Seven-X (25 page)

 As fate would have it, my primary source of information came directly to me. Annette Dobson was brought to the infirmary around three in the afternoon. At the time, I was in the psych lab reviewing inkblots.

 I glanced up and saw her in the distance, escorted in.  I tried to excuse myself to use the bathroom, but Nurse Regan was all over me, making sure I wasn’t going anywhere.

Those blots were a joke. They all looked like things I saw in the cottage. Winged bats, snakes, leopards attacking, ghosts or demon-like characters. Everything was familiar. I could tell the way Regan was eyeballing me, with that puffy, black eye that everything was designed to illicit a reaction from me. 

But I acted casual, making up things the stupid blots looked like to see how they react to me, not me to them. I’m the one in control here.

I focused on Annette Dobson and any information I could obtain regarding her status. Here’s what I discovered. Baby Kevin has been crying since last night, non-stop. Twice he stopped breathing and his neck is bruised. Bruises were also found on his left leg and right arm. 

The nurses’ report states tears came out of his left eye only, and his body temperature dropped to ninety-five degrees.

This prompted Reverend Billings into action. His diagnosis is that the demon Keron Ken-Ken returned with seven of his friends to wreak havoc and take back his home. Hence, Billings ordered in the prayer warriors, who arrived like a swat team, to fight demons off baby Kevin and Annette.

The warriors have Kevin in the chapel, while Annette undergoes testing. She no longer looks ditsy and bubbly with religious giddiness tattooed on her face. She’s genuinely concerned and noticeably worn out. 

Speaking of worn out, I returned to the serenity of my room, only to find that I’ve been assigned a roommate. The bed on the other side of my room, now officially belongs to Rudy Martin, my impish breakfast companion from a few weeks back.  My reflective thoughts became deflective grunts, as I tried to concentrate on writing before dinner. 

The last thing I need is a sidekick nipping at my heels, buzzing around with questions and comments every two seconds. His only value to me is information. I need to find a way to put him to use and keep him occupied, away from me.

After assessing his ability to provide and retain information, I invented this game we call “Quest.” I send Rudy on missions and he reports back to me, winning points and prizes for completing successful quests. I told him the mission’s are top secret, so he can’t mention them to anyone, or he is immediately disqualified, and has to report directly to Ward E for admittance. 

This freaked him out, so I definitely have his silence and cooperation. I just sent him on mission one. A trip to the nurses’ station to report anything he hears about code names, “
baby, Kevin, Annie or Dobson.”
He gets two points for everything piece of information he brings me. Ten points earns a special prize. He can’t report back here to base camp, until after dinner.

Dinner brings me to my next quest. I need to make friends with the kitchen staff, perhaps even try to volunteer there. I need to see the food prep and processing. I need a precise layout of this entire compound, and an accurate account of security locations and personnel, as well as weapons and ammunition. I will also monitor the food truck schedule. I have to find a way to establish trust and obtain concrete evidence of human rights violations committed at Uphir Behavioral Health Center. 

I should attend that church service. The people attending are mostly from Ward B, where Dobson is being held, or staff members. Ward C patients, like me, are only allowed to service by invitation, and escorted to and from the ward. 

Ward C patients are always supervised when leaving the Ward. Ward B patients are awarded unsupervised outdoor activity within restricted areas. 

Obviously Ward D and E patients have no escorted privileges or rights. Ward A is the recovery ward, lab and infirmary. 

It is also the building that houses most of the offices. Then there are Dr. Haworth’s living quarters, which can only be accessed through Ward A. 

What I’ve observed is a hierarchy of patient privileges based on mental condition and religious beliefs. It seems those cooperating with Billings program are given more freedom.

My migraine is closing in again and my eyes feel like ten pound weights falling into the back of my head. I have to get what little rest and peace I can get, while I have it. I’ll report back later.

JOURNAL ENTRY:                                       

TUESDAY DECEMBER 21, 2010 – 9:15 PM

I resigned myself to the fact there’s absolutely no way I’m going to get my new roomie to shut up. He’s wired like a six-year old kid, in a fifty-year old body, non-stop yakking about baby Jesus, wise men and angels. 

I swear, Rudy acts like it’s the first time he’s ever heard that story. And to me, that’s all it is, a story, like Santa Claus and the elves. 

I can’t even concentrate. I’m trying to tune him out by agreeing to whatever he says, just to shut him up. Yes, church was great. Christmas is fun. I love the songs too. No, I don’t want to sing them now.  

My head is rolling in circles and I can’t shake that agitated adrenaline rushing through my body. I clench my fists and my hands shake like they want to punch through the walls, or smash my head into the floor as I nod and smile at this lunatic, who unwittingly stands in the path of my destruction, if he doesn’t shut the fuck up.

This bomb has been ticking inside me all day. I wanted to scream the whole time I was in church. Every word that came out of Billings’ mouth was like a razor to my soul, and I could feel this deep groan building in my gut, ready to explode. 

It was a euphoric festival of emotion, which swung like a pendulum of extremes. The room erupted singing “Joy To The World.” Patients danced, sang and celebrated like their team just won the SuperBowl. 

I have to admit; I smiled in a guilty way, like watching
America’s Funniest Home Videos
and laughing at the idiot who falls off his porch. I merely observed as the patients/inmates clang on Billing’s every word between songs with child-like awe.

The elation of
Joy To The World
was followed with Annette Dobson’s stunning rendition of “
O Holy Night
,” which provoked a range of odd behavior. Some people were weeping, some praying, some fell on their knees.  The sound of her voice gave me chills, and it literally felt like I was being torn in two as I listened to her sing.  It cut into me in waves of notes. But something was deeper at work inside me.

Somewhere deep in my body, this rage was bubbling. Evil thoughts surfaced to my mind. I was filled with the cruelest intention to harm someone. The thought grew as I looked around and saw the mesmerized lunatics hanging off Dobson’s voice. 

“It’s time! Take a hostage. Fight your way out of here,” I heard myself say.

 So I began to fantasize about the whole scenario.  I could jump the guard, take his weapon and start beating anyone who got in my way… DIE! DIE! DIE! Was the battle cry in my head as I looked at each one of them. 

But the notes of music simultaneously attacked the other side of me. I nearly wept at the beauty of Annette’s voice, the poetry of the lyrics and simplicity of the love being poured out in the majestic chapel. The sounds, the murals, the stained glass and picturesque statues softened my heart, while my head hardened with malice.

And right when I thought I was the only person so dualistically divided, this guttural scream ripped through the microphone. 

A shriek of terror came from the same voice that seconds before had been saturated with purity. Innocence vanished, replaced with shrills of fear crying,
“
They’re killing my baby! They’re killing my baby!”
 

Before Dobson could run off the stage, Reverend Billings subdued her, and within a minute Nurse Evans brought Kevin into the chapel. 

Dead silence filled the room.  Heels clanged off the marble floor, echoing off stained glass as she brought the baby up the aisle to the altar. The babies’ misery hung like a cloud over the room. A thick presence filled the chapel, as sobs of pain reverberated. 

Disturbing shrieks and moans rifled out like cannons toward the altar and a chilling breeze swept through, blowing out the candles on the altar. 

As baby Kevin was brought up, Reverend Billings addressed the room saying, “It is imperative we enter a spirit of worship and prayer. We must prepare ourselves to fight the enemy and put on the whole armor of God.” 

He then ordered ‘his elders’ up to pray over Kevin. That’s when I recognized that guy from the Post Office, Earl. The old guy with the eagle tattoo. He ran up and prayed over Annette. When he put his hands on her, she fell down to the ground like a rag doll. The others formed a circle around Kevin, and his crying was hushed as a passionate babbling resounded beneath the melody of a violin. 

Reverend Billings joined Earl and prayed over Annette. She looked like a corpse. Billings had his hands on her stomach, babbling something when she gagged, before popping upright. Everything fell into a hushed silence and the single string of the violin screeched across the bow, before hushing into a sour note. Then silence…

Complete silence…

All eyes were fixated on Annette waiting for her to respond. After what seemed like minutes, she broke into laughter releasing the cloud of tension that hung over them. She looked like she was crying and laughing at the same time. An undeniable release from something heavily weighing her down. 

Within moments this incredible smell filled the chapel. It was like rose petals and violets. Lavender, ginger, cinnamon and jasmine. Like a fresh forest after the rain, or a cool clean autumn morning in the mountains. All of it rolled into one essence. It was hard to describe, but so intoxicating.  It was peaceful and joyous, but my nerves signaled me that something was wrong as I scanned the room. 

Then… BAM! Reality hit me!  

What if the drugs were being tested in gas form?  Inhalants carrying psychedelic hallucinogens, nerve gas, nitrous oxides, Yopo snuff. For centuries, drugs have been used by shamans and incorporated into religious services. 

Why not here?  Why not now?

I tried to slow my breathing and placed my shirt over my nose. I scanned the room to plan my exit. With all attention up front, I managed to slip out and slowly make my way to the rear of the chapel unnoticed. 

I got to the exit, but the door was locked from the outside. We were trapped. Those drugs were going to work their way into my system, one way or another.

My eyes got watery. I could feel the pressure of a migraine beginning to throb again. I tried to control my breathing but my eyes rolled back. I felt dizzy. That migraine squeezed my head so hard I dropped to the ground, groaning.

The next thing I remember I was on the floor looking up at that old guy Earl, praying over me. He smiled and said, “Choose life,” as he helped me to my feet. Then he hugged me and said, “I took care of it, like I promised. Know me, as
“a friend.”

I can’t describe it. My headache was gone, but this intoxicating euphoria only lasted about five minutes, then within a thought, in a fraction of a second, the pain shot into me like a bullet, and that angst filled me again. I looked around and saw Annette holding Kevin peacefully in her arms. 

And just as I thought no one else shared my agony, I glanced over to see Donald staring at me. Our eyes locked. He smiled sadistically, his eyes fluttering and lips trembling, silently speaking across the room that our pain was shared. 

Then Billings spoke with an authoritative voice, proclaiming. 
“If it is by the Spirit of God that I drive out demons, then the kingdom of God has come upon you.” Let us repent from the evil in our hearts, our iniquity, the impurity in our minds and give no place for the devil to live.  For he roars about like a lion seeking those he may devour. The lies, deceits, vanity, promise of fulfillment, all return empty. But God says his word will never return null and void of its promise. On that word we stand.”

I don’t know why I remembered those words so clearly again as I type. Maybe it’s the echoing voice of a higher power, begging me to listen. A voice directed at me from various angles, people and places, designed to help me off this ledge.

I am overlooking the bottomless pit, the place of nothing I journeyed through before. Whether it is the death of my soul, under the black light and neon glow of seduction, or in the lividity of seclusion, the death card is speaking again. Perhaps it beckons me to see my last shot at redemption. 

Is this a new beginning, as my beautiful oracle foretold? Or is it the finality of my physical life, mercifully reflecting light on me so I can see my inescapable future? 

My window of life is closing like the wings of the vampire bat, sucking me into the vortex of eternity. What reality awaits me on the other side? 

I lay my head back in this pale, barren room, accompanied only by the muttering of a lunatic in deep sleep. 

So I too close my eyes and fall into the waning hands of fate, clinging to the hope that tomorrow I will awaken to a renewed light, or maybe just the dark, cloudy skies of the next day.