Don't Let Me Die: A gripping psychological thriller

by Alex Sinclair

  “How could you possibly explain this?” Darren roars. “Are you selling this crap to people?”

  “No, it’s for a friend.”

  “Bullshit!”

  “I swear, Dad. It’s not mine. I’m just holding it for a friend.”

  “And rolling them up, by the looks of things,” I say, all too familiar with the drug. In college, my roommate regularly smoked weed. I joined in when things got stressful, but after I graduated I never touched the stuff, let alone helped a friend to sell it. The gravity of the situation hits me like a bus.

  “We have to get rid of it, now,” I say.

  “But Douglas will—”

  “Douglas?” Darren asks. Frank realizes his mistake a second too late. “You can forget about ever staying at his house again. What is he? A dealer?”

  Frank tries to speak again, but Darren cuts him off. “This is unbelievable. Not only do I have to deal with your bullshit, but now I have to tell his parents that their son is a goddamn drug dealer.”

  I pull Darren back for a moment. “Is that the right thing to do? Maybe it’s not our place.”

  “The hell it isn’t. I don’t want this stuff so close to our home. Not to mention someone who is selling it.” He turns back to Frank. “Are you selling this shit for him?”

  “No, Dad. I would never. I was holding it for him. Plus, his parents have caught him in the past selling it. They already know. They do random checks of his room, so from time to time, I hold it for him. Nothing else. I don’t sell it, and I don’t use it. I tried it once, and it wasn’t for me, okay?”

  “Not okay, son. None of this is okay. If the cops found this much on you, they’d assume you intended to sell it for money. You’d be in juvenile detention like that.” Darren snaps his fingers inches from our son’s face.

  Frank’s eyes well up. He’s been holding back tears the entire time. I pull on Darren’s sleeve. “Come on, let’s have a quick chat in the hall.”

  “Fine,” he replies to me before turning back to Frank. “Don’t go anywhere.”

  We close Frank’s door behind us and move a few paces up the hallway.

  “What the fuck?” Darren says, both hands on his head. “Where the hell does this come from, huh? We give that kid everything, goddamn everything, and this is how he repays us?”

  “Calm down, honey,” I say, placing both hands on his chest.

  “I won’t calm down. Not while our son is storing drugs for a dealer.”

  “You need to, though. He made a mistake. A stupid one, but still a mistake. I think the next decision we make could be a crucial one in Frank’s life. We have to tread lightly, understand?”

  He huffs around in a circle. His rage is dying to come out. I can almost smell it. “I’m listening.”

  I nod. “Frank will be punished. He won’t be allowed to stay at Douglas’s again, that’s for sure, but we can’t ban him from seeing him.”

  “What? Are you crazy?”

  “Think about it. If we ban him from Douglas, that makes the kid a source of rebellion. Next thing you know, Frank is selling this crap under our noses. Right now, he’s just a stupid, friend trying to be loyal. Also, he doesn’t like smoking the stuff. I believe him when he says that, so we’re lucky with that end of things.”

  “Lucky, huh? It’s been nothing but hell for our family lately. How are we lucky? Tell me how this all plays out. All of it.”

  I ignore Darren’s outburst for now. “We need to talk to him about this like he’s an adult. It’s the only way he won’t lose respect for us.”

  Darren screws up his face as he swallows his instincts and casts his gaze away from me. “You better be right about this. So help me, God, if I find a single joint in our house after today . . . ”

  I grab his bicep. “We can do this. I promise this is the right thing to do.”

  “Okay,” he whispers in defeat. “After you.”

  I don’t like having to do what I just did to Darren, but I understand what happens when you treat someone like an inferior after they’ve made a mistake. I don’t want the relationship I have with my brother to copy over to our son.

  We knock on the door and wait for Frank to give us the all-clear. I go inside first and see him with his head lowered down in the same position we left him. I can’t even imagine what is going through his head.

  In all the chaos, I almost forget about the laptop in the kitchen. I decide to deal with that situation later.

  Our son needs us.

  We spend the next hour talking to Frank about the dangers of drugs and the position he has put himself in by agreeing to help a friend in such a way. We tell him he can still be friends with Douglas, but he needs to tell him that we know everything. There will be no overnight visits and no more drugs to be stored by Frank ever again. If we find a single piece of evidence to suggest Frank is involved in that world again, we’ll bypass Douglas’s parents and go straight to the police.

  “I take it I’m grounded?” Frank asks.

  “Until we say otherwise, yes,” Darren says. “Now hand over the weed. It’s going down the toilet.”

  “No, you can’t. Douglas says it’s worth a lot of money. He’ll be pissed. He won’t ever talk to me again.”

  Darren stares at our son with a snarl. “You think I give a shit about Douglas losing some money?” He grabs the box and stomps off before I can at least discuss Frank’s side of things with him and heads straight out the door. I know without a doubt that he is rushing to the nearest bathroom.

  “Darren, wait,” I yell at him. “Let’s talk about this first.”

  “I’m done talking.”

  I catch up and try to pull the box out of his hand. Darren shrugs me off without much effort and races to the toilet. He stuffs the weed into the bowl, including the joints, and starts flushing.

  By the time I’m within reach, the box’s entire contents is in the water. “Why did you do that?” I ask. “We should have discussed what to do first. What did I say about treading lightly?”

  “Forget that. He needs some harsh truth. If you store weed for your friend, there’s going to be some consequences.”

  Frank stands behind us with tears in his eyes. He doesn’t need to say a word. We both realize we’ve ruined his friendship with Douglas forever.

  Thirty-Six

  After.

  “Interesting,” Doctor Shaw says.

  “What’s interesting?” I ask, pushing down any sarcasm in my tone.

  “Nothing,” she says as she scribbles away.

  “Right. Keeping it all to yourself, are you, Doc?” I know exactly what she is finding interesting. I catch my son holding drugs. I later get busted using drugs. I’m sure the doctor has some wild theories behind the discovery, but I don’t want to hear them.

  “So, what about the laptop?”

  “What about it?”

  “How did it find its way there? You all assumed the intruder stole it.”

  “He did steal it. Trust me.”

  “Maybe you misplaced it and are remembering the story wrong.”

  “How can I misremember that?”

  Doctor Shaw leans in closer again. “You don’t remember the event. How can you trust any other memory from around the same time?”

  I know that she knows what happened next. Surely this is a test. It’s clear as day in my head what happened leading up to the event until . . .

  The doctor continues without an answer from me. “This kind of post-traumatic stress can alter a lot of things: your grip on reality, your memories of key events, even your personality.”

  “If that’s the case, then why are we bothering with this? Why not lock me away and drug me the hell up, so I don’t remember who I am?”

  “That’s not what we do here.”

  “No, what you do is let orderlies think they can violate a patient in exchange for their silence.”

  Shaw raises her voice. “The orderly in question will be investigated and dealt with. You have my word.
Now, back to the issue at hand. We bother because the only way for you to move forward is to come to grips with what happened that night. I know the truth, and so do the police. All that is left is for you to face it. Then we can begin the healing process.”

  I scoff. “Healing, huh? How do I heal when one of them is dead?”

  Shaw lets a lungful of air out and pinches the bridge of her nose. She refocuses on me. “Death is a part of life. Whether it is unexpected or not, it is something we all must face sooner or later.”

  I hear her words, and they sound like a load of crap being regurgitated at me. “Not this death. This death wasn’t from an accident or a hidden disease waiting to strike. I made this death happen with my words.”

  “Words you had no alternative but to utter. You were given an impossible choice that no one should ever have to face in their life. You are not to blame for his death.”

  I leave the session wanting to die on the spot. Shaw is pushing me along her path whether I like it or not. I don’t know if it’s the right road for me to take. I guess I never will, but I can’t help but feel completely powerless again. Whether it’s an orderly trying to have his way with me or a doctor forcing me to relive a moment in my life I would rather have cut out of my brain, I hold no control.

  There’s still only one thing springing to mind, and it is the act that brought me here to begin with. The only problem is I’m currently locked away in a psychiatric hospital on suicide watch.

  I can continue the doctor’s plan and let the moment come to me and cripple my mind over and over until I shut down, or I can take action. Regain control.

  I try to force the dark thoughts out of my head. I don’t want to die—in this place or any other—but I’m losing the fight to survive. What do I have to survive for? Either a son or a husband who will never look at me again. And who could blame him? I only wish it had been me who died instead.

  With the drug problem on my record, the orderlies are now watching me like a hawk. A new orderly—not Tom—is staring at me wherever I go. I no longer hold the limited freedom I once enjoyed. Now, I’m nothing but a dog on a leash, but I need something, anything, to get the job done. I just have to be willing to find it.

  Thirty-Seven

  That night, I attempt to sleep. I get maybe thirty minutes here and twenty minutes there as my brain runs on overdrive. I am so tired at this point I believe I could die. I don’t know if it’s even possible. Plus, I want a quick ending to my suffering and not some drawn-out slice of pain to finish me.

  When morning arrives, I head out into the day with a slow shuffle. I’m dead on my feet, and no one cares. I see Andrea outside in her usual spot. She gives me a nod. I take it Tom didn’t say anything about her, and neither did I.

  I spot the new orderly nearby doing his job and nothing else. He has been tasked to follow and watch me like I’m about to explode. He looks like he could break me in two with a few fingers if I decided to pull any stunts, not that I would.

  I almost feel sorry for the hulking mass of a man, then something twigs. If I present myself as the most boring subject possible, maybe he’ll slip up. Maybe he’ll decide the directive given to him is overkill.

  I sit down in a seat in the day room and start meditating. Without Tom lurking around, I can achieve something. I don’t bother to wonder what happened to the bastard and assume he’s on some sort of forced leave during the investigation.

  Calm washes over me after thirty minutes of controlled breathing. I don’t check on the orderly with my eyes. I want him to think he isn’t needed and that I’m a threat to no one, especially myself.

  My session with Shaw is not until later in the day. I have plenty of time to mess with this guy. I keep him in my peripheral vision and start to open my eyes a slither to see if he is still there.

  With my eyes closed, I focus on my hearing and wait for him to creak his leather shoes. I do a check and see him heading off to the bathroom. Now is my chance. I dash outside as quickly as I can without raising any alarm bells and find Andrea alone. I head straight toward her with a tilted head.

  “Well, if it isn’t Miss—”

  Whatever insult Andrea had planned is snuffed out by my hand around her throat. I squeeze tight and pull her aside out of sight of anyone, patient or staff. I shove her against the wall and let go.

  “What the hell?” she coughs out.

  “Shut up and listen, bitch,” I say, while keeping one arm on her shoulder. I give her a stare I only reserve for those who deserve pain. I notice she sees the glint of crazy in my eye and keeps quiet. “I need you to do me a favor. I figure you owe me one after the whole Tom thing.”

  “Okay,” Andrea mutters.

  “I need a pair of scissors. Sharp, surgical ones.”

  “What? Are you insane?”

  I half chuckle at her ill-placed question. “Haven’t been officially declared nuts just yet, but there’s plenty of time left. And besides, I figured you’d rather do this for me than watch your little drug operation come to a screaming halt.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “Wouldn’t what? Tell the doctors about the pharmacy you’ve been running in this place? I know your primary distributor is out of action, but I’m sure you have more Toms out there keeping things going. Just one word from me will point those in charge in the right direction, particularly now that they know I’ve been taking smuggled Diazepam.”

  Andrea leans forward to move away, but I pin her back against the wall.

  “You’ll die if you do that, and it won’t be me that kills you but someone from the outside. I’m just a dealer in here. This shit comes from an operation bigger than you could ever realize.”

  “You think I care if they kill me?”

  Andrea squirms with thought. “Then they’ll go for your brother instead.”

  “Is that right? But who do you think they’ll kill first? I’d say the dealer inside who failed to stop me from spoiling everything.”

  Her eyes widen. I’ve got her. Even if she works out I’m bluffing, she has no choice but to comply. The alternative means death.

  “Fine. You win. I’ll get you your damn scissors, psycho.”

  “Good. You have until the end of the day to bring them to me. I don’t care what you need to do or who you have to bribe.” I release her and walk back to the day room.

  “Jesus, you belong in here,” she calls to me as I leave.

  I pause for a moment and turn back. “Maybe I do.”

  Andrea screws up her face and mutters away. I ignore her and head inside. The orderly hasn’t returned yet, so I resume meditating in the same spot I left.

  I hear the creak of his shoes a few minutes later and let a smile form on my lips.

  Thirty-Eight

  My session is the last one booked for the day. My new orderly commands me to follow him. I do as instructed and realize we are headed back to my room. I wonder if Andrea is making a move to take me out. My answer hits me when we arrive.

  “Look under your mattress in the gap at the top left-hand corner,” he says.

  I slowly walk over to my bed and do as I’m told. I feel around and grab at something covered in tissues. It’s a sharp pair of scissors.

  “Don’t lose them,” he says bluntly.

  “Tell her thanks,” I reply. He ignores me and heads for the exit. “Time for your session.”

  I follow the orderly and wonder if there is anyone in this hospital who isn’t corrupt.

  I sit in Doctor Shaw’s office as I wait for her to return from the front desk. The orderly whose name I still don’t know stands in the door like a statue. When Shaw returns, she dismisses him with one of her looks. It’s obvious she doesn’t trust the staff. Nor should she.

  “Sorry about that, but I have something for you.” She places an envelope on the desk in front of me. I reach out and pick up the paper, but Shaw stops me from opening it.

  “Before you peer inside, I want to go through our session.”

&nbs
p; “What?” I ask, feeling annoyed by whatever tactic she is employing.

  “Today will tell me if you are ready for the letter inside.”

  I let out my breath and toss the envelope on the desk. “Best get to it, then, I suppose.”

  “Yes, indeed. Unfortunately, we are shorter on time than usual, with only fifty minutes remaining.”

  I stand and head to the couch. I plonk down and allow the comfort to take over. I would kill to be able to sit on it all day long instead of the crap we use out in the day room.

  “The first thing I want to go over is, how are you sleeping?”

  “You serious?” I scoff. “I’m not sleeping. Hence the desperate need for the Diazepam.”

  Shaw ignores my response. “How did you used to sleep in the past?”

  “Mostly fine, up until it happened.”

  “What about the week before?”

  I rub my face in thought. “You know, not great. I missed a few nights.”

  “Did you take anything? Sleeping pills?”

  I sigh. “Diazepam.”

  “Did it help?”

  “Yes. It was the only thing that worked.”

  “It can be quite useful when properly administered. Of course, it’s not a solution to the problem, merely a temporary fix that will eventually break.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “I’m trying to understand why you haven’t been sleeping in here.”

  My mouth falls open. “Have you seen the facilities? It’s not exactly a welcoming place. It’s winter, and I have no sheets or blankets. All I can hear are people moaning and screaming all night long. Stress or not, it isn’t the ideal place to rest.”

  Shaw writes something down after giving me a flat response. It irks me to no end when she does this. I wish I could steal an unfiltered printout of her thoughts. At least then I would know what she thinks of me.

  “What if I prescribed you some Diazepam for the short-term? Do you think you could work on taking some to aid you onto a better sleep cycle?”