“I hate you!” Fists slammed against the polished steel hard enough to shatter bone but the subject didn’t seem to notice or care.
“Jesus.” Dr. Sara Shelby breathed the name into the dark
room, shocked by the vehemence shown by the pinpoint camera installed in the
cell. “How long has this been going on?”
The body flung itself from one wall to the other and back
again, as if determined to self-destruct.
“Since induction early this morning, brought over from the
ER.” Her assistant was equally rapt, watching the monitor with the date in the
corner. December 26, 2004.
“Any records, local or state?”
“Nope, we’re still double-checking, but no joy yet.”
“What happened?”
“Dunno, but they did a rape kit and it came up positive.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah.”
August, 2008
Outside the familiar window, sunlight fell in a stream past
the trees, lighting the grass so brilliantly that green showed white. Inside,
the clock ticked in the corner, marking time. The subject lay on the tufted
leather lounge in the same position as every other week for the past
three-and-a-half years.
“Where were you?”
“Grandma’s house.” The sodium pentothal made speech slow and
slurred.
“Who else was there?”
A list of names was given and, for the first time, a
hesitation and a frown.
Dr. Shelby sat up. It’s
almost there. She waited, holding her breath for more. But nothing was
said. “Who else?” She prompted.
The dark head jerked in denial. “No one. No one else.”
She paused, considering, and then she took a chance. She had
the record, the list provided by the family. “What about your Uncle Kyle,
wasn’t he there?”
The body on the lounge jerked. The head whipped around, dark
eyes filled with terrible fear and a scream that escaped spittled lips. “No! Not him, not Uncle Kyle! He wasn’t,
he wasn’t. It was me.” The mask kept in place for years slipped away as the
tousled head fell forward with a sob. “It was me.”
February, 2011
The cinderblock cell was painted a chill green, suited to
the place. A polished steel plate for a mirror, stainless basin and commode
were attached to one wall, a formed concrete platform for sleeping protruded
from the other. Nothing fabric, nothing that could be made into a weapon or
noose was allowed. Clothing was not optional, it was forbidden so the cells were
kept at a constant seventy-eight degrees and the concrete benches contained
induction pipes through which warm water was pumped.
The subject lay on their side, not moving, just staring off
into the emptiness of memory. The
doctors had given up watching. There was nothing to see here and other patients
showed more promise. They missed the moment, the change.
It was shown in a start, an intensifying inward stare. The
subject tensed, moved and sat up. A frown appeared on the pallid face. The
first expression the features had worn in years.
“Kyle. It was Kyle who did that.”
Two floors up a technician glanced across the monitors, did
a double-take, shifted their chair and then hit the panic button. Thumbing the
mike, fighting to keep his voice calm, he announced, “Cell twenty-eight,
attendant to cell twenty-eight.”
Three attendants answered the call, clustering in the
hallway outside the heavy steel door and peering through the thick, deeply
scarred plexiglas viewport.
“What the…”
“Open it up!”
October, 2011
Adam, seventeen years old and rail skinny, sat on the
leather chair in the psychiatrist’s office. The bright blue jumpsuit was still
uncomfortable against his skin. After years of being naked, clothing felt
unnatural.
“Are you ready, Adam?” Dr. Shelby tried to hide her
excitement at seeing this moment, a moment she had waited for since Adam had
first arrived.
He looked up, his blue eyes blazing with feeling. “I am.”
She passed the eight-by-ten glossy photograph across. It
left her fingers, accepted by his.
There was a long pause, breathless in its power, and then
the face that had once been so wild and then so blank, crumpled. Tears fell onto the image. The head fell and
fingers tightened with the whisper of despair. “I hate you!”
====
