We Are Monsters

by Brian Kirk

  Someone knocked on the door and Eli turned to see Angela walk in. “I hear you boys have been roughhousing,” she said, a strained smile on her face, her eyes scanning the room.

  “Yeah, it looks like we’ve got ourselves a star player if we ever put a football team together,” Eli said. He squeezed Crosby’s hand a final time before letting go. “It was nice to meet you, Mr. Nelson. Angela here is the best social worker we have. She’ll take great care of you. And tomorrow your primary therapist, Dr. Drexler, will stop in to introduce himself. You’re in good hands.” He squeezed Angela on the shoulder as he walked by, and waved from the door before he left.

  The orderly was waiting for Eli in the hallway—Devon Jackson, a tall twenty-something who looked like he was still outgrowing his baby fat. He kicked off the wall when he saw Eli and came up next to him.

  “Hey, Dr. Alpert. Man, you can’t be pulling that crazy shit in here. You gonna—”

  Eli stopped so suddenly Devon ran into him. He rebounded even though he outweighed the doctor by over seventy pounds. Devon took another step backwards when he saw Eli’s eyes, and almost flinched when Eli grabbed his arm and yanked him close.

  “Don’t ever use that word in here. Do you understand?” Eli’s voice was low, nearly a whisper, but it struck Devon with the severity of a shout.

  “Say what? Shit?”

  “No. Crazy. Or any of its synonyms—psycho, loony, insane. I don’t even want to hear you say strange, weird or different. Such language is not tolerated in the presence of my patients.”

  “All right, but look, I got a job to do. How’s it going to look if some crazy ass—?” Devon bit his lower lip and shook his head. “Sorry, if some patient, especially one up in forensics, attacks a doctor on my watch? Man, I’ll lose my job for that.”

  “First, I am not a doctor. I am Chief Medical Director—”

  “I know that. Man, that’s what I’m saying—” Eli tightened his grip on Devon, who rolled his eyes and sighed like a toddler being scolded by an ineffectual parent.

  “As Chief Medical Director, my responsibility is for the well-being of my patients. That takes precedence over your concerns for my safety. Rule number one…” never wake a sleeping giant, “…is to establish trust. Without trust, patients resist treatment. Without treatment, they don’t get well.

  “Rule number two…” if you do, put the son of a bitch back to sleep, “…is to treat them with dignity and respect. Getting pepper-sprayed or forcibly restrained does not constitute humane treatment. It is strictly a last resort. You’ll remember that while on my watch.”

  “And what if he were to have jumped you in there? What then?”

  “Then, I trust you would have been there to help me subdue him.”

  Devon pulled his arm away. “That ain’t how Dr. Drexler do things. I can’t be second-guessing what I’m supposed to do all the time. That’s how someone gets hurt.”

  “Well, then, I’ll be sure to reiterate my position to all staff. But that is how we do things here. We treat patients with the respect we would expect for ourselves. Understood?”

  “You the man,” Devon said. He smirked and gave a two-finger salute before he turned and walked away.

  Eli continued down the hall, scowling. “That ain’t how Dr. Drexler do things.” He’d have to have a talk with Alex when he returned. He could sense some tension with Angela when he’d mentioned his name, and now this. Perhaps he’d given his protégé a bit more leeway than he was ready for. He couldn’t afford any loose ends with the board review looming.

  Just the thought of the upcoming board meeting caused Eli’s stomach to clench. He knew his resistance towards more traditional care methods and modern medicine was unpopular. But how ignorant of history must everyone be to immediately embrace new therapeutic methods without erring on the side of caution. During the last century, every decade had ushered in a new form of treatment to be crowned the new cure, from bloodletting to waterboarding to shock therapy to lobotomy to innocuous pills that steal a patient’s personality. The only form of therapy that has ever stood the test of time is humanistic—to treat patients like people, not deranged beasts.

  If it weren’t for Sugar Hill’s sterling record for patient recovery, Eli knew he would have been replaced long ago. And, even still, his job was in jeopardy. More than that, his legacy. Which is why it was so important for Alex to carry the torch forward. To ensure that his humanistic philosophies endured and to avoid the pitfalls of the past.

  As Eli made the turn back towards his office, he recalled his first job as a young psychiatrist, and another voice whispered in his head. This one his own. You are the harbinger of death. Only pretending to make man sane.

  Chapter Five

  The building was made up of 6,452 bricks. He had counted every one. And, like snowflakes, no two were the same.

  They varied in color from orange to peach, to pink, to crimson, to red. Blood red, Jerry thought. They varied in texture, some rough and jagged, others flat and smooth. When he closed his eyes, he could picture each one being picked up, slathered with cement and placed in its own special spot by the bricklayers, stacking them in a staggered line, side by side, one atop the next. The surface of each brick was porous, pricked with hundreds of tiny air holes. On certain days, Jerry could hear them breathe.

  The building’s breathing was comforting. It was the calm, steady breathing that marked the rhythm of routine life. Never ragged. Never labored. It reminded Jerry of being a little boy and falling asleep with his father on the couch after returning home from Sunday brunch. Rocking to the gentle rise and fall of his father’s chest, tucked under the soft throw blanket like some stowaway aboard a seafaring ship. The building walls would expand and contract with the same reassuring regularity as his father’s chest, and, at such times, the entire world would come alive, unveiling its hidden beauty, disclosing ancient secrets through whispered words.

  His companion landscaper, Manny, plucked a dandelion from the flowerbed and began to stuff it in his bag, but hesitated. He raised it to his face and studied it. “Ain’t these supposed to grant you three wishes?” he said.

  Jerry had dropped the garden hose and was standing catatonic, paralyzed by the overload of information, the brilliant spectrum of colors, the dance of inanimate objects, the truth and connectivity that unite all things. He was back on his father’s chest, but it was earth’s heartbeat that he was hearing, and it was more than his human mind could take.

  “Nah, that ain’t it,” Manny said. “Just one wish, if you blow on it like a birthday candle.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, holding it in. Then he opened his eyes and blew across the bulb, sending dozens of feathery dandelion seeds floating through the air. “Ha! Looks like I’m getting laid tonight,” he said, turning and smiling up at Jerry. Manny shook his head and pushed himself to his feet. Damn, poor muchacho’s lost his marbles again.

  “Hey, Earth to Jerry!” he called as he came walking up, waving his arms before Jerry’s vacant stare. “Yo, back to reality, mi amigo.”

  Jerry remained motionless; the only sign of life was the occasional blinking of his eyes. Manny removed his garden gloves and used them to wipe sweat from the back of his neck. “Shit,” he said, scanning the grounds for nurses or guards. The expansive lawn was empty at the moment. That was good.

  Manny grabbed Jerry by the shoulder and shook him back and forth. “Hey, wake up, man. Jerry! Jerry! Man, they’re going to take you off detail, bro. They’re going to put you back inside. Come on, amigo.”

  A reedy sound escaped Jerry’s mouth. It sounded like he was trying to speak. Manny put his ear near Jerry’s lips. “What’s that? Come on. Talk to me, Jerry.”

  “I can see,” Jerry said in a small, wavering whisper, “the world speak.”

  “Shit!” Manny said, spooking a sparrow, which leapt from the roofline of the storage shed and flew to
the fountain in the center of a seating area near the building entrance. It hopped into the water and began bathing itself as the building doors swung outward and two orderlies strolled through. Their mouths were open, shoulders shaking, but their laughter came seconds late, a slight delay as the sound traveled across the open air.

  One looked like Carl, who Manny shared smokes with on occasion. He wouldn’t create any waves. The other, though. It looked like Devon, that loudmouth man-child who acted like he was second in charge behind Dr. Alpert. Devon was the gatekeeper of hospital gossip. His eyes and ears were everywhere.

  Manny bent over and retrieved the hose, then put his arm across Jerry’s shoulders and started walking him towards the door to the supplies building. They only made it a few shuffling steps before Manny heard Carl call from across the yard. He cursed and looked back over his shoulder. Carl was waving a hand in the air and trotting forward, Devon keeping pace with his long, lumbering stride.

  Manny waved back as he stared sideways into Jerry’s eyes. They were blank, his pupils constricted down to little pinpricks. A string of drool dripped from his slack mouth. He placed the hose back in Jerry’s hand and wrapped his fingers around it, then pushed him closer to the flowerbed. The spray fell a few feet short.

  “Yo, Manny! What’s up, what’s up?” Carl said as he approached, slapping Manny’s hand and bringing him in for a half hug. Devon stayed back and lifted his head in a curt greeting before shifting his weight and gazing off across the yard. It felt as though a timer had started. Carl pointed to Manny’s pocket and said, “You got a couple extra smokes?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Manny reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled pack of Camels. He shook out three sticks and passed them around.

  “Yo, let’s go take a seat,” Manny said, trying to corral them back towards the central seating area. Carl turned to go, but Devon stood in place.

  “Nah, man. I’m straight right here. Some crazy motherfucker be creeping up on us back that way. That’s what I’m trying to take a break from.” Devon reached out and grabbed Manny’s lighter and sparked his smoke. He tossed it to Carl who wasn’t looking, so it bounced off his shoulder and hit the ground.

  “Man, no patients are going to bust up on us. It ain’t break time,” Manny said.

  “Still.” Devon shrugged and took a deep pull off his cigarette, exhaling the smoke through his large, pimply nose.

  “Whatever,” Manny said. He met eyes with Carl and they both took a drag to hide their smiles. “Come on. Let’s at least get in the shade.” Again he tried to walk them around the corner of the supplies shed.

  This time they turned and began to walk away, and then Carl spun around. “Hey yo, Jerry! Come have a smoke,” he said.

  Manny cringed as Jerry continued facing the storage shed, saturating a single patch of grass. Carl looked at Manny and raised his eyebrows. Manny shrugged. “Man, he don’t want to be bothered, come on.”

  “Yo, what’s up with him?” Devon said, then walked forward and peered over his shoulder. “Man, he’s all fucked up.” Devon waved his hand in front of Jerry’s face. “You’re supposed to report this shit,” he said.

  Manny smiled. He came forward and patted Jerry on the back. “What? Man, you know how Jerry gets. He’ll snap out of it any minute. It ain’t nothing.”

  “Yeah, I know how he gets. He gets batshit crazy. He ain’t supposed to be out here when he’s like that.” Devon took another drag, squinting at Jerry through the ribbons of smoke, then exhaled the plume directly into his face.

  Jerry blinked his eyes and flared his nostrils. Just like that, his body reanimated and he looked around.

  Manny came forward and put his hand on Jerry’s back. “Hey, brother, you okay—”

  Jerry jerked away from him, frightened. His eyes grew wide and his mouth peeled back, baring his tobacco-stained teeth. “Put that away,” he said, leaning back. “You’re burning me.”

  “Hey, it’s cool, it’s cool,” Manny said. He dropped the cigarette and held up his hands. “You’re all right.”

  Carl followed cue, snubbing his cigarette out under his shoe and showing his empty hands. Devon took another drag and stepped forward. “Ain’t nobody burning you,” he said.

  “Get that away from me,” Jerry said, cowering back another step.

  Devon kept coming forward. “It’s just a cigarette,” he said, holding it out in front of him.

  Jerry raised the hose, plugging his thumb into the spout, and sprayed Devon with a fan of water, extinguishing the cigarette and soaking his clothes.

  Devon held out his hand to block the spray, then his lips peeled back in a sneer of rage and he charged. He collared Jerry around the neck and hip-tossed him to the ground, landing on him with all his weight. The hose went flying from Jerry’s hand, flopping on the ground like an angry snake.

  Jerry squirmed and tried to bridge his back, but he was stuck under Devon’s larger frame.

  “What the fuck?” Manny said, rushing forward and trying to pull Devon off of him.

  “Back off!” Devon gasped, already short of breath. He cranked Jerry’s neck, watching as his face turned from pale to pink to purple. “I’m trying to subdue him.”

  Jerry began to kick frantically with his legs, and Devon squeezed tighter still, crushing his face against his chest, arching his back. Then Devon screamed in pain and released him. He raised his arm and checked under his armpit, hissing in pain. “Motherfucker bit me.” Driblets of red began to emerge through his blue shirt. He stalked forward and Manny restrained him from behind.

  “That’s enough,” Manny said.

  Devon turned and shoved Manny backwards.

  He had to pinwheel his arms to keep from falling.

  “I told you, man. That’s why you can’t have crazy-ass motherfuckers running free out here. I don’t care whose brother he is. You in it as much as he is for covering up.”

  Manny walked past him, diverting his eyes, and helped Jerry stand up. His eyes were still wild, his breathing ragged and wheezing, but he allowed Manny to help guide him back towards the hospital.

  “You okay?” Manny asked as they approached the building entrance.

  “The world is hurting,” Jerry said. He had started to tremble. “They want to burn the world.”

  Manny patted him on the back as he ushered him inside. “You’re okay,” he told him. “You’re okay.”

  Chapter Six

  Alex awoke to an empty bed. He pulled aside the sheets and skulked into the bathroom to shower. What a fucking nightmare, he thought, wishing that it were.

  He had dumped Popeye’s body in the outdoor garbage bin before coming into the house, but that wasn’t good enough for Rachel. She wanted him buried.

  “Where the fuck do you want me to bury him?” Alex had yelled, finally losing his temper. “In the fucking flowerbeds?”

  “Bury him under the dogwood.”

  This had made him laugh. “Right. How fitting.”

  Rachel hadn’t found it funny.

  It had taken him an hour of strenuous digging to realize there was no way to penetrate the root system directly under the dogwood. And he was not willing to dig up the expensive zoysia that had just been sodded last spring. In the end, he buried Popeye in an unceremonious grave back behind the outdoor AC units. It saved him from having to make a headstone.

  Alex turned the shower handle to Hot in an effort to scour away the residue from the previous day. First, his failed test trial. His fifth and, most likely, final test trial. For Philax, at least. Not that he had any additional suitors. The Philax opportunity had virtually fallen into his lap; otherwise he never would have sought it out. But his overconfidence in the medicine’s success had buried him in a financial hole so deep he could scarcely see a way out. Not without selling off most of their assets, coming clean to Rachel, exposing his lies to Eli. None o
f those were viable options at the moment. Comparatively, Popeye had gotten off easy.

  He dried off and dressed in his pleated pants and starched shirt, posing in front of the mirror for the fiftieth time before heading downstairs for breakfast. He smelled fresh coffee and wasn’t sure whether to be happy or apprehensive. That meant Rachel was still home.

  She was at the breakfast table, huddled over a coffee mug, her long, black hair twisted into a loose ponytail and slung over her right shoulder. Pale sunlight streamed through the bay window behind her like a stage light spotlighting a somber scene. Alex paused at the entrance and watched as she raised the mug to her mouth with both hands and took a pensive sip. Her eyes were distant, and for as long as he watched she never blinked.

  “Morning,” Alex said as he entered the kitchen.

  Rachel kept staring straight ahead.

  He walked to the breadbox, pulled out a bag of bagels and sliced one in two. He smothered each side with cream cheese and began eating it at the kitchen counter.

  “Your phone has been ringing all morning,” Rachel said.

  He glanced to where he had left it recharging. “Okay,” he said.

  Rachel lifted her head. She looked more weary than angry. Smudges darkened the undersides of her eyes and the lines framing her mouth appeared deeper than usual. “No,” she said. “It’s been ringing all morning. You should check it. Like, now.”

  Alex activated the phone and peered at the display screen. There were four missed calls from Sugar Hill, two from the main line, two from Angela and one from Eli. A flash of heat erupted in his chest. And the hits just keep on coming. Rachel watched as he listened to the messages, and took a long sip of her coffee as he set the phone down.