1,500 words

For the short story contest from Writer's Market.

The Assignment

Of them all, I think Lizbeth is my favorite. Short in stature, rounded on top and bottom, with a nimbus of frizzy hair, she’s always wandering around the halls. She smiles a lot, showing a beautiful set of teeth but she rarely talks to anyone. Well, anyone other than me.

LB has an obsessive-compulsive disorder that compels her to swallow the odds and ends she finds lying about the hospital. I’m constantly in fear she’s swipe one of my pen lids and add it to her collection.

Since taking this assignment I’ve keep my pens dutifully clipped to the top of my steno pad. Before meeting LB, I would have left them scattered across the room, but a good roller ball pen is hard to find here.

Last week, she was sent to the hospital for a peek into the depths. They found six pennies, two tacks and one of Ms. Emily’s infamous binder clips that she uses to hold the list of activities and field trips to her clipboard. She never leaves the clipboard alone. I’m dying to know how that clip found its way into LB’s digestive guillotine.

LB, of course, isn’t talking.

This assignment was my editor’s idea. No one else could be so morbid as to suggest it. She’s always looking for something sensational, scintillating, or preferably downright disgusting to run in the next issue.

“An undercover glimpse into the world of mental hospitals.”

“No way.” My words. “No way.”

Total immersion. That was her idea too. Committed, medicated, psychoanalyzed, the whole experience.

She had read somewhere that psych patients were still sometimes subject to unspeakable conditions. She wanted the under-the-radar view of the whole sordid mess.

Her words. “Whole sordid mess.” In her opinion, everything was a sordid mess.

“How will I get in? It’s not a Holiday Inn. I can’t just reserve a room!”

A few cuts on my arm, a suicide note and I plead my case with my mom to commit me. She was rightfully appalled.

“But mom, it’s for a story. Maybe, if I play my cards right, a Pulitzer.”

Ahaa. Motherly pride. Award-winning journalist has such a nice ring. I was in before Easter.

*****************************************

“I had that dream again.”

Mr. M.D. looked at me over the rim of his glasses, eyebrows raised in question. I sigh.

“Don’t you take notes? I have the same damn dream every few nights. Surely it’s detailed in your copious doctor notes!”

He smiled, condescending. He is a giant prick.

“Of course I take notes. But this is about sharing – for the first or the five thousandth time. Sharing.”

I let out an exaggerated sigh.

This is part of the assignment. Total immersion. He assumes I’m just another patient. I know better, but it’s my job to play the role. It was the only way to gain access.

“Fine. I’m lying in bed next to him. He’s dead to the world. Dead drunk. I can hear him start to snore and it pisses me off. I look over at him and all I can think about is killing him. It would be so easy. Handcuff him to the bed, roll on top of him, smoother him with a pillow. I feel so angry with him, angry enough to want him dead, angry enough to kill him myself. I grip the pillow in my hand. I reach toward his face. I’m going to do it. I’m going to smoother him to death. And then I wake up.”

“Why do you think you’re so angry with him?”

Now it’s my turn to raise an eyebrow.

“How would I know? It’s a dream.”

“You know there’s significance in dreams. It’s been proven again and again, not all dreams are random. Do you believe this one is random?”

“Of course it’s random. It would never happen.”

Mr. M.D. jots a note.

“Never?”

No more eyebrows, I narrow my eyes. My menacing face. My “don’t fuck with me” face.

“Never.”

*****************************************

This assignment is not going as planned. In fact, I’m damn well sick of it. I want out but I know she won’t hear my case without a story in hand.

I have to move this along more quickly. It’s time to do some real investigative work – also known as snooping.

I can’t handle this psycho-babble bullshit much longer. I see now why mental patients have such a hard time readjusting to the outside world. I’m developing the theory that analysis is meant to keep you crazy, keep you medicated, controllable.

I’m afraid I’m becoming one of them. It’s not a substantial fear, more like a nagging pin prick along my hairline. I’m.crazy.I’m.crazy.I’m.crazy.

But the pinprick is becoming a searing pain.

*****************************************

I found them, finally. Mr. M.D.’s copious notes. The words “patient confidentiality” floated through my mind’s eye. I quickly dismissed. I didn’t want to reveal anything about the patients, just open the eyes of the world about this facility.

I flip through the manila tabs, scanning quickly.

LB’s file.
Tom: Paranoid schizoid.
Leslie: A cutter, binger, purger and generally self-loather.
Gillian: Thinks she’s a witch.
Adam: Serial arsonist. Shouldn’t he be in prison?

Wait. Was that my name?

I hesitate. Flip back. My file.

Of course I’d have a file. Total immersion. To Mr. M.D., I’m just like every other patient. I hesitate again. I don’t really care what he’s written. I’m not staying. I’m not actually a patient.

I’m trying to find one reference to shock treatment, water-immersion therapy, sleep deprivation – something that points to abuse, something that screams Pulitzer.

So far nothing.

I flip the file tab with my fingernail. I pull it out before I lose my nerve.

Patient unable to remember incident. Claims flashbacks are only dreams. I feel with continued questioning, the night of the 21st will return.

What the hell?

Patient still believes she is working on story assignment. Caught again in restricted areas looking for shock therapy equipment. I assured her such methods have not been used for many years. May need to increase anti-psychotic.

I hear the door behind me click. Mr. M.D. is standing still, surprised, looking at me.

“You know the patient files are off limits. Would you please put that down?”

“This is my file. These are notes about me. You know about the assignment?”

“Please sit down. We can talk….about your ….assignment if you like.”

*****************************************

The room swims. I feel my arms stretch out to catch myself before I become aware that I’m falling.

Black.

I crack the door to let in a sliver of light.

I hear him, snoring in the bed. He’s congested in addition to being drunk. He rattles with snot and phlegm. He’s dead drunk but still I tiptoe toward the bed.

He’s flat on his back, arms splayed, face turned toward the wall.

My hate wells up like vomit, chocking me, infuriating me further. I have hated him for so long.

I wrap the handcuff around his wrist, pulling his arm slowly toward the headboard. The faint click, click of the cuffs sliding home sound like shots in the dark. I freeze. He farts and snorts, resumes his snoring.

I repeat the same steps on his other hand. Slow. Click, click. Done.

He’s a big man, heavy as well as tall. Awake, he could bat me away like a fly. But asleep, and tethered, I have a shot.

I climb into the bed next to him, then straddle. Slide up. He turns toward me, says my name. I freeze. He smiles in his sleep.

My fortitude wavers. It was that smile that first attracted me. He has an amazing smile, it lights up his whole face. That sounds so cliché, but until I’d met him, I never realized how appropriate a cliché it is.

He was married to someone else then, as was I. He was all I wanted in the world. I got what I wanted, and it ruined my life.

My knees rest in the hollow of his shoulders. I press the pillow down onto his face.

At first there is nothing. I sigh. Press harder.

I feel his gasp. He turns his head, trying to find the air.

He’s awake now. Pulling his arms against the restraints. The clanking against the metal headboard is distracting. I lean my weight onto the pillow. Keep focused on my goal.

He bucks with his legs, propelling his body upward in an attempt to knock me off. I tighten my thighs, hang on.

According to my research, death by suffocation takes a few minutes. My arms start to shake with the strain of pressing into his face. It seems to be taking hours.

His arms suddenly go limp. I feel his chest rise .. once, twice .. no more.

I lay my face on the pillow, still covering his. I’m exhausted but free. Free from him.