Deathbed Confessions of the Criminally Insane
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Deathbed Confessions of the Criminally Insane
Jack Steen
Copyright © 2017 by Jack Steen
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
Who Am I?
To Prepare You…
THE WELL MARKER
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
The Funeral Director
THE FUNERAL DIRECTOR
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
The Funeral Director
THE FUNERAL DIRECTOR
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
The Babysitter
THE BABYSITTER
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
More Confession Books?
Who Am I?
My name is Jack Steen.
You may know this all ready, especially if you read the confession of the Funeral Director.
But if you haven’t, don’t worry.
My name shouldn’t mean anything to you.
I’m a nobody.
I’m not a writer. I’m not a story teller. I’m not a goddamn thing.
I’m just a man who wipes the asses of those society gives two shits about.
I clean up their shit, change their diapers, administer their medication and give them what no one else with give.
An audience.
I work as a night nurse in hospital for the criminally insane.
Which one doesn’t matter.
After you read the stories, you should be able to figure it out, but apparently I might get sued if I actually say it, so I won’t.
You picked up this book because of the title, right? Deathbed Confessions of the Criminally Insane. That’s exactly what you’re about to read.
That’s what I do.
I take their deathbed confessions. The ones no one else has heard. The ones no one wants to hear.
They tell me their stories, they confess their messed up lives because I do what no one else in this fucking asylum does.
I listen.
I’ve worked here the longest out of anyone on my floor.
I’ve got the scars, the stitches, the broken bones to prove it. I worked my way from the shittiest job to the one I have now.
I hate every goddamn moment of it too.
But you won’t see me leaving. I had the chance once. Once. But I was young, thought I was doing something good, something worthwhile.
What a fool.
I used to think being a nurse was my calling. My passion. The one thing in life I could do that would make it all worth it.
I was fucking stupid to think anything in life was worth it.
I used to work in a hospital where real people went. People who had lives. Children. People who loved them. Who cared for them. I’ve always taken care of the ones who were dying. But back then, they had people who cared, that cried for them, over them and hell, they even cried after them. After they were dead.
I don’t see that anymore.
I don’t feel that anymore.
Anymore, all I see and feel is relief.
Well, that’s a lie. I feel a hell of a lot more. Passion. Desire. A high.
A high like none other, trust me.
Do I feel sympathy for the bastards knowing they’re about to die?
Fuck no.
I get off on it.
These people here, most of them love to play games.
Touchy feely games. Especially when they’re the ones touching and feeling.
They also love to play head games.
Well…they’re not the only ones. I get to play a head game of my own.
I offer each of them an opportunity. They have one chance to take me up on it and not long to decide.
If they agree to my terms, their stay here on my ward, on my floor…is tolerable.
If they don’t - well, I could give two fucks what they care or how they feel and they soon realize that.
The terms?
Tell me their story. Their last story. The one they’ve been keeping secret from anyone else.
The one no one else knows.
Most of them are dying to tell me.
Dying for one last person to be their audience.
Jack Steen, my name is the only real name you’ll find in this book.
I won’t tell you which hospital I work at.
I won’t tell you the names of those dying.
But I won’t lie to you.
You’ll read exactly what I’m told.
Instead of their real names, I’ll tell you the names I gave them.
If you’re smart, if you’re deranged enough to read between the lines, you’ll know who is telling the story.
I can’t say all the stories are real. I doubt they’re all one hundred percent true but like every story you read, there’s always a nugget of truth to every tale ever told - but then, what the fuck do I know.
These sadistic bastards could be playing their final game with me by messing with my head.
Now it’s time for them to play with yours.
To Prepare You…
You’re about to read the first three stories of my ‘collection’.
The Well Marker
The Funeral Director
The Babysitter
* * *
Basically, I’m starting you off with the easiest story. Bucket from the Well Marker was
probably my favorite patient/inmate.
The Funeral Director isn’t for those with a weak stomach. OR if you’ve recently attended a funeral.
The Babysitter…well, let’s just say Ken is a sick fuck and there’s no love loss between the two of us.
* * *
You can get each confession as it’s own book or read them here in this one. There will be more confessions coming so if you like what you read, you’ll want to keep an eye out. I have a Facebook page where I’ll announce all the new confession stories.
* * *
Also…as one review said - I ain’t no writer - just a night nurse. So if you’re expecting writer type stories, go read Stephen King (but read this one first…come on, give a guy a chance.)
THE WELL MARKER
1
Bucket died at eight forty-two in the morning.
She died holding onto her favorite doll.
Her cheeks were wet from tears and to this day, I’m not sure if they were tears of joy or pain.
With Bucket, you never knew.
We don’t have many females on my floor.
At any given time we might have four or five.
As of right now, we have none. Bucket was the last. I hear there’s a few more headed our way shortly and some of the guys are happy about that.
No, you pussy. There’s no fucking or mistreatment of these woman. No extra touching or body searches. Not on my ward.
These people are here to die.
They’re fucked up. They’re messed. They’re crazy. But they’re still people.
None of that shit goes on while I’m here. Not on my watch.
It did when I first came to work here.
That was just bullshit. I don’t care what sick fuck you are. I don’t care how much the sick fucks in here beg for it. You don’t do that shit.
Period.
Bucket wasn’t one of those who asked for it. In fact, she hated to be touched. Couldn’t bear the pressure and could only handle a female doctor and nurse.
Except for me.
You’d think a big man like me wouldn’t get two feet within Bucket’s vision without her screaming…and at first, that was the case.
For weeks, after Bucket first arrived, she cried non-stop. Even in her sleep. Every time I’d check in on her, her pillow would be soaked from her tears.
There’s something about Bucket that makes a man go soft, you know?
Not that kind of soft. Get your fucking head out of the gutter.
Bucket’s special.
She’s like Betty Davis and Audrey Hepburn all rolled into one.
She’s soft and small and gentle. She breaks easy but has such a huge heart.
It’s not her fault she’s here, at the asylum.
Everyone here knows that too.
Once you hear her story, you’ll understand why I protect her like I do.
She’s a baby-doll that needs to be loved, not abused like what the sick fuckers did.
I don’t have any family. But if I did, she’d be like my sister. So when you hear what she told me, when you listen to the nightmare she lived, you’d put yourself in my shoes and act like I have towards her.
I was the only man she’d let near her. Did I tell you that?
The only man after coming into the asylum.
She’d been here, within these walls, for over thirty years.
Thirty long fucking years. That’s a lot of crying. A lot of tears. A lot of sadness.
She’s dead now. She was only fifty-two years old and yet, she looked like she was in her eighties.
I make it a goal never to become attached to my patients.
About ninety percent of the time, that’s true.
Bucket is in the ten percent.
I’ll miss that girl.
She died holding onto her favorite doll. A doll I gave her after finding out one of the bastards below took her other doll and masturbated all over it.
I met that sick fuck one night at the bar.
Let’s just say, I walked out of there fine but he needed his buddy’s to carry him home.
He took a few weeks off work too, from what I heard.
2
Screams of excruciating pain greet me as I throw open the Employee’s Only door.
I’m home.
“SON OF A—”
The rest of the sentence was swallowed by another torturous cry.
One light, halfway down the hall flickers, casting its shadow along the dungy grey brown walls.
As if on cue, the rest of the air filled with shrieks and the smile on my face grew wider as each knot of pain greeted me as I walked past.
“What a great welcome back.” I tossed my lunch bag on the staff table and kicked at the back legs of Ike’s chair.
“Fuck, dude.” Ike pushed himself up on his feet before falling flat on his ass.
“What’s going on out there? It’s not even a full moon.” The staff kitchen had been cleaned, the nursing station tidied…it was like mommy had come home to visit.
It’s ten o’clock and my shift from hell just started.
“Got some bad news for ya, boss. First shift of the new doctor. He’s an ass, by the way.” Ike groused as he plunked back down in his chair with a loud groan.
“Fuck.” I knew the guy would be arriving soon but not this soon.
Every new doctor who joins our staff starts off the same.
They believe they know more than the lowly peons who work the floors.
They feel their fucking superiority means they can disregard any semblance of normalcy and schedule I’ve created on this floor.
Every fucking doctor. Every single time.
It’ll take us days to calm everyone down.
Days to regulate their medications again.
Days of play time where we can fuck with their minds and see how more screwed they can become.
Yep. I’m home and glad to be here.
Except, this…isn’t the best time for this to happen.
“Good news however, Ernie brought in cake.”
The cake he was referring to is the wrapped platter of chocolate cake in the middle of the staff table. Ernie, another of my staff, celebrated his birthday and his mother made him a cake to bring in.
Ernie is forty years old and the lucky son of a bitch still lives at home.
“Thank God for Ernie’s mom.” I reached across to cut myself another piece, slight larger than the last. There was half a sheet cake left and it would be poor taste to let it go to waste.
“Bucket’s asking for you.” Ike waited for me to wolf down my piece before he opened his big mouth.
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me that sooner?” I cut another small piece of cake and placed it on a paper plate.
“She’s going to love that.” Ike leaned back in his chair, his own plate close to his chest, his fork inches from his mouth. “You’re such a softie when it comes to her.”
“She can’t eat it but she’ll love the smell. She doing okay?”
Ike shrugged.
“Didn’t take to the new guy. Her nurse said she refused all medication until talking with you, so without the guy knowing, she slipped them to me.”
“It’s that time, is it?” I figured.
Bucket was almost at the end of her time. I was hoping for a few more days.
Ike shrugged. “She don’t look to good. How about I warm a blanket and bring it down?”
I sighed.
Bucket’s dying of cancer. Started in her ovaries and spread like a wild fire throughout her whole system. She’s skin and bones now and is on a liquid diet.
She used to love to bake, so I sneak in some treats for her now and then. She might not be able to eat it, but she’d lick them, smell them, chew slowly and then spit it out into a napkin.
I wouldn’t do this for just any of my patients, but well…she’s one of mine and I take care of what’s mine.
3
Let me give you a little history lesson on my
asylum. For you smart-fuckers, you might be able to figure out where I work based on what I’m about to tell you.
If I’m telling the truth, that is.
This institution has been here, in one form or another, since … well, since forever.
It used to be a little shack that grew into a home, that grew into a small hospital that was then used to treat the untreatable which then became the forgotten.
We’re in the middle of shit-ass nowhere.
Sure, there’s a town around us now with a few bars, stores, mail and police station.
But back then, there was nothing.
We’ve still got the long driveway. The gates are covered with ivy now but they used to close. No one came in without doctor approval and absolutely no one left.
You think I’m lying when I say this is my home?