by Amy Cross
I take a deep breath.
Why is my heart pounding so fast in my chest?
Still staring at the ceiling, I find myself momentarily feeling sorry for Martina. After all, she died in a horribly violent way. I force myself to remember why I hated her: I think back to all her annoying habits, and to the way she caused me problems after I returned her cat. Maybe she wasn't evil, and maybe I over-reacted a little, but I still needed to get her out of my life. Everything that happens, happens for a reason. If God wanted Martina to not be killed, he wouldn't have let the jack-in-the-box scare her so much. I wish I could shake this bad feeling in the back of my mind, but I figure it's just a natural reaction. Maybe it's shock. I guess my mind and my body aren't the same thing, and my body can be upset and shaking even though my mind is calm and rational. I just have to focus on making sure my mind is in control.
Leaning over to my bedside table, I grab the small ring-box that used to belong to my mother; carefully opening the lid, I find Harry the maggot still wriggling around happily inside. I guess I'll need to find something for him to eat tomorrow, but I'm sure he'll be okay for the night.
"We did it, Harry," I say, smiling at him.
He wriggles some more, his pointy little head squirming as he edges closer to the edge of the box. Just when it seems he's going to escape, I close the lid, trapping him once again.
"Good teamwork," I say, putting the box back on the table.
I try to get some sleep, but in the end I spend the whole night just staring at the ceiling, going over the details of Martina's death a million times. Eventually I see that it's getting light outside, and I realize I didn't hear my father come upstairs. It's been a pretty crazy night, and he's probably asleep down in the kitchen. I look over at the clock by my bed, and I see that it's only 6am. I should probably stay in bed a little longer, so I just keep on staring at the ceiling for a few more hours. In my mind, Martina's accident is on a constant loop as I remind myself what I've done. Eventually, I realize I'm smiling.
Epilogue
Today
"Good morning, sunshine," my father says as I walk through the door. He's sitting at the table, eating a bowl of cereal as he gets ready to head off to work. This happens every morning: I wander back from work just as he's about to go out, and he grills me about my night. "The night lark returns".
"Night lark?" I ask, putting my backpack on a chair before going to the fridge.
"They don't teach you much poetry at school these days, do they?"
"Not really". I pour myself a glass of juice.
"How was your night?"
"I discovered that my co-worker has been systematically abusing the residents for quite some time, so I beat her to death with a fire extinguisher and hid her body in an abandoned ward. I had some help from a ghostly creature that lives in the building. Fortunately, all my emotions about the whole thing have been sucked away by the creature and are safely stored in the building, so I don't have to worry about them. It's quite liberating, really," I almost say. Almost. Damn it, I'd love to tell him the truth. Instead, I decide to keep things simple. "Fine".
"Fine?"
"Fine".
He laughs. "That's the trouble with you, Juliet. You're always fine. Never good or bad. Always fine. Just straight down the middle. Don't you think it might do you good to actually feel some kind of strong emotion some time?" He stares at me. "I'm serious, Juliet! You need to have a little fun sometimes. Maybe you should go out with some friends on your next night off?"
I smile weakly. He knows I don't really have any friends, but I guess he wants me to be more like a normal daughter. He wants me to go out and be social.
"You don't want to do that?" he asks.
"Not really," I say.
"What about when you go to college? What are you going to do when you're sleeping in dorm rooms and going to class with hundreds of other people?"
I shrug. To be honest, the thought of going to college is pretty terrifying. At the moment, it's this big abstract thing that hasn't really crystallized in my mind, but as the summer drags on, I'm getting closer and closer to the day when I have to go and be social. There's a part of me that wants to cancel the whole thing and just find some low-level job where I don't have to interact with people, but I know that's not really an option. I hate to admit it, but I think my father might be right when he says I need to learn how to be around people.
"I'll work something out," I mutter.
"Pardon?" he says. "I can't hear you when you speak so softly, Juliet".
"I said I'll work something out," I say firmly.
"Like what?"
I sigh, realizing he's in the mood to pick holes in everything I say. "I'm tired," I tell him.
"I used to work night shifts when I was your age," he says. "Over at a sausage factory. When I got home early in the morning, I'd be so pumped and full of energy, it'd be hours before I got to bed. Sometimes I'd just burn through and spend the day with friends, and then go back to work. I'm not saying I'd want to live like that again, but when you're younger, it's not a bad strategy. I think most nights, I was running on about five hours' sleep every night".
I stare at him, wondering how he wants me to reply.
"You sleep a lot, don't you?" he says eventually.
"Don't people die if they stay awake forever?" I ask.
"True," he says, "but you don't want to go too far the other way".
"Maybe not," I reply, finishing my drink. "I'm just gonna go to bed".
"Fine," he says. "Sleep away the best years of your life. I promise you, though; one day, you're going to look back on all this time you're wasting, and you're going to really, really regret your choices".
"I guess".
"You guess?"
I sigh. "Yeah. I guess".
"You working tonight?"
"Yeah," I say, grabbing my backpack. "They're gonna find a new co-worker for me. The old one bailed".
"She quit?" he asks.
"Kind of. It was all kind of sudden. She was there at the start of the shift, but then she left".
"You must have really pissed her off," he says, smiling.
"Actually, I killed her," I almost say. "I could show you her body right now". Almost.
"Not bad," he continues. "A few weeks on the job and you've already scared off one co-worker. Try to take better care of the next one, huh?"
"Yeah," I mutter. The weird thing is, I don't feel any regret about what happened to Lizzie. All the bad feelings seem to have been stripped away from me when I was in the abandoned ward, and now I've left them behind. I'm not haunted by the fact that I killed her; in fact, I don't really care too much either way. It's not like I'm glad it happened, it's more like I just see it as something that happened. There's something about that abandoned ward, or maybe about Jennifer Mathis, that seems to draw out all my negative emotions. I guess I have to be careful, otherwise I might end up being some kind of blank shell. I mean, I don't want to be totally empty; then again, it might be an easier way to go through life. Any time I try to be emotional, I usually just fuck things up.
"Good night," I say, turning to leave.
"Why did you ask me about Martina this morning?" he says suddenly.
I turn back to him. "I was just thinking about her. Nothing important".
"It's just that you've barely mentioned her since she died," he continues. "To be honest, I thought you'd forgotten all about her. Do you think about her a lot?"
"No". I pause for a moment. "Do you?"
"No," he says, as if the idea is crazy. "That was all a long time ago, Juliet".
"I know," I reply. "I was just thinking, maybe you'll be lonely after I've left for college in a few months. Maybe you could get a cat".
There's an awkward pause. "I'm not really a cat person".
"A dog?"
He shakes his head. "I don't really want a pet".
"Just a thought," I say, turning and heading through to my bedroom. It's weird, but Martina
Hopkins has been on my mind more and more in recent days. I guess that's not surprising; after all, she has a special place in my heart, given that she was the first person I ever killed. I suppose I should be more careful and make sure I don't mention her around my father; the last thing I want to do is draw attention to myself, especially when people might become suspicious. In some small way, though, I think maybe I'm a little proud of the fact that I've managed to go eleven years without anyone finding out about the jack-in-the-box. Then again, maybe there's a part of me that's a little frustrated; I mean, what good's a masterpiece, if no-one ever knows you painted it? I know I can't tell anyone the truth about Martina, but still: sometimes I wish someone would suspect what I did. At least that way, I'd know that someone recognizes the real me.
Book 4:
I Can't Do This Without Laughing
Prologue
Today
"Just ease the car into this parking bay," says Mr. Kennedy, the instructor.
Turning the steering wheel, I carefully park the car and switch off the engine. The test is finally over, after a half hour of absolute terror, and now I've just got to find out whether or not I've passed. It's not that I've got any particular love of driving, or any desire to hit the open road; however, my overall plans would be severely stymied by the need to take my test again. If I've passed, I can get on with the next stage.
"Well, Juliet," he says, shuffling through a pile of papers on his lap, "how do you think you did?"
"I don't know," I reply. "Pretty good, I guess".
"Uh-huh," he says, ticking a couple of boxes on one of the forms. He pauses for a moment. "Well, you did better than that. You passed".
I take a deep breath. To be honest, there were times over the past few months when I thought I didn't have a chance in hell of passing my test. I definitely wasn't a natural, and I almost gave up a whole host of times. It was only in the past week, when I suddenly realized why I might need to be able to drive, that I buckled down and worked hard to smooth out my rough edges. And now, finally, all that hard work has paid off.
"I'm sure you'll be a very safe and careful driver," Mr. Kennedy says, opening the door and getting out of the car. "Just remember that you still need to keep your standards up. Don't get sloppy now you've passed your test, okay?"
"Sure," I say, getting out of the car. I take the slip of paper from his hand and head back into the testing center. Over at the main desk, I get everything stamped and sealed, and finally I walk back through to the waiting room.
"Well?" my father asks, putting down a magazine and standing up. "How did it go?"
I stare at him for a moment. "I failed," I say.
"Seriously?"
"Just a couple of minor points," I continue. "He said I was close, but I just need to come back another day and try again".
He sighs. "So what were these minor points?" he asks as we wander out through the front door.
"I almost missed a stop signal," I say, making the whole thing up, "and I stalled a couple of times at junctions".
"I thought you practised all that stuff?" he says. It's funny; I can tell he's pissed off, and he's not making a very good job of hiding his true feelings. "I don't know if there's much point carrying on with lessons if you're just going to make basic mistakes. Maybe you should give it a rest for a while".
"You don't think I can do it?" I ask as we reach his car.
"Maybe you're just not meant to be a driver," he says, turning to me. "You're not very aware of the space around you, Juliet. You tend to zone out sometimes. I thought maybe you could cut all that stuff out when you were driving, but maybe you're just not ready". He unlocks the car door. "If you want any more lessons, you'll have to pay for them yourself".
"Okay," I say, pausing as he gets into the car. It's hard to hide the smile on my face; after all, he never believed for one second that I'd pass my test. The good news is that it suits me just fine for him to think I failed. The last thing I want is for him to start noticing certain other things that I'm doing. He's not the smartest guy in the world, but there's still a danger that he could work out that I'm up to something, and I'm determined to make sure that my plan doesn't hit any hurdles. I needed to pass my test in order for everything to work out, and everything's going according to plan; my father's views, on the other hand, don't matter at all. Anyway, by the time he learns the truth, it'll be far too late.
Chapter One
Today
"We have a problem," says Mr. Taylor, lowering his voice as he shuts his office door and walks quickly over to the desk. It's 10pm and I've arrived for my night shift, but I can tell something's wrong. Mr. Taylor's always kind of nervous and shifty, but tonight he seems to be off the scale. He's been pacing about ever since the nurses left a few minutes ago. I can't help but notice that there's no-one else here. He's supposed to have brought in someone to take Lizzie's place after her 'disappearance'...
"What kind of problem?" I ask.
He sighs. "Actually, it's two problems. The first is that I haven't been able to find anyone to replace Lizzie at such short notice. I'm working on something for tomorrow night, but right now I've come up with nothing. I mean, I'm trying to find someone to employ, and I'm coming up with nothing. I thought there was a fucking recession going on, but apparently everyone's already got enough money. I just want to pay someone a decent wage to work a fucking night shift, but suddenly they're all too fucking busy. I mean, seriously, what kind of world are we living in?"
I stare at him. "So what does that mean?"
He sighs. "It means that, contrary to state and federal healthcare laws, and in strict violation of several very important protocols, you're going to have to work the night shift alone. Just this once, Juliet, I swear to God. After tonight, I'll definitely find someone. There's this woman in Maine who I think will come. I almost got her today, but she's playing hardball about travel costs. Don't worry, though. I'm confident she'll cave in the morning".
I take a deep breath. "Okay," I say, figuring that although it's not ideal, I can probably get through the night without any help. "But what if I need -"
"I'll have my phone on right next to my bed," he says, interrupting me. "If there's any kind of medical problem, you call me, okay? I'll sort it out. You don't call anyone else, and you definitely don't call for an ambulance". He pauses for a moment. "Juliet, if anyone finds out about this, I'm screwed. Finished. We'll be fined, the insurance won't pay out, I'll lose my job..." He takes a deep breath; I swear, he's close to hyperventilating. "I need to know you can do this, and that you'll be discreet about it".
"Sure," I say. "Do I get any overtime or -"
"You get to know that you've done a good job," he replies. "You get the satisfaction of potentially saving this entire facility. Please, Juliet. Just this one night. I helped you out by hiring you when, frankly, there were other candidates. Now I need you to return the favor by doing this one night alone. Can you do that? And can you keep it just between the two of us?" He stares at me. "Please?"
"Sure," I say.
"Thank fuck," he mutters, hurriedly grabbing some papers and shoving them into his briefcase. It's pretty obvious that he can't wait to get out of here.
"What's the other problem?" I ask.
"Huh?"
"You said there's another problem".
"Oh," he replies, glancing over at the door with a worried expression on his face. "Um... Well, it's nothing, really".
"What is it?" I ask, determined to make him tell me before he leaves.
"Piotr Cymbalista," he replies, clicking his briefcase shut.
"Who?" I say.
"You know Barbara Cymbalista in room 105, on the blue ward? Piotr's her son, and he's just this fucking asshole on legs, and he exists purely to cause trouble. Seriously, the guy is constantly angry, and this is the absolute worst night to have him here".
"He's not here right now, is he?" I ask, looking out through the service hatch and seeing that the reception area's empty.
"I thought visiting hours finished before dinner?"
"He just came storming in about an hour ago," Mr. Taylor continues, "demanding to see his mother. Don't worry, I told him he had to be gone by the time the night shift started. I swear, that man is constantly angry about something. It's like he needs to be constantly aggravated".
"But he's gone now?" I ask, starting to get worried. There's a pause. "He's gone now, right?"
"He's leaving any minute," Mr. Taylor replies, hurrying to the door.
"You have to wait until he's gone," I say, following him out into reception and over to the front door. "You're not going to leave me here alone with some angry Polish guy, are you?"
"You can handle it," he says. "I've got a lot of faith in you, Juliet. You're a people person".
"I'm a what?" I say, shocked.
"You're a people person," he says again, turning to me.
"No," I say. "I'm really not".
"Just make sure he doesn't realize you're here alone," he continues. "Tell him your colleague is off on another ward and -" He looks over at the other side of the room, just as an angry middle-aged guy, dressed all in denim and looking as if he hasn't washed for a few days, comes storming through from the blue ward. "Great, "Mr. Taylor mutters. "Jesus Mary Christ fucking mother of God pissing balls..."
"This is a fucking disgrace!" the angry man says as he reaches us. "Do you know what this is? This is a fucking appalling way to treat human beings. What the fuck is going on in this place? Do you think you're running a zoo or something?"
"Mr. Cymbalista, I'd like you to meet Juliet," says Mr. Taylor. "Juliet's part of our night team. She's one of the people who check on the residents while they're sleeping, and I can assure you that your mother is in the best possible hands".
"Huh," Mr. Cymbalista says, glancing briefly at me. He's clearly not impressed. "So who's responsible for the fact that my mother's sleeping in a filthy bed?" He waits for an answer. "Huh?"