by Brian Kirk
He lifted his head and looked at Miranda. The sun reflected off her sweaty face. “Real life happens here too,” he said. “Life happens wherever you are. It’s all in what you make of it. What you do with the opportunities you’re given.”
“That’s easy to say when you have the luxury of choice. You have the opportunity to leave whenever you like. I don’t. You have the opportunity to eat whatever you want. I don’t. You…you choose to be here. I don’t. I feel like I’m some shadow version of myself, stuck in this nightmare world while the real me is still outside, enjoying her life. And I feel that I’ll never make it back to that other version of myself.” The tears returned, and this time she couldn’t stave them off. “And I’m scared.”
Eli felt an urge to rush forward and take her in his arms. “Look...I...I…” he stammered. He was sweating freely now and he wiped the back of his hand across his wet brow. “So a pool would make things better?”
Miranda sniffled and flipped a strand of hair over her shoulder. She looked at Eli from below arched brows. Then she laughed, her slender shoulders beginning to bounce up and down. She leaned her head back and her laughter rose up towards the sun. It was pretty and musical, like a snippet of birdsong.
Eli snorted then began laughing himself.
Miranda composed herself. “Yes, it would make things slightly better, I think.”
Eli looked around. An elderly man was lurching their way, mumbling obscenities to himself.
“Well, I’ll see what I can do.” He reached out a stiff arm and patted Miranda on the shoulder.
She grinned and looked away. She began therapy under Dr. Francis the following day and never was the same.
The refrain of the cover song came around again—infinity stored deep inside—and Eli rubbed his arms to dampen the gooseflesh prickling his skin. He turned off the iPod and began packing it away.
Randall continued to nod his head as the beat lingered in his ears. “That’s heaven,” Randall said.
Eli smiled. “I’m glad you liked it.”
“No, I mean, that’s like a real connection to heaven. The afterlife exists inside that song.”
Eli leaned back, inhaled through his nose and held it. His eyes landed on the mural painted against the far wall, the beasts living harmoniously in the garden of original sin. “You mean, this musician lives on through the recording, making him eternal?”
Randall shook his head. He combed the hair out of his eyes, but it fell right back in place. He looked at Eli through jagged strands. “The song we just heard is a second-or third-generation recording of a live performance by a band of men blessed with special talents granted by God. That song is not eternal because it was recorded. It is eternal because it was written before time began. It precedes the stars. Trace it back to its origin and you find God. It was composed in heaven. To hear it is to experience the divine.”
Eli was encouraged by the clarity of Randall’s words. Music always elevated him to a higher level. A place of articulate intensity. Music and laughter, he thought, are among the most effective forms of therapy.
“That’s a beautiful way to think of it,” Eli said. “Do your songs come from the same place?”
“Not all of them,” he said. “Some are just sounds I make with my mouth. Some, though…” Randall began to drum his hands against his leg, “…some come from something beyond me. I just share it. The Creator speaks through all of us in various ways.” He smiled and pointed to his head. “Not all of the voices we hear are imaginary.”
A flash of heat seared Eli’s chest, and he had the sudden urge to grasp Randall by the hand and escort him out of the hospital. To free him like some rare and beautiful bird that had been confined to a cage. What if this whole time, he thought for the thousandth time, the tremors beginning to seize his hands, we’ve been working to fix people who aren’t broken? And if that’s so, then what have I done? What am I doing? What am I to do?
Eli stood and gripped the briefcase handle hard to steady his hand. “We all hear voices,” he said, attempting to control his own. “It’s all a matter of how we react to them. How they make us feel. What they make us do.” He thought of Crosby and his heartbeat slowed. Crosby’s imaginary voices had convinced him to kill. That was clearly a sign of a disorder, not some form of divine persuasion.
Eli concentrated on his breathing. Insanity is suffering; your job is to relieve suffering. Rajamadja’s manic smile and tittering laugh came to mind. Not all insanity is suffering, though.
He heard Miranda’s melodic voice, “Who determines who’s sick and who’s well?”
His heart began thumping again, this time in his throat. He forced a smile and directed it at Randall, his wrinkled skin creating a landscape of canyon valleys. “We’ll do this again,” he said and walked away, weaving between pockets of patients on his way to the door. Many of them were mumbling to themselves or to something unseen. He wondered what they heard.
Chapter Ten
“There are forces working to bring about the end of the world,” Crosby said. Cool air rushed through the large vent overhead. He placed his hands under his legs to warm them. “There’s a war going on behind the scenes. I’m a soldier of God.”
Alex nodded his head as if Crosby had just told him that he enjoyed playing racquetball. “What forces?” he asked.
“Demonic,” Crosby said, chewing his lower lip. “The legions of hell led by Satan himself. It’s an ancient battle that’s nearing its end.”
“And…” Alex held a fist to his mouth as he cleared his throat, “…you’ve seen these demons?”
“I’ve seen their shadows.”
“Please explain.”
The therapy rooms had all been given names. It was one of Eli’s initiatives to create a more calming hospital environment. This one was called Tranquility, which, in Alex’s experience, was a misnomer. Nowhere else had Alex heard more irrational ideas or observed more erratic behavior. It did have a tabletop rock garden, though, to reinforce its theme.
“The demons take human form. They look just like you and me.”
You and I look nothing alike, Alex thought, staring at the scrabbly man before him.
Crosby continued, “But their shadows show their demonic form.”
“You’d think they’d only come out at night, then.”
Crosby furrowed his brow; his chin dimpled. “Well,” he said, thinking, “that’s true. I guess it’s ’cause most people can’t see them, so they feel safe.”
“Ah.” Alex grabbed the tiny rock-garden rake and began combing the sand. “And why do you think that is?”
“Why what is?”
“Why is it that so few people can see them? Why hasn’t God called upon more people to join the war?”
“It’s not that simple. It goes deep, deep, deep. Society has been blinded through cultural engineering. God has been removed from our everyday lives and replaced with false idols. People worship money, material things, movie stars. It’s all part of a plan to distance us from our true nature. From our divine past.”
Crosby’s past was far from divine. According to his patient file, he had been raised by a single mother who, by all accounts, was mentally ill herself; a condition she treated with a mixture of meth, men and gallons of cheap vodka. He had been sexually assaulted by more than one of her transient boyfriends and moved to a foster home after he found his mother murdered at the age of fourteen. Strangled, presumably, by a boyfriend, a pimp or a drug pusher. The case had never been solved. The fact that Crosby had been able to eventually secure a job and stay off the streets was indeed a miracle, but Alex doubted that it had anything to do with God.
“And, so, God’s soldiers. How do they avoid being blinded by these cultural distractions?”
“Um, well, I know from my standpoint, first of all, I don’t own a TV. Well, I do, but I don’t have all the channels.
Only a few. Just the basic ones.”
“So, cable is Satan’s most effective weapon?”
Crosby puffed his cheeks and blew out a gust of air. “It’s complicated,” he said.
“I imagine so.” The miniature rock garden was becoming a series of rigid lines pockmarked with pebbles. “Have you seen any demon shadows here?”
“Not yet.”
“And why do you think that is?”
“The pills, most likely. They put your head in a fog so that you can’t see clearly. But I don’t mind. I’m not sure I want to see the demons no more. I’d rather just live my life. You know what they say, ignorance is bliss.”
Sounds like something social engineers would say.
Alex had been a staff psychiatrist at Sugar Hill for over eight years. During that time, he had learned that there was no way to reason with schizophrenics during one of their episodes. To argue against their paranoid delusions would only work to implicate you in the plot. To encourage acceptance, as was Eli’s primary philosophy, only encouraged the patient to further indulge in their delusion.
In Alex’s experience, words could not fix the break in a psychotic’s ability to perceive the world rationally. Although words could facilitate the break. Traumatic words, rather. When the closest people in your life—the ones who are supposed to protect you—cause you harm, a fracture in your psyche can occur. This fracture creates uncommon levels of stress, which can lead to the release of chemicals that alter your conscious mind. Suddenly your subconscious begins to manifest into your reality. Your demonic mom becomes a shadow figure following some stranger on the street. To the psychiatrist, this is called projection. To the psychotic, it’s considered reality. And the only cure is to stop the frazzled neurons in the brain from misfiring, to stem the flow of chemicals that alter perception.
Current medications only masked the symptoms caused by this imbalance. Alex’s drug would cure it, resetting the patient’s mind to function properly. Then, and only then, could any form of talk therapy provide a therapeutic purpose for someone with a severe psychotic disorder. Only then would such a patient be in a position to comprehend the connection between prior events and their present condition.
But this is Eli’s hospital, Alex reminded himself, so, until my drug is approved I must continue to offer lip service to this schizophrenic, as if it will make a difference. He checked his watch and refrained from rolling his eyes. Besides, I can’t afford to be fired.
Crosby placed his elbows on the desk and leaned over for a better view into the rock garden.
Alex felt conspicuous under his stare. He opened his mouth to address Crosby’s latest comment, but couldn’t remember what he said. He pushed the box of sand and small rocks across the table to Crosby, who accepted it with the wide eyes of a toddler receiving a puppy on Christmas morning.
He grabbed the rake and immediately scrambled the meticulous lines.
Fuck this, Alex thought, let’s get to the point. “Let’s talk about the attacks,” he said.
The central air cut off and the only sound in the small room was the scrape of the tiny rake through sand.
Crosby frowned. “What about them?”
“Well, let’s talk about them. What was going on that day? Who were they? What were you thinking at the time?”
Crosby began to draw a stick figure in the sand, a circular head with a narrow neck and long, angled arms. He exhaled heavily. “I had gotten the message earlier in the day. I knew to be on the lookout. I had to be ready.” He added hands to the end of the arms, with sharp, pointy fingers. Claws.
“How did you receive the message? What did it say?”
Crosby flipped the rake over, holding it like a pen. He tilted his head to the side, examining his work, and his tongue pushed against his lower lip.
“I was walking up to the gas station to get a pack of smokes and a Mountain Dew. It was nice outside, sunny, not too hot. A few clouds in the sky, just floating up there, not moving at all, although there was a bit of a breeze. Then I knew something was coming because they started to glow. Not from the sun or nothing. It was like a light was shining from inside the clouds, almost too bright to look at.”
He drew a pair of legs with clawed feet.
“I put my hand up to shade my eyes…” he pantomimed the movement, squinting up at the acoustic-tile ceiling, “…and the clouds began to change shape. I could see these faces. They looked all nice and smiley. And then their faces changed and they became mean and evil looking. I looked around, but no one else seemed to notice anything. I knew it was meant just for me.”
He drew two intersecting circles over the chest and placed a pebble in the middle of each one. Breasts.
“Then there were some words that formed underneath the clouds. They came from the Bible, I think. Some Scripture. Said that in the final days, demons will walk the earth. And the righteous will be called upon to smite them down.”
Alex nodded. “And what book in the Bible is that passage from?”
Crosby shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know for sure. I haven’t looked it up. It just sounds like something from the Bible. Maybe it was a direct message from God.”
“But that’s what it said?” Alex read from the line he had written down, “In the final days, demons will walk the earth. And the righteous will be called upon to smite them down.”
Crosby shrugged again. “Something like that. I don’t recall word-for-word.”
Sure sounds like God. Vague, indirect and easily misinterpreted. “And you took that to mean you were being called upon to kill?”
“Sort of, but I was mostly just…I don’t know, amazed. My whole body was buzzing. It was like I had been shot up with some high-grade speed. Everything was super bright and crystal-clear. I could see every little detail and hear every sound. It was like I’d been dialed into a higher frequency.”
That’s not God, Alex wanted to say. That would be textbook schizophrenia, my friend. “What happened next?”
Crosby turned his attention back to the busty stick figure in the sand. He added two oblong eyes and slashed vertical slits in their center.
“I went inside the gas station, feeling like I’m floating on air. I walk up to the counter to ask for a pack of smokes and then I see this bright light out the corner of my eye. I look over and it’s a hunting knife in a glass case beside the counter. It was all natural looking with a rustic wooden handle with an ivory stripe in it. All the other ones were made of steel, with knuckle guards and metal spikes, like something a serial killer would carry. But this one was different. It was like the kind of knife an Indian chief would’ve used in a ceremony. Or to scalp somebody.”
It was most likely made in China. “Go on,” Alex said.
“So, I knew that I was meant to have it. That it was part of the message. But I didn’t have enough money.”
“How much did it cost?”
“I don’t know, I didn’t even look.”
Alex’s amusement was only betrayed by the rapid blinking of his eyes.
“But then the cashier’s phone starts ringing, back on the far side of the booth. He turns to answer it and starts yapping in some foreign language. Then it’s like he’s in an argument. He starts getting angry and raising his voice. He holds up a finger, like he wants me to hold on, and walks through the door to a back office or something and I’m left all alone in the store with that old knife that’s glowing bright as the sun.”
“Convenient timing,” Alex said.
Crosby chuckled. “A little too convenient is what I’m thinking. So I check the case and there’s this notch where a padlock is supposed to go but there isn’t one attached. The case is just sitting there unlocked, and the knife is shining so bright it’s about to blind me. So I open the lid and lift it out, but I don’t have anywhere to put it or nothing, so I just kind of tucked it up against my arm and
walked out the door. First thing I ever stole in my life.”
Crosby’s criminal record proved otherwise, but Alex didn’t contradict him. Instead, he let silence settle into the room. He shifted in his seat and it squeaked.
“When I walked out, the clouds had come together in a kind of line, like a conveyor belt flowing in a single direction. I looked up ahead and it made a ninety-degree turn at an intersection a couple of blocks down the road. It was like it was telling me where to go.”
Crosby leaned back over his drawing. He drew horns on the head and a crooked mouth with two triangular teeth.
“I followed it for a few turns and then it ended in a wide, flat storm cloud over this small group of people. Thunder rumbled, and it cast a dark shadow over the spot where they were standing. I looked over and there was nothing unusual about any of them. They were just standing together, talking. But then the cloud cover cleared and the sun shone through and I could see their shadows.”
His hand hesitated over the drawing in the sand. He lowered the rake and drew a large erection rising up from between its legs ending in a diamond tip. He leaned back and admired his work.
“And then?”
Crosby’s face turned into a scowl. He raised the rake and then slammed it down into the center of the rock garden, scattering the sand. He looked across the table at Alex; his face became calm.
“And then I did what God wanted me to.”
Tranquility my ass, Eli, Alex thought as he brushed sand off the front of his shirt.
Chapter Eleven
Alex didn’t realize how much he had been dreading encountering Eli until he saw him round the corner of the hallway up ahead. A jolt of adrenaline raced through his system and his initial instinct was to turn and walk away.
Antiquated operating system, Alex thought, striding forward. Fight or flight made sense when facing a hungry predator, not a familiar colleague whom one is slightly anxious to see. Perhaps I’ll make a drug one day to cure that as well.