Destroyer of Worlds

by Daniel G. Keohane

  Eyes closed again, tears running down her cheeks, soaking into the Band-aids on her cheeks.

  Andrew seemed intent on keeping the mood low. He raised his free hand, palm-down as if to say, Keep it down; keep it down.

  He said, “Vanessa, look at me. Can you tell me what you remember? Anything. Start small.”

  Corey had remembered, for the briefest moment, seeing the little dog in the window of the cab, watching his family climb into Cowles’ taxi outside the W&G building in Worcester, on their way to the airport. Without him. Never seeing them again. He’d remembered…

  Dog biting, laughter from behind her, Cowles screaming and raising the pitch fork with no, no… a disembodied voice as Nurse Charles bit down, again and again…

  She shook her head. Corey had exploded in rage rather than face the world, deciding the only way to stop his illusions from unraveling was to stop the person responsible. He couldn’t reach Hank Cowles so he'd attacked her, cutting at the only threat within reach.

  But she remembered none of it, except as a dream. Hysterical amnesia, nothing more, Vanny. Be professional about this and face the truth. You tried. You failed. Move on.

  She shook her head as a way of answering Andrew’s question, a way of lying without words. There was no dog, she did not say. Andrew breathed out slowly, lips tight. Was he angry? Robert moved across the room and sat in a chair under a painting. She was missing something…

  “Vanessa, look at me.”

  Tired. Too tired for any more right now. She looked towards the door then down to the bandages on her arms and his hand resting there so gently. She took this hand, turned it over to touch the pink palm to her own, wanting to hold it. He wrapped his fingers around hers. Vanessa noticed her nails were neatly trimmed, understanding the evasiveness of focusing on such minutiae.

  “Vanessa?”

  Tired. She held his hand but pressed her head against the pillow, wanting to escape, needing to sleep. Later. She’d deal with it later. Her deadline was over, Corey was dead. There was no need to rush ever again.

  “Later,” she whispered, “need to sleep.” Her throat hurt a little less this time. Maybe she’d inherited some of the magic of Corey’s imaginary neighbor.

  She squeezed his hand, watching the veil of her lashes drop over him. The last thing she saw was the painting above Robert Schard’s head. It was moving, swirling, re-forming into a pasture. She tried to open her eyes more, but they refused to obey. She let go of his hand.

  Andrew’s voice became distant, talking to Robert. “Someone should stay with her for the next couple of days, round the clock.”

  Robert’s whisper, “That’ll be tough. I’m supposed to be on the second floor…”

  “…find a way. There’re plenty of people who’d volunteer… call me when she’s awake…”

  The painting finished its metamorphosis through the veil of her lashes, a pasture long and sweeping, one lone cow staring back. An old man stood beside it -

  “Andrew,” she whispered. Movement on the bed, someone saying her name as a question, as if unsure she’d actually spoken.

  An old man stood beside the lonely cow, hands on hips, head tossed back and laughing, playing the victor, taking his bow as the curtain of her lashes finally dropped over the scene.

  Vanessa pushed the two words out like a final breath. “Help me.”

  If Andrew replied, she did not hear it. She felt nothing but black oblivion.

  II

  The stitches had been removed from her arms and neck, plus one long gash in her side. The scabbed-over wounds felt pinched, threatening to break open with every movement. Vanessa knew they wouldn’t have removed the stitches if her injuries weren’t healed, so she tried to ignore the sensation. The cuts had been bad but not too deep - none required surgery. Corey could have done far worse damage, but even in his delusional state he’d held back.

  Oh, don’t you worry, Darlin’, it’s natural to worry about the scar coming loose, the nurse removing the stitches had explained with a cheery lilt, taking a macabre pleasure from each thread pulled through Vanessa’s skin. Picking at someone else’s scabs. Superficial or not, two weeks of wrapping plastic around her arm and neck when stepping into the shower was enough. She was glad for the freedom.

  There would still be scarring along her upper left arm. The diagonal line on her throat would fade, but never go away completely. When she looked in the mirror which Andrew had offered the first time he changed her dressing—an act that felt more intimate than she dared admit—the wound didn’t look nearly as horrific as her imagination built it up to be.

  The hallway along which she now walked was as stained and dirty as she remembered. The sickness of the souls she passed infected its walls. Overhead lights flickered, slowly fading into forgetfulness under layers of dust. Most of the people behind the doors were quiet this morning, as was the security guard escorting her. She’d showed him her papers, which he’d accepted and read without comment except to say, Follow me.

  It was barely six in the morning. The silence around her felt like expectation rather than sleep. She imagined wild-eyed creatures with large ears and curled talons hunkered behind each door, ears pressed and shaking with excitement, reading her heart, knowing her sins. Knowing also what would soon happen.

  She blinked away the image as they rounded the final corner. Marty was there, as he'd promised, looking uneasy but trying to mask it for the guard, who handed him the papers. Marty was saved from speaking as the guard immediately turned around and left them alone. Vanessa wondered if Hank Cowles, or his reputation, had something to do with the rudeness. The old man had that effect on people.

  Her right hand was bent at the wrist, not from any lingering injury but to prevent what hung loose in her sleeve from dropping to the floor. Fortunately no one had searched her. Why would they? She was a psychiatrist. Even Marty did not know what was jabbing into the ball of her right hand. That was a good thing. He was nervous enough after forging the paperwork and arranging this meeting without anyone but the two of them—and now the silent guard—knowing.

  Most men would do anything for sex, and of course she’d had to promise herself that using it to get what she needed this time was also the last, never again, now that she’d reached this end point of her life. Anyway, she had no intention of repaying her side of the deal with Marty. Vanessa tried to ignore the conflicting emotions across his face, eyes looking her body over, face flushed with shame.

  “How long are you going to be?” he asked.

  She looked at the door. The viewport was closed. Silence on the other side. He would know by now she was here, was coming in.

  Vanessa did not answer, kept looking at the door and reminding herself that stepping through it was a one-way trip, would mean giving in to fantasy once and for all. Hank Cowles had nothing to do with Corey’s death. The man whose life and mind had been hers to save had run from the house while she lay bleeding on the rug. He’d crashed through the woods, found the old shed and an old, dried out rope, hung himself from the beam. It snapped under his weight, but not before removing Corey from her world forever.

  Beyond this door was either a wildly insane man who knew nothing about what had happened, or the architect of every delusion and pain she’d been fighting in her patient. The latter was impossible. But… but, but and more but…

  “Not long,” she said, after what felt like an hour of staring at the door.

  Marty shifted, reached for the sliding rectangular portal and moved it aside. “Mister Cowles,” he said, then swallowed. Vanessa wondered if he might actually know her plan. He couldn’t know. “You… have a visitor, sir.” He opened the door.

  Mister Cowles. Sir. Titles which did not belong to a monster, the man who destroyed Corey Union’s world and so many others’, a man who was never content, who wanted more, who found Corey’s mind and finished the job.

  With that thought, before taking her first step into the room, Vanessa knew there was no turni
ng back.

  “Wait outside,” she said, “would you, Marty?”

  He looked at her, then into the bright room. “I don’t think–”

  “I’ll be fine. I’ll knock when I’m ready to leave.”

  He looked down, said, “OK, but if I don’t hear a knock in five minutes, I’m coming in for you.”

  “Deal.”

  He stepped back and let Vanessa walk into the small room. Hank Cowles was as she remembered, sitting on the floor, neglecting the bed and single chair, legs splayed out in front of him. Patting the invisible dog beside him and smiling.

  Had he only gotten into this position when she was announced? She wouldn’t put it past him. Standing in the center of the room, with the old man watching her and running his damned hand over and over the shape of a dog no one could see, Vanessa did not move or speak until the door clicked shut behind her.

  Five minutes. It would be enough.

  She knelt on the floor between Hank’s outstretched legs, closer than she thought wise, but it had to be this close. He did not move, save that right hand up and down, up and down.

  “Good morning, old man.”

  He laughed, the sound thin and without humor.

  “Good morning, Doctor Reilly.“ His eyes darted over her body. “Healing nicely, I see.”

  She nodded, too aware of the scar on her throat.

  He continued, “Charlie is a little miffed you wouldn’t stay dead. But then, she wasn’t really there, was she? Just an illusion, a madman’s nightmare, no?”

  “You can’t -” she stopped, as if a hand had closed around her windpipe. What could she say?

  His smiled faltered. “Poor Corey, having to lose his wonderful family all over again.” Hank narrowed his eyes. “Not exactly the kind of therapy one reads about in the medical journals.” He cackled, or perhaps was only clearing his throat. The hand continued, up and down.

  Vanessa blinked when the man in front of her blurred. She cursed the tears, wiped them with her left hand, tensing her right, but not straightening it, not yet. She said, “Why did you kill them? Any of them. What did they do to deserve that?”

  His smile, when she could focus on it again, was wide, was wild. “They died. That’s all. They died, and I made them do it. There’s nothing complicated about -”

  She straightened her right hand, felt the knife blade slide along her palm, slicing it open, landing with a clink against the concrete floor. With a sweeping motion she’d practiced dozens of times, Vanessa gripped the handle and slashed hard under his chin.

  His words stopped. The throat peeled open, white then red then everything red, pouring out of the deep valley in his skin, running under the collar of his light blue scrubs, soaking and spreading so quickly. He opened his eyes wide, mouth spread in a mockery of surprise. “Oooh, Girl,” he said, voice filling with blood, “you killed me; you killed me.” He tried to laugh, but when he tilted back his head, a new geyser of blood poured out like a hose from every vein and artery.

  Vanessa crawled backward, covered in Hank Cowles’ blood. The knife lay discarded and stained on the floor between his legs. No sense hiding it now. It was over. All of it was over.

  When she got to her feet, the dying man’s hand stopped caressing the dog, then dropped to the floor.

  She knocked on the door. When there was no response, she tried the handle. It opened without resistance. No one waited in the hall. Martin was gone. Vanessa hesitated, almost calling for him before realizing this would be better. She wouldn’t have to explain. He would understand. They all would. The dusty lights raced above her as she turned the corner, slowed to a quick walk—don’t run; just keep moving—down the main hall. From all sides, the invisible residents screamed and hooted, trapped in their personal hells, shouting in tongues she didn’t understand, the language of the mad and lost. They celebrated the death of the demon, the Destroyer of Worlds. She rounded the final corner, saw the elevator at the far end. Vanessa curled her hands into fists to stop the incessant shaking of her arms, feeling the blood—Hank’s mixing with her own—between her fingers. She opened her hands and wiped them across her slacks. The hall was dimly lighted by the elevator, becoming darker every second. She leaned on the doors, pressed the button, forcing air into her lungs, letting it out. Do not faint, not here, not here or anywhere. Just go home

  That was the only thread of choice left to her. Go home, and wait for the police to arrive. She’d just murdered a man.

  What if he wasn’t dead? What if Martin came back and found him, saved him? No. Why would he do that? Why would anyone?

  The elevator doors slid open with a ding!

  Empty. She was still alone.

  Ticking behind her, claws on the broken tiles. Nothing there; don’t look. As she stepped inside the elevator, a deep, familiar voice shouted, “Vanessa!”

  She whirled around, saw two things simultaneously. One warmed her heart and the other turned it to stone. Andrew Booth at the far end of the hall, staring at her with warm eyes and loving hands which would never hold her close, never keep her safe. Those hands were raised in front of him. Stop, they said, come back to me.

  The second thing was the source of the clicking along the floor. Nurse Charles trotted towards her, following the droplets of blood from her palm. The adorable little Shih-Tzu, the terrible monster with its tiny paws and curly white hair and pink tongue dancing across a bottom row of teeth bared as its lips parted. Small rivulets of drool fell to the floor, stretching out behind it like a web. It ran on stubby legs towards the elevator.

  Behind the dog, Andrew called her name one more time, then began to run hard. The dog was closer and would reach the doors first. Vanessa didn’t dare wait and hope that Andrew could save her from those little teeth and claws which would keep hurting her while Hank laughed and laughed and never explained why he was doing this to her family. He never explained, never explained, never—

  She pressed the button for the lobby. Nothing happened. Nurse Charles covered the final few feet when the doors finally jerked to life and slid closed, but the dog was inside the car. Andrew was gone. She was alone with the monster as it latched onto her right leg, claws tearing her clothes, little teeth nipping the skin beneath, climbing up her body. Vanessa stumbled against the elevator wall, slipped and fell onto the floor. The elevator rose. Nurse Charles growled and bit her thigh and sliced thinly into her with untrimmed claws as it moved towards her face. She lashed out, tried to stop it but it was too late. Relentless biting, scratching, cutting her cheeks and neck and nose. Small hurts opening everywhere, never enough to kill, but pain so bad. Stinging. The nest, don't stir up that horrible, terrible nest. Why had the old man done this to them? Why was he doing this to her now? The dog moved so quickly over her from its perch on her chest the head appeared in three places at once, reflections in the blood and tears filling her eyes, like the demon it was, like Cerberus rising to devour her world…

  III

  Andrew

  Andrew cried, “Hold her!”

  Martin climbed onto the bed and draped himself across Vanessa’s thrashing legs. Andrew got hold of her wrists and pulled them towards the restraints at each side of the bed, but he could do nothing else while she thrashed her head back and forth against the pillow, screaming.

  He yelled, “Where's the fucking nurse?”

  A tall woman with a hard face walked into the room, circled around Martin’s legs as he huffed from an occasional knee in the stomach. The nurse's face concentrated solely on the needle, tapping out air bubbles then finally, finally, injecting the Haldol into Vanessa’s upper arm. It had no immediate effect. Andrew hadn’t expected it to, but he sighed with relief knowing the sedative, mild as it might be, was already working its way through her system.

  Slowly, Vanessa quieted, still tossing her head side to side but less forcefully, fighting off demons like so many times before.

  He was losing her again. After all that had happened, so close to breaking through. So fuc
king close!

  He'd ask forgiveness for cursing later, both the spoken and not. Maybe. Wasn't like God wouldn't understand if he didn't.

  His patient's shoulders sagged at last. Andrew watched Vanessa fade back into herself, into the world she’d created so many times before. Or maybe this would be a new one. Worlds rebuilt over each other. He let go of her wrists but did not restrain them. Instead he put a hand on her cheek, not to check for any damage she might have done this time—they’d cut her nails down to the nubs after she’d scratched so violently at her own arms and throat last night—but simply to hold her. Remind her, in the only way he was able at the moment that she was not alone. The woman could come back anytime she wanted to people who cared about her.

  She drifted away completely, her stress deflating into the air above the bed. Not sleeping, though. Her eyes were open slits, but what she saw… Shit, it could be anything. Martin climbed off her legs and stretched, then straightened his scrubs.

  “Sorry, Andrew. I really thought she was dreaming. Couldn’t understand what she was saying at first. As soon as I knew what was going on I called.”

  Andrew didn’t look at him. It wasn’t Martin’s fault. Not his own, either. Still, he shouldn’t have left her alone so soon. He’d only been gone a couple of hours.

  “You did good, Martin, calling me quick as you did. Don’t beat yourself up about it.”

  A new voice behind him, one which tightened Andrew's shoulders. “I hope you won’t argue with me about the restraints now?”

  Either Jim Chen had an informant on the floor or the guy was some kind of psychic. Andrew closed his eyes. He’d run out of reasons against them.

  Going forward, Vanessa Union would have to be restrained.

  “No, Jim,” he said. “I guess they make sense. For the moment, at least.” Rather than turn to face his Chief of Staff, he looked at the nurse still stationed beside the bed. “Thanks. Sorry for yelling. Wasn't directed at you. Can you do me a favor and put them on her?”