Dortmund Hibernate

by C. J. Sutton

  “Rough day then?” asked Magnus, assessing the man. He was in his thirties, wearing a pair of wide-rimmed cheap glasses and nodding as he thought back to the day. His sickness engulfed him.

  “No more than the 3,000 before it. My 3,000th day at Stamps Accounting: 3,000 days of entering the building at 8:55am, lunch in the cafeteria at 12pm, turning off my computer at 4:55pm and making my way down the elevator to catch the 5:21pm train from the station. Same faces, same conversations, same greetings, same work. It was the day job of doom, where the stalking killer was boredom; my life wasting away in that group of cubicles. Typing…letters and numbers were my assistants, pressed and pressed and pressed until Father Time gave them respite. I knew I hated the job…I knew I needed to leave…but I gave in and assumed that my role until retirement was to push those keys for seven hours per day, plus one served at lunch listening to more chatter of work, work, work. One minute I’m doing this, watching the black type fly across the screen into assets and expenses of a client I’d never met, and the next I’ve shoved an Apple mouse down the throat of the guy in the cubicle next to me. He’s choking, his face turning black before anyone really lifts their faces from the monitors that hold them prisoner. To tell you the truth…it was my escape. I’d never thought about killing someone before, but somehow it released me from that hell and put me here…”

  Magnus was mentally taking as many notes as possible; his theory had always been to avoid taking notes in the presence of someone suffering from the sickness, because it only enhanced their tales for themselves. But as Donnie spoke, Magnus began to realise that someone in Dortmund Asylum could be reasonable, could understand normality, and could desire sanity.

  “Back to the office,” said Magnus, needing full detail now. “You killed the first victim with a mouse. What happened next?”

  Donnie put his head down, staring at the floor.

  “The phones just ring all day, every day…the hum of all those computers…the type, type, type of those dreaded keyboards…He wasn’t dead yet. Choking…and this anger was building in me. All my hate of the job, the lifestyle, the work…it exploded. I didn’t come prepared with a knife or a gun…I never thought I’d kill a man, it wasn’t me. People start realising that poor Jerry is suffocating, but he’s a lost cause. Brenton, my lunch buddy, grabs me from behind. I’m startled. I pick up my keyboard and smash him across the face. He goes down…accountants probably aren’t known for their fight, their courage. I know those aren’t traits I’d classify myself with. But I beat him with it, over and over again, the keys are flying everywhere, letters J and P are stuck to his head…his brain, perhaps. People start to panic. I’ve cracked, I’d had enough. There is no other way about it.”

  Magnus saw the sadness in Donnie’s face, the hurt projecting from a man who didn’t think the sickness pulsated through him. Donnie saw death, Magnus saw hope. He imagined his career credentials if he saved these nine from the noose.

  “Continue, I need to hear it all,” said Magnus, diverting from his usual style, eager to build his case.

  “I’m a scrawny guy, so the first few closest to the bodies of Jerry and Brenton come at me. But they haven’t cracked; they are just trying to contain the explosion. Mark rushes up with his hands out. ‘It’s okay, Don, take a seat’, and Caleb offers a glass of water…poor move. I steal it out of his grasp and smash it over his balding head. I see a shard of glass protruding from temple…but I don’t gag. I’m generally squeamish, doctor, but it doesn’t bother me. Not one bit. Mark soon realises I’m a lost cause, that escape is the only option…but I’ve already slammed his face on my desk, knocking out the front four teeth. Julie, the poor soul, her hands are shaking but she beeps the boss of the office, this fat arsehole…excuse my language…that has made my life the skin a leech hangs off. Mark moves a little, so I use the stapler on his throat.”

  Magnus is gazing intently, marvelling at the details Donnie is providing. In this case, when a person ‘cracks’, they often black out and their sickness means nearly everything that happens is blocked by the subconscious. But here, in this cell, in this Asylum, in this shitty little town hours away from a big city, a man was recounting the events like they happened earlier that day. Walter knocked on the glass from the door outside, pointing to his watch. Magnus held up a solitary finger. Not yet, Mr. Perch.

  “Your boss, you say he made your life difficult. Before we go into what happened to him, can you tell me about your relationship?”

  “Oh sure, doctor,” said Donnie, straightening, relieved that he could divert from the gruesome office kill-streak. “My boss was Bart Bailey, one of the top accountants in the city, son-in-law of Mr. Stamps who died a decade ago. He hired me straight out of university, right when I saw the world lined up before my very feet. At the start he was fine, I didn’t really deal with him much…but as the years went on, I became the guy he piled the work on, the guy he treated like his worthless pet, the guy who had no say yet performed all the vital duties. I was bored…and he gave me the boredom. You know in my time there, I never once had more than a week off? I never got to travel, even though my bank account was bulging and my annual leave reached months. He never berated me in public, only in the privacy of his office…but that was his role…”

  Donnie trailed off, so Magnus poked.

  “You hated him, though?”

  “Well,” he continued, nervously, “who doesn’t hate their boss? It’s normal, I thought.”

  “It’s not normal to kill them.”

  Magnus watched, having used a disappointed tone to see the reaction received: guilt.

  “So, a laptop was the weapon?”

  “Yes,” he responded, deflated, “with Mark crying in agony, they backed off. I was pivoting to see who would try next. It was Bart. He came storming out of his office, face red, flowing with anger. He was screaming, ‘I’ve called the cops, don’t move, I’ve called the cops, you’re fired. Look what you’ve done, you’re fired’ so I picked up my MacBook, ran at him and smashed him across the face. Julie tried to hold me back, I’m pretty sure they were in some sort of secret relationship, so I pushed her into a wall. Nobody came near me then. They just watched, horrified, as I beat the life out of their boss. My boss. Blood was everywhere, I remember it drenched across my face, my eyes shielded by my glasses…it was disgusting. The cops came in, shot me in the leg and took me away…and they called me insane.”

  Doctor and inmate locked eyes, and in them Magnus could see the hurt, the regret, the fear; he wasn’t proud of what he’d done, and he was blaming himself for the deaths of his co-workers, rightly so. But unlike Simmonds and Chaos, Magnus saw immediate hope for Donnie Wright. He didn’t need to be executed. And if Magnus could make a case for Donnie, he could cure his sickness.

  “Do you regret what you’ve done?” Magnus asked, aware of the answer.

  “Yes, doctor, every day. I deserve to be here. I know what I’ve done wrong.”

  Magnus rose and folded the chair, nodding to an observant Walter.

  “How long before someone else just snaps?” said Donnie, to deaf ears.

  Between Men

  The sickness exists in all of us, Magnus. Even me. Even you. But we have the tools to tame that foul beast. Some people walk their dog without a leash.

  “He’s not insane. His sickness can be cured. It’s basically curing itself,” said Magnus, sipping from a cup of coffee and writing rapidly on a notepad as Walter and Brian watched on in the social room, standing.

  “Don’t be seduced. Digits Wright is telling you what you want to hear. He’s educated, he’s smart. He plays this role with all the doctors at the beginning. Be careful what you write based off one meeting,” said Walter, his moustache frayed, eyes narrowed as they conversed. Magnus had jogged from Donnie’s cell to the social room to write down his thoughts on the inmate; Walter had struggled to keep up. Upon the intrusion, Brian thought something had gone horribly wrong.

  “I don’t get seduced, Walter.
I have six weeks. After seeing Simmonds and Chaos I thought six weeks would be difficult, but Donnie…I can save these men.”

  “Six weeks? What do you mean ‘save’?” asked Brian, sceptical. Magnus quickly realised he’d said too much.

  “Cure them, you know, the sickness? Remember?”

  He once again focused on his notes, as Walter and Brian looked at one another and shrugged. Voices erupted from a radio.

  “Brian…Brian…we need a hand over here. Brutus again,” said the old, croaky voice of Carter. Brian glanced between Magnus and Walter, a question on the tip of his tongue, but he shook it off and left the social room. Walter sat next to Magnus and moved in close, as though the walls had eyes and ears reporting to a monster.

  “You’ve got a great track record, but do you really think if Digits Wright was that easy a case to solve that he’d still be sitting in his cell? You’re not the first doctor who has come in here thinking he can change things. That’s why Carter didn’t take too kindly to the chatter. I know you’ve dealt with hard cases, but I have to say they are nothing compared to these nine. I see them every day. They whisper and they get inside your head, but you should focus on your job.”

  “And your job, Walter, what is it exactly?”

  “It’s to keep these animals away from civilisation. And I intend to be the cage that separates them.”

  Magnus looked up, cracked his wrist and set the paper aside; differing intentions were at play in this very room. He lifted his coffee mug to realise it was empty. Walter grabbed it and walked over to the kettle, giving the doctor a refill. Cackling found a way into the room, slipping beneath the cracks and taking hold of the ears. Six weeks. The noose waits. Did Walter know that in less than two months his job here would be annulled?

  “In one day I already see your hair fraying, bags under your eyes and constant yawns. Don’t let any of this get to you,” said Walter, circling a finger around the room. He had an odd way of standing, his legs straight but his body motioned to the side, as though listening to his parents fighting from behind a wall. His moustache reminded Magnus of old school porn.

  “It’s hard to sleep when your driver stands outside your door listening to your every move. A man can’t have a goddamn sneeze without being asked if he’s alright.”

  Walter checked to see if the door was locked. He seemed on edge at every moment of the day, but he wasn’t worried by it. The trait had become a norm that set into his persona, a caution that was part reassuring, part sobering. Walter held the same title as the other three guards at Dortmund Asylum, but it was his natural air of safety that made everyone else look to him with eyes of hope.

  “Don’t think of him as your driver. They don’t want the Dortmund cases discussed in public. Journalists will have a field day. He’ll stalk your every move. Listen to most conversations, when you’re not working in here. Just dismiss it.”

  “I’m a man of privacy,” said Magnus, more to himself than his new colleague.

  “Aren’t we all,” said Walter, biting into a biscuit. He came closer, to the point where Magnus could see crumbs in his moustache. “Let’s go for a drink after work down at the Dortmund Pub. If I’m there he’ll buzz off. You could use a drink, keeps you levelled. You’ve only got one inmate to go today anyway. I can taste the beer already, mate.”

  Magnus tucked his notes into his laptop case, re-capped the lid of the pen and nodded.

  “Sure, a beer sounds great. So, who’s the man standing in between me and a pint…Jasper James?”

  “Not man…woman. I advise you be extra careful with this one.”

  Astrid Ellen

  Histrionic Personality Disorder - Patterns of extreme emotional and attention-seeking behaviour. Discomfort where they are not the attention. Rapidly fluctuating emotion. May engage in socially inappropriate behaviour to attract others.

  “Well, well, well, looky here, you’re a cute one,” said Astrid Ellen, sole female inmate at Dortmund Asylum, sliding up against the bars for a closer look in the dimming light. “And you’re young. It’s about time they listen to my requests, must be my birthday, honey.”

  If Donnie’s cell was clean, this small space was immaculate. Astrid was lucky enough to have two upper windows and a proper bed in the corner. Her toilet almost sparkled off the rays of sun; the other toilets had been too dark to look at, not that Magnus wanted to inspect them anyway. He could only imagine what someone such as Chaos would do if given the chance. Also, was she wearing perfume? That smell…

  “I’m Astrid Ellen,” said the 27 year old former teacher, slowly reaching out of the cell to shake Magnus’ hand. He hesitated.

  “Oh honey, I’m not going to hurt you. What would be the point? The doctors…they love me. You’ve got bastards like Brutus and Chaos trying to kill you…I prefer to play the other way.”

  Magnus grasped the hand of Astrid, and with her thumb she caressed his knuckles, so soft…

  “What’s a young doctor like you, doing in a place like this?”

  She turned around, her clothes a size too tight, hugging her small frame and riding up her behind. Dark colours, yet colours danced. The top three buttons on her shirt were undone, the curve of her tanned breasts pushing out for air. Magnus tried his best not to stare, but it was generally a part of his therapy.

  “I don’t mind,” she said, bending over. “Look all you want. When a girl is confined to these cages, she’ll take all the attention she can get.”

  “Why are you here?” asked Magnus, genuinely curious, desiring nothing more in that moment than the life story of Astrid Ellen. She sat on her bed, which creaked, and smiled so wide that nearly all of her white teeth were present.

  “Because I like to have a little too much fun, doctor, I didn’t know it was a crime. And even more so, I didn’t know it was insane to enjoy the company of the opposite sex…even if they were a fair bit younger than me. I just like the young boys,” she said, fanning out her fingers and pushing out her chest, “and apparently society looks down upon that. Well, I guess I did mutilate a couple of them…I wasn’t called the Praying Mantis of Gertrude High for nothing. But before I start,” she said, lifting off the bed and moving closer to Magnus, dropping at the knees and staring at his crotch, “can I straighten you out; make you more relaxed…take a load off, as they say?”

  Astrid glanced upward, slowly, her puffed lips forming into the shape of a heart.

  “Don’t feel bad about it…all of the doctors let me straighten them out. Some ask…once they’ve had it, they know how good it feels.”

  She grabbed the bars and began stroking them up and down, staring up into the eyes of Magnus, her hazel upon his blue.

  “Stand up, back away, and sit on your bed. Don’t look at me, not even once. When you can do that, tell me why you’re here. Make one advance or call me honey once more and I’ll guarantee no doctor will ever enter this room again.”

  Astrid frowned, huffed and rose. Her dark, naturally straight hair was flicked away like a schoolgirl refused a treat. She sat on the bed, pouting, and threw away her sexual façade. Even her voice changed, digging deeper, raspier, and angry. Magnus was sure he heard her mutter ‘men’.

  “I was a high school teacher at Gertrude High, if you didn’t gather that. Masters degree in teaching, they hired me immediately. That two-faced faggot Principal didn’t like me from day one. Spent every other weekend hitting gay bars sucking dick, I’m sure of it. You see, doctor, I’ve always been attracted to young boys, and here I am with a class full of the fuckers, all aged sixteen. They notice me, so I play it up; short skirts, low cut tops, pigtails. But I only do this away from the eyes of the other teachers. The cute boys, I gave them lunch time detentions. That’s when I really let it out. Ever watched a porno where the teacher does the naughty student? Yeah, you have. I could see the outline of your boner when I was on my knees, so don’t deny it. At the start it’s just smiles, bending over, light touches on the hand…cute, right? But one day I think, fuck
it, let’s take this further. The uni lecturers used to do it to me, so I knew all the tricks. I see one of the cute boys throw a rubber at another student, so I tell him to stay back. Once everyone is out, I remove my top to see his reaction; instant boner. The door isn’t locked, but the risk gets me excited…”

  At this point Magnus saw Astrid touching herself, her hand down her pants, eyes half-closed.

  “He’s sixteen, so he’s nervous…I was sure he was a virgin. He’s just sitting on his chair, so I put him inside me…he blows within three thrusts.”

  “Protection?” asked Magnus, indifferent.

  “Yuk. No way. Takes away the passion.”

  “Very well, go on.”

  “Yes, so I tell him if he wants more of that, he has to keep it a secret. I start doing this to the other cute boys, various positions of course, but they’re not lasting long…so I’m struggling to get off. I need to ramp this up. I invite one to my house for a sleep over. I’ve never seen a boy so excited. His dreams have come true…and so have mine.”

  Her voice is bouncing up and down, her breathing heavy. Magnus peers over his shoulder to see if Walter is waiting outside…he isn’t.

  “So he comes over, he’s dressed so nice…I just want to eat him up. Little honey. Told his mum he was staying at a friend’s house…cute! But I need to train him to last longer. We spend all Friday night working on it, working on his technique…but he can’t last longer than five minutes, and at times he can’t even get a boner. Frustrating! So this is what I do, doctor…I tell him that if he lasts more than ten minutes, I’ll give him a hundred dollars. That doesn’t work. Having sex with me seems to be reward enough. Fine. Let’s play it the other way. I tell him that if he doesn’t last ten minutes, I’ll cut him a little…only a little. Of course, he fails, so I get out a knife and cut him where nobody will see, on the inner thigh. He is a bit of a sook…so cute. I give him an hour to recharge… He requests to leave but I tell him no…I want to get off! We go again, he almost gets there…almost…but no. Fail. I bring out the knife and cut him deeper…he’s crying now. Not so cute anymore. I’m getting bored with this boy…what’s the point of sex if you can’t get off? He tries to climb out the window…so I chop off a finger. Now I’m starting to get my own enjoyment from this, doctor. I start to enjoy the violence more than the sex…but with all that cutting, I end up killing the poor boy. What a shame! If only he could satisfy a woman.”