyes are fixed on the view outside.
I look out at the garden. I see the large, open green lawn, and the trees in the distance, and the sky above. It's just the same as every day. "What?" I ask.
"The birds," she replies.
I squint, to try and see what she's talking about, but there don't seem to be any birds out there. "Are they in the trees?" I ask.
She laughs. "They're flying around," she says. "Can't you see them arcing and wheeling across the sky?" I can tell from the delighted look on her face that she really, truly believes she's watching birds flying outside. I guess she must be nuts after all. "There are so many of them," she says. "They look so happy and free. Can you imagine what it must be like to be a bird?"
I look up, but I don't see any birds. "I don't see them," I reply.
"What's wrong with you?" She asks. "Are you blind? There are so many of them. They're beautiful. I think they're crows."
I stand and stare out the window a little longer, hoping that I might suddenly be able to see these crows that Amanda insists are out there. But there's nothing. Either she's imagining a flock of birds, or I'm imagining a clear sky. I wouldn't like to have to guess which of us is right: we're just two crazy people, disagreeing on what they're seeing.
"Dinner!" calls out a voice from the other end of the room.
"Do you think they'd mind if I stay here?" Amanda asks, looking at me with concern. "I'm not hungry, and I'd rather watch the birds."
"You should probably come through," I say as the other patients shuffle off to the dining room. "They're pretty insistent that we need to eat. You don't want to get singled out for special treatment."
She smiles. "I've never had special treatment," she says. "What's it like? I've heard bad things about it."
I stare at her for a moment. Everyone ends up getting special treatment eventually. "It's pretty inevitable," I say. "It's not so great."
"That's what everyone else says," she replies. "Have you had it?"
I nod.
"And?"
I shrug. "It's not something you want to encourage. You should just come through to dinner."
"But I want to watch the birds," she insists. She has an almost childlike tone in her voice, and it makes me feel sorry for her because Lakehurst definitely isn't the kind of place for innocent, childlike people.
"There aren't any birds," I reply. "There really aren't."
"Just because you can't see them," she says, staring out the window again, "doesn't mean they're not there. I mean, you're crazy."
"Do what you like," I say, heading through to the dining room. What else can I do? I tried to give her some friendly advice, but she threw it back in my face. It's not my problem if she wants to sit and stare at a load of imaginary birds. Sooner or later she'll attract Nurse Winter's attention and then she'll be sent down to the basement for special treatment. It's not my job to help every new arrival.
I get my food, which doesn't seem particularly appetizing, and then I sit alone while I eat. I prefer to avoid socializing with the other patients, and to be fair most of them are also loners. There's not much chatter, that's for sure. Everyone seems kind of nervous of everyone else, maybe because we've all seen how easily violence can flare up around here.
After a few minutes, I look up and see Nurse Perry gently guiding Amanda through to get her food. Glancing at me, Amanda looks annoyed as she's handed a plate. She goes and sits at the end of one of the benches, far away from everyone else. I guess she wasn't allowed to sit and watch the imaginary birds after all.
Nurse Winter
Middlebridge College. 1998.
I take a good, long swig from the bottle of vodka. I have to admit: I've missed this feeling. The way the ice-cold vodka floods down through my body is a feeling that can't be replicated by anything else. Not even sex. I close my eyes, imagining the alcohol entering my bloodstream. Okay, I know that as a recovering alcoholic I shouldn't be doing this, but it's just a one-off and I deserve it: Adam's death has left me shaken and disturbed, even if I know deep down that it was nothing to do with me.
"You sharing?" Rachel asks. We're sitting on the grass outside the college building. It's gone midnight and the whole place is deserted. I pass her the bottle, which is about a third empty.
"Are you sure there won't be a security patrol?" I ask, glancing around at the darkness that surrounds us.
"Who knows?" Rachel says between sips. "It's not a problem."
We sit in silence for a moment. I've got something to tell Rachel, but I'm waiting for the right moment. After all, Rachel has been searching for a job for months, with no success. "So I've found a place that's hiring," I say eventually, taking the bottle back from her. I wait to see if she'll react, but she just stares at me. "It's Lakehurst Psychiatric Hospital. You heard of it?"
"No," she says. Her voice sounds blank, as if she's trying to conceal any emotion. I'm pretty certain, though, that she must be insanely jealous.
"Yeah, it's out of state," I go on. "Adam mentioned that I should apply, and I was going to, and then this guy named Campbell phoned me up from out of nowhere. He said Adam ha
d recommended me, and the job's mine if I want it."
"Did you accept?" she asks.
"Yeah," I reply.
She pauses. "That's brilliant!" she says eventually, and she looks genuinely happy for me. She reaches over and we hug for a moment. "You deserve it," she says.
"You'll find a job soon," I say as we pull out of the hug and I take another swig of vodka. I give her the bottle. "We've still got a few months before we graduate. That's plenty of time."
"Yeah yeah," she says, drinking some more vodka. "I know." The way she says it, though, tells me that she doesn't believe she'll have much luck. Her greatest fear, she once told me, is that she'll finish her nursing course and still not get a job. I really hope that's not the case.
"Hey," I say, trying to cheer her up, "maybe I'll be able to hook you up once I'm there. If you still need something."
"Yeah," she replies non-committally, "that'd be cool." She pauses for a moment. "It's weird," she continues, "but if Adam called up that place and recommended you, it must have been one of the last things he did before... you know."
"I guess," I say, not wanting to dwell on the subject of Adam's last moments.
"It still creeps me out," she continues. "I mean, look over there." She gestures toward the college building. "He died in there, Kirsten. He fucking died. Eaten to death by a bunch of birds." She looks around at the darkness behind us. "They could be out there now. Maybe they'll eat us next." She pauses for a moment, for effect, before starting to laugh. "What do you think? Do we need to fear the carnivorous birds of Middlebridge?"
I smile. "You've been watching too many Hitchcock films."
"Come on," she says, getting to her feet. "I want to go and look at something."
We stroll over toward the college building. Both slightly drunk, we kind of meander our way to the window that looks in on Adam's office. There's police tape running along all four edges. The local rumor mill says that the investigation is going to take a few weeks. No-one can work out how and why a bunch of birds would fly into his office and kill him. The local police keep thinking they're missing something. The large crate, which was empty when his body was found, has aroused some suspicion; the popular theory is that he'd just received a delivery of books, but I can tell that most people don't believe that. Still, I doubt anyone has guessed the truth: that a pile of dead crows suddenly came to life and killed him.
"Freaky," Rachel says as we stare at the darkened window. "Do you believe in ghosts?"
"No," I say. "Do you?"
"I don't know," she replies. "Maybe." She drinks some more vodka. "Maybe."
We stand in silence for a moment. "I had this cousin," I say eventually. "She swore she could hear a voice in her head, telling her to do things."
"Schizophrenia?" Rachel asks.
"That's what everyone thought," I continue, "but the voice apparently knew things that my cousin didn't." I pause for a moment. There's no cousin, of course. I'm just trying to find a way to talk about myself without making Rachel think I'm insane. "Do you believe in that sort of thing?" I ask.
"What, like omniscient auditory hallucinations?" she says. "No. Of course not. The brain can hallucinate sounds and voices, sure, but it can't give them knowledge that the person hallucinating doesn't have themselves. It's just not possible."
"I guess not," I say.
"What happened to your cousin in the end?" Rachel asks.
I stare at the dark window. "She died," I say, to end the conversation. It was stupid of me to start talking about the voice in the first place. Damn it, now I'll probably be punished.
"How?" Rachel asks.
"Drowned," I reply, surprised by how easily I'm able to lie. "She drowned. We don't know what happened, not really, but most people think it was suicide. When they found her, she was really heavy. They did an autopsy and discovered that she'd swallowed loads of stones. Probably to weigh herself down, you know?" None of this is true. There was no cousin. No drowning. No stones. Still, I find myself feeling sad about this imaginary cousin. "She was sixteen," I say eventually.
"Sorry," Rachel says. "I had no idea."
"It was a long time ago," I continue. "A few years. Time heals all wounds, right?" I take a deep breath. "I still remember the last thing she ever said to me."
"What was it?" Rachel asks.
"Rise up and lift your lips to death," I say, "for it is the sweetest thing you will ever taste. That's what she said. I don't know if it was a poem, or what. A few hours later, she swallowed a pile of stones, walked into the river, and killed herself."
"Fuck," Rachel says. "That's intense. Was she artistic?"
I turn to her. "What do you mean?"
"Sorry," she replies, "I just meant, she sounds... I don't know. What was she like?"
"She was sweet," I say. It's hard to believe that I'm lying to Rachel so easily. I kind of wish I did once have a cousin who drowned herself after eating stones. But I didn't.
"Come on," Rachel says, turning and walking away. "It's getting cold."
I stare at the dark window for a moment longer. I kind of expect to see Adam in the room, as if his ghost is hanging around. If people could come back as ghosts, Adam would definitely appear right now, but there's nothing. Finally, I turn and follow Rachel back across the grass. I'm going to miss her when I leave for Lakehurst, but after everything that's happened at Middlebridge I feel that I need another fresh start. I need to throw off my old life and start again with people who don't know anything about my history. Lakehurst sounds perfect. It's far away from anywhere else, so I won't be tempted to drink or party too much. I'll just get on with my job, spend a few years there and then move on to another hospital. I've checked the jobs market, and there's nothing else out there. Lakehurst will do for now. I'll buckle down and work hard so that this Dr. Campbell guy gives me a good reference. It'll be good for my character to get some hard work under my belt. That's the kind of experience I need, otherwise there's a risk that I'll end up sliding back into my old bad habits. I know my weaknesses, and I need to make sure that I keep myself away from the things that could tempt me to relapse.
I've heard a few strange things about Lakehurst, but I'm not scared. What will be, will be. I'll muddle through. Whatever happens there, it can't be weirder than Middlebridge.
Epilogue
Lakehurst Psychiatric Hospital. Today.
It takes a while for Morris to get the crate of dead birds out of Nurse Winter's office. Now that he's getting older, Morris finds these types of jobs a lot harder. His first plan is to remove the dead birds and carry them out separately, so that the weight of the actual crate is reduced, but he quickly realizes that the birds are in such an advanced state of decomposition that he'd be better off just moving the crate as it is. To this end, he enlists the help of Eddie, one of the guards, who reluctantly agrees to give him a hand. Together, they manage to get the crate up onto a small trolley, which they then wheel along the corridor and out into the garden.
Nurse Winter is waiting around the back of the hospital. Morris and Eddie wheel the crate to the middle of a small yard area, before Morris fetches a can of gasoline and pours it over the crate. He shudders as he looks down at the dead birds, their beady little eyes staring up at him. Using a stick, he moves some of the birds aside so that the gasoline can seep deeper down. As he does so, he's momentarily startled when one of the dead birds seems to twitch.
"Is something wrong?" Nurse Winter asks, sounding impatient.
Morris puts aside his superstitions and finishes pouring the gas into the crate. Stepping back, he watches as Nurse Winter uses a match to set fire to a large rag, which she then throws onto the birds. There's an immediate whooshing sound as the crate catches fire, flames roaring up into the sky. Morris watches as the bright orange and yellow fire consumes the crate, rapidly destroying both the wood and the birds inside. For a moment, there seems to be a strange sound coming from the crate, and Morris briefly thinks he sees a few of the birds trying to fly out
of the flames. Soon, though, the whole structure collapses and there's nothing to see except the fire itself. Given the large amount of gasoline that was used, the fire probably won't be out for a few hours.
"Let it burn," Nurse Winter says. "All of it. When it's out, bury it."
Once everyone else has gone inside, Morris attends to a few more jobs in the garden before going back over to the crate. It's almost sundown, and there's nothing left of the crate save for a pile of ash. Having already dug a hole in preparation, it doesn't take long for Morris to shovel the ash away and then fill the hole back in. Once he's done, he pats down the soil and turns to walk away. Although he hears a strange noise from the hole, almost as if the birds are struggling to dig their way out, he walks solemnly back to the main building. He's learned not to ask questions about the strange things that happen at Lakehurst; he just gets on with his job, doing what he's told and keeping his head down. He doesn't want any trouble. He just wants to get through his days and nights.
"Is it done?" asks a voice as soon as Morris gets inside. He turns to find Nurse Winter waiting on the stairs.
"All done," he replies. "Will there be anything else tonight?"
"No," Nurse Winter says. "Thank you very much, Morris. You've been very good today."
"I'll do one more check and then I'll retire for the evening," he tells her, turning and shuffling off along the corridor. He goes into all the main rooms, checking for trash. This is always his last job of the evening. Occasionally he comes across something unexpected, like a little patch of vomit that one of the patients has hidden away in a corner. Tonight, there's not much to do and he's finished within a half hour. He heads back along the corridor, feeling his bones creaking. He's getting too old for this job, but he doesn't earn enough and he can't afford to quit. He knows he'll be at Lakehurst until the day he drops dead. It's just how things go.
