by Jack Steen
I didn’t understand what he meant, but I assumed it was because he was always on the lookout for the police. He was worried something would happen to me if the police came to visit.
I was more worried something would happen to him.
His friends stopped coming by as often.
Once, when I was making Daddy dinner, I found a note hidden in one of the cookbooks the lady down the road gave me.
It was a recipe for getting rid of the bad men.
With simple cleaning products, I was able to make sure his friends stopped touching me, stopped hurting me.
Thanks to her recipes, I learned how to make them meals that would hurt them. Sometimes they even died.
Those ones I didn’t mind Daddy leaving in the dirt. The animals always found them. I made sure of that.
13
BUCKET TO JACK:
* * *
Does that make me a bad person, Jack?
They deserved to feel the pain they put me in, right? Even if it wasn’t the same type of pain?
I remember watching one of the men, the first time I added poison to the stew I’d made. I couldn’t keep the smile off my face as he shit his pants over and over and over again.
Daddy had just skinned a rabbit and the stew smelled so good. We’d had our dinner and I was washing up the dishes when Daddy noticed headlights coming up the driveway.
He told me to stay out of sight, to clean up the kitchen and then go to my room.
Just as I was climbing the back stairs, Daddy asked me to heat up a bowl of stew for his friend.
I peaked through the door to see which friend it was and realized it was the man who liked to hurt me the most by sticking things inside of me. Things that shouldn’t ever be inside a person.
One time he put the gun inside of me and threatened to pull the trigger if I didn’t suck him off.
I’m sorry, I know you don’t like hearing the stuff, Jack. I don’t like saying it…but I wanted to you know just how bad he was.
What did I do?
I added rat poison to the stew.
I made sure both Daddy and the man had a few beers before I stew was warmed up enough to eat. I even made him some toast to go with it. I wasn’t sure how it would taste, and didn’t want to taste it myself, but he must have been drunk enough to have ignored it or believed that maybe it was the meat because he licked that bowl clean and even wanted seconds.
It didn’t take long for him to get sick.
It stared with his gut twisting something fierce. Then his nose started to bleed.
He was in the washroom for a long time.
He shit his pants over and over until he laid on the bathroom floor unable to move.
Daddy cleaned it all up because I kept throwing up at the smell.
Daddy eventually hit him with a brick, right in the head, killing him fast.
Too fast, if you ask me.
I went to my well and stayed there while Daddy buried the man in the dirt off in the field and then cleaned up the bathroom.
I stayed there, with my babies, until Daddy told me the house was clean.
We never discussed it. Never talked about the poison or Daddy killing the man with a brick.
He only gave me a hug and asked me to let him know if I noticed any more rats.
I thought about all the men who still came to the house.
The jug beneath the sink was half full still.
I told him there were only a few more rats but I had enough to deal with them.
Do I regret it?
Would you?
14
BUCKET:
* * *
It was my birthday.
I made myself a cake. Chocolate with a buttercream icing.
I woke up that morning with a birthday present waiting for me on the kitchen table.
It was a new recipe book. Daddy bought it from town and there was a picture of a chocolate cake on the front cover.
That’s the cake I made. I couldn’t decorate it like the photo but I licked the icing and it was pretty good.
I had another gift.
My baby was going to have the same birthday as me.
I couldn’t wait to meet her.
She was my loudest baby. She talked non-stop to me.
She was healthy and happy and couldn’t wait till I held her in my arms.
Out of all my babies, she was the one who was truly ready to be born.
We decided together the day she would come. We thought it would be more special to share a birthday.
When I woke up, I rubbed my belly and said good morning to her. She kicked and called me Mommy.
I loved her.
All morning she kept asking when she could come but I told her to wait. I wanted to make my cake first and have a slice.
Daddy talked about the dinner we would have, that he was going to make it for me, but I knew there wouldn’t be time. So after a lunch of tomato soup, we had a slice of cake and oh, it tasted delicious.
I can still taste it, when I think about that day…the cake is so real, the smell, the texture …I haven’t had a birthday cake like that since.
Daddy was so gentle with me. He held my hand all day, rubbed my shoulders and kept asking me how I was doing.
It was the best birthday ever.
After cake, my baby was ready to come. I knew because she told me and then pains started. She promised it wouldn’t take long, that she was ready to come and knew I was afraid of the pain.
I walked the house, around the house, to the well to let my babies know their new sister was almost here and then back to the house where my beautiful girl was born.
Daddy was there with me. He held me while I squatted over a pile of blankets and then wrapped my little one in a shirt before letting me hold her.
She was perfect and absolutely beautiful. I counted all her fingers and toes, watched the way her eyes opened and struggled to focus, listened to the sweet sound of her cry as she took in her first breath.
Daddy kissed her forehead then mine before he left the room.
Those hours that I spent with her…they were the best hours of my life.
I didn’t think it could get any better.
I certainly didn’t expect it to get worse.
We were resting in bed, my baby girl asleep beside me when Daddy came in, sat down beside me and reached for my hand.
His hand shook and his eyes…they were empty.
He told me it was time to introduce her to the rest of her family - to her brothers and sisters.
He told me that it wasn’t safe anymore for us, that the police were coming for him and our time was up.
He told me how sorry he was, that he’d tried to shelter me, protect me, but he’d failed and the police would come for me as well.
They’d take my baby away from me.
From us.
Our family would be torn apart.
What was the best day of my life turned into the worst.
Daddy said we needed to go to the well, to where we would be safe.
I told him we could hide but he said it was too late.
I refused to go. I wasn’t going to let go of my baby, I wasn’t going to put her in that well alone.
I’d go with her if I had to.
Daddy said they’d find me if I did.
I didn’t care.
I wanted to be with my babies. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.
He took my daughter from me. He was so sorry, I could see it on his face.
He said he had no choice.
I screamed.
I yelled.
I begged.
But he didn’t listen.
By the time I caught up with him at the well, my daughter was all ready being lowered down.
I grabbed the rope from him hands but he was too strong, too fast and pushed me away from him, from the well, from my daughter.
Then he did the unthinkable.
He dropped the rope.
It p
lays in slow motion within my mind, every time I close my eyes.
His fingers open.
The rope slides through his grasp.
It hangs motionless mid-air until it’s gone.
There’s one split moment…one moment when if I’d been close enough, I could have reached for it, I could have grabbed it, stopped it…
But I wasn’t close. He’d pushed me hard enough that I went flying into the dirt.
I scrambled up right, my knees cut and bloodied by the rocks on the ground but I was too late.
Do you know what a wood bucket sounds like when it hits rock bottom?
What sound an infant makes when it’s dropped more than six feet?
She’d been crying. And then she wasn’t.
There’d been a gasp…and then nothing.
Nothing but the sound of wood splintering.
Nothing but the sound of her soft bones hitting the bottom of the well.
Nothing but silence.
I was frozen. I couldn’t move. I just looked at my Daddy, the one who said he loved me more than anyone else, the one who said he’d always be there to protect me, to cherish me…
I looked at him and saw him for what he was.
A killer.
It wasn’t the first time he’d killed someone.
I wasn’t stupid. I knew what he did throughout the years.
I knew the gang he hung out with. They were evil men.
He was an evil man.
I just never thought that evil would be forced on me. On our family.
But he killed my baby.
My babies.
In the distance the sound of police sirens could be heard.
Daddy reached down into the well and pulled the ladder up. He pulled and pulled until it was out of the well and then he hit it over and over against the stone, until it broke.
I didn’t understand what he was doing.
Why did he break the ladder? I could have gone down. I could have been down there with my babies.
I wanted to go down there with them and he wouldn’t let me.
It’s so they won’t know. To protect me. Protect us. He said it over and over.
I stopped listening to him.
Close by were my markers. The ones I used to for my babies.
I took it in my hand and ran towards him. His back was turned and I hit him.
Hard.
In the back of the head.
He went down and I hit him again. And again.
And again.
I used every ounce of strength in me.
All the pain, all the hurt and anger, I put into that rock.
I killed him. I killed my father, the father of my children and I had no regrets.
I still have no regrets.
By the time the police came, I was barely holding on to the edge of the well, sobs tearing from my body.
I begged the officer to save my baby. I tried to explain what happened, where my baby was…but it was too late.
15
BUCKET TO JACK:
* * *
There’s my story, Jack.
I’m ready now, ready to see my babies again.
I’ve missed them for more than thirty-years.
All I wanted was to be a mother. Every baby was taken from me too early.
I was a victim? Yes, I know. I know my life wasn’t normal.
I know now that how I was raised, what happened to me…it wasn’t okay. I’ve had enough therapy here that I understand it.
Please don’t ask me if I’m sorry though. I’m not sorry for killing my Daddy.
I’m not sorry and never will be.
Does that make me a murderer? Yes. I accept that. I did it to protect my baby…I was too late but I tried.
Please, Jack. I’m ready.
I just want to sleep and not wake up.
Thank you for listening, for protecting me while I’ve been here, for making my dying easier.
It’s time for me to see my babies now.
16
It’s eight forty in the morning and Bucket’s eyes are closed.
I made her a promise that I intent to keep, but I’ve got to say, listening to her story, damn that was hard.
If her father was here, in front of me, I’d kill the asshole myself.
She’s not a murderer. Not for what she did.
The bastard deserved to die.
Some fucker should have killed him long ago.
I’ve watched a lot of people die since working here.
Not many affect me, let me say that.
Bucket…her story is gonna haunt me for years to come.
What happened to her, that’s not okay.
Not. Fucking. Okay.
What kind of sick asshole…
Breathe. I need to fucking breathe. Bucket doesn’t need me to be like this.
I do what I promised her I’d do.
You know what too - so no, I won’t spell it out.
If you were here, you’d be doing the exact same.
She’s dying. I’m just helping her to die with peace and dignity and in her god-damn sleep like she deserves.
I hope her heaven is everything she hoped it would be.
I hope her babies are there waiting for her.
I hope those angels are there to protect her like they should have done a hell of a long time ago.
If I find her in hell when I get there…the devil and I will have a few words.
I want to say more, I should probably say more…but this story, Bucket’s story…it’s weighing heavy on me right now.
I thought I’d head to the bar and drink the day away but instead, I’m gonna head to the gym and pretend I’m kicking the ass of her father.
For all the crimes he committed, for all the people he killed…he deserved something more than just a rock to the back of the head.
I know who he was. I did my research. Read about him in the papers. He was a sadistic bastard.
He worked with a gang of thugs who liked to rob stores and rape women.
He was known as the Cleaner.
If he’d been here, dying on my ward, on my watch…I’d have made him suffer.
Bucket thought he was a good man. A loving man.
He was a sick bastard.
What father would rape his daughter…over and over and over?
What father would allow other men to rape her as well?
Was Bucket all there in the head?
Hell no.
Do you blame her?
I’m glad her soul remained innocent at least.
Fuck. I’m out of here. Off to the gym. I pity the fucker who gets in my way.
Then I’ll head to the bar.
If you’re in the mood for a good ole’ bar fight…come one down. Join me.
We’ll drink afterwards.
Drink to Bucket and her fucked up life.
* * *
PS. If you figured out who I am and where I work, then you’ll know where the bar I head to after every shift. Come join me for a beer. I might have more stories to tell.
* * *
See you then.
THE FUNERAL DIRECTOR
1
The Chef.
He’s dead now. Died in his sleep at 5:23am.
I can tell you he died with a smile on his face.
I know this because I was the one to put it there.
Seconds before he died, I whispered a promise into his ears, a promise I knew he’d appreciate.
I actually liked Chef.
Of all my patients, he’s the one I didn’t despise - and considering it’s rare for me to admit I like any of them, that says something.
He was a class act. One of the good ones. Poised. Friendly. Cheerful even on his bad days. He’d be the first one to bend over and pick up a pen you accidentally dropped.
He’d also be the first one to shove said pen into your eye socket and then pull it out before you had a chance to react.
All with the sweetest of
smiles on his face.
Chef, as I liked to call him, wasn’t a man you’d expect to find in the asylum but he was someone who deserved to be here, just like many others.
He used to be a funeral director. Before coming to the Asylum.
I’ve heard of family vocations being passed down from father to son, but never had I heard someone so proud to be a funeral director like the men in his family, as Chef had been.
Proud. Proud of being the caretaker of the dead.
The first visitors book from his family funeral home was his prized possession. He’d shown it to me once. The first date in the book was 1913 and I could barely make out the signed name but he knew it. Burned in his memory he’d said. Burned like family member it belonged to.
His family proudly owned one of the first crematoriums in North America in 1913. He claims there were only fifty-two such places and they held more services than mosts.
He was proud of this.
What fucker is proud of burning bodies? I shouldn’t be surprised by this and yet, because it’s Chef…I am.
I promise you this. Chef’s tale will be the nicest one I’ve ever told.
It’s also entirely possible you’ll recoil with disgust when you realize why he’s here and not back at home attending the funerals like his family before him.
If I could give you one advice to remember for the rest of your life, it would be this…
Never eat the food provided by a funeral home.
Ever.
2
It’s a Monday night, just after eleven and I notice the light on in the Chef’s room.
I’d just come down from that hallway and wasn’t sure I was ready for another pass.
That corridor always smelled like piss and crap. No matter how many times the walls or floors were disinfected, it smelled like hell every single day.
Picture yourself lying in the middle of a pig pen after a day of rain.
Yeah, it smelled like that.
When you think asylum, what’s the first image that comes to mind?
Dark, narrow hallways with half-burnt out light bulbs?