by Brad Kelln
"What am I, then?" he bristled. "I'm somebody."
"I didn't mean that. I just hoped that maybe someone might, you know, understand."
"Don't waste your breath, WAIT." Max suddenly stopped talking and flung his hands to his chest. A stethoscope hung around his neck and he quickly popped the apparatus into his ears and held the bell over his heart.
He closed his eyes and seemed to be deep in concentration.
"Almost caught it there," he said after a moment, but his eyes remained closed.
"You don't really think you die every once in a while, do you?"
Max's eyes popped open and he stared at Catherine. "What does that mean?"
"Well, you can't really die for a few moments and then recover.
Eventually it would do something to you. It'd show up on one of those 'blip- blip' machines, wouldn't it?"
Max let go of the bell and the stethoscope dangled from his ears. He pulled the middle of the cord until the earpieces popped out and hung around his neck. His fluid actions demonstrated years of experience with the instrument.
"Catherine," he said deliberately. "I know what I know and that's all. Everything else is just someone else's version-not mine. For instance, I don't think you were 'zapped' by any weapon. You probably enjoyed killing your family." Max spun around and took a step away from her before he turned back. "And don't talk to me again."
Then he was gone and Catherine was alone in the TV room. She'd just lost her only ally in the psychiatric hospital.
***
Catherine had no idea what time it was, but the moonlight shining through her Plexiglas window meant it was still the middle of the night. She felt a cold chill on her wet skin. She was sweating through the blankets that she had pulled up to her chin.
No one will believe me. No one will ever believe me, and no one will ever do anything about what happened. Everyone just thinks I'm a freak who killed her family. Just like that. I'm nothing but a mental patient.
The sound of tires screeching pierced through the quiet, startling her. The nursing staff was watching a movie in the TV room. The night shift rarely came to work without the latest video release in hand. They usually kept the volume down but sometimes she could hear it anyway. It sounded like they were watching Gone in Sixty Seconds. Catherine remembered that Nicholas Cage was one of her son's favourite movie stars. He'd gone to the theatre to see the movie, and when he got home, he told her that "it was awesome." She laughed at the memory, then covered her face and sobbed. Her son was dead now.
This can't be real. None of this can be real. I won't let it. It's a dream.
Catherine moved her hand under the covers to the side of her leg. She felt the skin between her thumb and forefinger and squeezed. The pain shot up and down her leg but she didn't stop. She wanted to scream but bit her lip instead, and pinched her leg harder. Soon she felt something warm in her mouth. She realized she was biting through her lip.
She stopped and laid her arms out to the sides. She relaxed her mouth and felt something leak down and roll over the side of her cheek. She hadn't woken up from the nightmare.
Catherine couldn't get the image of her family out of her mind. She kept seeing her husband, son, daughter. She kept seeing the imposters, too. When she thought about it now it was almost too obvious. The imposters really didn't even look like my family. The boy was heavier. The imposter
Cameron didn't touch me the same way. When he hugged me in the morn- ing he did it differently. It was the little things that were different. The things only a wife and mother would notice.
A noise at the door made her quickly wipe a hand across her face. She didn't want the nurse on night check to see the blood.
Someone poked their head through the door to her room. The regular nursing check was a check of her vitals signs, but if the staff saw the client moving in bed, that was enough.
Catherine deliberately rolled over onto her side to let the staff know she was alive. Whoever was watching was satisfied and stepped back, shutting the door. Catherine breathed a sigh of relief. She knew she had under ten minutes before the next check. That's not much time.
She got out of bed and reached under her mattress, removing a razorblade. One of the other patients had smuggled it in for her. It was easy for the patients who had passes off the hospital grounds to smuggle things back. Patients were only patted down when they returned. They were not required to take off shoes and socks, and so a razorblade against someone's heel wouldn't be found. Catherine had paid for the razorblade with a hand-job, a bargain when considering the initial request had been a blowjob. She didn't care anyway. She didn't care about anything anymore.
Catherine returned to bed and held the razorblade up so she could see it. It was a thin grey sliver, just like in the movies. She hadn't even realized these kinds of razorblades still existed; her husband had always used an electric razor.
Catherine took the blade in her right hand and lifted her other hand, turning it to expose her wrist. She knew approximately where she should slice, she'd seen too much of this sort of thing on TV and in the movies.
Catherine pressed the blade against her skin. Its thin edge felt cold. She made a fist with her left hand and watched the movement under her skin.
She was pretty sure where the cut should go.
It's just got to be deep enough, she thought. I don't want a superficial cut on my skin.
She pressed the blade in and dragged it roughly down her wrist. She watched very closely, surprised at how easily the blade sunk in and how the skin seemed to pull apart to let it pass.
The blood was immediate and plentiful. It hurt but the pain wasn't as bad as she expected.
She let her right hand fall down beside her but kept the left in the air. She wanted to watch.
The wound was deep, very deep. It stretched down her arm from her wrist. The blood was pouring down her arm now. She watched it for a moment then let her hand drop to the bed.
Less than ten minutes. That's not much time.
Slowly and deliberately, Catherine brought her right hand up to her neck. She held the blade in her thumb and forefinger and felt her neck for a pulse. She figured the spot where she could feel her own heartbeat must be where the jugular was. She found a small bulge on the side and laid the blade against it. The blood coming out of her wrist had already made her feel weak and nauseous. Why does dying make you feel sick to your stomach?
Catherine pressed the blade down and dragged it across her neck. This one hurt. She gasped and choked because blood had gotten into her wind- pipe. It was another deep cut. She let her hand fall away and the razorblade dropped from her fingers.
She knew she'd be checked in a few minutes. She closed her eyes. She was trying to breathe slowly through her nose but it was very difficult. She felt herself choking but didn't want to cough. Blood was running down her nec
k and she could feel it in the back of her throat. Reflexively, she coughed and her body spasmed. With each hack blood spewed everywhere from the pressure. The pain was unbearable but she refused to make noise and alert the nursing staff too early.
Not now! Not now! Catherine told herself and relaxed her body back onto the bed. She suddenly felt cold. It was a chill that sunk through every part of her. She also felt weak and dizzy, and hoped she'd pass out soon.
But a voice broke through her haze. An unfamiliar voice that came to her from all around the room.
Don't Catherine. I need you.
"What?" she asked weakly. "Who?" She looked down at the sheets and saw a disfigured face forming in the pools of blood. It was the face of her husband as she plunged the knife into his chest that horrible afternoon not so long ago.
Wait for me.
"No more," she whispered. "Please no more." And then she closed her eyes for the last time.
FIFTEEN
It was eight in the morning, half an hour earlier than Dr. Claric normally started work. He'd only managed to sleep for a little over an hour during the night because he'd spent most of it tossing and turning, unable to get Catherine Mercer's story out of his head, unable to stop thinking about electronic weapons, white vans and all of the mysterious signs in his own home. He would've come to work earlier today if he could have. He was desperate to talk to Catherine again and find out if the story was true. He wanted to find some clue, some link to help him put the pieces together and find out what was going on.
When he arrived on the unit he walked quickly into the nursing station where he ran into Claire, one of the staff nurses.
"Is Catherine up, yet? I need to see her right away."
"L..uh…," Claire stuttered.
"I need to see her so if she isn't up, we need to get her up."
"You're here pretty early. What's up, Bri?" Ken, another nurse, asked, walking out from the back room.
"I need to see Catherine Mercer. I have to go over a few things. I'm just trying to find out if she's up."
Ken frowned. He thought Dr. Claric was acting strange. His speech was strained as though he were agitated about something.
"You okay?" Ken asked.
"Fine. I just had a rough night is all. Can we go get Catherine now?"
"Brian, come on in the back," Ken said, reaching to put an arm on Dr. Claric's shoulder.
Dr. Claric shrugged him off. "What's going on?"
"There was an accident last night," Claire offered.
"What?"
"Let's just go in the back here and have a quick talk," Ken said and guided Dr. Claric into the conference room.
Dr. Claric was stunned. He knew "accident" was a euphemism for some- thing far worse. All at once, he was sure Catherine was dead.
***
Dr. Claric picked up his office phone on the second ring.
"Hello?"
"Dr. Claric. It's Georgia. Are you okay?"
"Fine."
"Are you sure? This is a traumatic thing."
"I know, I'm fine."
"I'd like to come down and see you." Her office was at the other end of Dark Alley.
"No, don't." Dr. Claric couldn't stand the thought of a sympathetic person sitting across from him telling him there was nothing anyone could do.
"It: helps to talk when… What am I saying, you're a psychologist. You know that."
"I do and I'm fine. I just need some time here. I'm fine."
"If you need some time off just-"
"I'm okay, Georgia."
"You know how to get a hold of me."
"Thanks," he said and hung up the phone.
Dr. Claric turned his attention back to the Web site he was reading. He'd pulled up an article on "MK Ultra" experiments, looking for anything on the techniques the government used to measure the effectiveness of weapons. He wanted to see what their standard operating procedures were for using subjects in their experiments.
The phone rang again.
He was tempted to let it go to voicemail but knew that would spark even more unwanted concern. Everyone just needed to be reassured that he was okay about Catherine's suicide.
He picked up the receiver. "Hello."
"Brian? It's Dr. Wenton."
Dr. Claric bolted upright, surprised. "Dr. Wenton! Hello. How're you?"
Wenton never responded to pleasantries. "I'm calling about one of your new admissions."
Just like Wenton, Dr. Claric thought. Straight to the point.
"Oh, yeah."
"I was the on-scene consultant when he barricaded himself in his house with the rifle. The guy's name is-"
"Barry Boseman."
"Right. You working with him?"
"Not yet. I was going to get involved though. Why?"
"I'm working with a graduate student, Norma MacDonald. We've been discussing this Boseman case and the whole diagnosis of psychosis. It would be good for her if we could sit in on an interview."
"You guys want to participate in the assessment?"
"Yeah. Is that going to be a problem?"
Dr. Claric hesitated. "I'm sure it isn't. When do you want to start?"
"Whenever."
"Well we might as well start right away." Barry Boseman was one of the next clients on his list. He was going to see him right after the suicide risk assessment on Catherine. Damn it. Why'd she kill herself? His mind quickly switched back to the events of last night and this morning.
Dr. Claric thought about mentioning Catherine's suicide to Wenton. He didn't know of a more impartial, objective person. He wondered if he could somehow describe his recent experiences without seeming insane. He was desperate to tell someone. He remembered thinking how naive it was of Catherine not to tell anyone before it was too late. Am I making the same mistake if I don't say anything?
"Hey, Wenton?" Dr. Claric began tentatively.
"Yeah."
"You ever heard about electronic weapons, or electromagnetic weapons?"
"Sure."
"Where?"
"Why are you asking?" Wenton didn't like answering questions unless he knew how the information would be used.
"I had a client who claimed she was hit by one of these weapons."
"I've heard that before."
"Heard it from a patient?"
"Heard it from a mental patient who claimed a ray gun zapped him and made him kill his boarding house roommate."
"Did that guy come here?"
"Nope. I saw him at the Springhill Correctional Centre. I thought he was full of shit and testified that he was fit and responsible. He's in prison now."
"Oh," Dr. Claric said, obviously disappointed.
"What's the deal? Why are you asking about this shit?"
"Doesn't matter. I was just following up on something my client said about it."
Wenton decided he didn't want to drag out the conversation. "So I'
ll bring Norma over tomorrow, ten o'clock?"
"See you then," Dr. Claric said distractedly and hung up.
SIXTEEN
Dr. Claric sat motionless at his desk. Wenton and his graduate student would be arriving soon and he wasn't mentally prepared. He hadn't slept again.
Dr. Claric's hands began to shake and he clasped them together, tightly. He needed to push through this. He needed to be strong.
Tears welled in his eyes. Why'd you kill yourself Catherine? he asked himself. I would've helped you. You could've helped me but now we're both alone. We're both alone and I don't have the slightest idea what's going on. I think I might be going insane.
He laughed, a pathetic little puff of air. The last thing I need right now is to interview another patient with an audience watching. Especially this Barry Boseman character. And then Dr. Claric began to cry openly.
***
"Thanks for letting us sit in on this one, Brian," Wenton said as he and Norma walked through the main entrance of the MSPC.
Dr. Claric smiled weakly. He was standing near the security desk in the lobby. From this main area, locked doors led off in four different directions.
Wenton went straight to the desk and signed in on the clipboard the officer held for him.
"Brian, this is my graduate student, Norma."
"Right," Dr. Claric said with an obvious lack of interest and asked the security guard to buzz them in. "Might as well get going. Looks like we're ready."
As they entered the corridor, Norma looked at Wenton with a face full of questions. She didn't understand Dr. Claric's odd behaviour. Wenton tried to ignore her although he was also curious about Dr. Claric's distracted composure.