by Adam Dark
Simon replaced the cup on the tray. He picked up a cloth and untied the string. He unraveled it to reveal a glass vial and syringe. My body was warm. My muscles relaxed. The pain subdued. I wasn’t afraid when he took out the needle and inserted it into the vial. Nor did any fearful doubt or anxiety swell up inside when he stuck it in my arm and squeezed it through.
All I did was smile as if I had not a care in the world. Simon returned the needle and vial to the cloth, wrapped it up, and left. My eyes grew heavy as he left the room with the tray. I didn’t care what happened to me next. I was content.
9
I awoke sometime in the middle of the night in a hot sweat. My throat was parched and my head throbbed. The room was dark and my vision blurry, as if someone had poured a thin layer of grease over my retinas.
An incessant throbbing ran from the lower part of my back to my shoulder blades. My left thigh was on fire. I placed a trembling hand over the bandage. It was wet. I flinched as I applied a small amount of pressure. My fingers came away damp and with the smell of iron on their tips.
The room was darker than it was when I first came here. The moon no longer peered through the windows. I didn't know whether it was because it was blocked by clouds or something else. The darkness seemed to come from within the room, rather than from out.
I found this strange, but in my current state of mind and physical derailment, I didn't think much about it. I thought I heard voices. This turned out to be just in my head. There was no one else in the room with me. The door was locked. There was only that coon head on the wall staring back at me.
Laughing.
I tried to roll over on my side to alleviate some of the pressure in my back but this only made things worse. A sharp bolt of pain shot up my left side as I tried to roll to the right. I gasped for breath and the room grew even darker. I blinked my eyes to clear away the black and white spots flickering around my vision. But it didn't help.
I tried two more times before I gave up. It hurt too much to move. The pain behind my eyes spread around the outer rim of my forehead and down around my ears and into my neck. The ache soon turned into trembling as my body flip-flopped from heat and cold flashes.
In one moment my body shivered uncontrollably as if someone had left me outside in a raging blizzard. The next, it was all I could do to strip off all the blankets and soaked clothes to keep from drowning in sweat.
It didn't take a specialist to know that I was in trouble. I opened my mouth to cry out but only wisps of empty air came out. My throat was too parched, the brittle insides so void of liquid that I couldn't even lick my lips. I reached my hand for the door as if I could will it open. I was surprised when it did.
Simon walked in with another bucket and a small hand towel. The room was spinning as he strolled in and pulled a stool over to me. He sat down and placed his hand against my head and neck. His hand was cold to the touch, as if it had sat in a bucket full of ice. When he removed his hand from my skin, I whimpered. I wanted the coolness of his hand against my hot body. My eyes wandered to the bucket full of water. My tongue danced inside my mouth for just a touch of that icy, cold liquid.
Simon took one of the towels off his wrist and dipped it into the water. He wrung the excess water out with his hands and then dabbed it along my forehead and neck. I careened my neck upward, allowing him full access to the hot, sweaty parts of my body. The damp rag felt great. But its reprieve was only temporary.
Simon removed my shirt and let it fall with a damp smack on the ground. My body shivered from the sudden movement and exposure to the air. The room was chilly but I felt like I was sitting in the fire. Simon used the rag to clean my arms and chest. He rolled me on my side gently to check my bandages. It hurt so badly. I nearly blacked out.
But Simon's grip on me held me to this side of the living and kept me from drifting off to the afterlife. He rolled me on my back and placed the blanket over me again. He went to the armoire and unlocked it. He opened the right door and squeezed his arm inside. He returned with a second blanket that he draped over me. The weight of the blankets held me down into the mattress. They felt like they were suffocating me and trapping me. I was so hot and so cold.
Simon locked the armoire and sat down. He unraveled the same cloth from earlier along my abdomen. He removed the same syringe and glass vial, then inserted the needle into my skin. This time the liquid entering my bloodstream was ice.
My insides trembled but the cold was temporary before the calmness swept over me and wrapped my eyelids in heavy sheets.
Simon became a shadow amongst shadows as he stood. He dipped the rag in the bucket one last time before laying it over my eyes and leaving the room. I drifted in and out for the next few hours until the sun came up.
10
Simon came to check on me again at first light. As he opened the door and came in, I could hear the boys downstairs preparing breakfast. I also heard the sound of a woman's voice. Could it be the same woman in red? I was too tired and weak to consider it further. I knew what I had seen in the woods the night before. Simon was burying something. And was burning the evidence. I saw the red fabric go in the flame and incinerate into ash. I knew the truth. Simon was a murderer, but he was also more. He had saved me when he could've punished me. And now, here he was taking care of me like a wounded animal caught in a snare.
I had never seen this softness in Simon in all the time that I had been at Oakwood Valley Home for Boys. He had never been gentle. Never compassionate or shown any signs of empathy. He had been harsh. He had been cruel. He had been adamant in his orders and requests. There was a strict rule of code and etiquette at the home. What I saw now went against all of that. I wondered if I was dreaming. If all of this was a result of the fever raging in my body. Perhaps I was still outside in the woods, stranded in the snow with a broken leg and cracked skull.
None of this was real. The voices in my head running around and around told me I was going to die. They were so faint that I almost thought I imagined them just as I was imagining Simon here before me now. But they became more prominent the longer I remained in the Black Room. Their chatter, their slithering tongues and whispers, only increased in volume and insistence. At first I ignored them. But then their speech became so constant it was impossible not to be drawn in and listen.
Until Simon came into the room.
The voices quieted but continued to murmur in the shadows as if his presence deterred them, commanded them to listen and back off. Simon checked my bandages and reapplied ointment and new dressing if needed. He did this each day for three days until I was well enough to walk.
It was the fourth night in the Black Room that the voices stopped. It was so abrupt that it woke me from the deep sleep. My ears buzzed with the invisible sound of the house and the outside. I could feel my own heart pulsing in my neck. I could hear the emptiness inside my skull as my thoughts rummaged around with the flow of blood. Every living and nonliving thing had energy. I was hearing that energy now.
My head rotated to the right. Something was inside the armoire. It rattled inside as if pounding its feet and hands against the interior of the wardrobe. I thought at first maybe it was a squirrel that had gotten stuck inside the roof and was clambering around in the rafters, but there was no questioning where the noise came from the next time I heard it. I lifted myself out of bed like a vampire coming to life the moment the sun disappeared beyond the horizon and darkness prevailed.
My legs trembled and wobbled to hold my weight. A wave of dizziness and nausea surged through my body and stomach as my head went skyward. I steadied myself with the grip along the headboard with my hand until the spinning stopped. My stomach continued to dance as I stepped toward the clothing closet.
I paused two paces from the wardrobe and listened.
Along with the low cadence of my heartbeat came a second sound from the window just above me and to my right. I glanced at the wardrobe once more before climbing onto the bed. It took me a few trie
s before I managed to climb on the headboard and grip the windowsill with my hands and peer through. The door to the shed was flung wide open and a bright light was shining in.
I couldn't see who was inside, but I suspected it was Simon. None of the boys would be stupid enough to go inside the barn in broad daylight. Then I saw her. This time she wore a light blue dress that cut off around her knees. She had dark boots that climbed up her shins and her hair was set free to dangle along her shoulders. I watched with curiosity as she rummaged inside the shed. What was she looking for?
There came a tapping to my left. It was coming from the armoire. I looked back outside, but the tapping increased. I climbed back down and nearly fell face first on the floor. I was expending too much energy. I needed to lie back down and rest. But the noise coming from behind the wardrobe lured me closer.
The lock on the door was open. It hung in the latch, free. All I had to do was slide it out and the doors of the armoire would open. My hand reached for the lock and removed it. It's weight dragged my arm down to the ground like a heavy rock. I stood transfixed as if caught in a memory or a trance. Whatever was inside this closet was meant to stay hidden.
The voices inside my head began to chatter louder. They told me to open it. Look inside. Have a quick peek. It's okay they said. He'll never know. Open the doors. I gripped the two handles with both hands. I was fearful and excited at the same time. I no longer cared what punishment would find me. I needed to know what was inside.
The voices were so loud now that it was as if they were pushing against my back and controlling my arms. Before I knew it I was pulling open the doors. The gap grew to an inch, then two inches, and three. The doors were nearly open. The secret inside nearly revealed.
I never heard him come inside. There came a sharp tug on my back as I my body flung backward. I landed with a thud on the ground. My head smacked the ground and those familiar white and black dots filled my vision. The room began to spin in rapid succession. The nausea and aching in my stomach returned tenfold and welled up to the point of vomiting.
My chest heaved as my stomach purged itself of the acidic bile eating away at its interior. The doors to the wardrobe were slammed shut. Simon replaced the lock and clicked it shut with a defying snap.
He kicked me in the thigh. I jolted and smacked my knees into the side of the bedspring. This only set off a new wave of pain. As my body cried out for reprieve, the voices grew worse, louder, more vehement with their clawing tongues.
Simon held my hand in his, his face red with anger, his eyes giant white balls with red streaks.
"What were you doing?" he asked.
I was too weak and startled to speak. My throat felt like a squirrel had burrowed inside and died. My lips were cracked and ached from the three-day fever that had been ravaging my body.
"Water," I managed to croak.
Simon's hands were shaking and the muscles on his forearms were flexed. I thought he was going to hit me—kill me like he had done the woman and Trevor and bury me in the woods. But the strike never came. Instead, he released his grip on me. White indentations where his fingers had held my arms burned bright as if some light shined from inside my skin. They slowly returned to their normal color as Simon paced the room.
This was the Simon I was used to. The one on the verge of explosion. Full of rage. Full of fear. Ready to strike like lightning and crush you with an open fist.
"Do not touch anything," Simon said.
I nodded my head like a bobble doll. It only made the spinning worse. I couldn't bring myself to speak, lest I throw up again. Already my stomach was doing cartwheels and preparing a second wave of acid to come shooting up my esophagus to burn my insides and coat my teeth with acidic grit.
Simon glared at me like a volcano ready to erupt. He stopped pacing with his hands balled into fists. His knuckles were white. His face was blood-red. The veins in his neck and forehead pulsated like parasites were eating their way to the surface.
He sighed and closed his eyes. He cracked his neck, rubbing his hands along his side.
"You must rest now," Simon said in a calmer voice.
He stepped forward and gripped my arms, but this time gently. He lowered me down like a babe in a basket and wrapped blankets up to my neck. He secured the sides underneath the mattress and held a cupful of water to my lips. I hadn’t seem him bring it in. The cool liquid slid down my tongue and parched throat like liquid honey. It relieved the aching and the burning from the vomit that had come up forcibly.
I took three more sips before he laid the cup on the nightstand next to me. He stood and hovered over me like a giant. I could see it in his eyes. He wanted to punish me for my disobedience. He needed to make an example of me to the other boys. But something stopped him. Something was keeping him from doing what had to be done.
He held my gaze for a moment longer then stepped to the side and was gone. The door slammed and the room shook. The stairs rumbled as he ran down. And then the voices returned.
11
Simon came back for me later that day and took me outside. The sun was out. It was warmer than it had been the previous week. What little snow remained the past three days had melted into puddles. The yard was covered in brown mud and tiny pools of water. It was pitted with footprints from wild animals and the occasional boot.
The other boys were already in the yard. They all glanced up from their work as I exited the back door. The screen door slammed against the house with a loud bang. It made me jump. The voices from the Black Room had quieted but they still lingered. I stood on the edge of the porch as Simon joined the boys in the yard.
He grabbed a rake from number six and smacked him on the leg with it. Apparently, number six wasn't raking the proper way. Simon demonstrated the proper way then shoved the rake back in number six's hands. Each of the other boys stole glances my way and then would quickly return to their work as Simon went from station-to-station, evaluating their progress. No matter how frequently we worked in the yard, it always seemed like the yard was never short of trash.
It was almost as if Oakwood Valley's garbage was transported to the orphanage and dumped in the backyard and in the surrounding trees. I knew this wasn't true but it was shocking the amount of trash and debris that somehow swept down from the mountain into the valley. Sometimes we found cool gadgets. But mostly it was just a bunch of old newspapers, cans, broken pieces of toys, and any number of miscellaneous items that somehow washed down the mountain with each rain.
It was as if Oakwood Valley Home for Boys was a drainage ditch for the whole valley. One good thing that came from the garbage in our weekly purging of the backyard were some of the tools and toys we used. Of course Simon took these from us the moment he knew we had them. But sometimes we managed to commandeer some of the treasures from the mud and tall weeds and keep them for a few days.
Even now, I had an old magazine stuffed underneath my bed. Sometimes, when I couldn't sleep at night, I would pull it out and flip through the pages. I never bothered reading the text. I just imagined my own story as I looked through the pictures. They usually consisted of a hero fighting against the dark enemy who was stronger than him. And yet, he always seemed to find a way to prevail against all odds.
I once read in a book somewhere—probably one of my father's in his large built-in library in his study before the police took me away—that this was a self-defense mechanism to suppress the trauma I had experienced in my life. The author of the book said anyone who witnessed a death, especially the death of a parent by a child, had severe pain locked away. I never felt remorse or guilt or shame, or any number of the things that the psychologists said that I should feel for my parents' deaths. Maybe that's why they had sent me away and placed me on five different medications as a means to sedate me and bring out the monster that they said that I was.
It never came. I cried once but that was all I needed. Like I said, my parents were rarely around. My mother was sick for so long that I guess I had
already come to terms with the reality of the situation even at such a young age. I understood the reality of life and death. We lived and we died, there was nothing else to life. Nothing else mattered. No amount of things or friends or family or dreams could ever stop the ticking clock from reaching zero.
As the saying goes, there is nothing certain other than death and taxes. I knew the first. But the second was a burden left for adults. Simon returned to the porch with a grunt. He wiped his hands on his pants and turned to face the other boys in the yard.
"Simon wants this place spotless by the time he gets back. If he find so much as one piece of trash, no one eats tonight," Simon said.
He looked to me and said, "You're in charge. If any one of them slacks, Simon wants to know about it. You are not to do anything. Sit here on the porch and rest. If Simon hears that you got up, you'll be doing dishes and laundry for a week by yourself."
"Yes sir," I said.
Simon snorted and yanked the screen door open. It clanged against the house as he went inside. I heard the front door slam a moment later and a car engine ignite. I hadn't seen anyone else inside on the way down from the Black Room and the woman in blue was nowhere to be seen. It must've been hers, if she wasn't dead. Or the woman at the grocery store the week before.
With the roads cleared, Simon would be able to get to town and back within a few hours. That meant the boys didn’t have much time. I scanned the yard. There wasn't much trash but the boys were moving at a slow pace. Half of them had dropped their tools and were running around the moment Simon had left.
I didn't know why Simon left me in charge. None of us had ever been given that responsibility or authority. I didn't know what was happening between Simon and I. And I wasn't so sure it was a bad thing. The other boys said you didn't want to be Simon's favorite. Bobby could attest to that. I wasn't so certain. It wasn't all that bad. It was almost like I had a parent again. Someone to take care of me, nurture me, mend my wounds, and tell me everything was going to be okay.