I’ve finally fallen asleep, yet I feel an evil presence lurking near by. My bed, a small queen size, is pushed up next to the wall. Old worn maroon-colored sheets lay crumpled on top. I sleep with three pillows; one under my head, and one on each side as I flip from side to side throughout the night, no cover, only using the top sheet.
The walls are of cheap wood paneling, with nicks and scratches scattered about. An old wooden desk and chair I procured at the city dump rests in the corner. I’ve found lots of little treasures there. Just a few nails in the right spots made it strong and sturdy again, gave it new life. Unfortunately, Mom hates it. Says it’s trashy.
No pictures or paintings adorn my walls, just one overhead light on the ceiling, with small blue angels stenciled into the glass dome that surrounds the seventy-five watt bulb. Nothing else is present in my tiny bedroom, not even a rug to cover part of the faded wood floor.
Sleeping mainly on my left side in the fetal position, I face the wall. Generally, I sleep in the nude, except during the winter months. Clothes are too restrictive; they make me feel controlled. I’m not really sure why, they just do. Probably some deep psychological thing I’m not yet aware of.
The door is standing wide open. Only the dim light from the corridor shines into my room. Something awakens me, a strange stirring. I strain to bring myself to full consciousness. Sounds like the wooden floor creaking, soft footsteps perhaps making their way toward my room.
They have stopped. I feel the presence of someone standing in the doorway. A shiver begins to ripple over my naked torso as my mind begins to race. Who is it? What do they want? Why me?
The questions subside as I now become aware of the sounds of heavy, labored breathing. The type of breathing an elderly man makes when he’s walked up a long flight of stairs, or has been unduly excited in some fashion.
There is a long pause, the footsteps, the breathing, they have grown louder; he’s walked up to my bed. Standing right behind me; his warm breath floats over my exposed shoulder. Now frozen with terrifying fear, I want to turn and look at him, but I can’t move. I dare not open my eyes; please God, make him leave!
Something small, something cold, presses up against my back. As he cocks the hammer back on the revolver, I suddenly realize the cold steel of the barrel of the gun is resting up against my pale skin. A deep panic rises within me. No longer can I resist; I must turn and face him. Gathering up as much courage as I can, I turn my head and open my eyes…BAM!
Death is the final destination in one’s life. Feared by many, welcomed by the sick and infirm, and yet met with indifference by the enlightened ones. Ultimately, everyone must embrace its inescapable grasp, although as to when our fated destiny comes for us, no one knows for certain.
I pray that death will come later for me, that I still have plenty of time left to experience my mortal self. Still, I have an uneasy suspicion that death is watching, closely scrutinizing my every move. All I can do is place my faith in divine intervention, and pray that a miracle will arise to see me safely through the next few weeks.
Allow me to introduce myself; my name is Simon Lee Teel. Next week I will turn thirty-one years old, assuming I live long enough to celebrate my birthday. I’m a white male, standing five feet seven inches and currently weighing in at one hundred forty-two pounds.
My thin build is hardly frail, yet I don’t work hard to keep my physique strong and toned, possibly due to my German and Irish ancestors, who also bequeathed to me my hazel-green eyes, and my long blond hair, which reaches my shoulders.
As far as my vocation is concerned, I must state the position for which I am best suited appears to be unemployment. If I take seriously the comments others have pointed out to me, I might reach the conclusion that I am somewhat delusional, but in truth, I think I am just easily bored.
My mother, Nora Louise Teel, lives in a small two-bedroom home and allows me to stay with her rent-free. She is even gracious enough to provide me with a certain amount of spending money, which eases the strain of not receiving a paycheck.
Loving and jovial, she is truly a wonderful mother, the kind of parent every child should be blessed with, although she can be a bit overly protective at times. On her last birthday she turned forty-nine, again. Truth be known, she’s actually fifty-three, but vanity strikes at the hearts of all the ladies, I feel, even the very religious ones, such as she.
Hair the color of black coal, that artificial shade one can get only from a box. Were nature allowed to reveal her true color, gray would shine forth, thus dispelling the falsehood of her true age. A vain woman? Perhaps, but truly sweet, kind, and caring nevertheless. Not to mention plump; standing not even an inch more than five feet, she carries one hundred eighty pounds very nicely. Any estimates she herself might give of her actual weight would probably be no more accurate than the number she states as her age.
The personal secretary to the head psychiatrist at some Catholic hospital is her preferred work. The home I share with my mother is located in Hot Springs, Arkansas, the only city in the United States that is situated entirely within a national park. It was the boyhood home of former President Bill Clinton. Oddly enough, even though Arkansas was his home state, one would be hard-pressed to find many residents who have a high regard of Ol’ Bill. Still, I have to admit, I always liked the guy.
Hot Springs is named for the forty-seven hot mineral springs located at the base of East Mountain, and it is mainly a tourist trap with thoroughbred horse racing at Oaklawn Park, and lets’ not forget the famous bathhouses on Bathhouse Row.
Beautiful rolling hills covered with large evergreen trees and emerald-green lakes make you realize God put this place on earth just so we mortals could have a little taste of heaven.
For me, the next few weeks will be hellish and cruel, which I may or may not deserve, depending upon whose point of view you believe, mine or theirs. My recurring nightmare, I fear, may very well foretell of my impending doom.
As I opened my eyes, I was lying on the floor near my bed, naked, covered in sweat, my chest still pounding from the fierce thrashing and screaming I had just underwent. My eyes focused on the hallway light beaming into my room. Moments passed, my senses returned as I regained my bearings.
Mom’s voice now echoed down the short corridor, yet I couldn’t quite comprehend her words. As usual, my yelling awoke her out of a sound slumber. Mom’s room was at the other end of the hallway. She knew exactly what was taking place since I relive this same nightmare every few weeks.
Entering my room, she paused momentarily to locate the light switch just inside the door. With me still on the floor—yet now sitting upright—she made her way over to my trembling body. Not breathing as hard as before, I pulled the sheet over my exposed genitals. Mom didn’t care for my sleeping in the all-natural.
Always prepared, she came with a large bath towel she kept folded on her night table just for my ‘episodes,’ as she called them. Kneeling down beside me, she started drying the sweat from my face and shoulders. I anxiously awaited the soft-spoken words she’d use to calm and quiet my frazzled nerves. This time however, there were no soft, reassuring words of comfort. She was upset; not worried or frightened, but openly angered. Taking her hands and clasping them around my face, she turned my head up to gaze straight into my watery eyes.
“Do you remember the promise you made me three days ago?” she said, breaking the silence. “Do you?!”
Hearing the anger in her strained voice as I looked into her eyes, I could see the tears welling up. Somewhat calmer and settled now, I did remember the promise she had pestered me into making. That if I had another episode, I’d check into the psych-hospital where she worked to seek help with the nightmare, and all my other problems. But I only agreed then just to get her to stop badgering me about it.
“Yeah, I remember the promise I made,” I whispered. “But I’ve changed my mind; I’m not goin’ to some stupid shrink.” I pulled her hands down away from my face and covered my nakedness as I stood.
“You gave me your word, your promise…”
“Well…I lied!” My voice rising as I interrupted her.
She reached out to touch my arm, but I pulled away. I sensed the anger wash over her round, soft face.
Extending her right hand and pointing her index finger, “You will go with me in the morning to the hospital for help, or I’ll have no choice but to throw you out of my house!” Her voice rang forth with righteous condemnation. “Do you hear me, Simon?!” She folded her arms across her chest as if daring me to defy her new found courage. “Well, I’m waiting for an answer?”
She spoke with such authority. Stunned for a brief moment, I truly felt she meant business. No job, no money, nowhere to go, so I agreed to do as I had promised earlier. “All right, I’ll go.”
Unfolding her arms, she came forth with one of her loving bear-hugs. “Now get in bed and get some rest. Mommy loves you very much,” she said tucking in the sheet.
Had I only known what awaited me at the psych-hospital…I would have truly contemplated suicide.
Sounds of mother making breakfast roused me from my sleep. The same breakfast—scrambled eggs, toast, and a glass of Pepsi-cola—she has made herself since Father passed away. Dad wouldn’t allow us to drink anything except milk or water. Most people would have called him a hard-core Baptist minister.
Named Eugene Thomas Teel, he died at age fifty-five just a short time ago. Standing six feet three inches and weighing in at one hundred ninety pounds, he was a strong and powerful man of God; even up to the very minute he died of a sudden and unexpected heart attack.
Short brownish-gray hair, and deep-set blue-steel eyes gave him a very profound and intense, almost sinister, look. Standing behind the pulpit, he bristled as hell and damnation spewed from his lips. His meek flock was literally scared of him; God must have been so proud.
After his death, Mom started buying Pepsi-cola by the case. She has a glass at every meal now.
Bouncing down the hallway, she stuck her grinning face through the doorway. “Get up, sleepy-head; we’ve got a lot to do today.”
“I’m up,” I said in my usual nasty tone. It took me an hour or so to fully wake up.
Her grin changed to that of a half-frown. “Make sure you wash your greasy hair, and shave…and use lots of soap; you smell.”
“I’m going to the nut-house, not the prom,” I popped off.
“You heard what I said, don’t you dare embarrass me at work, Simon,” she said making her way to the kitchen.
So I did as I was told. You’d think I was ten years old. It’s rare that I get to eat breakfast; I’m not usually up until after noon.
Mom packed my suitcase while I had a bowl of cereal, and a can of Mt. Dew. I too love my sugary poison. She was a bit perturbed; most of my clothes were soiled. I admit, cleaning up, washing clothes, and bathing are not my forte.
Packing so many clothes told me I’d be at the loony-bin for more than a couple of days. I placed the suitcase in the trunk of her old faded white Pontiac, which was still in good running condition.
We arrived around 8:35 a.m. at the hospital, and we could have arrived much sooner had I been allowed to drive. I swear I saw a four-year-old pass us on a tricycle. The hospital was an old red brick building standing five stories, and located not too far from the main highway, surrounded by trees, and large rolling hills.
Back in her prime the first floor contained an emergency room, lots of office space, and a rehab pool. The second floor, the main hub, contained the operating rooms, and several adjoining patient recovery rooms. The supply office and physical therapy rooms were located on the third floor. Rehabilitation and hospice care units were on the fourth, and on the top, the fifth floor, one could find the locked psych ward.
That was back in its glorious hay-day. Now, all the floors—with the exception of the fifth—had been closed down. Its current function for the small community now was that of a psych facility.
The Baptists built the original structure back in the late ‘20s, but over the years they couldn’t afford to keep the doors open due to the high operating costs. So, in the early ‘50s they sold it to the Catholic Church, but they too ran into financial difficulties in the early ‘80s. They ended up evaluating the needs of the local community, and closed everything except the psych unit.
Mother had already called ahead, and made arrangements with her boss, Doctor Andrew Crawford, who was a licensed psychiatrist, and was an ordained Catholic priest. Father Andy, as he preferred to be called, was the current director of the hospital psych unit.
As we entered, Mom motioned for me to sit in the lobby. There was this phenomenal old lady sitting at a small receptionist desk just inside the door, who looked to be in her late eighties. She, at my mother’s request, phoned the fifth floor, and announced our arrival. I was left to sit with the old lady as Mom proceeded to her office on the first floor.
Granny tried to make small talk with me, stating her name was Bertha, Grace, or something along those lines. She rattled on about being some kind of volunteer. I don’t remember much; I wasn’t interested in her, or her life’s story. Staring mostly at the floor, she finally took the hint, and shut up.
About twenty minutes passed when a male nurse finally arrived to retrieve me. His name tag said ‘James Butler, RN,’ and he looked to be in his mid to late twenties, I guessed. Later, I heard he was twenty-nine. He was tall, a little over six feet, and around one hundred eighty pounds or so. The rugged type with a thick muscular build which reminded me of a fierce warrior. Brown hair cut somewhat in the style of a military flat-top, with dark-brown evil eyes that seemed capable of penetrating deep into one’s innermost sanctity. That place where only you and your creator should know what lurks in the quietness of your soul.
Clean shaven, he was wearing a white short-sleeve shirt and white pressed trousers, accompanied by white sneakers; no socks were visible.
As he approached, “Are you Simon Teel?”
“Yep, that’s me,” I said, standing to greet him.
“My name is James Butler. I’m the RN in charge of the unit. Follow me, and we’ll get started on your paperwork,” he said as we headed for the elevator.
As I entered behind him, he pushed the fifth floor button. The ride up was short, but very uncomfortable to say the least. Not only did he not speak, he turned to face me, and just stared almost without blinking. My impression was he felt I was just another nut case who was weak, and beneath him on the evolutionary scale. Of course, that was just my first impression.
The elevator stopped, but the doors didn’t open. “Doors stuck?” I asked sheepishly, breaking the silence.
“No,” he said, finally breaking off his intense stare while pulling a silver key from his pocket. Inserting it into the small stainless steel panel, the doors opened as he turned the key clockwise.
Stepping out, James started to explain about the elevator. “There are only two ways off this floor. The elevator which takes a special key, and the door at the other end of the long hallway which leads to the stairs. That door is always kept locked.”
“Besides you, who else has keys?” I inquired shyly.
“That’s not your concern,” he said as he turned, and proceeded down the hall. I was taken on a short tour of the unit.
There were two hallways; one short, the other twice as long. Both intersected at the nurses’ station in an ‘L’ configuration. The nurses’ station was completely sealed except for one door, and a small counter window where patients lined up to receive medication.
The long hall was well lit with fluorescent lights. It basically contained small patient rooms, except for the last two rooms. One was the group therapy room; with several old couches, a large TV, and a small upright piano. The other was a lunch room where the ‘nuts’ could receive their daily meals.
The patient rooms were furnished each with a single bed, and one chair only. Each had a bathroom consisting of a commode, sink, and a shower stall. No bathtub.
The short hall contained no rooms except one, which was located at the end of the corridor. There stood a large steel door.
“What’s on the other side?” I asked, pointing to the large odd door.
James stopped, turned his head toward me. “Disobey my instructions, and you’ll find out what’s behind that door.”
I could tell by his grin it was probably better that I didn’t know what lurked behind the ominous door.
Proceeding on I was a little shocked to discover there was only one other patient here besides myself, and she was due for release at noon. So after twelve o’clock, I’d be their only patient. But they were expecting four more from a private sanitarium next week. Their insurance was running out, yet they still required more treatment. Gracious Father Andy agreed to transfer them here. So, for at least a week the place would be all mine.
James escorted me to one of the small rooms. The brown wooden door had the number thirteen on it in bright yellow. Since I’m not a superstitious person, I didn’t give it any thought.
“Unpack your suitcase. I’ll be back in a few minutes, and we’ll start processing your paperwork,” he stated in a stern fashion.
The bed contained only white sheets, and one pillow. No blankets to be found anywhere in the room. The chair frame was of scratched, faded wood, with old green cushions. From the only window, one could see the rear parking lot down below. There was a clear view of the large hillside, with scattered trees, and lots of large rocks mired in the reddish clay. The window was encased in thick, shatter-proof glass, or so I was told.
I found several drawers built into the bathroom wall, with no closet or any clothes hangers present. Stuffing my clothes into the drawers, I realized Mom was correct; they were in need of a good washing.
Staring out the window the trees seemed so lifeless, and sad…
“Okay, lets’ go!” James shouted as he stuck his head through the open door. Startled at first, I froze, unable to speak. “Did you hear me?” he snapped.
“Yes,” I said, finally pulling myself together. I followed him down the hall to the nurses’ station.
Opening the door with one of his several keys located on a ring attached to his belt. There were two office-type chairs on rollers inside. A medium-sized cabinet held various narcotics, and other medications, which were secured by a combination padlock. An adjacent room contained a small refrigerator, ice maker and a commode.
Off to one side was located another small room with two wooden chairs next to an old metal desk with peeling gray paint.
James pointed at the small room, and I entered slowly. Damp, chilly, with walls painted a dull white. One fluorescent light—same as the hallways—hung overhead.
“Sit down,” came the command as he entered, and walked around the desk. The chair was hard, and most uncomfortable. Pulling out some papers, he placed them on the desk.
“I have some forms you are required to sign. I’ll explain them first, and then if you have questions, you can ask. Do you understand?” he said, staring straight into my eyes. I nodded in the affirmative.
“First we’ll go over the ‘Doctor/Patient Confidentiality Statement’ form. It basically says whatever you, and the doc talk about stays between the two of you. You understand?”
“Sure,” I said.
“Either respond with a yes or a no,” he said smugly.
“Yes!” I raised my voice.
James focused in on my face. “You think you’re really cute, don’t you?” His cold eyes were glaring as his nostrils flared.
I’m not sure why I raised my voice; maybe I was tired of his shitty attitude toward me. I lowered my head. “I’m sorry.”
Lets’ continue, so answer my question, yes or no?”
“Yes,” was my meek reply.
James handed me a form to sign. After signing, he reached over the desk, and jerked it from my hands. I froze for a second; he then seized the pen from me as well.
“You’ll have plenty of time to read it later.” Retrieving another form from the desk drawer, he glared at me.
“Before we start filling out your medical history, let me give you an idea of what to expect later. You will be given three tests; an EEG, an IQ test, and a psychological essay evaluation. You understand?”
“Yes.”
“You are required to attend therapy sessions with your assigned doctor each day, except weekends. After each session your doctor and the head of the unit will confer, and evaluate your progress, if any. You understand?”
I shook my head in the affirmative.
“I didn’t hear you, what was your reply?” James snapped.
“Yes.”
“Don’t make me remind you again. All right then, the next set of questions will cover the areas of your family, medical, and employment histories. Be as precise, and accurate as possible. This will become part of your permanent record.”
“I understand.” I shifted my weight in the chair as I leaned forward to give the appearance I was fully cooperating.
“What is your father’s full name?” James began.
“Ah, Eugene Thomas Teel.” I had to momentarily stop to think. To his face I called him Sir or Father, yet behind his back I referred to him as the ‘Old Bastard.’
“Living or deceased?” he said with no emotion.
“Deceased.”
“At what age did he die?” James focused his intense gaze upon my face as he asked that question, yet he seemed to be looking right through me.
“He was fifty-five,” I said matter-of-factly as James broke off his
odd stare.
“What was the cause of death?”
“Heart failure.”
“What was his main employment?”
“He was an ordained Baptist minister of a mid-sized congregation.”
James continued his questions with a blank look upon his face. “Did he smoke, drink, or use any kind of medication or narcotic?”
“Didn’t smoke, drink or do any kind of dope. Only thing he was high on was God Almighty.”
“Mother’s full name?” James asked without making notice of my previous remark.
I started to lip-off, and tell him he should know her name since she works here, but no sense in getting him pissed off. “It’s Nora Louise Teel, and yes, she is living at this time,” I said with a straight face.
“Imagine that,” James said in a most sarcastic tone. “What is her age?”
“Fifty-three,” I said trying to recall correctly.
“Is her employment here at the hospital her only job?”
“Yes.” Mom loved working at the nut house; she made friends easily, and could hold a conversation even with the crazies. I, on the other hand, didn’t really care to be confined with a bunch of mental defectives. So I was glad I’d be the only one here soon, even if just for a week.
“Does she smoke, drink, or use any type of medications, including narcotics?”
“The only drugs she takes are prescribed by her physician.”
“Such as…?”
“Stuff for high blood pressure, and female crap…I think.”
James moved on. “Any brothers or sisters?”
“No brothers, but I have…or I mean I had a younger sister. Debra Sue Teel and she died at twenty-seven from suicide. She drank, smoked cigarettes, and anything else she could get her hands on. Did cocaine, heroin, and loved marijuana. Probably tried everything out there at least once.”
“While alive, what was her main employment?” James asked without making any judgment or facial