by Ryan Notch
Shaw looked back, but the door was already shutting in his face.
Shaw was not lead to the visiting rooms, but rather through a series of doors he had never been through. He was accompanied by two orderlies, presumably because this area was less secure. Carpet on the floors, offices with windows that didn’t even have bars on them. He was lead up an elevator to the top floor and down a hall to the largest office they had passed yet. The name on the door showed it to be Dr. Morrow’s office, his own therapist. But not the one they had their sessions in. Judging by the size of it Shaw wondered if his own psychiatrist might actually be the head psychiatrist for the asylum.
In the office with him was a tall man in his early fifties or so. He had an air of authority like, but not like that of Dr. Morrow. The doctor was slightly pandering, this guy was slightly threatening.
“You two can wait outside,” Dr. Morrow said to the orderlies. “Shaw, this is Detective Mathews. He’d like to ask you some questions.”
Shaw’s reaction started with the mild panic anyone feels when confronted with a police officer on official business, but magnified a hundred times by the fact that he had committed terrible crimes and had thus far not really had to pay for them. He wanted to say how he was innocent, how it was not his fault because he was crazy. How you couldn’t punish him for something he couldn’t remember doing.
The detective reached out a hand and Shaw involuntarily took a step back. He then saw the detective was only offering to shake. Shaw was ashamed of his emotional reaction. These two men were making him feel small and weak, an effect he didn’t used to let people have on him. He was suddenly very aware of how he must look to the detective, and didn’t like it.
“Now Shaw, it’s all right,” said Doctor Morrow. “Detective Mathews only wants to talk to you.”
Shaw forced himself to reach out his hand to take a firm grip on the detectives. He was more ashamed than ever now that the doctor had had to coax him. Shaw forced himself to sit down and lean back, to appear relaxed. The doctor did the same and the detective followed suit.
“Shaw I’d like to ask you some questions about what happened at Meresin University,” the detective began. Shaw picked up from him the kind of confidence that you felt from a true professional. It reminded him of how when he was younger he’d been to a music festival, a rare outing for him. People had flitted around from stage to stage and band to band, not paying any one of them much attention. But then the final band had taken the main stage. The Cure. The confidence apparent in that first guitar note made everyone’s attitude change immediately. Everyone knew they were no longer in charge of themselves, and that they were in the hands of professionals.
Shaw was being interrogated by someone who was used to getting answers to his questions. If Shaw had any hopes of running this show he was losing them fast. He knew he was totally out of his league.
“OK,” said Shaw, breaking out of his brief reverie to realize that they were waiting for a response.
“Good. First off, did you use any oxygen masks or other breathing apparatus when you first entered the room you opened up in the basement?”
What? he thought. This wasn’t Who did you kill first or Why did you do it or even I have to inform you of your right to have a lawyer present. What was this?
“Umm, no. Someone suggested we should, but no we didn’t.”
“Uh huh. And did you notice any strange behavior in anybody in the days after you opened the room? How about yourself? Did you notice any strange feelings, hallucinations?”
“Well, yeah. I thought everyone was acting kind of off after awhile. But no hallucinations. At least I don’t think so. Just…terrible dreams.” Shaw wanted to add because of the signal, but stopped himself. He knew that wasn’t the truth, they’d told him in therapy.
“Did anyone talk about hurting themselves, about hurting others?”
“No, no one did. Not that I heard. Or heard of. Everyone was just excited about the signal. Well at first anyway. Then they were just…off. Distracted.”
“And what stopped you from hurting yourself? Was it Brock?”
“What? I didn’t want to hurt myself. I don’t know what you mean.”
“Well it just doesn’t make much sense, does it? You being the first one exposed and you being the only one who didn’t want to hurt himself?”
“Detective,” Doctor Morrow warned. “Shaw doesn’t know about the events that happened after his episode. We decided it was best to keep it from him.”
Detective Mathews went on unheeding, his eyes intense. “Shaw, over five hundred people killed themselves that night. Every single person who was currently at the University or in the dorms or even nearby the grounds, dead in the most horrific ways possible. Several police and emergency workers have suffered from post traumatic stress disorder just from seeing what these people had done to themselves. Everyone dead, except you. Which doesn’t make much since, because you should’ve been exposed to more than anyone.”
Shaw’s lips moved but no words came out. His mind was not tracking. He knew there were questions he wanted to ask, but he wasn’t sure which ones.
Five hundred people?!
Because of the signal? But no, that’s not what he had said...
“The mold…wha….” Shaw managed to ask.
“Yes, the black mold covering the walls of that sealed up room. When you let it out it poisoned the whole area.”
Shaw tried to integrate this into his recently acquired worldview. It was starting to make more sense, even to his addled mind. Despite his horror at all the dead, he was also relieved. He was insane, sure. But insane because of exposure to a mind altering poison. Of course he’d heard black mold could be poisonous, everyone had heard that. He’d never heard of it doing anything like this, but it’s not like he was a doctor.
Shaw, knowing he was supposed to say something here but not knowing what, asked the first thing that came to his mind.
“So how did the mold do that to us?”
“We don’t know. None of the tests the doctors have done with it have shown it to have any effect on rats or primates more than lung infection. So the hallucinogenic effects must have worn off somehow.”
“Wait,” Shaw said. “So you’re not sure.”
“Of course we’re sure,” said the detective indignantly. “We interviewed hundreds of family and friends, and students who were away from the school at the time. Cult membership as a possibility has been completely eliminated.”
“How…how did you know I was the first one in?”
“The two construction workers who were present at the opening of the room. Luckily they were wearing respirators and so weren’t exposed. Their testimony was that you were the first one in. Is that true?”
“Yes.” He remembered that. But, were they wearing respirators? He didn’t think so, but they had to have been to avoid the exposure. Shaw wanted that to make sense. Told himself it made sense. But still, had he ever heard of any disease or poison that made you kill yourself?
No, he thought. The mold really is the only explanation. It explains everything actually. But the question sat like a grain of sand irritating the soft flesh of an oyster. Had the workers been wearing respirators? He didn’t remember that. They had to have been in order to avoid exposure, but still…Shaw wanted to leave it at that, to leave it alone and let that explain everything. But even after everything Shaw still didn’t know how to leave a problem alone. Even under the constant fog of the drugs, he could feel it start turning over and over.
“Detective,” said Doctor Morrow. “Is there anything else Shaw can answer for you?”
The detective took the hint. Don’t put too much strain on the minds of the poor fragile patients. “No…no. I just wanted to get confirmation. That’s all I need for now.”
The doctor waved in the orderlies, who had been watching for any sign of violence through the windows. They came in and for a moment seemed unsure if it was appropriate to grab Shaw by the a
rms or not in this situation. Shaw saved them the trouble and stood up by himself, following them out. He thought about saying “goodbye” to the detective, or maybe “thank you.” But neither seemed exactly right so he said nothing, and no one said anything to him. He wasn’t leaving; he was being dismissed.
Chapter 8
********************
The problem is, Shaw thought as he stared at his haggard face in the mirror the next morning, if some of it’s not true, why should I believe any of it?
Shaw hadn’t slept at all well that night, even worse than usual. Even though he couldn’t remember them, he knew whatever dreams he’d had had been horrible. He was becoming afraid to sleep, afraid to face whatever it was that was waiting for him there even if he didn’t know what it was. Afraid in his gut. It reminded him of the people who can’t form long term memories because of brain damage. They don’t know what they did five minutes ago but can still learn to fear a repeated electric shock, without knowing why they’re afraid.
The first step to solving the problem involved retrieving a piece of information, one he doubted he could get himself. Specifically how often, if ever, mold poisoning drove people insane. It would be the easiest thing in the world to look it up on the internet, but internet access wasn’t allowing in the Sanitarium. And even if it was the computer network in the computer room hadn’t worked in years. Given the criminal nature of the Saint Severinus patients, they were pretty big about keeping them insulated.
So instead five minutes work took two hours of networking the old fashioned way. While Shaw sat and watched TV, Walter asked around. Before coming to the asylum, Shaw would never have considered himself a TV person. It wasn’t like he didn’t own one or never watched it or anything, it was just that he had a low tolerance for it and usually would go off and do something else. But he’d been surprised at exactly how much of a tolerance for TV you could acquire. How you could actually learn to look forward to shows you’d couldn’t stand before. Talk shows and reality shows were OK, but the real gems were the reruns of shows you hadn’t seen. Magnum PI and Night Court and Moonlighting peppered the daytime dial. Shows that as a kid had seemed too adult and boring now filled his days with excitement and adventure. At one point he was surprised and a little dismayed to find he was watching seven hours of TV a day. It was addiction to routine and it was hard to snap out of. Especially when you didn’t have anything else to do.
Walter, meanwhile, was working his magic amongst the employees of Saint Severinus. Walter really was good with people and could get away with a lot of stuff other inmates couldn’t. And he was good at getting his “superiors” to like him. He’d told Shaw that he did that wherever he went, whether it was a country club he frequented or one of the few jobs he’d worked or whatever. It was just his nature to see what he could get away with.
So Shaw waited, and midway through his second episode of The Andy Griffith Show of the morning Walter wandered over with a smug mission success look upon his face and sat down next to him.
“So,” asked Shaw.
“So, you’d be surprised how little the usual sanitarium workers know about the history of insanity. First I started with the nurses, but they didn’t know anything. Then I tried the Doctors, but they just thought it was some delusion and gave their usual smug answers that don’t tell you anything. But finally I asked that new intern they got here, the one who seems really enthusiastic and he told me all about it.”
“Really?”
“Yep. And the answer to your question is yes.”
This was not the answer that Shaw had been expecting. And what confused him all the more is that it was the answer he thought he had been expecting.
“There is a type of mold that has been known to drive people insane. It’s rye mold, called mycotoxins or ergot poisoning or something like that. Actually there’s a pretty cool story about it. Apparently back in the dark ages entire towns were dying of it. They called it Saint Anthony’s fire because people would think they were burning and die screaming. They kept hallucinating red flowers were blooming from the skin. It came about because of various grains being overwintered.”
“Wait,” Shaw said. “What’s overwintering?”
“Well…I don’t know. Maybe they let it get too wet or something. Anyway so after awhile people knew about it, they knew what was causing the insanity and how to avoid it. But in this one kingdom they found that mold had infected their entire grain supply for the year. Their choice basically was to either eat the mold and go insane or die of starvation. So the king decided that they would eat it, but they would each be marked permanently on the forehead. He said ‘We will be mad, but by this mark we will know we are the ones who chose to go mad.’ Isn’t that awesome man? What if that’s like all of us, what if we all just chose to go mad rather than live a boring life?”
“So, did all the people kill themselves, in the kingdom?”
“No, that intern didn’t say anything about that. He just said the stuff made you crazy then killed you from poison. Pretty painful. But seriously, that stuff about choosing to go mad is awesome right?”
“What? No! I haven’t slept right in months, I’ve been around the smell of piss so long I probably smell like piss. I’ve seen so many episodes of Andy Griffith that I am actually starting to think I like it. And that’s just me. Look at the rest of these people, they’re a mess! Who would choose this?”
“A lot of people would! We got no jobs, no worries. Free drugs, free therapy. I mean I’ve got a busy day here. Exercise class, art class. I’m pretty sure Nurse Marilyn is starting to warm up to me. Why can’t you just be happy with what you’ve got here? I don’t know who wouldn’t choose this. Anyway, I’ve gotta go. I promised Snickers I would play chess with him like thirty minutes ago. Later?”
Walter reached out a fist for Shaw to pound. Shaw couldn’t help it, the man’s good will was infectious. He pounded the fist and Walter walked away leaving Shaw alone but for a few near catatonics watching the TV with him. The giant Indian sat down next to him and God damn it if he didn’t recognize the beat to “Born In The USA” buzzing out of the headphones.
He sat there thinking about the mold. So it really could drive people insane, so why did he still not believe it? Was that just the natural result of being crazy, not to believe it? Not to believe that some internal setting gone adrift could effect your whole perception of the outside world?
He looked around him at all the tortured souls. He’d never choose to go insane.
Except why do I feel like that’s exactly what I’ve done?
Shaw spent the day thinking things through. The trouble was that despite his best efforts to believe things had happened like the psychiatrists had told him, his memories of the events hadn’t really changed. He could tell himself it had never happened, and as long as it never happened again he might even be able to learn to live with it. But you could only learn to live with it if you were sure, one way or the other. He had to be sure.
On the one hand he didn’t feel crazy, but on the other hand what he had seen was impossible. Mycotoxin was the only answer. The mold in the room had driven him and everyone else insane. But was it only temporary, had he now recovered. Could he leave? Would they ever let him leave? Certainly no one had in the time he’d been here, but it was only a few months. There was another question he had too, one that he asked in therapy later that day.
“Doctor, why is it you think I killed Brock? If everyone else committed suicide?”
“You were covered in his blood when the police got there. You attacked them, and were in a very violent state when you were brought in. Don’t you remember your days in solitary?”
“Not much. But still, if everyone else killed themselves, doesn’t it make more sense that Brock did too,” asked Shaw.
“But then why were you covered in his blood? And not everyone killed themselves, many were killed by others.”
“But voluntarily, right? I remember before things all fell apa
rt some people had voluntarily allowed themselves to be killed. That’s a form of suicide right?”
“Shaw, this is just a manifestation of your guilt. It’s avoidance, trying to change the past to escape your crime.”
“Have I ever even been allowed to see a lawyer? I definitely don’t remember one.”
“The legal process can’t take place unless the accused is mentally fit to stand trial,” said the doctor.
Shaw could see what was going on. In any troubleshooting environment, the person trying to diagnose the situation will eventually gravitate towards the scenario that happens the most often, making the details of every situation fit the assumptions. Programmers assumed the user was doing something wrong, police assumed everyone was lying, and psychiatrists assumed everyone was crazy. Breaking someone out of their area of assumption and experience took a tremendous amount of effort and evidence. Shaw was going to be in here until he convinced them he was no longer insane. And the worst way to do that was to tell them he was no longer insane.
And besides, he wasn’t even sure that was true.
Later in the rec-room he talked to Valentine about it. In a reverse of the previous day, he and Valentine were watching Walter try and hit on Nurse Marilyn. If anything, he thought Valentine would have been jealous, but instead the guy seemed to take it as no more of a threat than when a little kid tries to wrestle with you. He even pointed out flaws in Walter’s game.
“See, he talks too much. He’s very interesting, but what she really wants to do is be heard. You see if a lady thinks you’re really listening, she’ll come to talk to you.”
“Valentine, can I ask you a weird question?”
“Sure, I’ll be glad to teach you but she’s out of your league. You have to walk before you can crawl, Shaw my boy.”
“No, not that. It’s just, do you think you’re crazy? I mean deep down do you think you’re crazy, or that the doctors are wrong and you just have to humor them?”