Jaspers inhabits Isolation-666, our smallest facility. Bound as tightly as he is, he cannot escape feeling enclosed within enclosure.
Not that I enjoy making him squirm. But this straining is as much a part of my course of therapy as the outlets for expression I offer him: music, art, communication. He suffers, confronting his most primal fear of confinement and abandonment. He weighs fear against a shred of hope, for freedom. A freedom I take for granted.
And yet he shuts his eyes, making his cage even smaller. The isolation of the self.
He will not see me, here and now. Fascinating.
“Like... being... buried. I don’t know. Hey, isn’t it time for you to go scope the other maniacs? Wouldn’t want to keep you.”
My comeback to Jaspers’ subtle acid is always the same: “My time is yours, John.” And I let the dim silence work.
He’s far, far away.
“They smother me; sisters smell like old dust, paper, pressed dead flowers, wool that’s been pissed on—not to mention lies; Our Father who art in Heaven, We’re Hypocritical Scum, Ya Dig, Sadistic Pretenders to Wings—”
“What’s the point, John?”
“Oooh... bit you, an’ deeply, didn’t I? How does a delicious pair of Catholic legs become a shrink, isn’t ’at piling sin on top of sin?”
It takes a lot to get into Bellevue. It’s not for your Upper East Side manic depressive—that’s NYU Medical Center next door. Our patients have no money, no resources and multiple stressors. Their behavior is so extreme—criminal, self-destructive, both—that no alternative presents itself.
John speaks of sin.
EMS Battalion 8 brought him directly to me from the Syrian Embassy, where he was found amidst a scene of carnage you associate with war or Hell, not the elite, red-carpeted Manhattan diplomatic scene. He was naked, stained with blood… and he could not, or would not, explain who he was and how he got there.
So while the State Department irons out the diplomatic wrinkles, its my job to open communications with this alleged mass murderer. It took me a month just to get his name. He spit it at me as if it could infect me through the bulletproof glass between us.
“All you talk is the nasties, or craving the nasties, but not saying it, right? Come on, doc... I know you’re out there, I can hear you breathin’.”
He pauses.
“All right... the sisters. Wet smells under those layers of sanctity. Skin chafes under all that holiness, see? Flesh, blood can’t be denied, not wholly, so, the sisters sweat in the May sun, almost like real people, yeah, I met brutes later, men’d poke red-hot railroad spikes through your eyes if they didn’t like your tone of voice. Men who commanded more respect than counterfeit angels—smelled fresher, too.”
He hears me stand up.
“What? You don’t wanna hear ’bout Sister Margaret? How I gave her... her bright wings?”
“So many important memories of your, let’s call them teachers—and yet you hold them in violent contempt; don’t you find that intriguing, John?”
“Teachers... I’m walking with one now; the joke is, she and I, we’re pretending this isn’t jail, bluffing I’m free to live, breathe, and even see! From chapel to dormitory, it’s a short walk, Sister Margaret leads, of course, stiffly lecturing, themes unremembered, sister stench exuding. I’ve hung back, you see, looking at the garden, ‘dawdling,’ she calls it. I squint my eyes, let everything blur ’round the edges till all I see is color; then focus!”
“One exquisite flower. I hold my breath. Like you’re holding yours now... Jade.”
“Flowers are supposed to be beautiful like skies’re supposed to be blue, but to see this single bud is to never see flowers again. Makes the rep for all of them, here, now, forever. And Sister Margaret yanks at me; bride of Christ himself, she’s still in come-to-fucking-Jesus hurry.
“ ‘This flower is beautiful,’ I tell her.
“'Yes, it is,' she suffers, betraying her ordinariness of vision. ‘They are all beautiful.’ ‘No. This one is beautiful.’ No words applied to this Sacred Cow will open her eyes. Something turns in me. All it would take are fingers like claws, I imagine, and I see razor shafts of light extend from my stubby young digits into her stone-dead eyes. Get it, now?”
“But she won’t bleed, doc, she won’t bleed though I rip the top of her head away; there, see the cold, obdurate brain! Meat long ago withered—no light source here—so I tear grey waxy paste from the sullen chamber of her skull. My eyes flare and ignite it like old paper, looking for a spark, but... nothing here. This pale shit, this puppet bent to glorify you, Our Father, scraping around colorless, repeating litanies, no longer cognizant, no longer feeling! All to intimidate small boys into almost losing the light, tongues wagging in their heads stupidly, all flowers quite the same!
“At this thought, her first display of vitality—steaming blood cascades high, stinging my wondering eyes like a fountain! Even a miserable bastard like me could worship this miracle; flowers, no two shades comparable, and yes, every drop shines brightly, for every drop of blood has a soul and radiates the cardinal dew, honoring that closure, that final glory.
“My fingers burn through crucifix, sternum, and I bend the ribs out, further out, till they sing, split, and stream like wings behind her death-mask. Sister Margaret, no longer a false angel, she too deserves to be remade, to be true, to feel the rapture! Between her widespread, many-ribbed wings, I open my mouth to her throbbing heart, behold the burnt-red lips awaiting me there, and take them with my own.”
He pauses. His fantasy is obscene. But I realize, he was telling the truth. I am holding my breath. I’m the professional... but he plays me as I play him.
“Then Sister Margaret yanks me out of my reverie, muttering multitudes of Our Father and Our Father and my flower wilts in the stale heat.”
“Measuring mental illness, you see, is no more than discovering the degree of commitment to one’s... principles, to use a word that’s slightly out of fashion,” I say calmly. “Have you ever tried to write, draw these...?”
“Don’t insult me—you take my hands away, but only after exchanging the sticks I used to scrape the walls with for crayons and newsprint! Besides, the light here’s dreadful. And as a model, you make a pretty good piece of furniture. When you bother to show up. Stiff. Wooden. Unconvincing.”
He winds his wrists in circles, rolling thick veins under his skin. Under the jacket, I know, there’s body hair so light, it could be a young girl’s. I try to let the silence work, but he opens the eyes. I’ve jotted today’s date down in my journal, May 4, 1996. Without realizing, I’ve drawn a box around the number six, then a box around the box, and so on, till the page is solid ink!
This well of darkness, it says, is too deep for you.
“Painting gives me a chance to feel, the ability to direct myself—I’m not afraid of people when I can punctuate my feelings with my art; I look forward to a job painting when I am discharged.”
He laughs. He wants me to know that he can act, too. Prick.
“Don’t lie to me, you bastard!”
“Good, Jade! Now we’re getting somewhere with your anger—same time tomorrow?”
“You’ve a knack for calling people on their lies—you willing to be called, too?”
“Of course. I do so look forward to painting with the blood of my enemies, those parasites who used me, when I am discharged—I’m not scared.”
“No, John. You’re very scared. That’s what I’m here to make you see.”
“Love that honesty, doc. Is it time to fuck now?”
The only question he could ask, of course. Not an invitation, but ammunition.
“Scared I might take you up on it? Then you’d see just how wild—”
What the Hell am I doing? I never react like this!
“Well, I’m speaking hypothetically, of course.”
“Of course.”
“I can smell you, Jade DeCamp,” he says as I walk away.
Late
r, in Caffe Dolce Vita, the blond NYU student is at his usual table. “You gonna light that cigarette you’ve been nibblin’ the last fifteen minutes?”
I’m trying to quit, I explain, then ask, now that we’re conversing, how he’s been reading Le Rouge et le Noir every night since fall and never turned a page.
“All right, I don’t read French, I dig intellectual chicks. Neurotic as hell, but as long as my body’s getting worked over, might as well get my mind done too. Uh, since you’re not gonna smoke—”
His eyes dart quickly to the burnt-red lipstick stains as he catches my cigarette. So cocky, so sweet, like many of my own students. He doesn’t hide like John.
I mean, like Isolation-666.
This is the kind of young man who would have made me happy, I let myself think. And he doesn’t interest me at all. I’m already breathing tomorrow morning’s electrically-charged air within steel-reinforced padded walls.
And then, when I leave, same as always, “Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me,” he’ll whine, mocking me. But he’s transparent behind those shut down eyes. He means it, more than life, death and all the colors only he can see.
Featuring characters from the Rebel Studios graphic novel Faust: Love Of The Damned, Trademark and ©2012, David Quinn and Tim Vigil. All Rights Reserved.
DR. SCABS AND THE HAGS OF EL CAJON
Robert Essig
The bar smelled of stale beer and old vomit. That should have been the first sign for Lindsay to walk on by to Chloe’s apartment, but she desperately needed to drink away the lingering memory of Jared. She’d thought he was “the one,” but as it turned out he was just another asshole.
The bar was full of Jareds, all staring at her, making lude remarks, asking to buy her a drink—one guy asked if her tits were real! She could have accepted a free drink, but that would imply that she wanted conversation or that she was looking for some barfly to take her home. What she needed was a dark corner and a vodka on the rocks, a primer for a night of crying on Chloe’s shoulder between bouts of man-hating rage.
After one drink, Lindsay left the bar. Chloe lived in the apartments on a parallel street on the opposite side of the alley behind the strip mall where the bar was located.
“Where you going so fast?” asked a particularly greasy individual with a stringy comb-over and a cigarette dangling from a crooked grin that revealed teeth like corn nibs. “Come back in and I’ll buy you a drink.”
Several yards past the bar, Lindsay turned and said, “No thanks. My friend’s expecting me.”
“Then maybe I should walk you there,” he said as he advanced in her direction. “This is a tough part of town you know.”
“No thanks. I can take care of myself.”
And then he gave chase. Lindsay fled and found herself in one of the burned out shops on the strip. She turned the corner and ran into a man whose flesh was like a jigsaw puzzle of scabs and scars. He pulled a knife on her chaser. With a swipe, he slit the man’s throat getting a face full of arterial spray, then slammed the blade into the side of the man’s head. The man dropped to the ground. Breathless and shocked, Lindsay passed out of consciousness.
~
Lindsay woke to the acrid odor of soot and piss. Disoriented, she rubbed her head as blurry eyes took in the surroundings. A puddle of blood on the littered floor reminded her that she’d been saved by a hideous man. His actions were so violent that she couldn’t help but wonder about his true intentions.
And where the hell was he? What happened to the body?
She nearly gasped when she realized that there were two men sitting near what appeared to be the door to the alley. They looked homeless and crazy—one of them had a filthy beard; the other, a handlebar moustache and broken, rotten teeth. They both stared at her with hungry eyes.
“I...” Lindsay was lost for words. “I really have to go. Someone’s waiting on me.”
“Oh yeah?” said Handlebar with a grin that showcased his crooked teeth. “You’re not going anywhere, bitch. Doctor Scabs brought you here. That means you’re his property.”
That last comment infuriated Lindsay. She stood in a threatening manner and said, “I’m no one’s property! I’m out of here.”
She went for the door, hoping that, by some chance of fate, they would let her go.
Positioning himself in front of the door, Handlebar said, “Not so fast, honey.”
She stopped in front of him and gritted her teeth. “Please get out of my way.”
Handlebar grinned and said, “With sugar on top?”
“Just let me go.”
Beard never moved from his perch on the ground to the left of the door. He looked up and said, in a gravelly voice, “What do you think is on the other side of that door anyway?”
“You don’t want to go in there,” said Handlebar. “The hags’ll eat you for breakfast.”
Lindsay cringed. “The what?”
Beard spoke up. “The hags.” He looked up at Lindsay, one of his eyes infected and milky, the lid swollen and pus-filled. “You don’t fuck with the hags. No one fucks with the hags.”
“Then how do I get out of here?”
“You wait for Dr. Scabs,” said Handlebar.
Lindsay didn’t have to wait long. She saw both Handlebar and Beard’s eyes shift to something behind her. She turned, heart caught in her throat. Dr. Scabs stood in a shaft of light coming from a makeshift door that Lindsay hadn’t recognized when she was sitting on the floor planning her escape.
“You don’t have to worry, honey pot,” said Dr. Scabs.
“The bastard’s dead.”
“You shouldn’t have...” What else could she say?
“You’re better off here than in that guy’s hands. Don’t you think?”
She didn’t know. This situation was equally as uncertain. Lindsay’s eyes darted the room, searching for something to give her a glimmer of hope that she could get out of this place alive.
“I just want to go to my friend’s house. That’s all.”
Dr. Scabs walked into the room he’d come from and fetched the body of the man he’d killed in the alley, dragging his corpse into the burned out hell Lindsay stood in. “Look what I did for you,” he said, pointing to the body on the floor.
She was shaking so badly that she thought she wouldn’t be able to control herself from a panic attack.
“I appreciate what you’ve done for me. Thank you. But—”
“But!” said Dr. Scabs. “But what?”
He nervously peeled scabs from his face and chewed on them. Lindsay tried not to gag at the sight.
“I mean I have to go, you know?” said Lindsay. “My friend is waiting for me.”
“I’ll show you gratitude, you ungrateful bitch. I don’t kill for just anyone.”
Lindsay’s mouth opened to say something, but no words came. Tears ran from her eyes mixing with the sweat that beaded all over her face. The shaking worsened.
Dr. Scabs wore a long filthy lab coat with large pockets in front. He pulled out a hypodermic and a small bottle of fluid that looked like pus or semen.
“I can make you grateful, you know. I can make you grateful for my knife. Grateful for me to kill you and take you from your misery. Is that what you want?”
Handlebar and Beard giggled, passing a glass pipe back and forth in a wispy cloud of smoke.
Dr. Scabs popped the needle into the bottle of fluid and pulled the plunger, filling it with God knew what type of nastiness. He then removed the needle, pushing on the plunger after tapping the barrel to remove any air bubbles.
“Although an embolism may be a blessing in disguise. Don’t you think? An air bubble straight to your heart? Or becoming a slave for the hags? The air bubble could paralyze you if it doesn’t kill you, and even then it would be preferable to being a hag’s slave. But you couldn’t be bothered to show a bit of gratitude, could you?”
“I appreciate what you did for me, I really do.”
“You appreciate nothing!
”
Dr. Scabs lunged for Lindsay, and though she tried to resist his grasping, feted hand, he grabbed her by the neck and slammed her against the wall. She squirmed and flailed, repulsed by the idea of touching his disgusting flesh, even in self-defense.
“Touch it,” said Scabs. His voice softened, breath like rotting vegetables. “Touch me. Touch my skin. It’s like nothing you’ve ever felt before.”
Lindsay whimpered, snot bubbling from her nose, spittle discharging as she attempted a plea for help.
“You don’t like me, huh? You don’t like my body.”
Lindsay stuttered and shook her head like an old palsied woman. Dr. Scabs let loose his grip just before thrusting his face into hers, forcing his scabbed cheek into her mouth.
She screamed, and finally her hand found his arms and she scratched at his rough scabbed flesh. She moved her face from side to side and closed her mouth, inadvertently ripping scabs with her teeth, which resulted in a gag reflex that was impossible to clench. A gut full of vodka, cranberry juice and Hamburger Helper erupted, spraying Dr. Scabs.
“I repulse you? I fucking repulse you!”
His hand landed like a firecracker on her cheek, dropping her to the floor in a pile of shattered woman. Her mind was a rinse cycle of despair and regret.
Dr. Scabs stood above Lindsay, hardly concerned about the blood and pus leaking from his damaged face and arms. His grin was so wide it cracked the scabs around his mouth, producing tiny droplets of crimson, attesting to his pleasure in pain. He raised the syringe.
“You’d better cooperate with me, deary, or you’ll get a nasty injection that will lead to a nasty infection, and then you will be a slave for the hags.”
Trembling, Lindsay said, “Why...? Why are doing this to me?”
“Because I can.” Scabs unzipped his filthy, ripped pants. “I have one more thing I want from you, then you can go.”
Lindsay’s eyes glided down from his mottled face to his groin, where, after unzipping, he pulled down a pair of severely stained boxers. For just a second Lindsay wondered if his penis was in a similar state as the rest of him...
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