Played: “Sometimes you never know who is playing who, until the damage is done.

by Storyteller, Bad-Boy

  “Ahhhh! Ahhhhh! You are worthless!” The temperature drops, stealing his breath. His eyes bulge from the strain; his face appears to have aged.

  Michelle and the men observe as it starts again. The room resembles a lightning storm, and the movement bends the viewing window. It hisses as compressed air escapes on their side.

  “Oh my God, that’s intense!” Michelle yells.

  “Yeah, it is!” Cools agrees, with a dry mouth, watching Joshua thrash about, his veins bulging out of his bruised skin with every pulse.

  “How long do we do this for?”

  “We leave him in there for another ten minutes, suffering, until he pleads to tell us all we want to know.”

  “It seems extreme,” Cools says, somewhat pitying the man he despises.

  Sergeant Wielder replies, “I will not lie to you; some men never recover even after five minutes, but I guarantee its results. He will tell us what we want.”

  They can see it halt and can hear Joshua pleading incoherently. “Make it stop! Please, make it stop! I want to tell you nothing…No, I will give you anything. Please!”

  Sergeant Wielder turns it up a level, and the psychotic chamber roars to life for another session.

  Inside Joshua struggles against it, enduring her horrendous screams, “Obey me! Dismiss your beliefs! Ahhh! Ahhhhh! You are mine!” He vomits all over himself and grinds his teeth, breaking off the tips of two of them. The mirror compresses, collapsing his form so that he hates himself, followed by more constricting as the flashes and the woman work in unison, beating him into submission. “You are a fraud! You are not worthy! You will only obey! Ahhhhhhh! Help me!” Within himself he desperately searches for truth, for an escape as the scorching heat comes. Everything escalates the intense pressure; the lights are pulsing faster with each of her excoriations, two times for each word, then two and a half, then six. “You will obey! You are soulless! Your labors will not be rewarded! Ahhhhhh! Ahhhhhh!”

  It stops, and he has a fleeting glimpse of awareness, beginning to have an idea of where he is. But it starts again; it’s killing him, and he has to find a way out. His inclination is to oppose the voice. “You will obey! Ahhhhh! Ahhhhh! Obey or pain!” Joshua plays messages over and over in his mind—something that he can control. First it is only a few: “I’m at the police station. I was arrested.” Then he begins adding more. He practices his motor functions by squeezing his hands, rerouting, circumventing brain synapses to beat it, methods learned from many bad trips on hallucinogens.

  “You are my scapegoat! Inconclusive! Obey or pain!”

  “No…I am not!” Joshua chokes out.

  “Ahhhhh! Ahhhhhh! Ahhhhhh! You are vile! Obey or pain!”

  “No! I am…I am more…I don’t have to…have you inside me!” He can feel the drugs losing their effectiveness; he’s gaining influence.

  “What is going on?” Cools yells.

  “I’m not sure,” Sergeant Wielder replies, turning the room to its strongest level, increasing the volume, making even the viewing room shake violently.

  Still Joshua defies it power, wailing inhumanly loud, “I am in the police station! They arrested me! I was arrested!”

  “You’re going to kill him!” Michelle shouts out.

  Sergeant Wielder orders Captain Jackson. “We need to go in now. He’s beating it. I don’t know how, but he is beating it. Our best chance is to go in now!”

  “All right, Robertson, get in there now! You get first crack at him. And get us what we need!”

  Inside the chamber of horrors, Joshua battles to the end, slumped over the table and asserting to himself, “I am at the police station! I was arrested!” Liquid runs out of his ears. Blood vessels have ruptured on most of his face, and the pressure has excreted all his bodily fluids. But it stops. It finally stops. He hopes.

  Next he hears the air-locked door open, and Michelle bursts in, questioning, “Where is Kimberly? What did you do with her? Tell me where Amberly is. Look at me!” Joshua welcomes her but ignores her still, only breathing, restoring, provisioning for the next wave of attacks. Except now the onslaught comes exclusively from her. “Talk to me! Tell me how Kimberly’s blood got inside the railing. Are you involved romantically with Amberly?”

  Slowly he can feel his strength replenishing, fueled by anger and the desire for retribution. He now knows what it can do and is confident he can contend with it, if need be. Awareness pours in, reminding him in greater detail where he is, who he is, and why he is here. They’ve drugged me, but it won’t happen a second time. They’ve made their play, and the worst of everything is over. He spits out a bit of agonizing laughter and lifts his head.

  Michelle gasps upon seeing the damage done. His face is a mess, bruised and drained of life. But what concerns her more is the grin, the hatred in his eyes. She knows he is far from broken. He’s like a freaking weed you can’t kill!

  Joshua wastes no time inspecting himself in the mirror and seizing a creepy glimpse of Michelle, challenging her.

  With composure she returns a look that says, “Not in a gazillion years, freak!”

  Then he coughs, finding his voice. “I want my fucking…phone call, bitch!”

  “Why don’t we answer a few questions first,” Michelle counters, narrowing her eyes. “Tell me where Kimberly is, or we will turn it back on!”

  “Let’s do it; let’s fucking do it. I can handle it! I dare you to make my face worse. I am going to sue this entire fucking department!” He lunges for her, but the straps hold him just within reach. “Do you know…know who my father is?”

  “Yes, I do, Joshua, and he will never know of this,” Michelle snaps back, concealing her uncertainty.

  “You can’t keep me here forever! I want my fucking lawyer.” He begins to cry, then asks, “What are you charging me with?”

  Michelle can see the drugs are still having an effect on him; his eyes are floating, drifting. She answers him directly, “You’re being charged for the first degree murder of your wife, Kimberly.”

  “Sounds like a good time not to answer…or answer any questions without my lawyer then,” he replies smartly. “You march your sweet little ass out there and get me a phone, so I can call my father.” He directs her with his finger.

  Captain Jackson, behind the mirror, tells Cools to get in there. Michelle pulls her hair back and blurts out, “But that’s not really living it to its fullest, now is it, Joshua?”

  Just then Cools steps in. Joshua looks to Cools, asking, “What is she talking about?”

  She starts to explain as Cools simply points his finger back toward her. Joshua, out of curiosity, reverses his attention to hear her say, “It’s because you’re smarter than us, Joshua. You can handle our little examination. You haven’t made any real mistakes, and I think you would agree that we should play—that is, unless you can’t handle a real woman without your daddy. And a detective here that—what did you say?—missed his chance.”

  “Ha…ha-ha…you’re good,” he replies, wiping blood from his mouth. Then he moves his attention to Cools, who isn’t laughing, and says, “I don’t believe I said such a thing; actually I remember it to be Janice, your ‘partner in goodness,’ that made that comment.”

  Cools storms back out, grumbling, “Oh fuck you, you little prick.” He says this mostly in a pretense of anger, attempting to play into Michelle’s little charade and permit him the first round.

  “Okay, lady,” Joshua says, smiling through the pain, “gimme all you got!”

  “It’s Detective Robertson,” she answers sharply. Then, in a softer voice, she adds, “But you can call me Michelle.”

  He chuckles to himself. “Okay then, what would you like to ask me, Michelle?”

  She stands over the table between them, with a pen and paper, and begins. “Where is your wife?”

  “Peru—for all I know.”

  “When was the last time you had any communication with her?”

  “The day she left—Sunday.”

&n
bsp; “Did you take her to the airport?”

  “No, she said a friend was taking her.”

  “Who? What friend? Amberly?”

  “I don’t know; all she said was a friend!”

  “Isn’t it strange she hasn’t tried to contact you for over a week now?”

  “Not so much.”

  “Are you in love with her, Joshua?”

  “She is my love, my destiny.”

  “Really! Then why…why did you rent the boat, Joshua?”

  “I was going to take her fishing, but then she left.”

  “So did you go fishing by yourself?”

  “Yes.”

  “Catch anything?”

  “No.”

  “How did you do the damage to the boat?”

  “I was drunk and fell into it.”

  “How did you know there was blood?”

  “Who’s ahead?”

  “What?” she replies, not understanding the question.

  “What’s the score, Michelle?”

  “So far zero to zero,” she replies.

  “Now let me ask you a question,” he says, his head still spinning from the drugs. He then pauses dramatically and coughs up more blood before posing his question. “Michelle, how can one repent of a terrible thing without asking for forgiveness?”

  “Have you done such a thing, Joshua?”

  “I’m not sure. Is it a terrible thing if it is deserved?”

  “Why don’t you tell me what we are talking about,” she says, growing steadily frustrated. Then she asks, “What if I told you we have found Kimberly’s body?”

  “I would ask you, is she still in it?”

  Michelle lets out a short, cynical laugh. “Is she still in it? That’s…well, that’s… You know, you’re a real funny guy, aren’t you? You think you’re just too freaking cool!”

  “Get back in there, Cools; she’s losing it!”

  Cools races in just as she is in the middle of a tirade. “You repulse me! I would like to watch a real man beat you to a freaking pulp. Or maybe I should—”

  “Okay, okay, Michelle, take a break; go get some coffee, okay?” Cools pats the small of her back. “Michelle, let me take it from here.”

  “So now it’s your turn, huh, top cop?”

  “Michelle, will you get me a cup of coffee?”

  “Sure, Brad. Fine!”

  She storms out, and Joshua beats Cools to the punch, asking, “I have a good idea. Why don’t you repeat what you said to me in my living room?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he retorts, matching Joshua’s smirk.

  “Sure you do, and you will repeat it again; believe me you will. Believe me, you fucking will!” He coughs up some of his stomach lining. “Now, I refuse to speak another word to you until I see my attorney.” Then he seems to change his mind, and in a commanding tone like a man speaking to a dog, he orders Cools to leave the room. “You leave this second; you tell that painted whore to come back to me! You tell her to bring me two notepads, a pen, and some coffee. She has three minutes or I swear to Ra I will speak no more!”

  Without hesitation and devoid of any other real options, Cools complies.

  A couple of minutes later, Michelle enters, fumbling the notebooks and coffee in her hands. She places everything in front of him and sits down, trying to prepare herself. Joshua starts to write on one of the tablets and says, “I am going to give you something you want, and for this you will truthfully answer my questions.” Michelle, thinking that he’s writing a statement, agrees. “Who gave you the cross necklace?”

  “My husband,” she answers, knowing the questions are going to get more personal and maniacal.

  “Are you a Christian?” he asks, in a tone that reveals his disgust for the religion.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you love Jesus, Michelle?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “And your husband—is he a Christian like you?” She wavers for a second. “Is he?”

  “No,” she replies sorrowfully.

  Joshua stops writing, looks up, and asks, “He is going to burn in hell for all eternity then?”

  “Well, no, I don’t think—”

  “I said to answer truthfully, you stupid bitch! You say you’re a Christian; that means you go to heaven and non-Christians go to hell, isn’t that right?”

  She pauses and then gives him what he wants. “Yes, that’s true, but I will get him into church someday, someday before we die.”

  Joshua stares directly into her eyes, reading her, before stating, “I do not believe you believe that. I think he will burn!” Michelle takes it and doesn’t say anything more, as Joshua places the first tablet face-down and writes for a short while on the other. Once he’s done, he opens both and slides them across the table for her to read. As she is reading, he exhales slowly, “God, I would like to fuck you!” She is disgusted more at the words on the paper than his remark. Then, seeing that she is finished reading, he points to the first one and says, “If you do this and let me out of this fucking room…” He points to the second one. “I will sign this.”

  Michelle’s eyes start to swell, and a tear falls from her cheek. She is about to do the unthinkable. She gets out of her chair and kneels in front of him. Joshua raises his hands out to his side, palms up, posturing. Then, with his head presented to the sky, he accepts her supplication.

  “Oh God, Joshua, father of all creation, I pray to thee and ask for you to forgive me of my sins.”

  Moments afterward she emerges, trembling and weeping, from the interrogation room. She hands off the second notebook to Cools and runs for the bathroom to wash away her ugliness.

  Cools reads the statement:

  “I Joshua Siconolfi did premeditate and murder my wife Kimberly Siconolfi!”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Number 7519650 is swiftly taken to an undisclosed infirmary, where he’s strapped to a bed. IVs are placed in both arms, feeding him vitamin and antibiotic therapies to heal his wounds. And although the drugs have subsided, her voice still rings in his head. “Obey or pain! Ahhh! Ahhh! You are despised!” He wishes her away and then remembers his mother—mostly from details generated by his father’s stories of her. Joshua loved to hear him speak of her. He would watch his father gaze into the void as if seeing her right in front of him, giving count by count narratives of her mannerisms and silly doings. His father cherished her and spoke often of her beauty, although usually seeming somewhat irritated with her. At the age of six, two years after she’d run off, never to be seen again, Joshua felt from time to time as if she were with him, guiding his spirit through durations of boundless and constant worry. And when she wasn’t, he missed her immensely. Sometimes he would sit alone for hours, staring at his bedroom door, waiting for her to appear. In his mind he would play it over and over: first hearing the latch turn, the door would swing open, and she would be standing there, glowing.

  “Are you comfortable?” asks the nurse.

  He smiles, enjoying the fact they have to pamper him during his healing process. And since there’s no doubt his wounds will be almost entirely healed before he’s allowed to appear in public, he has an agenda that calls for being gentle to the woman. He answers, “Yes, but I could use some more painkillers.”

  “They always help. I’ll be right back, okay?” She leaves promptly.

  Joshua, now fully aware of his surroundings, gains notice of his room—the clean white walls, the small television set bolted high in the corner, the assortment of electronic hospital equipment around his bedside. There, within the mundane, he reflects upon his maneuvers during the interrogation, repeating in his mind the gratifying memories of Detective Robertson’s prayer to him. A proud grin forms on account of his performance, his masterpiece.

  The nurse returns to his room, carrying a syringe filled with generosity. “Oh, you’re going to like this,” she says, pushing the plunger down. Instantly Joshua can feel it warming him, relaxing him. He snug
gles deeper into the hospital bed as she caters to him, applying aloe and vitamin K lotions—natural ingredients that stimulate epithelial growth and speed healing times. Her hands are soothing. Nothing concerns him now, not being tortured or signing a statement of guilt; the outcome was still the same as intended.

  Just outside his door, he recognizes Sergeant Wielder’s voice conspiring with Captain Jackson, only he can’t discern what they’re saying. If he could, he would hear Captain Jackson stating, “All right, I’m gonna release a statement saying he went crazy, broke the camera inside the interrogation room, and we had to subdue him physically. That’ll explain why we don’t have any footage of his confession, or lacerations. Then we’ll leak some video of our previous interview, showing his violent behaviors. So when he tells his stories of secret tortures, he’ll be met with nothing but skepticism. Besides he already says all his crazy things; the public already views him as somewhat of an advocate for the dramatic; quite simply put, they won’t believe him. I’m also gonna say he had a seizure and was shipped to Western State Hospital. And by the time they figure out he isn’t there, we’ll say he’s returned but, due to another episode here, had to be sedated and cannot appear in court until Monday morning.”

  “You know the media is going to run wild with his accusations,” murmurs Sergeant Wielder.

  “All right, I got it. But in the end, he’ll be discarded just like all the other scumbags who come through here. You should know that when it is all said and done, no one believes them. They are discredited by their crimes, their choices to use drugs, and their unwillingness to follow our suggested paths.”

  “Yeah, but this is different.”

  “No, it’s the same, only on a larger scale. The job’s already done; we just need to clean up the mess!”

  Then Joshua can hear them moving down the hall and their muffled voices fading away. The nurse also departs; leaving him in isolation. It’s a healthy break from a disordered life, and he thinks of Frankie Johnson, the boy who was left in the care of Panama-Red—his mother’s new, risky boyfriend. The warm waves roll through him; his eyes begin to flicker, as he nods off and falls into a dream state, revisiting the 1960s and the uncertainties of little Frankie.