Episode 1: Voices
He didn’t know who they were, or why they decided to talk to him, but their voices were clear and crisp, and what they said came true. They were always right, and when Grant tried to ignore them, bad things happened to good people and bad people and dogs and rodents and buildings and clothing and cafeteria trays.
He had tried to stop them before, but the drugs didn’t work. Actually, they did work, but he woke up three months later covered in shit and piss in an alley four miles from his house with no memory of anything.
He decided to submit.
This did not bode well with his wife or his boss or his friends, but his dog understood. He talked to Sparky all the time, to the dismay of those close to him, and Sparky knew what was going on. He didn’t talk back, but he could hear the voices too. Grant knew because the voices told him.
Grant wanted to name them. They had distinct personalities and sounds and cadence to their tones, but he simply called them “The Voices”. It was easier to explain and made him seem slightly less crazy, but he was certifiable enough by “normal” standards to be placed in “Horizon Dawn” with the rest of the walnuts.
“Grant? We’re right here. We asked you a question.”
Grant quickly figured that the flowery female voice belonged to Dr. Jill and not to his Voices; she was seated directly across from him in the circle of uncomfortable white plastic chairs. Group started 17 minutes ago, and the perfunctory opening question was finally directed toward him.
“Can you give us your feeling word for the day?” She repeated trying not to sound condescending. Dr. Jill liked Grant and was well aware that his intelligence and wherewithal were beyond that of the other patients.
“I feel tired.” He hung his head and watched the green specks in the Linoleum floor dance by crossing his eyes.
“Grant, I know you can be more descriptive than that, and you forgot to tell us why you feel your feeling word.”
“I didn’t forget. I’m not in the mood to share today. You don’t want to hear what I’m thinking.” He eyed Dr. Jill; she was very pretty with red curly hair and bright twinkling green eyes. Her slight frame was covered in white coat, but she had been wearing skirts this week with higher heels that popped out her delicious calves. She must be shaving her legs again. She’s shaving them for you. He imagined her in coat only and tried to focus on her voice without drooling like Jenkins.
“But Grant, that’s what Group is for. We’re here to share and listen to each other. I’m here to help.” She crossed and uncrossed her legs, placed her elbows on her knees and leaned forward exposing limited cleavage for his benefit only.
“I was feeling that you legs are far too pretty for you to be my therapist. I’m a married man and not used to this type of temptation, and it only makes me FEEL hotter that you’re doing this in front of other people. I like it when people watch.” He leaned back in his chair with crossed arms smirking and began to chuckle slightly at his sarcasm. Grant was pleased that he spoke his diatribe without falling into laughter; he was getting better at trying to break Dr. Jill’s façade of professionalism.
He had fucked her twice now. After the divorce papers were served by his wife’s lawyer three months ago, he saw his opportunity with Dr. Jill and took immediate advantage; Grant wasn’t crazy.
“Thank you, Grant. Your honesty is noted.” The men in the circle giggled and snickered and snorted. Jenkins fell out of his chair and jiggled on the ground exposing his junk to the group. Jenkins shaved nothing; he was a furry rolly-poly bear cub in the center of the circle of men. They all wore light green gowns that tied in the back; underwear was optional and never present on Jenkins.
Dr. Jill isn’t wearing panties today. She did this for you. You’re going to fuck her again after group. Meet her in her office after Jenkins sings a song from “West Side Story”.
“Sky rockets in flight, beeeeewwwwppp, Afternoon delight. Click clack.” He leapt to his feet, pointed in the air a la Travolta, and froze in pose until Dr. Jill spoke.
“Jenkins, that’s enough singing. Can you try speaking how you feel? It’s your turn.” She wisely changed the subject. Jenkins walked into office hours when Grant had her, and her skirt, up against the wall. He only spoke in musical lyrics and happened to be Grant’s best friend and confidant at “Horizon Dawn”, so neither was terribly worried about their secret escaping the pale green walls into the hands and minds of other doctors or staff.
“I feel pretty, oh so pretty, I feel pretty and witty and bright, and I pity any girl who isn’t me tonight. Do do do de do do do de!” Jenkins returned to the floor and rolled and laughed and winked knowingly at Grant and Dr. Jill.
They both appreciated his distraction, and Grant quietly thanked the voices.
Saturday, April 21, 2007
Episode 2: Voices- Always Listen the the Voices
Episode 2: Voices
She has to quiet down. The orderly will hear her moaning and catch you 33 seconds from now if you don’t put your hand over her mouth.
The deep voice spoke harshly to Grant mid-stroke; he almost lost his erection but pumped viciously into Dr. Jill to keep it hard. She gasped rapturously.
“Shhhhhhh. Quiet down, Doc. Don’t make me put my hand over your mouth again.” He tried to admonish, but she refused to listen. She liked his violence. He clamped his hand solidly over her as the orderlies steps echoed down the hall.
They were not discovered.
“Thank you.” He accidentally said out loud to the voices.
“No. No. Thank you.” Dr. Jill sighed and crumpled into him wiping the clumps of sweaty curls from her forehead. She disengaged and adjusted her pencil skirt to her knees returning the white lab coat to its professional state; Dr. Jill had shaved and wasn’t wearing panties.
The voices were always right.
“You really need to get to the Rec. Room. It’s almost time for meds.”
“Not even a kiss or snuggle, eh? I see how it is, Doc. Use me and lose me. Call me when you need some more abuse; I’m your inside man.” He had perfected these double entendres after the voices told him about her love for puns and word play. Grant spent plenty of time alone and practiced his funnies in the mirror or tested them on Jenkins.
She blushed and smiled biting her tongue in her front teeth. She always appreciated his wit.
Careful Grant, she’s falling in love with you.
Dr. Jill flounced into her leather chair upon his exeunt, tilted her head back with mouth open and whispered, “I think I’m falling in love with him” to the listening ceiling.
Grant shuffled down the hall with head down trying not to dance or sway or saunter or look like a mental patient who just had sex with his therapist. He assumed his medicated stance and expression of vacancy whilst entering the Rec. Room filled with drooling screaming patients.
Judy Garland was telling a story in the corner. Her attentive audience sat cross legged in a semi-circle. She was an oversized he with delusions of grandeur and size 12 ruby red pumps that were too small and made puffy cankles. She wore sparkling red panties under her light green hospital gown and exposed an unusual amount of back fur. Her 266 pound frame and balding head diametrically opposed her falsetto voice, but when she sang, you knew it was Judy. She spoke of her addiction to pills.
“That’s the best thing about being here, Kids. The Pills. I used to have to hide them and take them in my trailer, but here? I’m happily out in the open.”
The orderly walked by with a tray of tiny cups. She extended a manicured hand with flipped wrists and grand panache flourishing the colored tablets into her mouth.
“I LOVE this place! Let’s sing!”
The group exploded into “Somewhere over the Rainbow” holding hands and swaying as Judy danced on her imaginary stage for thousands of admiring fans. Her pas de bourees and double turns were phenomenal. She was a star.
Grant shook his head and wondered how he got here. He stood among the shit-slingers and self-mutilators and knew his voices as truth. He was an entombed man in a home of madness. He knew no escape.
They pretended to know the words and the tune and followed Judy three notes behind. It was like listening to newly indoctrinated US citizens reciting the Declaration of Independence or a class of first grade Christians memorizing Bible verses to a recorded Jesus on 45.
He turned to the window as the orderly delivered his daily downers.
“Grant. You know you have to take them. No fighting today, huh? I’m not up for it. Long weekend; still slightly hung over.”
Offer them. He’ll take them today.
“You want them? They’ll cure that whisky. You won’t shit for three days. It’ll stop the nausea, and you’ll be able to deal with these fucks; I offer them freely.”
“Really? You serious?”
“I’ll take it to the grave, brother. I don’t need them today.”
He popped them before handing the empty cup to Grant who feigned swallow sans liquid.
“I owe you man.”
“No, I owe you.” Grant smiled. He’d be able to feel his own sex hangover for the next three hours as if skiing. The joyful muscle memory would fuel his TV watching enjoyment. He could close his eyes and imagine porn with Dr. Jill as if the crowds in the hockey game were cheering for him.
It would be a good afternoon.
She has to quiet down. The orderly will hear her moaning and catch you 33 seconds from now if you don’t put your hand over her mouth.
The deep voice spoke harshly to Grant mid-stroke; he almost lost his erection but pumped viciously into Dr. Jill to keep it hard. She gasped rapturously.
“Shhhhhhh. Quiet down, Doc. Don’t make me put my hand over your mouth again.” He tried to admonish, but she refused to listen. She liked his violence. He clamped his hand solidly over her as the orderlies steps echoed down the hall.
They were not discovered.
“Thank you.” He accidentally said out loud to the voices.
“No. No. Thank you.” Dr. Jill sighed and crumpled into him wiping the clumps of sweaty curls from her forehead. She disengaged and adjusted her pencil skirt to her knees returning the white lab coat to its professional state; Dr. Jill had shaved and wasn’t wearing panties.
The voices were always right.
“You really need to get to the Rec. Room. It’s almost time for meds.”
“Not even a kiss or snuggle, eh? I see how it is, Doc. Use me and lose me. Call me when you need some more abuse; I’m your inside man.” He had perfected these double entendres after the voices told him about her love for puns and word play. Grant spent plenty of time alone and practiced his funnies in the mirror or tested them on Jenkins.
She blushed and smiled biting her tongue in her front teeth. She always appreciated his wit.
Careful Grant, she’s falling in love with you.
Dr. Jill flounced into her leather chair upon his exeunt, tilted her head back with mouth open and whispered, “I think I’m falling in love with him” to the listening ceiling.
Grant shuffled down the hall with head down trying not to dance or sway or saunter or look like a mental patient who just had sex with his therapist. He assumed his medicated stance and expression of vacancy whilst entering the Rec. Room filled with drooling screaming patients.
Judy Garland was telling a story in the corner. Her attentive audience sat cross legged in a semi-circle. She was an oversized he with delusions of grandeur and size 12 ruby red pumps that were too small and made puffy cankles. She wore sparkling red panties under her light green hospital gown and exposed an unusual amount of back fur. Her 266 pound frame and balding head diametrically opposed her falsetto voice, but when she sang, you knew it was Judy. She spoke of her addiction to pills.
“That’s the best thing about being here, Kids. The Pills. I used to have to hide them and take them in my trailer, but here? I’m happily out in the open.”
The orderly walked by with a tray of tiny cups. She extended a manicured hand with flipped wrists and grand panache flourishing the colored tablets into her mouth.
“I LOVE this place! Let’s sing!”
The group exploded into “Somewhere over the Rainbow” holding hands and swaying as Judy danced on her imaginary stage for thousands of admiring fans. Her pas de bourees and double turns were phenomenal. She was a star.
Grant shook his head and wondered how he got here. He stood among the shit-slingers and self-mutilators and knew his voices as truth. He was an entombed man in a home of madness. He knew no escape.
They pretended to know the words and the tune and followed Judy three notes behind. It was like listening to newly indoctrinated US citizens reciting the Declaration of Independence or a class of first grade Christians memorizing Bible verses to a recorded Jesus on 45.
He turned to the window as the orderly delivered his daily downers.
“Grant. You know you have to take them. No fighting today, huh? I’m not up for it. Long weekend; still slightly hung over.”
Offer them. He’ll take them today.
“You want them? They’ll cure that whisky. You won’t shit for three days. It’ll stop the nausea, and you’ll be able to deal with these fucks; I offer them freely.”
“Really? You serious?”
“I’ll take it to the grave, brother. I don’t need them today.”
He popped them before handing the empty cup to Grant who feigned swallow sans liquid.
“I owe you man.”
“No, I owe you.” Grant smiled. He’d be able to feel his own sex hangover for the next three hours as if skiing. The joyful muscle memory would fuel his TV watching enjoyment. He could close his eyes and imagine porn with Dr. Jill as if the crowds in the hockey game were cheering for him.
It would be a good afternoon.
Episode 3: Voices- Shit Fights
Episode 3: Voices
Grant slumped in his chair feeling the soft handles of the bitten armrests. The torn sage pleather on his left side exposed the foam Carl was eating last week. Carl was a “non-food eater”. He ate glass and shards of metal and buttons and clothing and shoelaces and stuffed animals and poop. One time, he ate a jump rope complete with red plastic handles. The doctors thought intestinal surgery imperative to remove the twisted rainbow rope, but it all came out the other end after some serious sedation and powerful tugging. Carl was gross; he had to be watched all the time. Unfortunately, Grant had given his meds to the orderly in charge of Carl’s bad habit.
There’s going to be a fight. Don’t get involved. You’ll want to protect Jenkins, but he can handle this shit.
“No, not a fight with Carl. Can I warn him?”
Grant, would warning him be getting involved?
The voices were showing sarcasm; this was a new development in their personality. “No need to be snippy, Voices. Your sarcasm is noted.”
Jenkins stared with incredulity every time Grant spoke outwardly to the voices.
“I think you're Crazy I think you're Crazy I think you're Crazy Just like Meee... “
Jenkins danced and sang Gnarls Barclay wiggling his naked butt and grooving his shoulders, fists clenched, upper teeth secured over lower lip and squatted inches from Carl’s face giving him an eyeful of hairy starfish. He winked, and Grant thought he smelled the remnants of breakfast wafting through the Rec. Room; hard boiled eggs are never a good idea.
Carl haphazardly slapped the air and accidentally caught his hand in Jenkins’ gown. He ripped viciously to untangle himself from the wrap, but only succeeded in getting closer to Jenkins’ naked body. A cluster fuck of fat man and sage material blossomed two heads, four legs and a furry flurry of arms; Carl’s orderly was sleeping peacefully behind the nurse’s station.
“If you want to destroy my sweater
Pull this thread while I walk away
Watch me unravel
I’ll soon be naked
Lying on the floor
(Lying on the floor)
I come undone.”
Jenkins yelled lyrics uncontrollably while Grant watched helplessly. Going against the voices was a terrible idea; a shit storm erupted the last time he ignored their instructions.
The two men tumbled to the ground as the commotion stole focus from Judy’s song and dance hour. She stamped her ruby slipper repeatedly in attempts to regain the attentions of her adoring throng, but they filtered to the fight until she was alone in a weeping heap pounding dramatic fists into the corner. “Liza! You never loved me. Liza!”
The room exploded into gibbering screams as Carl shat into his hand, smeared it on Jenkins’ leg and flung it forcefully to the floor. They slipped to the ground again, covered in brown and flicked mess with bare feet across the room splattering spots of shit on green gowns.
Grant stayed as far from the melee as possible, but the smell was overwhelming. He wanted escape, but was mixed with the rest of the nuts. He felt like a lone candied pecan in a tin of unsalted. He glanced at the fight to see Carl nibbling peanuts out of his shit.
They’re all going to vomit.
“Oh, yeah? Really? Thanks Voices! You’re real astute. I NEVER would have figured that one out!”
Your sarcasm is noted. Get to the corner. Be quiet.
The vomit sullied the circle surrounding the fight. Grant fought the reaction to sympathetically hurl. He gagged it back thinking of the ocean and the fresh salt air. He breathed slowly through his mouth and backed to the far edge of the Rec. Room.
An army of nurses and orderlies finally arrived bearing sweet needles of savior sedation. They plunged indiscriminately into screaming flesh. Anyone with a spot of fecal matter or puke marring their gown was hunted down. Most fell flat into human liquid when the cavalry appeared preparing for the plunge into six hour sleep; Grant stood meekly and watched the scattering refugees eaten by hungry hypodermics.
He was the only patient left standing.
Her appointments are now cancelled. You get her alone all afternoon. You’re welcome.
Grant slumped in his chair feeling the soft handles of the bitten armrests. The torn sage pleather on his left side exposed the foam Carl was eating last week. Carl was a “non-food eater”. He ate glass and shards of metal and buttons and clothing and shoelaces and stuffed animals and poop. One time, he ate a jump rope complete with red plastic handles. The doctors thought intestinal surgery imperative to remove the twisted rainbow rope, but it all came out the other end after some serious sedation and powerful tugging. Carl was gross; he had to be watched all the time. Unfortunately, Grant had given his meds to the orderly in charge of Carl’s bad habit.
There’s going to be a fight. Don’t get involved. You’ll want to protect Jenkins, but he can handle this shit.
“No, not a fight with Carl. Can I warn him?”
Grant, would warning him be getting involved?
The voices were showing sarcasm; this was a new development in their personality. “No need to be snippy, Voices. Your sarcasm is noted.”
Jenkins stared with incredulity every time Grant spoke outwardly to the voices.
“I think you're Crazy I think you're Crazy I think you're Crazy Just like Meee... “
Jenkins danced and sang Gnarls Barclay wiggling his naked butt and grooving his shoulders, fists clenched, upper teeth secured over lower lip and squatted inches from Carl’s face giving him an eyeful of hairy starfish. He winked, and Grant thought he smelled the remnants of breakfast wafting through the Rec. Room; hard boiled eggs are never a good idea.
Carl haphazardly slapped the air and accidentally caught his hand in Jenkins’ gown. He ripped viciously to untangle himself from the wrap, but only succeeded in getting closer to Jenkins’ naked body. A cluster fuck of fat man and sage material blossomed two heads, four legs and a furry flurry of arms; Carl’s orderly was sleeping peacefully behind the nurse’s station.
“If you want to destroy my sweater
Pull this thread while I walk away
Watch me unravel
I’ll soon be naked
Lying on the floor
(Lying on the floor)
I come undone.”
Jenkins yelled lyrics uncontrollably while Grant watched helplessly. Going against the voices was a terrible idea; a shit storm erupted the last time he ignored their instructions.
The two men tumbled to the ground as the commotion stole focus from Judy’s song and dance hour. She stamped her ruby slipper repeatedly in attempts to regain the attentions of her adoring throng, but they filtered to the fight until she was alone in a weeping heap pounding dramatic fists into the corner. “Liza! You never loved me. Liza!”
The room exploded into gibbering screams as Carl shat into his hand, smeared it on Jenkins’ leg and flung it forcefully to the floor. They slipped to the ground again, covered in brown and flicked mess with bare feet across the room splattering spots of shit on green gowns.
Grant stayed as far from the melee as possible, but the smell was overwhelming. He wanted escape, but was mixed with the rest of the nuts. He felt like a lone candied pecan in a tin of unsalted. He glanced at the fight to see Carl nibbling peanuts out of his shit.
They’re all going to vomit.
“Oh, yeah? Really? Thanks Voices! You’re real astute. I NEVER would have figured that one out!”
Your sarcasm is noted. Get to the corner. Be quiet.
The vomit sullied the circle surrounding the fight. Grant fought the reaction to sympathetically hurl. He gagged it back thinking of the ocean and the fresh salt air. He breathed slowly through his mouth and backed to the far edge of the Rec. Room.
An army of nurses and orderlies finally arrived bearing sweet needles of savior sedation. They plunged indiscriminately into screaming flesh. Anyone with a spot of fecal matter or puke marring their gown was hunted down. Most fell flat into human liquid when the cavalry appeared preparing for the plunge into six hour sleep; Grant stood meekly and watched the scattering refugees eaten by hungry hypodermics.
He was the only patient left standing.
Her appointments are now cancelled. You get her alone all afternoon. You’re welcome.
Episode 4: Voices- Office Hours
Episode 4: Voices
Grant sat stoically in the chair across from Dr Jill. He wanted some actual therapy, and impossibly focused on her face rather than her legs that she seductively crossed and uncrossed to manipulate the silence. His breathing was forced, and she needed to stop biting her lip or he might leap across the room and ruin their secret. The blinds were open to the main hallway; staff turned heads as they walked by with pretend business. The whole floor was deeply medicated and still smelled faintly of shit and vomit under the oppressive bleach.
Don’t worry. They don’t know. Nobody knows, yet.
“Did you and Jenkins orchestrate that little maneuver for my benefit?” Dr. Jill smiled seductively and lowered her chin to Grant looking up at him with her magnified eyed behind black rimmed librarian glasses. She was flirting openly now and placed one of her tiny hands on her unstockinged inner thigh. Grant forcefully closed his mouth and kept his breathing steady.
“Did the voices tell you about the fight before it happened?”
Grant wanted to tell her the truth; he wanted to spill his guts telling every nuance of his life. He wanted to be honest, but honesty wouldn’t get him out of “Horizon Dawn”. He kept silent and waited for the voice’s instruction.
“Grant, I need you to be honest with me. It’s the only way I can help you.”
Tell her the truth. She’s the only one who will believe.
He refused to make eye contact with her. “Yes. They told me to give my meds to Carl’s orderly. They told me not to interfere with the fight. They said Jenkins could handle it. They told me to back into the corner. They told me I’d get the whole afternoon alone with you.” He inhaled deeply then shakily exhaled meeting her eyes. She was so beautiful, and she wanted to help him. Her concern was evident and true.
“Grant, what do they sound like?”
He loved the way she said his name. It rolled off her tongue, and he wanted repetition. He dreamed of living in her purse as a tube of red lipstick, being opened by delicate fingers and drawn across her perfect mouth, of feeling the pressure of her lips press together on him. He was stalling and staring so she would say it again.
“Grant? Grant?”
One more time.
“Grant?”
“There are three distinct tones that I hear most often. The rest float in and out and mix together. There’s a deep male voice. He’s always certain; he doesn’t play. There’s a sarcastic one. He’s kind of a dick, and there’s a woman.”
“A woman?”
“You jealous?” He smiled and chuckled as she blushed. “Well? Are you?”
“How often do they talk to you?”
“When they have something to say.”
“You’re being vague.” She began to tap her pencil on the red book in her lap that held his case study. That book was filled with what she really thought about him, Grant hated that book.
“They don’t always talk when I want them to, if that’s what you mean. There’s no constant diatribe. They don’t have inane conversations with me. They speak when there’s a need. They speak when there’s a reason.”
Say no more.
“They just told me to stop talking about them.”
“What exactly did they say? Tell me the words.” She leaned forward hovering inches from his knees. He could feel her breath on his forearm; the hairs prickled with electricity.
Grant shook his head standing, “I’m sorry Doc. I’m done for the day.”
Grant sat stoically in the chair across from Dr Jill. He wanted some actual therapy, and impossibly focused on her face rather than her legs that she seductively crossed and uncrossed to manipulate the silence. His breathing was forced, and she needed to stop biting her lip or he might leap across the room and ruin their secret. The blinds were open to the main hallway; staff turned heads as they walked by with pretend business. The whole floor was deeply medicated and still smelled faintly of shit and vomit under the oppressive bleach.
Don’t worry. They don’t know. Nobody knows, yet.
“Did you and Jenkins orchestrate that little maneuver for my benefit?” Dr. Jill smiled seductively and lowered her chin to Grant looking up at him with her magnified eyed behind black rimmed librarian glasses. She was flirting openly now and placed one of her tiny hands on her unstockinged inner thigh. Grant forcefully closed his mouth and kept his breathing steady.
“Did the voices tell you about the fight before it happened?”
Grant wanted to tell her the truth; he wanted to spill his guts telling every nuance of his life. He wanted to be honest, but honesty wouldn’t get him out of “Horizon Dawn”. He kept silent and waited for the voice’s instruction.
“Grant, I need you to be honest with me. It’s the only way I can help you.”
Tell her the truth. She’s the only one who will believe.
He refused to make eye contact with her. “Yes. They told me to give my meds to Carl’s orderly. They told me not to interfere with the fight. They said Jenkins could handle it. They told me to back into the corner. They told me I’d get the whole afternoon alone with you.” He inhaled deeply then shakily exhaled meeting her eyes. She was so beautiful, and she wanted to help him. Her concern was evident and true.
“Grant, what do they sound like?”
He loved the way she said his name. It rolled off her tongue, and he wanted repetition. He dreamed of living in her purse as a tube of red lipstick, being opened by delicate fingers and drawn across her perfect mouth, of feeling the pressure of her lips press together on him. He was stalling and staring so she would say it again.
“Grant? Grant?”
One more time.
“Grant?”
“There are three distinct tones that I hear most often. The rest float in and out and mix together. There’s a deep male voice. He’s always certain; he doesn’t play. There’s a sarcastic one. He’s kind of a dick, and there’s a woman.”
“A woman?”
“You jealous?” He smiled and chuckled as she blushed. “Well? Are you?”
“How often do they talk to you?”
“When they have something to say.”
“You’re being vague.” She began to tap her pencil on the red book in her lap that held his case study. That book was filled with what she really thought about him, Grant hated that book.
“They don’t always talk when I want them to, if that’s what you mean. There’s no constant diatribe. They don’t have inane conversations with me. They speak when there’s a need. They speak when there’s a reason.”
Say no more.
“They just told me to stop talking about them.”
“What exactly did they say? Tell me the words.” She leaned forward hovering inches from his knees. He could feel her breath on his forearm; the hairs prickled with electricity.
Grant shook his head standing, “I’m sorry Doc. I’m done for the day.”
Episode 5: Voices- Hammy the Insurance Man
Episode 5: Voices
You better think.
(Think)
Think about what you’re tryin’ to do to me,
Oooohhhh, think
(Think Think)
Think... Think…
Freedom….
Jenkins slowly warbled lyrics semi-consciously; the words tumbled out like marbles bouncing on the floor of their shared room. He was off key. Grant couldn’t figure how this song pertained to him, or who Jenkins was singing to. Still hopped up on Pentobarbital from the incident, he scratched his balls and nonchalantly smelled his fingers.
“Come on, Man. Think about what you’re doing to me. Think about what you’re going to do to yourself.” Grant was allowed a roommate as he proved no danger to himself or others. The staff liked him for keeping Jenkins calm. They could count on Grant. At times like this, he didn’t see it as a privilege.
“Are you really going to yank it right in front of me?” He sighed, turned his face to the glistening wall and tried to block out Jenkins’ favorite masturbation song.
At first I was afraid
I was petrified
I was petrified
I was petrified
I am petrified
“Jenkins! You just changed the lyrics. You made a joke. Fuck me; you made a joke.”
Jenkins threw up a hand for the obligatory high five, but Grant wisely declined knowing exactly where it came from moments previous. Although bathed directly after the shit fight, Jenkins was not a clean man and usually smelled of corn chips, Fritos specifically. Wiping ass was not on his resume under “Special Skills”, but Grant enjoyed his company despite his hygiene deficits.
I’m a joker
I’m a smoker
I’m a midnight toker
I take my lovin’ on the run
You’re taking Jenkins with you.
“No, not right now. I don’t want to hear you now. Let me fucking sleep.”
You’ll need him on the outside. He’s the only one you can trust.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
You’re getting out, soon, and you’re taking Jenkins with you.
Tilting his head back with pained eyebrows, Grant whined at the ceiling to the unsympathetic Voices. “Things are looking up for me here. I get to fuck the Doc; she really likes me. They finally trust me. Don’t make me do this.”
Hamilton is going to knock on the door. You’re going to answer it. He’s going to ask you some questions about Jenkins. Keep his pen.
Hamilton was an Insurance claims adjuster on the outside. His obsessive compulsive behavior forced him out of his sacred office life. He loved forms and organization and claim files and tabbing appraisals with little while flags and changing the date on his stamper and calculating the number of claims that had made payment in the last 33 minutes and playing Tetris on his cell while talking statements over the phone.
Hammy developed an unfortunate stutter after his wife slept with their real estate agent and espoused her new lesbian lifestyle in his daughter Lucy’s first grade “Show and Tell”. His newly developed linguistic deficiency negatively affected his workplace; he was forced to snap 12 times whenever he stuttered. He couldn’t continue a sentence without completing the snaps. He became very frustrated and was developing an intense case of arthritis. He could no longer play Tetris due to the intense finger cramping.
Hamilton’s life was in shambles.
“Grant? Gr..gr gr *snap snap snap snap snap snap snap snap snap snap snap snap Grant! I need to ask you a question for the claim.”
Hammy was collecting statements on the shit fight and subsequent drugging of the patients. He felt there were severe damages to be collected on and was hoping for an in house settlement rather than a claim war.
“Hammy, we’re sleeping and it still smells like shit in here; come back later.”
“I’m taking your statement through the door. My pen is out. It’s 7:26 p.m. Are you suff… sufff..ff.ff.* snap snap snap snap snap snap snap snap snap snap snap snap suffering duress due to the fecal matter?”
Let him in. Take his pen.
“No. Go away. You can take my statement tomorrow.”
Hammy knocked harder. “You’re the most important witness, Grant. You’re the only one who saw what they d… d…d.. * snap snap snap snap snap snap snap snap snap snap snap snap did to us. You’re the only one who didn’t get drugged.”
Grant rolled over in his bed and ignored the door. Hammy banged violently.
“This is important! Grant! GRANT!”
The squeeking of multiple rubber soles echoed down the hallway. They were coming for him.
“GRANT! GRANT!”
He was attacking the door with shoulders and feet; the door was winning.
Let him in.
“Are you fucking crazy? I’m not letting him in!”
The take down was quick. Four large orderlies pounced on the raving Hammy forcing him hard to the floor. His screaming was unusually high pitched and continued longer than normal. He was wailing and moaning like an animal caught in a steel trap; Grant looked out the small window and was horrified by the blood pouring from Hammy’s left eye.
His favorite insurance pen was deeply embedded in the socket.
Jenkins jumped atop his bed wielding air guitar and whelped.
Hate to say I told you so,
That’s right.
(der ner ner der ner)
I do believe I told you so.
You better think.
(Think)
Think about what you’re tryin’ to do to me,
Oooohhhh, think
(Think Think)
Think... Think…
Freedom….
Jenkins slowly warbled lyrics semi-consciously; the words tumbled out like marbles bouncing on the floor of their shared room. He was off key. Grant couldn’t figure how this song pertained to him, or who Jenkins was singing to. Still hopped up on Pentobarbital from the incident, he scratched his balls and nonchalantly smelled his fingers.
“Come on, Man. Think about what you’re doing to me. Think about what you’re going to do to yourself.” Grant was allowed a roommate as he proved no danger to himself or others. The staff liked him for keeping Jenkins calm. They could count on Grant. At times like this, he didn’t see it as a privilege.
“Are you really going to yank it right in front of me?” He sighed, turned his face to the glistening wall and tried to block out Jenkins’ favorite masturbation song.
At first I was afraid
I was petrified
I was petrified
I was petrified
I am petrified
“Jenkins! You just changed the lyrics. You made a joke. Fuck me; you made a joke.”
Jenkins threw up a hand for the obligatory high five, but Grant wisely declined knowing exactly where it came from moments previous. Although bathed directly after the shit fight, Jenkins was not a clean man and usually smelled of corn chips, Fritos specifically. Wiping ass was not on his resume under “Special Skills”, but Grant enjoyed his company despite his hygiene deficits.
I’m a joker
I’m a smoker
I’m a midnight toker
I take my lovin’ on the run
You’re taking Jenkins with you.
“No, not right now. I don’t want to hear you now. Let me fucking sleep.”
You’ll need him on the outside. He’s the only one you can trust.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
You’re getting out, soon, and you’re taking Jenkins with you.
Tilting his head back with pained eyebrows, Grant whined at the ceiling to the unsympathetic Voices. “Things are looking up for me here. I get to fuck the Doc; she really likes me. They finally trust me. Don’t make me do this.”
Hamilton is going to knock on the door. You’re going to answer it. He’s going to ask you some questions about Jenkins. Keep his pen.
Hamilton was an Insurance claims adjuster on the outside. His obsessive compulsive behavior forced him out of his sacred office life. He loved forms and organization and claim files and tabbing appraisals with little while flags and changing the date on his stamper and calculating the number of claims that had made payment in the last 33 minutes and playing Tetris on his cell while talking statements over the phone.
Hammy developed an unfortunate stutter after his wife slept with their real estate agent and espoused her new lesbian lifestyle in his daughter Lucy’s first grade “Show and Tell”. His newly developed linguistic deficiency negatively affected his workplace; he was forced to snap 12 times whenever he stuttered. He couldn’t continue a sentence without completing the snaps. He became very frustrated and was developing an intense case of arthritis. He could no longer play Tetris due to the intense finger cramping.
Hamilton’s life was in shambles.
“Grant? Gr..gr gr *snap snap snap snap snap snap snap snap snap snap snap snap Grant! I need to ask you a question for the claim.”
Hammy was collecting statements on the shit fight and subsequent drugging of the patients. He felt there were severe damages to be collected on and was hoping for an in house settlement rather than a claim war.
“Hammy, we’re sleeping and it still smells like shit in here; come back later.”
“I’m taking your statement through the door. My pen is out. It’s 7:26 p.m. Are you suff… sufff..ff.ff.* snap snap snap snap snap snap snap snap snap snap snap snap suffering duress due to the fecal matter?”
Let him in. Take his pen.
“No. Go away. You can take my statement tomorrow.”
Hammy knocked harder. “You’re the most important witness, Grant. You’re the only one who saw what they d… d…d.. * snap snap snap snap snap snap snap snap snap snap snap snap did to us. You’re the only one who didn’t get drugged.”
Grant rolled over in his bed and ignored the door. Hammy banged violently.
“This is important! Grant! GRANT!”
The squeeking of multiple rubber soles echoed down the hallway. They were coming for him.
“GRANT! GRANT!”
He was attacking the door with shoulders and feet; the door was winning.
Let him in.
“Are you fucking crazy? I’m not letting him in!”
The take down was quick. Four large orderlies pounced on the raving Hammy forcing him hard to the floor. His screaming was unusually high pitched and continued longer than normal. He was wailing and moaning like an animal caught in a steel trap; Grant looked out the small window and was horrified by the blood pouring from Hammy’s left eye.
His favorite insurance pen was deeply embedded in the socket.
Jenkins jumped atop his bed wielding air guitar and whelped.
Hate to say I told you so,
That’s right.
(der ner ner der ner)
I do believe I told you so.
Episode 6: Voices- Costco? Lists? Plans?
Episode 6: Voices
Grant was not a hypochondriac, but he decided he had cancer. There was an indescribable itch behind his right ear, just below the lobe; he felt it growing over the past weeks. It wasn’t discolored or puffy or noticeable in any way, but he knew the tumor would limit his time above ground, and he didn’t want to spend precious moments in “Horizon Dawn” unless they were in Dr. Jill’s office.
The Voices hadn’t spoken of cancer, and he didn’t want to ask them.
Grant stopped talking.
His stress was overwhelming. He had been biting his fingers to stubs, peeling the nails back ripping layers with teeth. He hugged his knees to his chest, wedged his digits securely in his mouth and attacked his cuticles with fierce squirrel-like precision. Grant didn’t enjoy blood, but brought pain to the surface of his skin as punishment for Hammy’s unfortunate accident.
Closing his eyes brought visions of blood and patches and pirates and garbage cans filled with gelatinous orbs. Agonizing screams bounced and rattled off his mind’s walls. The Voices fled the scene. They refused to provide comfort and their disappearance was palpable. Grant suffered without them.
Grant needed drugs.
He scratched ferociously at his neck and stared deeply into his finger tips before finding a new place to chew and scrape. Concerned faces filled his window every few minutes; their favorite patient suddenly belonged behind thin green robe and heavy locked door.
Grant desperately wanted sleep and escape; he needed to forget. He almost wept openly when the little white paper cup with delicious pink pills was turned into his flaccid mouth. He curled toward the wall letting the waves of fuzzy warmth lick at his temples and soothe his guilt. He laid his head in her velvety lap letting her smooth his hair with soft hands. Thankfully, no kind words were whispered. His mind was bathed in blessed silence.
The Voices were gone.
Grant knew he was dreaming. Jenkins banged fists locked behind the thick glass of Costco’s walk in cooler. Someone pressed the mute button on the remote. Grant tried to decipher muffled lyrical screams, but he wasn’t astute with lip reading and couldn’t stop laughing at Jenkins shaking gallons of milk in his terry cloth bathrobe. Something seemed askew; there was no handle on the door, so Grant smiled and waved and weaved his broken basket away from the dairy aisle.
The wheels jittered and spun as he placed important items in the cart. An enormous list written in magnificently clear black sharpie engulfed the west wall of the wherehouse. He knew what he needed: duct tape, bacon, boxer briefs, 300 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets, bouquet of Gerber daisies, unsalted pecans, gun, 6 pack of toothbrushes, karaoke machine, pair of jeans, non-descript Polo shirt and 12 pack of finger puppets.
The finger puppets were a gift for his daughter’s sixth birthday. It was coming up, and he hadn’t seen her since Carol served divorce papers three months ago. She was starting a new life with a new daddy, but she always loved Grant’s finger puppet plays. She liked the different voices and always wanted more stories. Grant wondered if “New Dad” knew that.
He gathered the items on his list and weaved the gauntlet of faceless cart wielding bodies. He wanted to stop for samples. He wanted a bite of Boca Burger and Lobster ravioli and frozen burrito and microwave chicken sandwich, and tried to fight through the throngs to reach the table. Sharp toothed mouths opened and chomped and slurped in a frenzy to attack what Grant thought was food. He clambered to the front and reached out bleeding fingers grabbing a soft eyeball from a semi-devoured plate.
He screamed agonizing yelps and tried to gulp air as the silent faceless surrounded and buried him in broken bleeding body parts.
You’re going to escape, and you’re taking Jenkins with you.
Grant was not a hypochondriac, but he decided he had cancer. There was an indescribable itch behind his right ear, just below the lobe; he felt it growing over the past weeks. It wasn’t discolored or puffy or noticeable in any way, but he knew the tumor would limit his time above ground, and he didn’t want to spend precious moments in “Horizon Dawn” unless they were in Dr. Jill’s office.
The Voices hadn’t spoken of cancer, and he didn’t want to ask them.
Grant stopped talking.
His stress was overwhelming. He had been biting his fingers to stubs, peeling the nails back ripping layers with teeth. He hugged his knees to his chest, wedged his digits securely in his mouth and attacked his cuticles with fierce squirrel-like precision. Grant didn’t enjoy blood, but brought pain to the surface of his skin as punishment for Hammy’s unfortunate accident.
Closing his eyes brought visions of blood and patches and pirates and garbage cans filled with gelatinous orbs. Agonizing screams bounced and rattled off his mind’s walls. The Voices fled the scene. They refused to provide comfort and their disappearance was palpable. Grant suffered without them.
Grant needed drugs.
He scratched ferociously at his neck and stared deeply into his finger tips before finding a new place to chew and scrape. Concerned faces filled his window every few minutes; their favorite patient suddenly belonged behind thin green robe and heavy locked door.
Grant desperately wanted sleep and escape; he needed to forget. He almost wept openly when the little white paper cup with delicious pink pills was turned into his flaccid mouth. He curled toward the wall letting the waves of fuzzy warmth lick at his temples and soothe his guilt. He laid his head in her velvety lap letting her smooth his hair with soft hands. Thankfully, no kind words were whispered. His mind was bathed in blessed silence.
The Voices were gone.
Grant knew he was dreaming. Jenkins banged fists locked behind the thick glass of Costco’s walk in cooler. Someone pressed the mute button on the remote. Grant tried to decipher muffled lyrical screams, but he wasn’t astute with lip reading and couldn’t stop laughing at Jenkins shaking gallons of milk in his terry cloth bathrobe. Something seemed askew; there was no handle on the door, so Grant smiled and waved and weaved his broken basket away from the dairy aisle.
The wheels jittered and spun as he placed important items in the cart. An enormous list written in magnificently clear black sharpie engulfed the west wall of the wherehouse. He knew what he needed: duct tape, bacon, boxer briefs, 300 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets, bouquet of Gerber daisies, unsalted pecans, gun, 6 pack of toothbrushes, karaoke machine, pair of jeans, non-descript Polo shirt and 12 pack of finger puppets.
The finger puppets were a gift for his daughter’s sixth birthday. It was coming up, and he hadn’t seen her since Carol served divorce papers three months ago. She was starting a new life with a new daddy, but she always loved Grant’s finger puppet plays. She liked the different voices and always wanted more stories. Grant wondered if “New Dad” knew that.
He gathered the items on his list and weaved the gauntlet of faceless cart wielding bodies. He wanted to stop for samples. He wanted a bite of Boca Burger and Lobster ravioli and frozen burrito and microwave chicken sandwich, and tried to fight through the throngs to reach the table. Sharp toothed mouths opened and chomped and slurped in a frenzy to attack what Grant thought was food. He clambered to the front and reached out bleeding fingers grabbing a soft eyeball from a semi-devoured plate.
He screamed agonizing yelps and tried to gulp air as the silent faceless surrounded and buried him in broken bleeding body parts.
You’re going to escape, and you’re taking Jenkins with you.
Episode 7: Voices- Fighting the Voices is Futile
Episode 7: Voices
Grant fought nausea. It started as a deep rumbling in his stomach, and wasn’t a product of bad food or recent escape from drug induced abstensia. Loud uncontrolled burps helped momentarily. He wanted to vomit his heart all over the room, covering the walls with blood and bile; he needed to relieve the pressure. The pain was a cement mixer of guilt and shame and loss and regret. He didn’t know how to stop the onslaught of emotion, and the voices were back with a vengeance. Their hours sans communication were catching up, and they overlapped one another speaking too fast or agonizingly slow.
He could not decipher their messages.
Grant wanted to melt and cry and disappear into the Linoleum; he longed for death as escape. Anything was better than this pale shadow of life. He wanted more drugs; he needed to forget.
“Grant? You can’t blame yourself for Hamilton’s actions. You didn’t know he was going to get hurt.” Dr. Jill’s sympathetic voice cut through the waves of inaudible cadence caressing the center of his brain. Grant slowly sat up, removed his fingers from his mouth and smiled to see her in his room. She fluttered back into her chair and returned a grin.
“When I don’t listen to them, bad things happen. Hammy’s eye getting poked out was distinctly bad, wouldn’t you say? They told me to let him in. They told me to take his pen. They told me, and I refused. I HAVE to listen to them.” Grant tried to keep his pace calm and tone steady. He didn’t want to scare her out of the room or appear flustered. She made the nausea and pain disappear. He felt suddenly “normal”.
“I’m glad you’re talking again, Grant. Do you know how long it’s been since you last spoke?” Dr. Jill met and held his eyes with hers. Grant felt her delving into his soul massaging away his hurt. He wanted to tell her everything.
“A couple of hours? Hammy was tackled at, what, 7:30ish?”
“It’s been six days, Grant. You haven’t spoken to anyone in six days.”
Grant thought it impossible, but touched his fingers to his roughly bearded face. His teeth were fuzzily sweatered and his hair a mass of matted grime. He blushed with embarrassment. He would not be getting laid.
Grant wanted her to move three feet closer and wrap herself around his torso. He imagined her delicate arms around his neck and perfect ass nestled in his lap with knees cradled on his thigh and legs draped across his bed. He wanted to nestle his nose into her neck and smell her slight vanilla scent. He drifted to thoughts of her nakedness submerged in floating flower petals.
Dr. Jill saw him thinking; his eyes glowed ravenous. She was certain he wanted to tear flesh from her bones and destroy her. How could she make him feel this way? She only wanted to help. He was the first patient she had fucked, and it was incredible. Since they started, she created an amazing break-through, until his six day silence. Now she saw it in his eyes. He wanted her, possibly for breakfast.
If they weren’t watching, she’d have already thrown him to the floor.
“Grant? You’ve barely moved in six days. I’ve, we’ve been afraid.” She glanced over her shoulder through the window into the hallway. A small audience viewed and smiled at her progress. Pens scribbled and heads nodded. She was the best doctor on the floor; she had an unparallelled rapport with the patients. With a mere word she brought a patient from a six day catatonic state. Her peers were amazed and planned published papers; “Horizon Dawn” would finally be on the cutting edge of psychiatry.
“I feel better now. I need to clean up.” He wanted her pressed against him in the shower. He wanted her to clean his body and his mind, immediately.
“It does smell distinctly of corn chips, Fritos specifically. Where is Jenkins, anyway?”
“You tell me, I’m the one who’s been catatonic for six days.”
She leaned in as close as she dared feeling sparks dance between their bodies. She didn’t care about the smell; she wanted him. “When can we meet again for a “private session”? The last few days have been killing me. I’ve missed you.”
“Again Doc, you tell me. I think you actually make the rules around here, don’t you?” They smiled brightly at one another until Grant’s face dropped to the overwhelmingly loud sound of truth.
No Grant. We make the rules.
Grant fought nausea. It started as a deep rumbling in his stomach, and wasn’t a product of bad food or recent escape from drug induced abstensia. Loud uncontrolled burps helped momentarily. He wanted to vomit his heart all over the room, covering the walls with blood and bile; he needed to relieve the pressure. The pain was a cement mixer of guilt and shame and loss and regret. He didn’t know how to stop the onslaught of emotion, and the voices were back with a vengeance. Their hours sans communication were catching up, and they overlapped one another speaking too fast or agonizingly slow.
He could not decipher their messages.
Grant wanted to melt and cry and disappear into the Linoleum; he longed for death as escape. Anything was better than this pale shadow of life. He wanted more drugs; he needed to forget.
“Grant? You can’t blame yourself for Hamilton’s actions. You didn’t know he was going to get hurt.” Dr. Jill’s sympathetic voice cut through the waves of inaudible cadence caressing the center of his brain. Grant slowly sat up, removed his fingers from his mouth and smiled to see her in his room. She fluttered back into her chair and returned a grin.
“When I don’t listen to them, bad things happen. Hammy’s eye getting poked out was distinctly bad, wouldn’t you say? They told me to let him in. They told me to take his pen. They told me, and I refused. I HAVE to listen to them.” Grant tried to keep his pace calm and tone steady. He didn’t want to scare her out of the room or appear flustered. She made the nausea and pain disappear. He felt suddenly “normal”.
“I’m glad you’re talking again, Grant. Do you know how long it’s been since you last spoke?” Dr. Jill met and held his eyes with hers. Grant felt her delving into his soul massaging away his hurt. He wanted to tell her everything.
“A couple of hours? Hammy was tackled at, what, 7:30ish?”
“It’s been six days, Grant. You haven’t spoken to anyone in six days.”
Grant thought it impossible, but touched his fingers to his roughly bearded face. His teeth were fuzzily sweatered and his hair a mass of matted grime. He blushed with embarrassment. He would not be getting laid.
Grant wanted her to move three feet closer and wrap herself around his torso. He imagined her delicate arms around his neck and perfect ass nestled in his lap with knees cradled on his thigh and legs draped across his bed. He wanted to nestle his nose into her neck and smell her slight vanilla scent. He drifted to thoughts of her nakedness submerged in floating flower petals.
Dr. Jill saw him thinking; his eyes glowed ravenous. She was certain he wanted to tear flesh from her bones and destroy her. How could she make him feel this way? She only wanted to help. He was the first patient she had fucked, and it was incredible. Since they started, she created an amazing break-through, until his six day silence. Now she saw it in his eyes. He wanted her, possibly for breakfast.
If they weren’t watching, she’d have already thrown him to the floor.
“Grant? You’ve barely moved in six days. I’ve, we’ve been afraid.” She glanced over her shoulder through the window into the hallway. A small audience viewed and smiled at her progress. Pens scribbled and heads nodded. She was the best doctor on the floor; she had an unparallelled rapport with the patients. With a mere word she brought a patient from a six day catatonic state. Her peers were amazed and planned published papers; “Horizon Dawn” would finally be on the cutting edge of psychiatry.
“I feel better now. I need to clean up.” He wanted her pressed against him in the shower. He wanted her to clean his body and his mind, immediately.
“It does smell distinctly of corn chips, Fritos specifically. Where is Jenkins, anyway?”
“You tell me, I’m the one who’s been catatonic for six days.”
She leaned in as close as she dared feeling sparks dance between their bodies. She didn’t care about the smell; she wanted him. “When can we meet again for a “private session”? The last few days have been killing me. I’ve missed you.”
“Again Doc, you tell me. I think you actually make the rules around here, don’t you?” They smiled brightly at one another until Grant’s face dropped to the overwhelmingly loud sound of truth.
No Grant. We make the rules.
Episode 8: Voices- Carol and the Past
Episode 8: Voices
Grant encountered Carol playing on-line chess. He didn’t want to meet her, at first. He felt like she didn’t exist. She was a perfect computer program who listened intently to his text and spit back kind words of sage advice and understanding. She was a supportive voice in his head that he didn’t want to change. He loved her; he trusted her. He didn’t know her.
He lived with his mother at 26? It’s common to not have direction after college. He had no steady employment? More time to play on-line chess and drink whiskey in the afternoon sun. His car was repossessed to pay for his second DUI? It’s difficult for an artist to find himself within the boundaries of the law.
After Carol saw a photo of his art, she was smitten.
Carol knew Grant was the artist trifecta: No job + No Car + Lives with mother = irresistibly talented, scorching hot man. He even held the slight alcoholism card; better than addiction to opiates, but just as tortured.
They had amazing sex.
He cooked her breakfast in bed complete with rose from neighbor’s garden on plate. He was emotional and communicative. He stared hungrily into her eyes with a passion she never previously encountered when dating accountants and lawyers. He was younger than she and intimately connected to his art.
They had amazing sex.
Grant was honest about his walnuts. He opened the duct tape duffle bag of crazy and unloaded his tattered rags of faith and sparkled trinkets of broken relationships and imitation silver jewelry of fatherless childhood and desperate hatred of abandonment; she welcomed the green neck when he placed his burdens upon her. She ate his yellow snowy past with a delicate spoon clenching her eyes with the freezing headache begging for more scoops into the bowl.
She held him when he cried. For the first time, Grant felt safe.
Carol forced the wedding when he discovered the pregnancy. She was trying to hide it. She scheduled abortion, but Grant somehow knew her plan. He reached inside her head and pulled out specific details: doctors, appointment times, secret thoughts of names (Sally was her grandmother’s name), fears and regrets she barely acknowledged. She didn’t know how he did it, but everything was true. It scared her. She must be talking in her sleep. She didn’t keep a diary. Carol did not believe in magic.
After the wedding, Grant’s art began to suffer. He zoned distantly in a cosmos of his own creation; he stopped talking to Carol about anything but the impending baby. His palpable fear of fatherhood loomed like a piano on dental floss, swaying dangerously above him; he looked up fearfully all the time. Head zipping from corner to corner, his eyes scanned most every room before he spoke. Mouth grimaced, teeth bared, he snarled or whispered slurs when meeting new clients or friends of Carol’s. Head cocked, eyes rolling, he listened to an invisible something that made people obviously uncomfortable. They would widen eyes at Carol and scathingly scoff when turning away from Grant.
Carol learned to laugh and titter nervously, drawing attentions from his “artistic eccentricities”.
No one was buying his work.
Carol was worried; this was not the man she fell in love with. This was not her internet confidant. The Grant she knew was replaced by a paranoid circus mirror version of an image she had built. She placed him on a pedestal of art and sex and emotion and Savior complex, and it was dangerously crumbling when she needed a foundation for her baby. He was losing his mind.
She could fit the pieces together, but was unable to hold Grant’s puzzle with glue or tape or rubber cement. She didn’t have time. She had a baby.
They stopped having sex when Grant stopped taking showers.
“Honey?” Carol tempered her tone and softly smiled masking desperation. Grant didn’t like nagging. “Can you at least go to the store for me today? We need diapers and food and milk. I know it’s a bother, but we do, and Sally’s too difficult to take in the basket.”
“Leave her with me; you go to the store. I’m out of ...” Raising his glass, Grant barely muttered coherence through whiskey. It was 11:20am.
Carol was afraid to leave Grant with their newborn. He hadn’t washed since Tuesday and wore nothing under his bathrobe. Sally was going to the store. She contemplated packing their things and leaving at that moment, but Grant fell from his chair and began to cry at her feet. “I’m sorry. Don’t leave me. I need you. I love you. I’m sorry. It’s THEM, they tell me; don’t you see? You can’t, ‘cause I never told you. They told me not to tell you. I can’t tell you. They won’t let me. I’ll stop drinking. I only drink ‘cause it makes them softer. Muffled. It puts them in a box and locks them away, but I can STILL HEAR YOU!!!!!!”
“Grant, I think we need to get you some help.”
She couldn’t leave him.
Grant encountered Carol playing on-line chess. He didn’t want to meet her, at first. He felt like she didn’t exist. She was a perfect computer program who listened intently to his text and spit back kind words of sage advice and understanding. She was a supportive voice in his head that he didn’t want to change. He loved her; he trusted her. He didn’t know her.
He lived with his mother at 26? It’s common to not have direction after college. He had no steady employment? More time to play on-line chess and drink whiskey in the afternoon sun. His car was repossessed to pay for his second DUI? It’s difficult for an artist to find himself within the boundaries of the law.
After Carol saw a photo of his art, she was smitten.
Carol knew Grant was the artist trifecta: No job + No Car + Lives with mother = irresistibly talented, scorching hot man. He even held the slight alcoholism card; better than addiction to opiates, but just as tortured.
They had amazing sex.
He cooked her breakfast in bed complete with rose from neighbor’s garden on plate. He was emotional and communicative. He stared hungrily into her eyes with a passion she never previously encountered when dating accountants and lawyers. He was younger than she and intimately connected to his art.
They had amazing sex.
Grant was honest about his walnuts. He opened the duct tape duffle bag of crazy and unloaded his tattered rags of faith and sparkled trinkets of broken relationships and imitation silver jewelry of fatherless childhood and desperate hatred of abandonment; she welcomed the green neck when he placed his burdens upon her. She ate his yellow snowy past with a delicate spoon clenching her eyes with the freezing headache begging for more scoops into the bowl.
She held him when he cried. For the first time, Grant felt safe.
Carol forced the wedding when he discovered the pregnancy. She was trying to hide it. She scheduled abortion, but Grant somehow knew her plan. He reached inside her head and pulled out specific details: doctors, appointment times, secret thoughts of names (Sally was her grandmother’s name), fears and regrets she barely acknowledged. She didn’t know how he did it, but everything was true. It scared her. She must be talking in her sleep. She didn’t keep a diary. Carol did not believe in magic.
After the wedding, Grant’s art began to suffer. He zoned distantly in a cosmos of his own creation; he stopped talking to Carol about anything but the impending baby. His palpable fear of fatherhood loomed like a piano on dental floss, swaying dangerously above him; he looked up fearfully all the time. Head zipping from corner to corner, his eyes scanned most every room before he spoke. Mouth grimaced, teeth bared, he snarled or whispered slurs when meeting new clients or friends of Carol’s. Head cocked, eyes rolling, he listened to an invisible something that made people obviously uncomfortable. They would widen eyes at Carol and scathingly scoff when turning away from Grant.
Carol learned to laugh and titter nervously, drawing attentions from his “artistic eccentricities”.
No one was buying his work.
Carol was worried; this was not the man she fell in love with. This was not her internet confidant. The Grant she knew was replaced by a paranoid circus mirror version of an image she had built. She placed him on a pedestal of art and sex and emotion and Savior complex, and it was dangerously crumbling when she needed a foundation for her baby. He was losing his mind.
She could fit the pieces together, but was unable to hold Grant’s puzzle with glue or tape or rubber cement. She didn’t have time. She had a baby.
They stopped having sex when Grant stopped taking showers.
“Honey?” Carol tempered her tone and softly smiled masking desperation. Grant didn’t like nagging. “Can you at least go to the store for me today? We need diapers and food and milk. I know it’s a bother, but we do, and Sally’s too difficult to take in the basket.”
“Leave her with me; you go to the store. I’m out of ...” Raising his glass, Grant barely muttered coherence through whiskey. It was 11:20am.
Carol was afraid to leave Grant with their newborn. He hadn’t washed since Tuesday and wore nothing under his bathrobe. Sally was going to the store. She contemplated packing their things and leaving at that moment, but Grant fell from his chair and began to cry at her feet. “I’m sorry. Don’t leave me. I need you. I love you. I’m sorry. It’s THEM, they tell me; don’t you see? You can’t, ‘cause I never told you. They told me not to tell you. I can’t tell you. They won’t let me. I’ll stop drinking. I only drink ‘cause it makes them softer. Muffled. It puts them in a box and locks them away, but I can STILL HEAR YOU!!!!!!”
“Grant, I think we need to get you some help.”
She couldn’t leave him.
Episode 9: Voices- Dreams and a Sexless Afternoon
Episode 9: Voices
Get up now.
The Voices shook Grant from restless dreams.
Go tell Dr. Jill your dream. She’s in the nurse’s station.
Grant didn’t want to tell the Doc about dreams involving his soon-to-be-ex-wife. He didn’t want to make her jealous. He desperately longed to keep their relationship clean, and knew to avoid asking advice on your past fuck with your current. Girls get touchy in those situations; they tend toward anger and slapping.
This is not a debate, Grant. You don’t get to choose. She won’t slap you.
Grant had rules, but his demolished pride scattered around his bare feet in broken rubble and shards. He would have to mix the dust with piss and shit and spit before pounding the wooden forms and pouring himself into the sun to dehydrate. Grant’s house would never withstand an earthquake.
“I’m supposed to tell you my dream.” Grant gruffly touched her arm startling Dr. Jill into spilling coffee on her white blouse, soaking the thin material. He tried to yank his eyes away and forced his mind off the spreading stain of wetness.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“It was iced. No big deal. Nice to see you, Grant. My office? I have a change of clothes in there.” She winked and motioned him to follow. Clicking the blinds closed, she luxuriously removed her shirt. She was getting bolder. “That was a good trick, Grant. Did the voices tell you how to get me naked?” She slithered up to him rubbing breasts against his gown drawing fingers on his smooth back. He tilted his head down to kiss her and pulled her thigh above his hip. It had been too long for both of them.
Tell her now.
Grant tried to breathe. “Fuck you.”
“Yes, yes. Fuck me.” She nodded quickly, unzipping her skirt with fumbling fingers.
“I’m supposed to tell you my dream.”
Her face dropped defeated with her hands. “Now?”
He backed away as she sadly applied her shirt with disappointed pout, closing off exposed skin, “Really, it can’t wait 7 minutes?”
“They said now.”
She grabbed the hated red book, donned her glasses and pulled her curls back tightly securing them with a pencil. She was ready to work.
“I was outside Carol’s house in a VW van. This white van. I never had a white van, but that and the beard marked me some twisted hippie stalker; I brought my bitten bleeding finger stubs dangerously close to my mouth. I have to stop doing that. It makes me look crazy.”
Dr. Jill nodded.
“I couldn’t stop scratching behind my right ear. The cancer was spreading, and I could see it all over my fingers transferred like thick orange dye.
The lawyer came out of the house. I couldn’t see his face because he shook and moved too fast for me to get a specific image. He blurred like ripples on a puddle of leeches and handed me a manila envelope. I was afraid to open it because blood dripped from the bottom corner and it was labeled “Sally” in bold unfriendly black Sharpie across the top. I knew her fingers were in there.
His voice was mechanic, tinny, decidedly un-human, ‘Just go in there and tell Carol you love her. That's what you want to do isn't it?’ ‘No, no that's not it at all.’
‘Get the fuck out of here, Man. If you’re not going to tell her. Go. Leave.’
I see her through the fishbowl windows of the house with all these men and they're painting Carol’s walls greenish aqua, like a Mexican house, and someone rolls paint all over her back and she laughs and laughs and leaves the house. She doesn’t even care that I’m holding Sally’s bloody fingers; she doesn’t even know.I tried to duck in the car, but she sees me and comes over to the open VW door and stands there. She's taller and thinner and better looking in the dream, and I can barely remember what she looks like anyway, and she says, "Hi" and looks at me. And I have nothing to say. Absolutely nothing. And she shakes her head and walks back into the house, and I feel stupid because I should have told her about the envelope.”
“Are you still in love with your wife?”
That’s not what the dream is about.
“No, that’s not what the dream is about.”
Someone’s going to hurt your daughter. You’re going to escape and stop them.
“Someone’s going to hurt my daughter. I’m going to escape and stop them.”
Get up now.
The Voices shook Grant from restless dreams.
Go tell Dr. Jill your dream. She’s in the nurse’s station.
Grant didn’t want to tell the Doc about dreams involving his soon-to-be-ex-wife. He didn’t want to make her jealous. He desperately longed to keep their relationship clean, and knew to avoid asking advice on your past fuck with your current. Girls get touchy in those situations; they tend toward anger and slapping.
This is not a debate, Grant. You don’t get to choose. She won’t slap you.
Grant had rules, but his demolished pride scattered around his bare feet in broken rubble and shards. He would have to mix the dust with piss and shit and spit before pounding the wooden forms and pouring himself into the sun to dehydrate. Grant’s house would never withstand an earthquake.
“I’m supposed to tell you my dream.” Grant gruffly touched her arm startling Dr. Jill into spilling coffee on her white blouse, soaking the thin material. He tried to yank his eyes away and forced his mind off the spreading stain of wetness.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“It was iced. No big deal. Nice to see you, Grant. My office? I have a change of clothes in there.” She winked and motioned him to follow. Clicking the blinds closed, she luxuriously removed her shirt. She was getting bolder. “That was a good trick, Grant. Did the voices tell you how to get me naked?” She slithered up to him rubbing breasts against his gown drawing fingers on his smooth back. He tilted his head down to kiss her and pulled her thigh above his hip. It had been too long for both of them.
Tell her now.
Grant tried to breathe. “Fuck you.”
“Yes, yes. Fuck me.” She nodded quickly, unzipping her skirt with fumbling fingers.
“I’m supposed to tell you my dream.”
Her face dropped defeated with her hands. “Now?”
He backed away as she sadly applied her shirt with disappointed pout, closing off exposed skin, “Really, it can’t wait 7 minutes?”
“They said now.”
She grabbed the hated red book, donned her glasses and pulled her curls back tightly securing them with a pencil. She was ready to work.
“I was outside Carol’s house in a VW van. This white van. I never had a white van, but that and the beard marked me some twisted hippie stalker; I brought my bitten bleeding finger stubs dangerously close to my mouth. I have to stop doing that. It makes me look crazy.”
Dr. Jill nodded.
“I couldn’t stop scratching behind my right ear. The cancer was spreading, and I could see it all over my fingers transferred like thick orange dye.
The lawyer came out of the house. I couldn’t see his face because he shook and moved too fast for me to get a specific image. He blurred like ripples on a puddle of leeches and handed me a manila envelope. I was afraid to open it because blood dripped from the bottom corner and it was labeled “Sally” in bold unfriendly black Sharpie across the top. I knew her fingers were in there.
His voice was mechanic, tinny, decidedly un-human, ‘Just go in there and tell Carol you love her. That's what you want to do isn't it?’ ‘No, no that's not it at all.’
‘Get the fuck out of here, Man. If you’re not going to tell her. Go. Leave.’
I see her through the fishbowl windows of the house with all these men and they're painting Carol’s walls greenish aqua, like a Mexican house, and someone rolls paint all over her back and she laughs and laughs and leaves the house. She doesn’t even care that I’m holding Sally’s bloody fingers; she doesn’t even know.I tried to duck in the car, but she sees me and comes over to the open VW door and stands there. She's taller and thinner and better looking in the dream, and I can barely remember what she looks like anyway, and she says, "Hi" and looks at me. And I have nothing to say. Absolutely nothing. And she shakes her head and walks back into the house, and I feel stupid because I should have told her about the envelope.”
“Are you still in love with your wife?”
That’s not what the dream is about.
“No, that’s not what the dream is about.”
Someone’s going to hurt your daughter. You’re going to escape and stop them.
“Someone’s going to hurt my daughter. I’m going to escape and stop them.”
Episode 10: Voices- Anger displaced on Pat Benetar
Episode 10: Voices
The minute you walked in the joint
(du duh du duhn)
I could see you were a man of distinction,
A real big spender.
Good looking, so refined.
Wouldn’t you like to know what’s going on in my mind?
Judy propositioned Grant while chair dancing with red feather boa and top hat. She was quite talented, and could flip her hat down her elongated fuzzy leg peaking deliciously from beneath her portly green gown. She had nice stems for a fat man. Grant always enjoyed her Thursday rendition of “Flashdance” dance breaks complete with water and folding metal chair.
Jenkins admired rapturously; Judy was a star.
Judy may be my lucky star
But I’m the luckiest by far.
“You did it again. You changed the words. You’re making serious progress, Jenkins. We should tell the Doc.”
Secret lovers that’s what we are,
We should not be together,
But we can’t let go cause we love each other so.
Jenkins did his Axel Rose snake dance sliding about the hallway in fuzzy slippers. He was in an exceedingly good mood. Everyone was. They must have put something in the juice, or changed the meds for the day; smiles erupted from every face. It might have been waffle day in the cafeteria, but Grant missed breakfast. Syrup put the boys in a positive frame. Even Carl grinned hunching in the hallway with dangling red thread on his lips. The birds chittered outside the bars open to the blueness of the afternoon, and the air felt comfortable for the first time this year.
Grant was not smiling; he wanted to fuck the Doc before and after exposing his dream, but she denied him. Grant understood jealousy in women. He knew he wouldn’t be getting laid after dropping the ex-wife dream bomb in the office. The Voices fucked him this afternoon, and he internally imploded with frustration. Jenkins was an easy target.
“Pipe down, Douche McSecret.” He immediately regretted the tone escaping his lips.
His face pained and scrunched with deeply furrowed forehead, Jenkins frowned and turned dejectedly from Grant.
Oh, so, so senselessly cruel
Oh baby, you were so senselessly cruel.
From the beginnings I suspected the worst,
And you didn’t disappoint me.
“Are you shitting me? Lou Reed? When have you been listening to Lou Reed? Now you ARE being a Dick. Trying to, what? Stump me? Be obscure? WHAT?”
Grant’s outburst drew the eyes of orderlies and patients. His hand waved menacingly at Jenkins who began to sink and cower into the ground. Once he began berating, he couldn’t stop. The Voices weren’t dissuading his choices.
“Fuck, man. I can’t deal with you anymore. The drooling, the singing, you’re never on key. You follow me around. Fucking leave me alone!” He swiped a foot in Jenkins direction and stalked off to his room slamming the heavy door.
Go back to sleep.
“Fuck sleep. Fuck this place. Fuck fucking Jenkins!”
Grant threw Jenkins’ bed across the room blocking the door. He ripped sheets and flung clothing and tried to destroy anything that wasn’t his. He seethed and screamed and attacked the walls. The walls won as his hand began to bleed and throb. He smeared his bloody knuckles on Jenkins’ favorite poster of Pat Benatar giving her a mustache and devil horns.
They’re coming. Sit down.
“Fuck you! Shut up! I’m not going to sit or sleep or smile like everyone else! I have to get out of here! FUCK!!!” His guttural screams echoed down the hallway.
GRANT! We have to work together to save your daughter. Calm the fuck down or you’re going to be out for another six days. Pentobarbital fucks with you. We need you. Sit.
The wind magically disappeared from Grant’s body as he crumpled to the floor in a heap. He wailed and curled into a fetal ball waiting for the happy hypodermic army to medicate him into nothingness.
“Twenty, twenty, twenty-four hours to go- o- o,
I wanna be sedated.
Nothing to do, no where to go-o-o,
I wanna be sedated.”
Grant whispered escape; they did not oblige.
We need you awake.
Caring faces appeared in the window and slipped away one by one as Grant openly wept. He didn’t see Dr. Jill’s hand caressing the door; he couldn’t see her tears.
“Don’t worry Grant. We’ll save her together.”
The minute you walked in the joint
(du duh du duhn)
I could see you were a man of distinction,
A real big spender.
Good looking, so refined.
Wouldn’t you like to know what’s going on in my mind?
Judy propositioned Grant while chair dancing with red feather boa and top hat. She was quite talented, and could flip her hat down her elongated fuzzy leg peaking deliciously from beneath her portly green gown. She had nice stems for a fat man. Grant always enjoyed her Thursday rendition of “Flashdance” dance breaks complete with water and folding metal chair.
Jenkins admired rapturously; Judy was a star.
Judy may be my lucky star
But I’m the luckiest by far.
“You did it again. You changed the words. You’re making serious progress, Jenkins. We should tell the Doc.”
Secret lovers that’s what we are,
We should not be together,
But we can’t let go cause we love each other so.
Jenkins did his Axel Rose snake dance sliding about the hallway in fuzzy slippers. He was in an exceedingly good mood. Everyone was. They must have put something in the juice, or changed the meds for the day; smiles erupted from every face. It might have been waffle day in the cafeteria, but Grant missed breakfast. Syrup put the boys in a positive frame. Even Carl grinned hunching in the hallway with dangling red thread on his lips. The birds chittered outside the bars open to the blueness of the afternoon, and the air felt comfortable for the first time this year.
Grant was not smiling; he wanted to fuck the Doc before and after exposing his dream, but she denied him. Grant understood jealousy in women. He knew he wouldn’t be getting laid after dropping the ex-wife dream bomb in the office. The Voices fucked him this afternoon, and he internally imploded with frustration. Jenkins was an easy target.
“Pipe down, Douche McSecret.” He immediately regretted the tone escaping his lips.
His face pained and scrunched with deeply furrowed forehead, Jenkins frowned and turned dejectedly from Grant.
Oh, so, so senselessly cruel
Oh baby, you were so senselessly cruel.
From the beginnings I suspected the worst,
And you didn’t disappoint me.
“Are you shitting me? Lou Reed? When have you been listening to Lou Reed? Now you ARE being a Dick. Trying to, what? Stump me? Be obscure? WHAT?”
Grant’s outburst drew the eyes of orderlies and patients. His hand waved menacingly at Jenkins who began to sink and cower into the ground. Once he began berating, he couldn’t stop. The Voices weren’t dissuading his choices.
“Fuck, man. I can’t deal with you anymore. The drooling, the singing, you’re never on key. You follow me around. Fucking leave me alone!” He swiped a foot in Jenkins direction and stalked off to his room slamming the heavy door.
Go back to sleep.
“Fuck sleep. Fuck this place. Fuck fucking Jenkins!”
Grant threw Jenkins’ bed across the room blocking the door. He ripped sheets and flung clothing and tried to destroy anything that wasn’t his. He seethed and screamed and attacked the walls. The walls won as his hand began to bleed and throb. He smeared his bloody knuckles on Jenkins’ favorite poster of Pat Benatar giving her a mustache and devil horns.
They’re coming. Sit down.
“Fuck you! Shut up! I’m not going to sit or sleep or smile like everyone else! I have to get out of here! FUCK!!!” His guttural screams echoed down the hallway.
GRANT! We have to work together to save your daughter. Calm the fuck down or you’re going to be out for another six days. Pentobarbital fucks with you. We need you. Sit.
The wind magically disappeared from Grant’s body as he crumpled to the floor in a heap. He wailed and curled into a fetal ball waiting for the happy hypodermic army to medicate him into nothingness.
“Twenty, twenty, twenty-four hours to go- o- o,
I wanna be sedated.
Nothing to do, no where to go-o-o,
I wanna be sedated.”
Grant whispered escape; they did not oblige.
We need you awake.
Caring faces appeared in the window and slipped away one by one as Grant openly wept. He didn’t see Dr. Jill’s hand caressing the door; he couldn’t see her tears.
“Don’t worry Grant. We’ll save her together.”
Episode 11: Voices- Suicide talk and Solutions
Episode 11: Voices
“It’d be easier to die than to feel this way.” Grant slumped in Dr. Jill’s office and continued to gnaw his fingertips. He’d been working on his left thumb for over 13 minutes, and it finally sprouted blood in the corner. It didn’t hurt. He watched the redness bubble and pool until a singular drop fell to his stained gown; Grant hadn’t showered or changed since his last destructive episode. He sucked the blood from his thumb, and waited for Jill to give him the answer he desperately wanted to hear.
“Grant, death isn’t an option here.”
She didn’t say what he wanted.
“It’s always an option, Doc. You want me to tell you how I’d do it? I have at least six ways, and most are rather entertaining. It’d be a fun show. A few other characters would be involved. I mean, I’d want to go out remembered, at least talked about for a few weeks.” Voice glowing with cynicism, this was the most uplifting tone she’d heard from him in days. His eyes darted frenetically. His desperate depression usually hung thickly in the office and choked his words to silence.
She didn’t like him sounding maniacal about death.
“Grant, you feel powerless. I got it. You don’t get to make any decisions. We tell you when to eat and sleep and take meds and walk outside and come to group. The voices tell you when and how to do everything else. I threw myself unwisely into the mix, and you have no control over me. You have no control. You’re a shell.”
“Yeah, that doesn’t really make me feel better, Doc.”
You’re going to need her to escape. Watch the spider.
Grant’s eyes glazed; he watched an unusually large spider descend from the corner of the office ceiling landing on Dr. Jill’s desk. It scuttered over the white papers and tucked into her filing drawer; there would be no dinner in that drawer. Why would the voices want him to watch the spider? What could it mean?
Ask her about spiders.
“How do you feel about spiders?”
“What? I hate them. I’m desperately afraid of those creepy things. I think I’m allergic to some even. I had an incident when I was 6. Found a nest of them in the woods behind my house. Rushed to the hospital. Almost died.” She absentmindedly scratched her head and hair and behind her left ear.
You’re going to start collecting spiders. Get Jenkins on this task. He’ll help you. Tell no one.
Grant had a sick idea of there this might be going.
Yes Grant, you’re going to poison the Doc, and then save her. You’ve lost her trust and need to get it back. You can’t escape without her, and she won’t let you go until she thinks you’re stable.
And fucking knock off all this suicide talk.
The voices changed mid-message. They never did that. Things were changing and becoming more frightening. First the Voices touched him physically, knocking the wind out of him, now there were speaking as a unified whole with the same message. He didn’t like these new events. He didn’t want to hurt the Doc.
You’re going to SAVE her. You’re going to save Sally. We’re going to save you.
“It’d be easier to die than to feel this way.” Grant slumped in Dr. Jill’s office and continued to gnaw his fingertips. He’d been working on his left thumb for over 13 minutes, and it finally sprouted blood in the corner. It didn’t hurt. He watched the redness bubble and pool until a singular drop fell to his stained gown; Grant hadn’t showered or changed since his last destructive episode. He sucked the blood from his thumb, and waited for Jill to give him the answer he desperately wanted to hear.
“Grant, death isn’t an option here.”
She didn’t say what he wanted.
“It’s always an option, Doc. You want me to tell you how I’d do it? I have at least six ways, and most are rather entertaining. It’d be a fun show. A few other characters would be involved. I mean, I’d want to go out remembered, at least talked about for a few weeks.” Voice glowing with cynicism, this was the most uplifting tone she’d heard from him in days. His eyes darted frenetically. His desperate depression usually hung thickly in the office and choked his words to silence.
She didn’t like him sounding maniacal about death.
“Grant, you feel powerless. I got it. You don’t get to make any decisions. We tell you when to eat and sleep and take meds and walk outside and come to group. The voices tell you when and how to do everything else. I threw myself unwisely into the mix, and you have no control over me. You have no control. You’re a shell.”
“Yeah, that doesn’t really make me feel better, Doc.”
You’re going to need her to escape. Watch the spider.
Grant’s eyes glazed; he watched an unusually large spider descend from the corner of the office ceiling landing on Dr. Jill’s desk. It scuttered over the white papers and tucked into her filing drawer; there would be no dinner in that drawer. Why would the voices want him to watch the spider? What could it mean?
Ask her about spiders.
“How do you feel about spiders?”
“What? I hate them. I’m desperately afraid of those creepy things. I think I’m allergic to some even. I had an incident when I was 6. Found a nest of them in the woods behind my house. Rushed to the hospital. Almost died.” She absentmindedly scratched her head and hair and behind her left ear.
You’re going to start collecting spiders. Get Jenkins on this task. He’ll help you. Tell no one.
Grant had a sick idea of there this might be going.
Yes Grant, you’re going to poison the Doc, and then save her. You’ve lost her trust and need to get it back. You can’t escape without her, and she won’t let you go until she thinks you’re stable.
And fucking knock off all this suicide talk.
The voices changed mid-message. They never did that. Things were changing and becoming more frightening. First the Voices touched him physically, knocking the wind out of him, now there were speaking as a unified whole with the same message. He didn’t like these new events. He didn’t want to hurt the Doc.
You’re going to SAVE her. You’re going to save Sally. We’re going to save you.
Episode 12: Voices- Spider Box and Scrotum Staring
Episode 12- Voices
The itsy bitsy spider, climbed up the water spout,
Down came the rain and washed the spider out.
Come out, come out, out!
Itsy bitsy spider….
Jenkins was outrageously excited to be in on Grant’s nefarious plan. Grant refused to explain it in full detail, but the task of collecting spiders was good enough for Jenkins. He was back on Grant’s good side, and even forgave him for defacing his beloved Pat Benetar. It still hung on the wall.
“Do you want me to get you a new one?” Grant asked every time Jenkins’ eyes passed over her leather skirt and pouting lips with newly emblazoned bloody fangs and horns; Jenkins had wiped the mustache off with spit and the corner of his gown.
He flopped a beefy arm over Grant’s shoulder, hugged him close and whispered.
Heartache to heartache we stand
No promises no demands,
Love is a battlefield.
He suddenly leapt backward, arms raised and danced to the rest of the tune Molly Ringwald-esque. His fuzzy slippered feet bobbed with arms swimming wildly; Jenkins’ smile was jack-o-lantern wide; he wasn’t wearing underwear.
“Man, sometimes you really freak my shit out.”
They had fashioned a spider case out of arts and crafts supplies: Popsicle sticks, paste, masking tape, construction paper. Jenkins cut out little stars and hearts and purple horse shoes to paste along the sides. It was a structurally sound enclosure with lid, and Dr. Jill was happy to see Grant creating art again, even if it was sophomoric and confusing.
“Why a paper box?”
Blame it on Jenkins. Tell her he needs a special place that you can’t see or touch.
“Jenkins wanted somewhere to put his things. He wanted a safe place. I promised never to destroy anything in his box.”
“Oh, Grant. I’m glad you and Jenkins are creating trust together again. I was sad to see you fighting.”
Her tone was more condescending than usual. She had that “you’re a crazy bastard sound”; Grant didn’t like it. They hadn’t had sex in over a week. He was trying to be “normal”, but normality and collecting spiders in a mental hospital are mutually exclusive events.
Jenkins collected most of the spiders. His behavior was always bizarre, and seeing his naked ass in the air was an accepted site around the hospital. No one looked twice at Jenkins; things were different for Grant.
He was on a close watch now. His explosive outbursts of violence and catatonic states were the talk of the hospital. No one knew how his treatment had changed or why his condition appeared to be worsening. Dr. Jill was being more distant, and the chief of staff was attributing that to his behaviors.
“Doctor, I’m not sure why you have been removing yourself from this patient’s case; your intimacy with him appeared to be helping. You were making break-throughs. We’d like you to begin seeing him in private session every day. The hospital is counting on you.”
Jill almost choked on her bagel. What did they know about intimacy? She tried to appear serene, but her mind was racing wildly, “Sir, I’m not sure if his positive affect was due to my…”
“Nonsense, Doctor. You are instrumental in his recovery. I attribute his recent negative attention seeking behavior to the removal of your private sessions. Whatever you were doing before was working. Keep it up, Kid.” He elbowed her in the ribs and winked; he didn’t know.
Jenkins scuttled by on hands and knees. His open gown exposed dangling scrotum. She had never realized how large his penis really was. Even enveloped by his rotund 300 pounds, it was a good 11 inches flaccid. God had a remarkable sense of humor; she doubted that member would ever find a moist hole other than that of a neighbor’s dog. Grant asked if he could purchase a prostitute for Jenkins on his 40th birthday, but she assumed he was joking; Jenkins was 33.
“Doctor, Can I help you with something?”
She tore her eyes from Jenkins to see Nurse Kitty’s concerned face.
“I’m fine. Umm, I have to see Grant. Do you know where he is?”
“He’s not hiding in Jenkins’ ass, if that’s where you were looking.”
The itsy bitsy spider, climbed up the water spout,
Down came the rain and washed the spider out.
Come out, come out, out!
Itsy bitsy spider….
Jenkins was outrageously excited to be in on Grant’s nefarious plan. Grant refused to explain it in full detail, but the task of collecting spiders was good enough for Jenkins. He was back on Grant’s good side, and even forgave him for defacing his beloved Pat Benetar. It still hung on the wall.
“Do you want me to get you a new one?” Grant asked every time Jenkins’ eyes passed over her leather skirt and pouting lips with newly emblazoned bloody fangs and horns; Jenkins had wiped the mustache off with spit and the corner of his gown.
He flopped a beefy arm over Grant’s shoulder, hugged him close and whispered.
Heartache to heartache we stand
No promises no demands,
Love is a battlefield.
He suddenly leapt backward, arms raised and danced to the rest of the tune Molly Ringwald-esque. His fuzzy slippered feet bobbed with arms swimming wildly; Jenkins’ smile was jack-o-lantern wide; he wasn’t wearing underwear.
“Man, sometimes you really freak my shit out.”
They had fashioned a spider case out of arts and crafts supplies: Popsicle sticks, paste, masking tape, construction paper. Jenkins cut out little stars and hearts and purple horse shoes to paste along the sides. It was a structurally sound enclosure with lid, and Dr. Jill was happy to see Grant creating art again, even if it was sophomoric and confusing.
“Why a paper box?”
Blame it on Jenkins. Tell her he needs a special place that you can’t see or touch.
“Jenkins wanted somewhere to put his things. He wanted a safe place. I promised never to destroy anything in his box.”
“Oh, Grant. I’m glad you and Jenkins are creating trust together again. I was sad to see you fighting.”
Her tone was more condescending than usual. She had that “you’re a crazy bastard sound”; Grant didn’t like it. They hadn’t had sex in over a week. He was trying to be “normal”, but normality and collecting spiders in a mental hospital are mutually exclusive events.
Jenkins collected most of the spiders. His behavior was always bizarre, and seeing his naked ass in the air was an accepted site around the hospital. No one looked twice at Jenkins; things were different for Grant.
He was on a close watch now. His explosive outbursts of violence and catatonic states were the talk of the hospital. No one knew how his treatment had changed or why his condition appeared to be worsening. Dr. Jill was being more distant, and the chief of staff was attributing that to his behaviors.
“Doctor, I’m not sure why you have been removing yourself from this patient’s case; your intimacy with him appeared to be helping. You were making break-throughs. We’d like you to begin seeing him in private session every day. The hospital is counting on you.”
Jill almost choked on her bagel. What did they know about intimacy? She tried to appear serene, but her mind was racing wildly, “Sir, I’m not sure if his positive affect was due to my…”
“Nonsense, Doctor. You are instrumental in his recovery. I attribute his recent negative attention seeking behavior to the removal of your private sessions. Whatever you were doing before was working. Keep it up, Kid.” He elbowed her in the ribs and winked; he didn’t know.
Jenkins scuttled by on hands and knees. His open gown exposed dangling scrotum. She had never realized how large his penis really was. Even enveloped by his rotund 300 pounds, it was a good 11 inches flaccid. God had a remarkable sense of humor; she doubted that member would ever find a moist hole other than that of a neighbor’s dog. Grant asked if he could purchase a prostitute for Jenkins on his 40th birthday, but she assumed he was joking; Jenkins was 33.
“Doctor, Can I help you with something?”
She tore her eyes from Jenkins to see Nurse Kitty’s concerned face.
“I’m fine. Umm, I have to see Grant. Do you know where he is?”
“He’s not hiding in Jenkins’ ass, if that’s where you were looking.”
Episode 13: Voices- Spider Farm
Episode 13- Voices
“How many do you have in there?”
Jenkins wouldn’t let Grant touch or glance into the construction paper box. He was taking careful care of his spider sanctuary, and Grant has to pass his own collected spiders in specified pink tissue for insertion into the box. Jenkins liked to have control; it made him feel powerful for the first time since the shit fight. He usually manipulated by grossing others out sans undies, or farting face ward when they kneeled to pick up purposefully dropped meds, but this time he owned the spider cage, and they listened to him.
1-2-3-4-5-
6-7-8-9-10-
11-12
Boop boop bob de le boo boop
1-2-3-4-5-
6-7-8-9-10-
11-12
Tweeeelee-elve!
“Twenty-four? You have Twenty-four? That’s quite a few for 1 day! Keep it up, brother.”
Grant lay on his bed counting corrugated tiles as Jenkins played with his box. He adorned it with more accoutrement this afternoon; silver glitter spiders protected the lid, and a rainbow of crayon decorated the side. Tiny back sharpie spiders slid down into an overflowing pot of indescribable mung and small upward reaching claws.
“What’s in the pot at the end of the rainbow, Jenk?”
Can't fall out of this hole
It's just like cats in a bowl
And I can't climb out of this hole
It's just like cats in a bowl
Jenkins missed his cat from home and spoke of Poo-poo often, but Grant learned that Jenkins had mummified Poo-poo and shoved him under the bed. That was his mother’s final straw for admission into “Horizon Dawn”. Her beloved Poo-poo supposedly murdered and treated with cloves and cinnamon and thyme, wrapped in a shredded Star Wars sheet and shoved under Jenkins’ twin bed in the spare room. It was the unforgivable sin that forced him into treatment.
“You miss Poo-poo?”
They're coming to take me away, ha ha
They're coming to take me away, ho ho Hee hee, ha ha
To the funny farm
Where life is beautiful all the time
And I'll be happy to see those nice young men
With their clean white coats
“Wow man, you remember what did it. You know what got you here. That’s some fucking break-through. God damn, they should put me on staff.”
Spider
He is our hero
Spider
Get rid of
Spider
Step on spider
Spider
We love you spider
I promise not to kill you
Spider
Putting on his psychoanalyst garb momentarily, Grant figured Jenkins was trying to redeem himself by mothering the spiders. This was the perfect task for him. Grant smiled pride in positively effecting change in someone so certifiably insane. The doctors had given up on Jenkins years ago, and he wanted to call Dr. Jill into the room to espouse his theories. It was 2:28 a.m.; he imagined himself an orange cat curled next to her nakedness in deliciously warm flannel sheets that smelled like vanilla.
“I’m so glad I put you in charge of this task. We’re going to escape. We’re going to save Sally.”
We’re in fucking charge, not you. We are the Staff of Grant. Who told you to have Jenkins do this job, eh? Let’s not start pretending that you’re in control here. You’re a tool. You’re our tool.
“No! I’m in control. You can’t do anything without me. You need me.”
Shall we fight, Grant? Who hit you in the stomach last time you didn’t listen? Who knows how to save your daughter? Who’s in control? Oh yeah, that’s right, you are. Good luck with that, Kid.
The sarcastic voice echoed inside his skull bouncing dangerously off the walls of his brain. Grant was sure Jenkins could hear them resounding out his ears and floating into the room. He wanted to hold his head and scream, but knew drawing attention to the room was a bad idea. They said to sleep; it was time to sleep. Grant submissively rolled toward the wall trying not to cry.
This is a story about control, my control
Control of what I say, control of what I do
And this time I'm gonna do it my way
I hope you enjoy this as much as I do
Are we ready? I am
Cause it's all about control
and I've got lots of it
At least Jenkins felt secure.
“How many do you have in there?”
Jenkins wouldn’t let Grant touch or glance into the construction paper box. He was taking careful care of his spider sanctuary, and Grant has to pass his own collected spiders in specified pink tissue for insertion into the box. Jenkins liked to have control; it made him feel powerful for the first time since the shit fight. He usually manipulated by grossing others out sans undies, or farting face ward when they kneeled to pick up purposefully dropped meds, but this time he owned the spider cage, and they listened to him.
1-2-3-4-5-
6-7-8-9-10-
11-12
Boop boop bob de le boo boop
1-2-3-4-5-
6-7-8-9-10-
11-12
Tweeeelee-elve!
“Twenty-four? You have Twenty-four? That’s quite a few for 1 day! Keep it up, brother.”
Grant lay on his bed counting corrugated tiles as Jenkins played with his box. He adorned it with more accoutrement this afternoon; silver glitter spiders protected the lid, and a rainbow of crayon decorated the side. Tiny back sharpie spiders slid down into an overflowing pot of indescribable mung and small upward reaching claws.
“What’s in the pot at the end of the rainbow, Jenk?”
Can't fall out of this hole
It's just like cats in a bowl
And I can't climb out of this hole
It's just like cats in a bowl
Jenkins missed his cat from home and spoke of Poo-poo often, but Grant learned that Jenkins had mummified Poo-poo and shoved him under the bed. That was his mother’s final straw for admission into “Horizon Dawn”. Her beloved Poo-poo supposedly murdered and treated with cloves and cinnamon and thyme, wrapped in a shredded Star Wars sheet and shoved under Jenkins’ twin bed in the spare room. It was the unforgivable sin that forced him into treatment.
“You miss Poo-poo?”
They're coming to take me away, ha ha
They're coming to take me away, ho ho Hee hee, ha ha
To the funny farm
Where life is beautiful all the time
And I'll be happy to see those nice young men
With their clean white coats
“Wow man, you remember what did it. You know what got you here. That’s some fucking break-through. God damn, they should put me on staff.”
Spider
He is our hero
Spider
Get rid of
Spider
Step on spider
Spider
We love you spider
I promise not to kill you
Spider
Putting on his psychoanalyst garb momentarily, Grant figured Jenkins was trying to redeem himself by mothering the spiders. This was the perfect task for him. Grant smiled pride in positively effecting change in someone so certifiably insane. The doctors had given up on Jenkins years ago, and he wanted to call Dr. Jill into the room to espouse his theories. It was 2:28 a.m.; he imagined himself an orange cat curled next to her nakedness in deliciously warm flannel sheets that smelled like vanilla.
“I’m so glad I put you in charge of this task. We’re going to escape. We’re going to save Sally.”
We’re in fucking charge, not you. We are the Staff of Grant. Who told you to have Jenkins do this job, eh? Let’s not start pretending that you’re in control here. You’re a tool. You’re our tool.
“No! I’m in control. You can’t do anything without me. You need me.”
Shall we fight, Grant? Who hit you in the stomach last time you didn’t listen? Who knows how to save your daughter? Who’s in control? Oh yeah, that’s right, you are. Good luck with that, Kid.
The sarcastic voice echoed inside his skull bouncing dangerously off the walls of his brain. Grant was sure Jenkins could hear them resounding out his ears and floating into the room. He wanted to hold his head and scream, but knew drawing attention to the room was a bad idea. They said to sleep; it was time to sleep. Grant submissively rolled toward the wall trying not to cry.
This is a story about control, my control
Control of what I say, control of what I do
And this time I'm gonna do it my way
I hope you enjoy this as much as I do
Are we ready? I am
Cause it's all about control
and I've got lots of it
At least Jenkins felt secure.
Episode 14: Voices- Birthday Gifts
Episode 14- Voices
Grant’s 33rd birthday loomed. He thought of Jesus’ death. He lacked the accomplishment of the Savior, but knew his time to rescue was approaching. He hoped he wouldn’t be crucified for his forthcoming actions. The Voices’ nefarious plan scarred his forehead with thorns, as he wasn’t entirely aware of its round shape and weight.
Have faith, dear Grant. We know what’s best.
The female voice soothed with wine and honey; she rarely appeared, but he appreciated her now.
He was trying to piece the puzzled plan from the following stray elements: 6 days of saved pills (his and Jenkins), Ninety- nine spiders (four of the original 103 had eaten each other last night), and a letter from his sister saying she’d visit on his birthday with a specially smuggled present.
She’s bringing you whiskey Grant, but it’s not for your consumption. We have a plan. Accept the gift.
Grant hadn’t spoken to Susan since his admittance into the hospital. She loathed “Horizon Dawn” and blamed Carol for his breakdown. She didn’t believe in schizophrenia; he was an eccentric artist and functional alcoholic. Susan enjoyed enabling him and detested sobriety; he was more talented and prolific when drunk. She insisted his “Voices” were spirit guides from Medicine Wheel Shamans. Her theories rested upon magic and tarot readings. All he needed was a sweat lodge, some crystals to cleanse and a visit with his animal spirit. She would most likely manifest in the lounge with jingle bracelet, flowing skirt, burning sage and granola snack; she would be intoxicated.
You say it’s your birthday
Der ner ner ner der der
It’s my birthday too, Yeah.
Der ner ner ner der der
Took took took
Der ner ner ner der der
You say it’s your birthday
We’re gonna have a good time.
Grant had been saving pills for a week now, just as the voices directed, and their lack in Jenkins’ system was becoming more evident. Where he felt clarity, as the voices tuned into his brain crisply, Jenk’s mania overwhelmed the tiny room. He bounced and flittered jittering anxiously, yelling lyrics with frenetic air guitar and floor work. He taught himself to do the worm; his chin bloomed with deep purple bruising from the endeavor. Grant tried to explain the physics of break-dancing on a 300 pound frame, but the flabby man was determined and eventually successful after day four. The orderlies almost strapped him down on Tuesday assuming he was deep in seizure. Grant waved them away, “It’s ok guys, he’s learning the worm. His new obsession is 80’s music.”
“New obsession? Good luck, Man. Stay clear of the closing doors and watch your fingers.” They scoffed and closed the door pointing and snickering openly at the crazed floppy fat fish.
Dort singen's: "dreh' dich nicht um, schau, schau, Der kommissar geht um! Er wird dich ansch
au'n
“Christ, Jenkins! When did you learn German? I can’t understand you.” Dr. Jill began experimenting with Jenkins IPOD last month adding different 80’s bands. She asked Grant to take note of his lyrical communication choices. He had a new penchant for anything European.
“How many spiders are left?”
99 Düsenflieger Jeder war ein grosser Krieger
You have plenty. The time is coming very soon. Ask Jenkins to take his box to session this afternoon. Your sister will be here in five minutes. Leave now. We have a task for you on the way to the Lounge.
Grant donned his slippers and padded down the empty hall.
Third door on the right. Go in.
A pair of jeans and a non-descript orange polo shirt lay on the bench of the empty orderly changing area. They were his size.
“Where do I put them?”
There’s a paper bag in the closet. Take the shoes and the boxer briefs in the second locker to the left. Go to the sink. Open the mirror and take the tooth brush.
“They’re going to want to look in my bag.”
Trust Grant. Faith. It’s your birthday.
He exited the room undiscovered and calmly waved to the ladies behind the desk.
“Hey Grant. Your sister is here. She’s in the Lounge. Happy birthday.”
Susan carried an enormous bouquet of Gerber daisies and no whiskey. Her eyes held pity as she scanned his robe and slippers.
“I fucking hate this place. Look what they make you wear.”
“It’s rather comfortable. Underwear optional.”
“You always had a nice ass. I can say that; I’m you sister. I take pride in these things. You’ve been blessed by the Universe with hotness. You look like shit. When was the last time you got laid?”
Grant’s eyes widened, “They don’t let us do that in here; I suppose I could have my share of ass, but I’m partial to vagina.”
“Enough witty banter, Douche McCrazy, here.”
She shoved the heavy bouquet into his hands. He felt the bottle surrounded by stems.
“You are one clever bitch. I love you.”
They spoke briefly of nonsense and her time at Burning Man and his dog Sparky and her hatred of Carol’s new boyfriend and Sally. They talked most about Sally. She missed her Daddy’s finger puppet shows and asked about him daily. Susan was checking in with her as the new boyfriend was “off”.
“Carol likes ‘um crazy. Hell, she stayed with you for six years, but this guy? Smith is violent. He threw a glass at her feet and yelled at her to clean it up, and she did. I don’t trust him.”
Don’t worry Grant. The plan is in place. You’re leaving tonight.
“Thanks Susan. Thanks for the gift. I really appreciate the flowers.” He winked and left the table with bag and bouquet. No one questioned his gifts as he sauntered back down the hall to his room.
“We’re leaving tonight, Jenk. Bring those spiders to your session. We’re going to break that psycho before he hurts my Sally.”
P.S.Y.C.H.O.S. they gotta say yes to another excess
P.S.Y.C.H.O.S. das Mittlemaß der Dinge ihr einziger Stress
P.S.Y.C.H.O.S. they gotta say no to an average show
.S.Y.C.H.O. logical means it ain't not what it seems
Grant’s 33rd birthday loomed. He thought of Jesus’ death. He lacked the accomplishment of the Savior, but knew his time to rescue was approaching. He hoped he wouldn’t be crucified for his forthcoming actions. The Voices’ nefarious plan scarred his forehead with thorns, as he wasn’t entirely aware of its round shape and weight.
Have faith, dear Grant. We know what’s best.
The female voice soothed with wine and honey; she rarely appeared, but he appreciated her now.
He was trying to piece the puzzled plan from the following stray elements: 6 days of saved pills (his and Jenkins), Ninety- nine spiders (four of the original 103 had eaten each other last night), and a letter from his sister saying she’d visit on his birthday with a specially smuggled present.
She’s bringing you whiskey Grant, but it’s not for your consumption. We have a plan. Accept the gift.
Grant hadn’t spoken to Susan since his admittance into the hospital. She loathed “Horizon Dawn” and blamed Carol for his breakdown. She didn’t believe in schizophrenia; he was an eccentric artist and functional alcoholic. Susan enjoyed enabling him and detested sobriety; he was more talented and prolific when drunk. She insisted his “Voices” were spirit guides from Medicine Wheel Shamans. Her theories rested upon magic and tarot readings. All he needed was a sweat lodge, some crystals to cleanse and a visit with his animal spirit. She would most likely manifest in the lounge with jingle bracelet, flowing skirt, burning sage and granola snack; she would be intoxicated.
You say it’s your birthday
Der ner ner ner der der
It’s my birthday too, Yeah.
Der ner ner ner der der
Took took took
Der ner ner ner der der
You say it’s your birthday
We’re gonna have a good time.
Grant had been saving pills for a week now, just as the voices directed, and their lack in Jenkins’ system was becoming more evident. Where he felt clarity, as the voices tuned into his brain crisply, Jenk’s mania overwhelmed the tiny room. He bounced and flittered jittering anxiously, yelling lyrics with frenetic air guitar and floor work. He taught himself to do the worm; his chin bloomed with deep purple bruising from the endeavor. Grant tried to explain the physics of break-dancing on a 300 pound frame, but the flabby man was determined and eventually successful after day four. The orderlies almost strapped him down on Tuesday assuming he was deep in seizure. Grant waved them away, “It’s ok guys, he’s learning the worm. His new obsession is 80’s music.”
“New obsession? Good luck, Man. Stay clear of the closing doors and watch your fingers.” They scoffed and closed the door pointing and snickering openly at the crazed floppy fat fish.
Dort singen's: "dreh' dich nicht um, schau, schau, Der kommissar geht um! Er wird dich ansch
au'n
“Christ, Jenkins! When did you learn German? I can’t understand you.” Dr. Jill began experimenting with Jenkins IPOD last month adding different 80’s bands. She asked Grant to take note of his lyrical communication choices. He had a new penchant for anything European.
“How many spiders are left?”
99 Düsenflieger Jeder war ein grosser Krieger
You have plenty. The time is coming very soon. Ask Jenkins to take his box to session this afternoon. Your sister will be here in five minutes. Leave now. We have a task for you on the way to the Lounge.
Grant donned his slippers and padded down the empty hall.
Third door on the right. Go in.
A pair of jeans and a non-descript orange polo shirt lay on the bench of the empty orderly changing area. They were his size.
“Where do I put them?”
There’s a paper bag in the closet. Take the shoes and the boxer briefs in the second locker to the left. Go to the sink. Open the mirror and take the tooth brush.
“They’re going to want to look in my bag.”
Trust Grant. Faith. It’s your birthday.
He exited the room undiscovered and calmly waved to the ladies behind the desk.
“Hey Grant. Your sister is here. She’s in the Lounge. Happy birthday.”
Susan carried an enormous bouquet of Gerber daisies and no whiskey. Her eyes held pity as she scanned his robe and slippers.
“I fucking hate this place. Look what they make you wear.”
“It’s rather comfortable. Underwear optional.”
“You always had a nice ass. I can say that; I’m you sister. I take pride in these things. You’ve been blessed by the Universe with hotness. You look like shit. When was the last time you got laid?”
Grant’s eyes widened, “They don’t let us do that in here; I suppose I could have my share of ass, but I’m partial to vagina.”
“Enough witty banter, Douche McCrazy, here.”
She shoved the heavy bouquet into his hands. He felt the bottle surrounded by stems.
“You are one clever bitch. I love you.”
They spoke briefly of nonsense and her time at Burning Man and his dog Sparky and her hatred of Carol’s new boyfriend and Sally. They talked most about Sally. She missed her Daddy’s finger puppet shows and asked about him daily. Susan was checking in with her as the new boyfriend was “off”.
“Carol likes ‘um crazy. Hell, she stayed with you for six years, but this guy? Smith is violent. He threw a glass at her feet and yelled at her to clean it up, and she did. I don’t trust him.”
Don’t worry Grant. The plan is in place. You’re leaving tonight.
“Thanks Susan. Thanks for the gift. I really appreciate the flowers.” He winked and left the table with bag and bouquet. No one questioned his gifts as he sauntered back down the hall to his room.
“We’re leaving tonight, Jenk. Bring those spiders to your session. We’re going to break that psycho before he hurts my Sally.”
P.S.Y.C.H.O.S. they gotta say yes to another excess
P.S.Y.C.H.O.S. das Mittlemaß der Dinge ihr einziger Stress
P.S.Y.C.H.O.S. they gotta say no to an average show
.S.Y.C.H.O. logical means it ain't not what it seems
Episode 15: Voices- Sneaky Freaky Plans
Episode 15- Voices
Crush the pills and add them to the whiskey.
The kind female voice disappeared as directions seared into his head. He could see them written on the sides of his brain, emblazoned in the grey matter.
Three minutes after you send Jenkins to session, go to the desk at the end of the hall. They’re having a meeting. Produce the bottle. Claim your alcoholism. Tell them about your sister. Give them the bottle and ask them to take a shot in honor of your big day.
Grant knew how this would play out. That bottle of Oban was expensive, delicious stuff. They wouldn’t refuse. There was six days times two patients worth of various pharmaceuticals floating in that thing. One gulp would render an orderly down for at least eight hours, definitely enough time for escape.
“Jenkins? It’s time for you to go to session. Take the box. Have fun…”
Girls justa wanna have fun.
Oh girls justa wanna have…
That’s all they really waaaaaaaa aaaa nt
He held the box in outstretched arms and danced out the door. Although he was wearing underwear, Grant was afraid for the first time in six months.
This was really going to happen; they were escaping “Horizon Dawn”.
Deep recesses of truth told him that his daughter’s life was at stake; this was a necessary venture, but he hadn’t broken this many laws since his alcoholic black-out stage of 2004. Vandalized parking meters and quarter collection for pool, an incident with a stolen car, the wall of a bar and drunkenly asking for a drink post destruction, and nakedly hopping the fence at a Catholic girls school were part of his Police record, but not his memory.
Outstretched calmly on his bed, he listened closely for further instructions.
Go now.
He inhaled deeply, swung his feet to the floor and focused on saving Sally from the unknown terrors of an invisible man named Smith. He had to trust that this was real. The voices were always right; he forced himself to listen.
You’re going to be fine. This is going to work. Trust us, Grant. Have faith.
The female voice held his mind in her lap and soothed and petted him into submission; he was ready.
“Hey, Nurse Kitty?” He lowered his head and sheepishly entered the white clad circle of hospital staff. “You know how I was a raging alcoholic? My sister, the enabler, smuggled in this expensive bottle of Scotch for my birthday.” He stretched the bottle out into the center as eyes widened and spittle collected in the corners of mouths. The wolves were bored and hungry.
“Wow, Grant. This is an incredibly positive step in your recovery; I’m flabbergasted, speechless. The progress…. I...”
“I thought maybe you could all have a shot for me.”
“I suppose one wouldn’t affect the staff negatively.”
She grabbed a stack of white paper pill cups and poured equal shots for the entire floor. Every nurse and orderly held their cup in the air and cried, “TO GRANT!” Clicking cups and slapping hands and shaking faces and breathing in to quell the whiskey.
They’ll be down in 20 minutes. We have work to do.
Grant needed to find clothes for Jenkins, change into his stolen clothes, locate an Epi-Pin to save Dr. Jill, steal her keys and walk out of “Horizon Dawn” forever.
Forever? No. You’re coming back.
Grant ignored the last voice. It was wrong. He was escaping to save his daughter and take care of her. He was going to live with Jenkins and his sister. He was going to be an artist again. He was not coming back.
West hallway. Fifth door on the right. Supply room. There will be an Epi-Pin on the fourth shelf up. It’s encased in a yellow tube.
Grant followed blindly; the voices were right.
Second stairwell. Down one floor. Janitor closet. Grey jumpsuit.
Grant followed blindly; the voices were right.
Wait here. Count to six. 1-2-3-4-5-6-GO. Walk fast. Back to your room. Change clothes. Get to Dr. Jill’s office.
As Grant safely left his room, he noticed staff reclined in chairs or collapsed into folded arms on desks and countertops. They were going to make it.
The Voices were always right.
Crush the pills and add them to the whiskey.
The kind female voice disappeared as directions seared into his head. He could see them written on the sides of his brain, emblazoned in the grey matter.
Three minutes after you send Jenkins to session, go to the desk at the end of the hall. They’re having a meeting. Produce the bottle. Claim your alcoholism. Tell them about your sister. Give them the bottle and ask them to take a shot in honor of your big day.
Grant knew how this would play out. That bottle of Oban was expensive, delicious stuff. They wouldn’t refuse. There was six days times two patients worth of various pharmaceuticals floating in that thing. One gulp would render an orderly down for at least eight hours, definitely enough time for escape.
“Jenkins? It’s time for you to go to session. Take the box. Have fun…”
Girls justa wanna have fun.
Oh girls justa wanna have…
That’s all they really waaaaaaaa aaaa nt
He held the box in outstretched arms and danced out the door. Although he was wearing underwear, Grant was afraid for the first time in six months.
This was really going to happen; they were escaping “Horizon Dawn”.
Deep recesses of truth told him that his daughter’s life was at stake; this was a necessary venture, but he hadn’t broken this many laws since his alcoholic black-out stage of 2004. Vandalized parking meters and quarter collection for pool, an incident with a stolen car, the wall of a bar and drunkenly asking for a drink post destruction, and nakedly hopping the fence at a Catholic girls school were part of his Police record, but not his memory.
Outstretched calmly on his bed, he listened closely for further instructions.
Go now.
He inhaled deeply, swung his feet to the floor and focused on saving Sally from the unknown terrors of an invisible man named Smith. He had to trust that this was real. The voices were always right; he forced himself to listen.
You’re going to be fine. This is going to work. Trust us, Grant. Have faith.
The female voice held his mind in her lap and soothed and petted him into submission; he was ready.
“Hey, Nurse Kitty?” He lowered his head and sheepishly entered the white clad circle of hospital staff. “You know how I was a raging alcoholic? My sister, the enabler, smuggled in this expensive bottle of Scotch for my birthday.” He stretched the bottle out into the center as eyes widened and spittle collected in the corners of mouths. The wolves were bored and hungry.
“Wow, Grant. This is an incredibly positive step in your recovery; I’m flabbergasted, speechless. The progress…. I...”
“I thought maybe you could all have a shot for me.”
“I suppose one wouldn’t affect the staff negatively.”
She grabbed a stack of white paper pill cups and poured equal shots for the entire floor. Every nurse and orderly held their cup in the air and cried, “TO GRANT!” Clicking cups and slapping hands and shaking faces and breathing in to quell the whiskey.
They’ll be down in 20 minutes. We have work to do.
Grant needed to find clothes for Jenkins, change into his stolen clothes, locate an Epi-Pin to save Dr. Jill, steal her keys and walk out of “Horizon Dawn” forever.
Forever? No. You’re coming back.
Grant ignored the last voice. It was wrong. He was escaping to save his daughter and take care of her. He was going to live with Jenkins and his sister. He was going to be an artist again. He was not coming back.
West hallway. Fifth door on the right. Supply room. There will be an Epi-Pin on the fourth shelf up. It’s encased in a yellow tube.
Grant followed blindly; the voices were right.
Second stairwell. Down one floor. Janitor closet. Grey jumpsuit.
Grant followed blindly; the voices were right.
Wait here. Count to six. 1-2-3-4-5-6-GO. Walk fast. Back to your room. Change clothes. Get to Dr. Jill’s office.
As Grant safely left his room, he noticed staff reclined in chairs or collapsed into folded arms on desks and countertops. They were going to make it.
The Voices were always right.
Episode 16: Voices- Spiders
Episode 16- Voices
Jenkins tapped toes to an invisible beat and wiggled like a three year old holding tightly to his magical box. He prominently displayed the colorful Popsicle stick structure on his lap. Ninety-nine spiders shivered and scuttled along the paper walls; he could hear them beg for escape. Tiny spider voices cried and crawled over one another for the few flies he would drop in every night; he was going to miss his children, but every good mother must say goodbye.
Jenkins’ mother didn’t say goodbye. She turned her back and shuffled into the kitchen when the men with the jacket and straps and white van came to take him to “Horizon Dawn”. He screamed and cried and kicked at the men, but she didn’t care. She only cared about Poo-Poo. She didn’t understand about saving Poo-Poo forever. The cat asked so nicely with her pretty purring voice and wanted Jenkins pet her softly behind the ears for always, so he obliged her requests and removed her little kitty brain through her tiny kitty nose with a bent paper clip just like Egyptians on the History channel. He used the kitchen spices. He used his favorite Star Wars sheets. His mommy must have been angry about ripping up the bedding; yes, that was why she didn’t say goodbye.
“Jenkins, you seem very excited about showing me your special box. I can barely wait to see your secrets.”
Dr. Jill didn’t usually feel nervous around patients, but Jenkins energy was slightly maniacal. His eyes sparkled differently as frenetic waves of crazy bounced off his knees. The lid to the box popped up slightly and glitter floated from the sides collecting at their feet. Upon closer examination, she noticed spider drawings on the box. When did Jenkins start a new obsession with spiders? His perseveration was cat based. She flipped through her notes and wrote: for the first time since his arrival, I see the danger in this man.
One of the smaller spiders escaped the lid and started to crawl across Jenkins knee; she was still writing.
Jenkins’ grin curved menacingly on his lips; he was in on the plan.
He had spoken without lyrics to the spiders before the session; he used his mind, and every last one of them listened intently. They lined up in schoolyard desk chairs, each spider sliding into the seat with attached desk. Their pencils at the ready, they took exquisite notes on the plan. Little Sammy elbowed big Ben and sixteen legs flew and fought distracting the class. Jenkins quelled them with an admonishing finger flick and continued espousing the plan via brain wave. He was a Voice in all ninety-nine spider heads; he was just like Grant.
Dr. Jill looked up from her book, “Jenkins? I think it’s time to end today’s session. I’m going to call in Big Mike, and you’re going to go back to your room. We’ll look inside your box next week.” She tried to keep her voice calm and steady. She tried to maintain eye contact without fear, but her heart bounced bunny-like as her face erupted crimson. She knew something very bad was coming.
They were alone in the room.
“Mike? Big Mike? I need you! It’s time for Jenkins to go!”
She remained seated hoping to establish normalcy. She needed to show him strength without fear. He grinned and slowly stood looming above her chair with the box.
“Jenkins? Please sit down. BIG MIKE!”
Step one: you cut a hole in the box
Step two: you put your junk in the box
Step three: get her to open the box
“I don’t want to open the box. We’ll open the box next week.”
Step three: get her to open the box
Open the box
OPEN THE BOX
Jenkins held the box above his head and screamed. His eyes tracked furiously left and right. He could barely focus. Dr. Jill knew she was going to die.
“HELP! Somebody Help!!!! Anyone!” Silence answered her cries as she ran to the window banging on the glass into the empty hallway.
Jenkins pressed his body against Dr. Jill securing her to the window. The metal blinds crushed and crackled under their weight. Unable to speak, tears rolled down her grimacing face.
He flipped the box over her head and backed up as the black creatures covered and crawled through her red hair and skittered across her face. She was unusually calm.
“No rape? Oh, they’re just spiders,” she thought seconds before she passed out.
Jenkins tapped toes to an invisible beat and wiggled like a three year old holding tightly to his magical box. He prominently displayed the colorful Popsicle stick structure on his lap. Ninety-nine spiders shivered and scuttled along the paper walls; he could hear them beg for escape. Tiny spider voices cried and crawled over one another for the few flies he would drop in every night; he was going to miss his children, but every good mother must say goodbye.
Jenkins’ mother didn’t say goodbye. She turned her back and shuffled into the kitchen when the men with the jacket and straps and white van came to take him to “Horizon Dawn”. He screamed and cried and kicked at the men, but she didn’t care. She only cared about Poo-Poo. She didn’t understand about saving Poo-Poo forever. The cat asked so nicely with her pretty purring voice and wanted Jenkins pet her softly behind the ears for always, so he obliged her requests and removed her little kitty brain through her tiny kitty nose with a bent paper clip just like Egyptians on the History channel. He used the kitchen spices. He used his favorite Star Wars sheets. His mommy must have been angry about ripping up the bedding; yes, that was why she didn’t say goodbye.
“Jenkins, you seem very excited about showing me your special box. I can barely wait to see your secrets.”
Dr. Jill didn’t usually feel nervous around patients, but Jenkins energy was slightly maniacal. His eyes sparkled differently as frenetic waves of crazy bounced off his knees. The lid to the box popped up slightly and glitter floated from the sides collecting at their feet. Upon closer examination, she noticed spider drawings on the box. When did Jenkins start a new obsession with spiders? His perseveration was cat based. She flipped through her notes and wrote: for the first time since his arrival, I see the danger in this man.
One of the smaller spiders escaped the lid and started to crawl across Jenkins knee; she was still writing.
Jenkins’ grin curved menacingly on his lips; he was in on the plan.
He had spoken without lyrics to the spiders before the session; he used his mind, and every last one of them listened intently. They lined up in schoolyard desk chairs, each spider sliding into the seat with attached desk. Their pencils at the ready, they took exquisite notes on the plan. Little Sammy elbowed big Ben and sixteen legs flew and fought distracting the class. Jenkins quelled them with an admonishing finger flick and continued espousing the plan via brain wave. He was a Voice in all ninety-nine spider heads; he was just like Grant.
Dr. Jill looked up from her book, “Jenkins? I think it’s time to end today’s session. I’m going to call in Big Mike, and you’re going to go back to your room. We’ll look inside your box next week.” She tried to keep her voice calm and steady. She tried to maintain eye contact without fear, but her heart bounced bunny-like as her face erupted crimson. She knew something very bad was coming.
They were alone in the room.
“Mike? Big Mike? I need you! It’s time for Jenkins to go!”
She remained seated hoping to establish normalcy. She needed to show him strength without fear. He grinned and slowly stood looming above her chair with the box.
“Jenkins? Please sit down. BIG MIKE!”
Step one: you cut a hole in the box
Step two: you put your junk in the box
Step three: get her to open the box
“I don’t want to open the box. We’ll open the box next week.”
Step three: get her to open the box
Open the box
OPEN THE BOX
Jenkins held the box above his head and screamed. His eyes tracked furiously left and right. He could barely focus. Dr. Jill knew she was going to die.
“HELP! Somebody Help!!!! Anyone!” Silence answered her cries as she ran to the window banging on the glass into the empty hallway.
Jenkins pressed his body against Dr. Jill securing her to the window. The metal blinds crushed and crackled under their weight. Unable to speak, tears rolled down her grimacing face.
He flipped the box over her head and backed up as the black creatures covered and crawled through her red hair and skittered across her face. She was unusually calm.
“No rape? Oh, they’re just spiders,” she thought seconds before she passed out.
Episode 17: Voices- Saving Dr. Jill
Episode 17- Voices
Get to Dr. Jill’s office NOW!
The voices boomed louder and with more clarity than ever. Black bubbling leaden ooze nauseated him. Fear induced sweat popped from every pore as the adrenalin pumped his heart to palpitation. He knew what he would see. Grant forced this situation; the plan was set in motion and he had to finish his tasks. Epi-Pin at the ready, he sprinted down the empty hall in newly stolen street clothes.
You’re not moving fast enough.
His brain cried with fear. He could not live without Jill. She had saved his life too many times, and she was going to die. The voices screamed urging with the unknown. They were always certain, but their intensity was new.
Grant ran faster; he slid around the corner grabbing the knob to the office door. It was locked but he saw the melee inside. Jenkins hovered over Dr. Jill’s frail body. The black ground writhed around her beautiful face; she was dying.
“Jenkins! Jenkins! LET ME IN!” He wrathfully shook the door; this was not what he wanted. Christ, how did I let them talk me into this?!?
This was not an option. This had to be. She’s not going to die. You will save her.
For the second time ever, Grant did not believe them.
Jenkins danced toward the door motioning to his ears and shrugging with upturned hands. No remorse or acknowledgement of her pain echoed in his eyes; he was a tool. This was all Grant’s doing. Jenkins turned his back to the door and threw his bouncing ass skyward. With one hand on the floor, he began his favorite Vanilla Ice video recreation while taking small, bent steps toward the passed out puffing Dr. Jill. Her breathing was labored and her body reminiscent of summer blueberries.
Oh now STOP
Collaborate and listen
Ice is back with a brand new edition
Something, grabs a hold of me tightly….
Jenkins grabbed Dr. Jill’s neck in his fattened hands and began to shake her violently.
This was not part of the plan.
“Jenkins! LET GO!”
Break the fucking window.
Grant dumped the contents of this paper bag. The world slowed to viscously thick honey as the toothbrush clattered to the linoleum. He wrapped his fist in the bag and slammed the window. Icy glass shattered and tinkled into the office and scattered amongst escaping arachnid bodies. He grabbed the inside knob and flung open the door.
We didn’t know about this. This ruins the plan for re-entry sans discovery. They’re going to know there was a problem.
“Irrelevant, I’m not coming back!”
Let’s not debate now, Grant. Let’s stay calm and save the Doc. Let’s keep our head and save Sally.
“OUR? Mine! My Head. My daughter. My doctor. None of this belongs to you!”
We are YOU, Grant. Debate later. Save now.
He flung Jenkins away, fell to Dr. Jill’s unbreathing side and slammed the epinephrine into her thigh. She immediately gasped for air. Spiders clung to her curls and skittered up the wall for safety.
Wait for her to open her eyes, then hug her and leave. You can tell her you love her if you want. It won’t disturb the plans.
“Fucking assholes.”
Cause I’m an asshole-e-o-eooooooo
“Yes, Jenkins, you are. What the fuck were you thinking?” He ranted from the floor holding her delicate shoulders in his arms.
“I thought you told me to kill her.” Jenkins non-lyrical voice was higher pitched than Grant expected. His eyes held hurt. He didn’t want to disturb the plan.
Did he just talk? We weren’t expecting that either.
Grant threw the overalls at Jenkins. “Change, man. We’re getting out of here, NOW.”
He rifled through Jill’s purse to find keys and thirty-three dollars then returned to her side cradling her now normally breathing body lovingly.
Dr. Jill’s eyes fluttered open to see Grant gazing down, “Spiders. Did you know about the spiders?”
“I love you.” He placed her head gently to the floor and exited quietly with his favorite madman.
Once in the empty hallway and safely away from her office Grant began his attack. “That was dicked, man. Why would you strangle her? Why would you want to hurt her?” Grant slammed fists into the softened parts of Jenkins arms and belly and side while Jenkins crumpled from the blows.
Do you really want to hurt me?
Do you really want to make me cry?
Do you really want to hurt me?
Do you really want to make me cry?
No time. No time. Go. Get him up. Get out.
They rushed into the stairwell and flew down the steps three at a time into the darkness of night.
Get to Dr. Jill’s office NOW!
The voices boomed louder and with more clarity than ever. Black bubbling leaden ooze nauseated him. Fear induced sweat popped from every pore as the adrenalin pumped his heart to palpitation. He knew what he would see. Grant forced this situation; the plan was set in motion and he had to finish his tasks. Epi-Pin at the ready, he sprinted down the empty hall in newly stolen street clothes.
You’re not moving fast enough.
His brain cried with fear. He could not live without Jill. She had saved his life too many times, and she was going to die. The voices screamed urging with the unknown. They were always certain, but their intensity was new.
Grant ran faster; he slid around the corner grabbing the knob to the office door. It was locked but he saw the melee inside. Jenkins hovered over Dr. Jill’s frail body. The black ground writhed around her beautiful face; she was dying.
“Jenkins! Jenkins! LET ME IN!” He wrathfully shook the door; this was not what he wanted. Christ, how did I let them talk me into this?!?
This was not an option. This had to be. She’s not going to die. You will save her.
For the second time ever, Grant did not believe them.
Jenkins danced toward the door motioning to his ears and shrugging with upturned hands. No remorse or acknowledgement of her pain echoed in his eyes; he was a tool. This was all Grant’s doing. Jenkins turned his back to the door and threw his bouncing ass skyward. With one hand on the floor, he began his favorite Vanilla Ice video recreation while taking small, bent steps toward the passed out puffing Dr. Jill. Her breathing was labored and her body reminiscent of summer blueberries.
Oh now STOP
Collaborate and listen
Ice is back with a brand new edition
Something, grabs a hold of me tightly….
Jenkins grabbed Dr. Jill’s neck in his fattened hands and began to shake her violently.
This was not part of the plan.
“Jenkins! LET GO!”
Break the fucking window.
Grant dumped the contents of this paper bag. The world slowed to viscously thick honey as the toothbrush clattered to the linoleum. He wrapped his fist in the bag and slammed the window. Icy glass shattered and tinkled into the office and scattered amongst escaping arachnid bodies. He grabbed the inside knob and flung open the door.
We didn’t know about this. This ruins the plan for re-entry sans discovery. They’re going to know there was a problem.
“Irrelevant, I’m not coming back!”
Let’s not debate now, Grant. Let’s stay calm and save the Doc. Let’s keep our head and save Sally.
“OUR? Mine! My Head. My daughter. My doctor. None of this belongs to you!”
We are YOU, Grant. Debate later. Save now.
He flung Jenkins away, fell to Dr. Jill’s unbreathing side and slammed the epinephrine into her thigh. She immediately gasped for air. Spiders clung to her curls and skittered up the wall for safety.
Wait for her to open her eyes, then hug her and leave. You can tell her you love her if you want. It won’t disturb the plans.
“Fucking assholes.”
Cause I’m an asshole-e-o-eooooooo
“Yes, Jenkins, you are. What the fuck were you thinking?” He ranted from the floor holding her delicate shoulders in his arms.
“I thought you told me to kill her.” Jenkins non-lyrical voice was higher pitched than Grant expected. His eyes held hurt. He didn’t want to disturb the plan.
Did he just talk? We weren’t expecting that either.
Grant threw the overalls at Jenkins. “Change, man. We’re getting out of here, NOW.”
He rifled through Jill’s purse to find keys and thirty-three dollars then returned to her side cradling her now normally breathing body lovingly.
Dr. Jill’s eyes fluttered open to see Grant gazing down, “Spiders. Did you know about the spiders?”
“I love you.” He placed her head gently to the floor and exited quietly with his favorite madman.
Once in the empty hallway and safely away from her office Grant began his attack. “That was dicked, man. Why would you strangle her? Why would you want to hurt her?” Grant slammed fists into the softened parts of Jenkins arms and belly and side while Jenkins crumpled from the blows.
Do you really want to hurt me?
Do you really want to make me cry?
Do you really want to hurt me?
Do you really want to make me cry?
No time. No time. Go. Get him up. Get out.
They rushed into the stairwell and flew down the steps three at a time into the darkness of night.
Episode 18: Voices- Escape!
Episode 18- Voices
Welcome to where time stands still
No one leaves and no one will
Moon is full never seems to change
Just labeled mentally deranged
Jenkins softly sang appropriate Metallica as he stumbled down the stairs. Grant padded boldly behind him; there were no cameras, and things seemed far too easy thus far. Jenkins didn’t have Grant’s overt confidence, but he couldn’t feel the surety in the voices’ tone; they were resolute.
Open the stairwell door in six seconds. Send Jenkins out first. Act normal. Wave to the security guard. He’s reading a book; he’s not looking for you. Normal pace. Breathe.
I wanna hold your haaaaaand.
I wanna hold your hand.
Jenkins whispered with deeply wrinkled forehead and needy doe eyes. He required comfort. His childish jam hands stunk of fear; he rubbed them quickly together as his feet performed the potty dance.
“No Jenk. I can’t hold your hand. We have to look normal. Guys don’t hold hands around here. We’re going to be fine. The Voices are always right.” A reassuring pat on the shoulder, a familiar elbow to the ribs, a clever masking of scathing inner doubt and a lame attempt at a genuine smile would suffice for now. Grant didn’t know how he could control Jenkins in the long haul. Eight hours on the outside was a long time, but forever? Grant was not a trained mental professional, and he learned the lessons of Lenny long ago. Steinbeck was clear on large, mentally unstable half-wits, and Jenkins fit the mold. Grant didn’t want to see him hunted down for accidentally killing the neighbor’s dog or cat or hamster or worse.
I just gotta have faith, faith, faith.
“That’s right, faith. Trust me. Go.”
He pushed Jenkins through the door and followed closely. They walked calmly through the lobby, waved at the security guard, opened the double glass doors and breathed intoxicating freedom. Sweet gulps of real air without bars or wire or fence or drugs flowed into their open mouths as they searched the parking lot for Dr. Jill’s car.
Dream the same thing every night
I see our freedom in my sight
No locked doors, no windows barred
No things to make my brain seem scarred
Grant was surprised at Jenkins recall of metal. He hadn’t been listening to the hard stuff in months, but his lyrical library was always appropriate for the occasion, and the words fit the moment precisely. He promised to buy him vocal coaching to teach pitch and key so he wouldn’t scare Sally. Grant was sure they would get along and play the same games. It would be like having two children, and this time, he wouldn’t fuck it up; the voices wouldn’t let him.
Grey Lexus, third row, hit the button at the top of the key.
Lights flashed in the darkness of dusk as the car magically opened. Escape was too easy.
“Nothing this easy is ever worth it, Jenk.”
We’ve had it planned for months. A good plan is always easy, Asshole. Faith. Listen to us. You’ve got six hours and seventeen minutes to save your daughter without discovery. You’ll slide right back in, no repercussions. Think of it as a short vacation.
Grant tried to ignore the voices. He wanted to pick and choose from what they said. He wanted to stay out. Only three minutes outside the hospital doors, and he was addicted to the freedom.
No Grant. You’re saving Sally and going back.
Grant ignored; they yelled louder.
You’re saving Sally and going back.
“Hey Jenkins? I might need to stop by the bar and get a quick drink. You OK to stay inside the car?”
Jenkins bounced into the back seat and played with the window as they exited the parking lot. Rolling his body up and down with the toggle button would entertain him for at least an hour while Grant took care of some numbing silence. He remembered how to muffle the voices, and he would quiet them now.
Grant we need to save Sally. You need us. You can’t do this alone.
“We’ll stop by Danger Abbey on the way to my house to see Carol and Sally. I need a fine Belgian or seven to quiet things upstairs. If I’m lucky, Dennis will have hidden whiskey under the bar.”
His favorite beer bar was walking blocks from Carol’s house with the fishbowl windows and the new man and the old memories. His house. Their house.
Our house, is a very, very, very fine house.
With two cats in the yard
Life used to be so hard
Now everything is easy cause of you.
La la la la la la la la la la la la la la la……
“You don’t get to meet the cats. That’s my one rule: no cats. You got that?”
Jenkins continued to sing as they sped down the freeway into freedom.
Welcome to where time stands still
No one leaves and no one will
Moon is full never seems to change
Just labeled mentally deranged
Jenkins softly sang appropriate Metallica as he stumbled down the stairs. Grant padded boldly behind him; there were no cameras, and things seemed far too easy thus far. Jenkins didn’t have Grant’s overt confidence, but he couldn’t feel the surety in the voices’ tone; they were resolute.
Open the stairwell door in six seconds. Send Jenkins out first. Act normal. Wave to the security guard. He’s reading a book; he’s not looking for you. Normal pace. Breathe.
I wanna hold your haaaaaand.
I wanna hold your hand.
Jenkins whispered with deeply wrinkled forehead and needy doe eyes. He required comfort. His childish jam hands stunk of fear; he rubbed them quickly together as his feet performed the potty dance.
“No Jenk. I can’t hold your hand. We have to look normal. Guys don’t hold hands around here. We’re going to be fine. The Voices are always right.” A reassuring pat on the shoulder, a familiar elbow to the ribs, a clever masking of scathing inner doubt and a lame attempt at a genuine smile would suffice for now. Grant didn’t know how he could control Jenkins in the long haul. Eight hours on the outside was a long time, but forever? Grant was not a trained mental professional, and he learned the lessons of Lenny long ago. Steinbeck was clear on large, mentally unstable half-wits, and Jenkins fit the mold. Grant didn’t want to see him hunted down for accidentally killing the neighbor’s dog or cat or hamster or worse.
I just gotta have faith, faith, faith.
“That’s right, faith. Trust me. Go.”
He pushed Jenkins through the door and followed closely. They walked calmly through the lobby, waved at the security guard, opened the double glass doors and breathed intoxicating freedom. Sweet gulps of real air without bars or wire or fence or drugs flowed into their open mouths as they searched the parking lot for Dr. Jill’s car.
Dream the same thing every night
I see our freedom in my sight
No locked doors, no windows barred
No things to make my brain seem scarred
Grant was surprised at Jenkins recall of metal. He hadn’t been listening to the hard stuff in months, but his lyrical library was always appropriate for the occasion, and the words fit the moment precisely. He promised to buy him vocal coaching to teach pitch and key so he wouldn’t scare Sally. Grant was sure they would get along and play the same games. It would be like having two children, and this time, he wouldn’t fuck it up; the voices wouldn’t let him.
Grey Lexus, third row, hit the button at the top of the key.
Lights flashed in the darkness of dusk as the car magically opened. Escape was too easy.
“Nothing this easy is ever worth it, Jenk.”
We’ve had it planned for months. A good plan is always easy, Asshole. Faith. Listen to us. You’ve got six hours and seventeen minutes to save your daughter without discovery. You’ll slide right back in, no repercussions. Think of it as a short vacation.
Grant tried to ignore the voices. He wanted to pick and choose from what they said. He wanted to stay out. Only three minutes outside the hospital doors, and he was addicted to the freedom.
No Grant. You’re saving Sally and going back.
Grant ignored; they yelled louder.
You’re saving Sally and going back.
“Hey Jenkins? I might need to stop by the bar and get a quick drink. You OK to stay inside the car?”
Jenkins bounced into the back seat and played with the window as they exited the parking lot. Rolling his body up and down with the toggle button would entertain him for at least an hour while Grant took care of some numbing silence. He remembered how to muffle the voices, and he would quiet them now.
Grant we need to save Sally. You need us. You can’t do this alone.
“We’ll stop by Danger Abbey on the way to my house to see Carol and Sally. I need a fine Belgian or seven to quiet things upstairs. If I’m lucky, Dennis will have hidden whiskey under the bar.”
His favorite beer bar was walking blocks from Carol’s house with the fishbowl windows and the new man and the old memories. His house. Their house.
Our house, is a very, very, very fine house.
With two cats in the yard
Life used to be so hard
Now everything is easy cause of you.
La la la la la la la la la la la la la la la……
“You don’t get to meet the cats. That’s my one rule: no cats. You got that?”
Jenkins continued to sing as they sped down the freeway into freedom.
Episode 19: Voices- Danger Abbey
Episode 19- Voices
Everything changes but stays the same.
The streets looked the same. The houses looked the same. Grant was changed.
It’s not time yet.
He drove by Carol’s house stalker slow praying for a glimpse of Smith and disappointedly saw his own reflection in the windows. Craning his head unsafely at the corner for a hint of light in the bathroom window or a shadowed figure behind the thin pulled drapes proved futile. They must have been out.
Listen to us.
He sped past the liquor store with the same bars on the windows, around the corner to view the back of the house from the bottom of the hill, past the gas station and still empty lot, past the 24 hour Mexican joint he always had to piss behind because there was no bathroom inside and again looped by Carol’s. He drove slower and watched the car’s headlights grow in the windows. Still no movement, he repeated the loop.
Private eyes (clap clap)
Are watching you
They see your every move.
Private eyes (clap clap)
Girrrrl.
Jenkins was highly entertained sans radio. Grant needed to concentrate; he needed to remove the voices. He drove to the bar.
Grant! Grant! You can’t do this without us. Park the car three blocks north.
He continued driving south.
You need to park north, wait thirteen minutes and start walking to her house.
Grant parked in front of Danger Abbey. “Jenk. You stay here. I’ll be right back. I’m locking you in and taking the keys. Take a nap or something.”
I’m all right
Don’t no body worry ‘bout me
Don’t leave him in the car.
Despite their frantic screams and scathing tones, Grant purposely shut them out. He could almost taste the beer he would consume to turn them off. He practiced the methods Dr. Jill was trying to teach him over the last months. A combination of her methods with his might muffle them more effectively. He imagined a small sealed box in a room full of grey metal filing cabinets. He removed the key from a necklace underneath his shirt and unlocked the box. He shook his head violently and slammed his hand to his ear pouring the voices into the trap. Slamming the lid, he shoved the box into the last cabinet and walked away.
“Where the FUCK have you been?!” Dennis yelled and high fived Grant. The usual suspects sat at the bar. Nothing had changed.
“Mental hospital. Three meals a day and all the paint I could throw, rent free.”
“You’re a dick and a horrible liar. Andy just bought rounds, you in?”
Andy’s generosity only surfaced when bad news was afoot; he was going to jail the following morning, and felt he needed to spend cash on something other than whores and the dog track. He needed to see smiles before lock-up; this wasn’t the first time.
“What did they get you for this time?” Grant was already slurring. The thought of alcohol made him jumpily excited. His breath quickened at the sight of his lost mistress.
“Bar fight. Third strike. St. Patrick’s Day night. Risk of flight. Fuck! What else rhymes with that?” Andy liked to write bad bar poetry. Some of his best work was chiseled into the wall next to the urinal.
“You’ll have plenty of time to rhyme in jail”, chimed Dennis, “since you didn’t make bail.”
“I’m not done till I yuke in a pail!”
“TO ANDY!” Glasses raised and clinks abounded, smiles painted every face and hugs and back slaps were on their way (along with a group rendition of “Don’t Stop Belivin’). Grant remembered his bar family fondly, and knew why he was here.
The first sweet sip coated his tongue and flowed easily into the next. His glass was magically empty.
Stop Grant! You need us.
He could barely hear something fuzzy far away. He sensed urgency, but channeled it into his next drink.
“Dennis, this is thirty-three dollars. I want as many beers as I can get while still tipping you. I’m not a math man. I trust you.”
Trust us, Grant. Stop.
He felt something tugging at the file cabinet. It rattled and shook, but he ignored the noises. Faint, feeble noises far, far away screamed mute.
“I’ve missed you, Buddy. Where have you been, really?”
“Carol destroyed, I mean, divorced me. Stomped my heart into dust. Met a new asshole. I haven’t seen my Sally in months. Have you ever had your soul decimated? Takes a while to come back from that.”
“Every day gets easier once it’s over. Time heals, man.”
“You’re the wisest bartender in town.”
“I’m the only one that will serve your certifiably crazy ass; if that makes me wise, so be it.”
He finished his second beer and tried to listen for the voices. Inaudibly muffled senseless words spat from the deep recesses of his brain.
G r a n t…. We…. Stop… where… house. Sally.
He couldn’t understand and didn’t care and easily pounded number three. This was going to be the best night ever in the history of ever. The best night in the history of history.
“To the best night ever in the history of History!”
Glasses rose again and screams abounded from the seven drunken regulars in the bar.
Grant was back.
Everything changes but stays the same.
The streets looked the same. The houses looked the same. Grant was changed.
It’s not time yet.
He drove by Carol’s house stalker slow praying for a glimpse of Smith and disappointedly saw his own reflection in the windows. Craning his head unsafely at the corner for a hint of light in the bathroom window or a shadowed figure behind the thin pulled drapes proved futile. They must have been out.
Listen to us.
He sped past the liquor store with the same bars on the windows, around the corner to view the back of the house from the bottom of the hill, past the gas station and still empty lot, past the 24 hour Mexican joint he always had to piss behind because there was no bathroom inside and again looped by Carol’s. He drove slower and watched the car’s headlights grow in the windows. Still no movement, he repeated the loop.
Private eyes (clap clap)
Are watching you
They see your every move.
Private eyes (clap clap)
Girrrrl.
Jenkins was highly entertained sans radio. Grant needed to concentrate; he needed to remove the voices. He drove to the bar.
Grant! Grant! You can’t do this without us. Park the car three blocks north.
He continued driving south.
You need to park north, wait thirteen minutes and start walking to her house.
Grant parked in front of Danger Abbey. “Jenk. You stay here. I’ll be right back. I’m locking you in and taking the keys. Take a nap or something.”
I’m all right
Don’t no body worry ‘bout me
Don’t leave him in the car.
Despite their frantic screams and scathing tones, Grant purposely shut them out. He could almost taste the beer he would consume to turn them off. He practiced the methods Dr. Jill was trying to teach him over the last months. A combination of her methods with his might muffle them more effectively. He imagined a small sealed box in a room full of grey metal filing cabinets. He removed the key from a necklace underneath his shirt and unlocked the box. He shook his head violently and slammed his hand to his ear pouring the voices into the trap. Slamming the lid, he shoved the box into the last cabinet and walked away.
“Where the FUCK have you been?!” Dennis yelled and high fived Grant. The usual suspects sat at the bar. Nothing had changed.
“Mental hospital. Three meals a day and all the paint I could throw, rent free.”
“You’re a dick and a horrible liar. Andy just bought rounds, you in?”
Andy’s generosity only surfaced when bad news was afoot; he was going to jail the following morning, and felt he needed to spend cash on something other than whores and the dog track. He needed to see smiles before lock-up; this wasn’t the first time.
“What did they get you for this time?” Grant was already slurring. The thought of alcohol made him jumpily excited. His breath quickened at the sight of his lost mistress.
“Bar fight. Third strike. St. Patrick’s Day night. Risk of flight. Fuck! What else rhymes with that?” Andy liked to write bad bar poetry. Some of his best work was chiseled into the wall next to the urinal.
“You’ll have plenty of time to rhyme in jail”, chimed Dennis, “since you didn’t make bail.”
“I’m not done till I yuke in a pail!”
“TO ANDY!” Glasses raised and clinks abounded, smiles painted every face and hugs and back slaps were on their way (along with a group rendition of “Don’t Stop Belivin’). Grant remembered his bar family fondly, and knew why he was here.
The first sweet sip coated his tongue and flowed easily into the next. His glass was magically empty.
Stop Grant! You need us.
He could barely hear something fuzzy far away. He sensed urgency, but channeled it into his next drink.
“Dennis, this is thirty-three dollars. I want as many beers as I can get while still tipping you. I’m not a math man. I trust you.”
Trust us, Grant. Stop.
He felt something tugging at the file cabinet. It rattled and shook, but he ignored the noises. Faint, feeble noises far, far away screamed mute.
“I’ve missed you, Buddy. Where have you been, really?”
“Carol destroyed, I mean, divorced me. Stomped my heart into dust. Met a new asshole. I haven’t seen my Sally in months. Have you ever had your soul decimated? Takes a while to come back from that.”
“Every day gets easier once it’s over. Time heals, man.”
“You’re the wisest bartender in town.”
“I’m the only one that will serve your certifiably crazy ass; if that makes me wise, so be it.”
He finished his second beer and tried to listen for the voices. Inaudibly muffled senseless words spat from the deep recesses of his brain.
G r a n t…. We…. Stop… where… house. Sally.
He couldn’t understand and didn’t care and easily pounded number three. This was going to be the best night ever in the history of ever. The best night in the history of history.
“To the best night ever in the history of History!”
Glasses rose again and screams abounded from the seven drunken regulars in the bar.
Grant was back.
Episode 20: Voices- Saving Sally Pt. 1 Starring Jenkins
Episode 20- Voices
Jenkins perched in the back seat of the car and stared into the fogged windows of the bar. He heard the sounds of fun; sadly, no one invited him to the party.
The other kids never wanted to play with Jenkins. He was larger and dumber than the average bear. They feared and hated him. He never caught the ball. He was partially bald by twelve. His high was voice incongruous to his portly frame. He had no dad. He smelled like corn chips and cat piss. The reasons to ridicule were limitless. Jenkins was more than different, more than merely unusual; he turned the pain inward, stopped talking and started to sing.
I’m so lonely
So lonely
So lonely and sadly alone
There’s no body
I can relate to
He sadly stared at himself in the rearview mirror and sang from his depths louder and with more passion than ever. No one told him to be quiet, and it felt good to be loud. He was being bad. His eyes glossed with tears as he inspected the colored specks around the blackness. With few mirrors in “Horizon Dawn”, Jenkins’ childhood habit of talking to himself was curbed. He spent countless lonely hours in the bathroom building a friendship with him self. Before Grant, he was his only friend; he always listened to himself and took his own advice. Looking deeply into his eyes until his face stopped making sense, he searched the wrinkles in his forehead and the freckles near his nose for answers.
Who are you?
Who, who, who, who?
Yeah, I really want to know!
The party continued inside the bar. Tears leaked down his puffy cheeks. Jenkins suddenly raged and ripped the mirror off the window smashing it against his thighs and beating his own head. He flailed the blunt weapon into the door and obliterated the window with his beefy elbow.
No body likes me!
Every body hates me!
I think I’ll just go eat worms!
The voices inside were too raucous to hear his screams. Grant was on his fourth beer in less than fifteen minutes and did not anticipate Jenkins’ explosion. The voices were safely locked away and unable to warn him of the ensuing melee in the car. Dr. Jill’s vehicle was being ripped apart, but more importantly, Grant was getting ripped.
Walk away, walk away
Walk away, walk away
I will follow.
Jenkins yanked his body out the shattered passenger window wielding his new weaponry to the world. Blood marred his hands and head as scratches bloomed red. His eyes tracked uncontrollably left and right as he planted his boots to the curb.
Stand in the place where you are
Now face north
Think about direction wonder why you have it now
North. He faced north.
Mustang Sally! I think you better slow your mustang down.
Mustang Sally, now baby.
I think you better slow your mustang down.
Sally lived north. Carol lived north. He knew exactly where to go. He decided what to do. Jenkins wanted to be the winner, the best, the savior. If Grant wasn’t going to save Sally, Jenkins would, and he would get a parade and a cake a kiss from a pretty lady. Everyone would be his friend and invite him to their birthday parties at MacDonald’s. He’d slide down the curly slide into the house of balls with cheeseburger in hand and balloons tied to each wrist. He would laugh and sing and have all the friends in the world tell him how much they liked him and how smart and strong and important he was. He would have sex with Dr. Jill. He’d get strawberry Jell-O with every meal and fourteen cats to play with and rub against his face and sleep with and cuddle and stroke. He’d get the biggest record collection in the world and girls would dance on his mother’s sofa without shirts on.
He skipped north on the darkened streets to find Carol’s house, kill Smith and save Sally.
Big time
I’m on my way I’m making it
Big Time
Di di di di di ner ner nun e
Big Time
I’m gonna watch it grow, Yeah!
Whoa-o, o, o Whoa-o, o, o
Timing his steps to the song, he moved quickly down the street brandishing his mirror. Each step brought him closer to winning love, each step closer to friends, each step closer to home. His mother would take him back. He’d live in a huge house. He’d have a sleepover with all his friends. They’d barbeque ribs with messy sauce and throw their bones to his pack of wild dogs. The Mayor would give him the key to the city. He dreamed and thought and planned.
Jenkins was in front of a house with big glass windows. Inside, he saw a pretty little girl and a mommy and a man. The man smiled. How could that awful man smile? Jenkins would beat the smile off his face.
He smashed the window with his mirror and leapt into the house. His magical cape fluttered in the imaginary breeze; he couldn’t hear the screams.
Jenkins was saving Sally.
Jenkins perched in the back seat of the car and stared into the fogged windows of the bar. He heard the sounds of fun; sadly, no one invited him to the party.
The other kids never wanted to play with Jenkins. He was larger and dumber than the average bear. They feared and hated him. He never caught the ball. He was partially bald by twelve. His high was voice incongruous to his portly frame. He had no dad. He smelled like corn chips and cat piss. The reasons to ridicule were limitless. Jenkins was more than different, more than merely unusual; he turned the pain inward, stopped talking and started to sing.
I’m so lonely
So lonely
So lonely and sadly alone
There’s no body
I can relate to
He sadly stared at himself in the rearview mirror and sang from his depths louder and with more passion than ever. No one told him to be quiet, and it felt good to be loud. He was being bad. His eyes glossed with tears as he inspected the colored specks around the blackness. With few mirrors in “Horizon Dawn”, Jenkins’ childhood habit of talking to himself was curbed. He spent countless lonely hours in the bathroom building a friendship with him self. Before Grant, he was his only friend; he always listened to himself and took his own advice. Looking deeply into his eyes until his face stopped making sense, he searched the wrinkles in his forehead and the freckles near his nose for answers.
Who are you?
Who, who, who, who?
Yeah, I really want to know!
The party continued inside the bar. Tears leaked down his puffy cheeks. Jenkins suddenly raged and ripped the mirror off the window smashing it against his thighs and beating his own head. He flailed the blunt weapon into the door and obliterated the window with his beefy elbow.
No body likes me!
Every body hates me!
I think I’ll just go eat worms!
The voices inside were too raucous to hear his screams. Grant was on his fourth beer in less than fifteen minutes and did not anticipate Jenkins’ explosion. The voices were safely locked away and unable to warn him of the ensuing melee in the car. Dr. Jill’s vehicle was being ripped apart, but more importantly, Grant was getting ripped.
Walk away, walk away
Walk away, walk away
I will follow.
Jenkins yanked his body out the shattered passenger window wielding his new weaponry to the world. Blood marred his hands and head as scratches bloomed red. His eyes tracked uncontrollably left and right as he planted his boots to the curb.
Stand in the place where you are
Now face north
Think about direction wonder why you have it now
North. He faced north.
Mustang Sally! I think you better slow your mustang down.
Mustang Sally, now baby.
I think you better slow your mustang down.
Sally lived north. Carol lived north. He knew exactly where to go. He decided what to do. Jenkins wanted to be the winner, the best, the savior. If Grant wasn’t going to save Sally, Jenkins would, and he would get a parade and a cake a kiss from a pretty lady. Everyone would be his friend and invite him to their birthday parties at MacDonald’s. He’d slide down the curly slide into the house of balls with cheeseburger in hand and balloons tied to each wrist. He would laugh and sing and have all the friends in the world tell him how much they liked him and how smart and strong and important he was. He would have sex with Dr. Jill. He’d get strawberry Jell-O with every meal and fourteen cats to play with and rub against his face and sleep with and cuddle and stroke. He’d get the biggest record collection in the world and girls would dance on his mother’s sofa without shirts on.
He skipped north on the darkened streets to find Carol’s house, kill Smith and save Sally.
Big time
I’m on my way I’m making it
Big Time
Di di di di di ner ner nun e
Big Time
I’m gonna watch it grow, Yeah!
Whoa-o, o, o Whoa-o, o, o
Timing his steps to the song, he moved quickly down the street brandishing his mirror. Each step brought him closer to winning love, each step closer to friends, each step closer to home. His mother would take him back. He’d live in a huge house. He’d have a sleepover with all his friends. They’d barbeque ribs with messy sauce and throw their bones to his pack of wild dogs. The Mayor would give him the key to the city. He dreamed and thought and planned.
Jenkins was in front of a house with big glass windows. Inside, he saw a pretty little girl and a mommy and a man. The man smiled. How could that awful man smile? Jenkins would beat the smile off his face.
He smashed the window with his mirror and leapt into the house. His magical cape fluttered in the imaginary breeze; he couldn’t hear the screams.
Jenkins was saving Sally.
Episode 21: Voices- Where's Jenks?
Episode 21- Voices
“Keep the change, Brother. I got a little work to do.” Grant pounded five beers in twenty-two minutes, practically a bar record. He wasn’t even trying. He heard nothing inside his head and started his stumble out the door.
“Hey asshole, you’re not driving!” Dennis was strict on these rules. He had a fold out cot in back and was kind enough to let patrons sleep until sober. He always pushed for the girls to stay over; his kindness with girls was legendary.
“No, I’m not. I’m walking six blocks north to Carol’s house, MY HOUSE.!” Grant’s finger careened off his intended target and threw him into the bar stool. “I wanna see my daughter, man. I need to save Sally.”
“Save her from what? Save her…”
The door slammed on his words and Grant bumbled toward the car to retrieve Jenkins. Something wasn’t right: glass, dents, blood, damage, empty.
Jenkins was gone.
Grant searched for the voices in his head. Suddenly, he was disappointed at their disappearance. He sensed great need for them in the upcoming hours, but he had shut them away. He made a mistake.
“I’m sorry voices, come back. I need you.”
He ran to the filing cabinet in his mind, slamming open the drawer and removing the box. Fumbling with the key around his neck, he twisted it open as the lid flew exposing nothing. His box was empty. The voices were not there. He opened other cabinets and searched smaller boxes, wooden boxes, gold boxes, paper boxes… all to no avail. He needed them, and they were gone.
He paced, controlled his breathing and ran his fingers ripping hair. He was alone. He always wished and dreamed for this moment, but now upon him, he was scared. He stood alone in the street next to a stolen car with an insane man on the loose. Things could not get much worse, but he knew they would. “Where would Jenkins go? If I were Jenkins… SHIT!”
Grant knew where Jenkins went. He shouldn’t have stalked the house three times. He shouldn’t have pointed at the windows. He shouldn’t have done a lot of things, and now the voices were gone, he was drunk and had no direction.
Grant weaved north up the hill. Jenkins was going to kill Smith. Killing was the intended plan, wasn’t it? The voices never told him, but he had guessed. Why else bring Jenkins? Grant was no killer; he was a drunken crazy lunatic, but not a killer. Jenkins held no capacity for remorse; there was no other reason for him to venture away from the hospital. The voices needed Jenkins in the plan to kill Smith to save Sally.
Grant was running fast.
This wasn’t about jealousy; this was about saving his daughter, right? Grant didn’t love Carol anymore, but he wanted Sally to know her real daddy. This Smith was a violent man set to ruin their lives, right? He would be a terrible father yelling at nonsense and pinching arms for punishment and cutting off fingers and slamming glasses on tables and starting fights in the kitchen. Grant believed his sister, but needed the encouragement of the voices.
“Voices! I need you! Please come out now. Please?” He pleaded and ran and prayed he wouldn’t be too late.
He longed for the muffled sounds indicating their existence. They were gone. Grant felt nothing. He wanted to collapse and cry, but he had no time for self-pity. People were going to die and it was his fault. What kind of man escapes a mental hospital with a lunatic on a mission to save his daughter? His theories about Smith were based on dreams, voices and the collaboration of his alcoholic codependent sister.
As he stood miles away from the asylum with someone’s death looming, Grant felt sane for the first time in many years. He needed to collect Jenkins. He needed to go back. They both belonged behind barred windows and security cameras.
He looked across the street into Carol’s house (his house) and saw no lights. They were not home. Jenkins was at the wrong house.
Grant stood in front of the empty lot and vomited.
“Keep the change, Brother. I got a little work to do.” Grant pounded five beers in twenty-two minutes, practically a bar record. He wasn’t even trying. He heard nothing inside his head and started his stumble out the door.
“Hey asshole, you’re not driving!” Dennis was strict on these rules. He had a fold out cot in back and was kind enough to let patrons sleep until sober. He always pushed for the girls to stay over; his kindness with girls was legendary.
“No, I’m not. I’m walking six blocks north to Carol’s house, MY HOUSE.!” Grant’s finger careened off his intended target and threw him into the bar stool. “I wanna see my daughter, man. I need to save Sally.”
“Save her from what? Save her…”
The door slammed on his words and Grant bumbled toward the car to retrieve Jenkins. Something wasn’t right: glass, dents, blood, damage, empty.
Jenkins was gone.
Grant searched for the voices in his head. Suddenly, he was disappointed at their disappearance. He sensed great need for them in the upcoming hours, but he had shut them away. He made a mistake.
“I’m sorry voices, come back. I need you.”
He ran to the filing cabinet in his mind, slamming open the drawer and removing the box. Fumbling with the key around his neck, he twisted it open as the lid flew exposing nothing. His box was empty. The voices were not there. He opened other cabinets and searched smaller boxes, wooden boxes, gold boxes, paper boxes… all to no avail. He needed them, and they were gone.
He paced, controlled his breathing and ran his fingers ripping hair. He was alone. He always wished and dreamed for this moment, but now upon him, he was scared. He stood alone in the street next to a stolen car with an insane man on the loose. Things could not get much worse, but he knew they would. “Where would Jenkins go? If I were Jenkins… SHIT!”
Grant knew where Jenkins went. He shouldn’t have stalked the house three times. He shouldn’t have pointed at the windows. He shouldn’t have done a lot of things, and now the voices were gone, he was drunk and had no direction.
Grant weaved north up the hill. Jenkins was going to kill Smith. Killing was the intended plan, wasn’t it? The voices never told him, but he had guessed. Why else bring Jenkins? Grant was no killer; he was a drunken crazy lunatic, but not a killer. Jenkins held no capacity for remorse; there was no other reason for him to venture away from the hospital. The voices needed Jenkins in the plan to kill Smith to save Sally.
Grant was running fast.
This wasn’t about jealousy; this was about saving his daughter, right? Grant didn’t love Carol anymore, but he wanted Sally to know her real daddy. This Smith was a violent man set to ruin their lives, right? He would be a terrible father yelling at nonsense and pinching arms for punishment and cutting off fingers and slamming glasses on tables and starting fights in the kitchen. Grant believed his sister, but needed the encouragement of the voices.
“Voices! I need you! Please come out now. Please?” He pleaded and ran and prayed he wouldn’t be too late.
He longed for the muffled sounds indicating their existence. They were gone. Grant felt nothing. He wanted to collapse and cry, but he had no time for self-pity. People were going to die and it was his fault. What kind of man escapes a mental hospital with a lunatic on a mission to save his daughter? His theories about Smith were based on dreams, voices and the collaboration of his alcoholic codependent sister.
As he stood miles away from the asylum with someone’s death looming, Grant felt sane for the first time in many years. He needed to collect Jenkins. He needed to go back. They both belonged behind barred windows and security cameras.
He looked across the street into Carol’s house (his house) and saw no lights. They were not home. Jenkins was at the wrong house.
Grant stood in front of the empty lot and vomited.
Episode 22: Voices- The Wrong Family
Episode 22- Voices
She instinctively covered her little girl by wrapping her in arms. This wasn’t happening. A huge, wild-eyed man did not jump through their living room window. He was not standing in the shards of her newly installed two thousand dollar picture window. He was not raving in song and flailing a blunt object. Is that a rearview mirror? Who is Mustang Sally?
They recently moved to this neighborhood to avoid such instances. The real estate agent assured them of safety. Her husband crashed into the unloaded boxes in the corner. She hoped it wasn’t mother’s china; she skimped on bubble wrap and merely used newspaper. No one plans for these kinds of mishaps.
“Close your eyes baby, it’s going to be ok.” She whispered while stroking and patting her frail daughter’s little head. “Mommy will protect you. It’s going to be OK.” She believed her own words less than the event unfolding before her. A man was beating her husband to death with an errant car part. This wasn’t happening.
They whimpered softly as the crazed man continued smacking mercilessly on her husband’s kidneys. No, that was his spine. Moving up to his face, blood from his nose spattered on her favorite abstract painting adding angular stripes to the linier structure of the piece. Surrounding details vibrantly sprang from fear. A fine layer of dust on the mantle was missed by the maid last Thursday. Kelly’s hair smelled like strawberries. The water in the rose bouquet on the dining room table needed to be changed if they were to get an extra day of life. The grout on the foyer tiles was unusually dark. The orange cat delicately licked her paws; she saw the thin hairs wave above the thick in her fur. Those nails needed to be clipped, and she couldn’t make it to vet’s until next Tuesday. She hoped they’d all be alive next Tuesday.
“Mommy? Can we call the Police?”
Yes, call the Police. Why hadn’t she thought of that? Surreptitiously reaching into her back pocket for the cell phone, she quietly dialed 911. Leaving it open on the wooden floor to catch the sounds of screams would be enough to send uniformed Saviors. They would come.
She wanted to do something to save her husband. He fell onto the glass and sliced open his forearm. He was being beaten, badly, and too drained to fight back. He shouldn’t have tried to reason with the singing lunatic. He should have grabbed the fire poker and skewered the madman in the heart.
She could grab the fire poker.
The phone was open to the screams and pleading for help. Was she screaming?
“The Police are on the phone! WHO ARE YOU? Go away. What did we do?” Her arms still tightly wrapped around her daughter, she scooted until her back was against the fireplace. She was arms length from a weapon. He needed to turn away for a moment for her to make an attack.
Fuck the police coming strait from the underground
Young Brother…
Jenkins kicked the open phone into the kitchen and lurked toward the cowering woman still holding the rearview mirror.
I need a hero,
I’m coming up for a hero ‘till the end of the night
And he’s got to be strong and he’s got to be cool and he’s gotta be fresh from the fight
I need a hero!
With bloody smeared face open arms, he approached; his menacingly crooked smile juxtaposed his furiously tracking, unfocused eyes. Jenkins knelt down wrapping his arms softly around hers folding little Kelly into a bundle of corn chips. She cried and wriggled for escape. The mirror, covered in her husband’s blood, rested against her cheek.
She let the smelly crazy man hug them and reached back for the fire tools. Thank god she had unpacked this much. Her husband wanted to wait until winter leaving the unused tools in the garage, but she liked the way the equipment stood next to the fireplace. Certain things made a house a home; fire tools and toothbrush holders were paramount.
Poker in hand, held behind his back, she continued to hold and shake and sway with the two of them. Oddly purring noises came from him, but no words emanated other than in song. This wasn’t happening.
She smashed the metal rod against his back and recoiled screaming, “Get out! Get out! Get away from her!” He whimpered kitten like as tears dropped to her wooden floor. She brandished the weapon like a sword and drove him back hands raised in front of the broken window. His back illuminated by flashing police lights, loudspeakers dominated the air. Jenkins turned, open mouthed, to dozens of spinning red lights and uniformed men pointing guns.
Mamma they try and break me
The window burns to light the way back home
A light that warms no matter where they’ve gone
They’re off to find the hero of the day
But what if they should fall by someone’s wicked way?
“DROP YOUR WEAPON!”
Jenkins’ hands pointed to the sky, but he still held his precious mirror. He brought it close to his face and stared at his reflection asking his eyes how this happened. Where was Grant to explain? He was the hero. He saved Sally. He killed Smith.
Jenkins extended the mirror to the police as a gift. He wanted to ask for his reward. He wanted his paper signed by the mayor. He was a good citizen. He was answered by loud popping sounds and pain blooming in his shoulder and chest and stomach and leg.
The sky was so beautiful and the stars welcomed him home with song.
Twinkle twinkle little star
How I wonder….
She instinctively covered her little girl by wrapping her in arms. This wasn’t happening. A huge, wild-eyed man did not jump through their living room window. He was not standing in the shards of her newly installed two thousand dollar picture window. He was not raving in song and flailing a blunt object. Is that a rearview mirror? Who is Mustang Sally?
They recently moved to this neighborhood to avoid such instances. The real estate agent assured them of safety. Her husband crashed into the unloaded boxes in the corner. She hoped it wasn’t mother’s china; she skimped on bubble wrap and merely used newspaper. No one plans for these kinds of mishaps.
“Close your eyes baby, it’s going to be ok.” She whispered while stroking and patting her frail daughter’s little head. “Mommy will protect you. It’s going to be OK.” She believed her own words less than the event unfolding before her. A man was beating her husband to death with an errant car part. This wasn’t happening.
They whimpered softly as the crazed man continued smacking mercilessly on her husband’s kidneys. No, that was his spine. Moving up to his face, blood from his nose spattered on her favorite abstract painting adding angular stripes to the linier structure of the piece. Surrounding details vibrantly sprang from fear. A fine layer of dust on the mantle was missed by the maid last Thursday. Kelly’s hair smelled like strawberries. The water in the rose bouquet on the dining room table needed to be changed if they were to get an extra day of life. The grout on the foyer tiles was unusually dark. The orange cat delicately licked her paws; she saw the thin hairs wave above the thick in her fur. Those nails needed to be clipped, and she couldn’t make it to vet’s until next Tuesday. She hoped they’d all be alive next Tuesday.
“Mommy? Can we call the Police?”
Yes, call the Police. Why hadn’t she thought of that? Surreptitiously reaching into her back pocket for the cell phone, she quietly dialed 911. Leaving it open on the wooden floor to catch the sounds of screams would be enough to send uniformed Saviors. They would come.
She wanted to do something to save her husband. He fell onto the glass and sliced open his forearm. He was being beaten, badly, and too drained to fight back. He shouldn’t have tried to reason with the singing lunatic. He should have grabbed the fire poker and skewered the madman in the heart.
She could grab the fire poker.
The phone was open to the screams and pleading for help. Was she screaming?
“The Police are on the phone! WHO ARE YOU? Go away. What did we do?” Her arms still tightly wrapped around her daughter, she scooted until her back was against the fireplace. She was arms length from a weapon. He needed to turn away for a moment for her to make an attack.
Fuck the police coming strait from the underground
Young Brother…
Jenkins kicked the open phone into the kitchen and lurked toward the cowering woman still holding the rearview mirror.
I need a hero,
I’m coming up for a hero ‘till the end of the night
And he’s got to be strong and he’s got to be cool and he’s gotta be fresh from the fight
I need a hero!
With bloody smeared face open arms, he approached; his menacingly crooked smile juxtaposed his furiously tracking, unfocused eyes. Jenkins knelt down wrapping his arms softly around hers folding little Kelly into a bundle of corn chips. She cried and wriggled for escape. The mirror, covered in her husband’s blood, rested against her cheek.
She let the smelly crazy man hug them and reached back for the fire tools. Thank god she had unpacked this much. Her husband wanted to wait until winter leaving the unused tools in the garage, but she liked the way the equipment stood next to the fireplace. Certain things made a house a home; fire tools and toothbrush holders were paramount.
Poker in hand, held behind his back, she continued to hold and shake and sway with the two of them. Oddly purring noises came from him, but no words emanated other than in song. This wasn’t happening.
She smashed the metal rod against his back and recoiled screaming, “Get out! Get out! Get away from her!” He whimpered kitten like as tears dropped to her wooden floor. She brandished the weapon like a sword and drove him back hands raised in front of the broken window. His back illuminated by flashing police lights, loudspeakers dominated the air. Jenkins turned, open mouthed, to dozens of spinning red lights and uniformed men pointing guns.
Mamma they try and break me
The window burns to light the way back home
A light that warms no matter where they’ve gone
They’re off to find the hero of the day
But what if they should fall by someone’s wicked way?
“DROP YOUR WEAPON!”
Jenkins’ hands pointed to the sky, but he still held his precious mirror. He brought it close to his face and stared at his reflection asking his eyes how this happened. Where was Grant to explain? He was the hero. He saved Sally. He killed Smith.
Jenkins extended the mirror to the police as a gift. He wanted to ask for his reward. He wanted his paper signed by the mayor. He was a good citizen. He was answered by loud popping sounds and pain blooming in his shoulder and chest and stomach and leg.
The sky was so beautiful and the stars welcomed him home with song.
Twinkle twinkle little star
How I wonder….
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