9

 

“HOW ARE YOU FEELING today, Stephen?” the shifting blur asked.  

It was a struggle for Arson to keep his head up. So heavy. So very heavy.

“It’s all right, Stephen.” The blur spoke softly. “The sedative is still navigating through your system.”

“Sedative?”

“Yes. Don’t worry, it’s…it’s not harmful. It keeps you somewhat contained, as we’ve discussed before. Harmless, really.” The figure’s head appeared to have another one attached to it, one that disappeared and reappeared like smoke. It had a dizzying effect.

“Who are you?”

“Good grief, don’t you recall, Stephen? I thought we were past this. I am Dr. Nick Carraway, your psychologist.” The gray vapor held out his hand but was met with a long stare. 

With a snap of his fingers, he urged Arson to follow his index finger as it moved. “Come back to earth.” The man wore a stoic expression. The movement of his lips seemed too coerced, and there were some wrinkles scattered about loose skin and jutted cheekbones. Sharp ears stuck out through salt-and-pepper hair. Gentle, younger, and seemingly freer eyes gazed into Arson’s warring windows.  

“You’re…” Arson managed before slouching in his chair, “not like the others.”

“What others?” A long pause. “Oh, you mean, the other orderlies? Well, I can’t say I agree with you there. After all, the skeletons that skulk about these halls are mere clones of other clones. That’s what most of the patients here say, anyway.”

“Patients?”

“Yes. You’re in a psychiatric facility. But you’re safe here.”

“Where is ‘here’?”

“Salvation Asylum. This is a haven from the fears of the outside world.” The doctor kept looking at Arson like he was supposed to recognize him or something, supposed to remember this big room, but he didn’t.

“You…you’re strange,” Arson gasped. “This place is different.” Arson took a moment to scan the area. His pulse quickened, and his pupils dilated. The room had no windows. That part was familiar. There was nothing on the walls, but he felt like it was meant to calm him. Still, it wasn’t working. Where were the lively flowers or the bright photographs of a carefree family that often decorated a typical doctor’s office?

 “Where is everybody?”

“There aren’t many here like you, Stephen.”

“Am I in some kind of trouble?”  

“Please, enough with the games. This is the same room we’ve conversed in for the last several months.”

Arson’s ears became alert. He drew his wandering eyes up from the crisp floors and felt his chest cave in. Months? Had it really been that long since he’d scooped ice cream at Toby’s or tucked Grandma into bed? 

“Hmm,” Carraway said, massaging his jaw. He set his notepad down and pressed his hands together. “Is all of this still foreign to you? Can’t you remember?”

Arson shook his head, still drowsy, eyes weak and heavy.

“It’s not abnormal. Don’t be afraid. This is part of the process. It can sometimes be the case. Many of my patients can’t fully comprehend space and time because they are sometimes outside of it, if only in their minds. Black-outs and temporary memory lapses are…can be some of the side effects of post-traumatic stress disorder.”

 “What are you talking about? What happened?”

The doctor appeared bothered by the thought of having to exhume the dark details of the past yet again. But Arson’s eyes begged to know more.

Carraway eventually replied, “Stephen, your grandmother…”

“Is she okay?” Arson let the blanket keeping him warm slip off his shoulder. He sat up straight at the mention of Grandma.  

His head was spinning as he watched beads of sweat slip from each lid. Warm and cold and confused. “What?” he struggled to say, feeling the twist of reality return.

“She’s dead.”

Arson’s mind splintered just then. “No, she’s not. I just saw her not too long ago. She’s safe, at home.”

“Home? Are you sure?” Carraway questioned. “This isn’t the first time I’ve told you. You can remember that, can’t you?”

A million voices were screaming inside his head. Arson fought them all, hoping he might decipher something true within the chaos.

The doctor continued, “It must feel like a blink to you. Time can be like that sometimes. But you haven’t spoken to Kay Parker in months, I’m afraid. Your grandmother…well, as much as it aches me to say this…is gone.”

“No. Don’t lie to me. You’re sick,” Arson said, finally starting to recognize the air in his lungs and that chill clawing up the back of his neck. His senses returned, but his mind was still a maze.

“I know it’s painful to grasp. I understand your anger, your fear. You have endured immeasurable trauma and stress. But you’re all right now, and believe it or not, I think you’re getting better. There will be healing soon.” The doctor reached out to touch him.

 “Leave me alone,” Arson said, shoving his heel into the table. The guard in the corner rushed to the doctor’s side.

“I’m all right.” Then, addressing Arson, he said, “Please don’t be frightened by me, Stephen. I’m not here to cause you any harm. All I want is to help. But you’re in control of all of this. You must not let yourself become a slave to these irrational behaviors. Let me help you.”

He appeared sincere, but Arson wasn’t able to fully trust his senses. Any of them. Not yet. How did he know they weren’t messing with him? That this wasn’t some kind of conspiracy? The fact that he couldn’t smell right or even taste anything in his mouth, apart from something bitter, was strange enough. Every sound was a piercing drum-beat pounding against his skull. His chest and stomach ached. It felt like a hole had been made right at the center of him. “Was I cut?”

“The wounds you carry are self-inflicted.”

A wave of perplexity flooded Arson’s mind. Hearing the doubt in the doctor’s voice troubled him. He wanted to scream. “Is this a nightmare? A bad dream or something?” he asked.

“No. It’s quite real.” Carraway let reality do some work before continuing. “My efforts are to secure your safety. To bring you back home. I can free your mind from the burdens and the strife you carry. You don’t want them. You don’t need them.” Carraway’s voice was a whisper. “We’ve gotten quite close during your time here. Can’t you remember?”

Remember? No, I can’t, he thought. I can’t remember anything after I exploded and tore the flesh from their bones. I can’t remember anything except her face.

“I’ll try,” Arson said.

“Good. I know you better than you might even know yourself. You can trust me, Stephen.”

The more he called him by that name, the more it seemed to sting. He wasn’t Stephen.

A slight flinch disrupted Carraway’s posture. He slid his glasses on and thumbed through the print-out affixed to the notepad on his lap.

“Why do you want to help me?”

The doctor set his pen down for a moment. “Because I’m your friend.”

“I’ll bet,” Arson said, slouching. “This is just your job.”

“I want to set you free. This place is for those who need…a little more attention. For those who can’t find the way back themselves.” He folded his lips and awaited compliance.  

Arson settled in his chair, studied the doctor up and down.

 “It’ll all come back to you soon. Nothing stays lost forever, not even memories.”

“Memories,” Arson said. “Tell me what happened. Tell me!”

Carraway twitched his nose. “Let’s not bother with specifics right now. We have more important things to discuss. Your grandmother’s death will come back to you when you’re ready.”

“I’m thirsty,” Arson said, smacking his tongue. He wanted to know why he was here. He didn’t believe this man, in spite of how innocent and welcoming he appeared.  

“Let’s get you some water.” The doctor snapped his fingers, and with that, the guard accompanying them left the room. But he didn’t walk through a door. The wall just moved forward at the pressing of the guard’s hand. This room had no doors. Sighs rushed out of them both.

“Stephen, what is the last thing you remember before entering this institution?”

“I’m not crazy, Doctor,” Arson spat, crossing his arms.

“I never said you were. Now, please, try to focus all of your energy on your last memory. Concentrate.”

Just then, the wall opened again with a snake’s hiss, and the guard entered with a glass of water. He set it down on the table and returned to his position.

Arson reluctantly shut his eyes, thinking back. He couldn’t tell this man that the last thing he remembered was burning the faces off jocks and sluts. He wasn’t a murderer. Instead, he thought deeper, reached for memories he hadn’t experienced in some time. “There’s a dock by a lake. I’m drowning. Waves, small waves rock my head back and forth under the current. No, I’m not drowning at all. I can’t breathe, but…but I’m safe. Grandma’s yelling at me in my bedroom. Doesn’t like me going in, not at all. She loves me, just doesn’t know how to show it.”

“Very good. This is an older memory, no doubt. Still, it’s a start. What else?”

Arson’s mind violently sprang to life. “Now I see a room, like this one. But I can’t make out much of anything. It’s so dark and cold outside. Winter.”

“Go on,” the doctor said, scribbling notes.

“A young girl? She’s in pain. I just want to help her. Can I save her? I want to save her!”

“Try.”

“I can’t. All I can do is watch. I hate it. Oh no, she’s in so much pain. Something’s happening. She’s burning.” An aching sensation spread at the back of Arson’s eyes, and then warm tears dripped down the sides of his face. “I can’t even touch her.”

“Who else is there? Can you see anyone’s face?”

“No,” Arson said, eyes shut. “Everyone’s a blur.” Goosebumps bubbled on his arm. “Nurses are freaking out real bad. This girl is pregnant. There’s a man next to her. I can tell he’s afraid. Doesn’t want to be there. So much blood. Is she burning alive…from the inside? She can’t take it.” Arson felt his nose start to bleed. “I’m alone and I can’t get out.”

Dr. Carraway snapped his fingers a few times, but Arson remained in that dark trance.  

“Help her! No! Somebody, please help her!”

“Stephen, you must come back,” he said, shaking him. “Wake up! Stephen!”

Arson shook violently and screamed. “What? Did you hypnotize me or something?” He touched the soft flesh above his lips. “I didn’t mean to bleed.”

“Don’t apologize. And, no, there was no hypnotism. Are you all right?”

“I’m not sure. I feel like I don’t know anything anymore.”

A grin toyed with the doctor’s lips. “How did it feel?”

“How was it supposed to feel?”

“Here, have a drink.”

Arson reached for the glass, liking the way the cold felt in his grip, how the liquid satisfied the burning in his throat.  

“Stephen, it seems that this world you were describing is very real to you. And perhaps it is. I cannot yet determine that. If it is, then what you experienced were your memories trying to come alive again in the present. Maybe you have forgotten them, but they are still there, waiting.”

Arson stared blankly.

“These images exist inside of you. They’re a part of you. But you must be able to discern the dream from the real. There is nothing you can do to alter these past events. It is rather curious,” Carraway said, stroking his chin. “One sticks out the most. I think it’s healthy that you have now experienced it, maybe for the first time. That’s how this process works. You know, it’s one thing if I simply spit rules of the mind at you, but as you can see, everything’s different when you relive it.”

Arson sat quietly.

The doctor eyed him as he drank. “Perhaps these are just your memories and that’s it. I’d love it if it were that cut and dry.”

“No. That last one, Dr. Carraway. That memory…isn’t mine.”

The doctor stared at him strangely. “I assure you, once we dig a little deeper, some of these mysteries will begin to make sense.” He sighed.  “I appreciate your willingness to cooperate. You’re very brave.”

It was like the man didn’t hear a thing. “You’re not listening to me. I don’t feel brave at all.”

“But you are. Perhaps I need to remind you of it more often.” Dr. Carraway smiled, his teeth glistening like ceramic.

“Forget it. If these memories are real, what do they mean? Why can’t I remember other things, like what I’m doing in here?”

“Give it time. We’ve been at this for months, as I’ve told you, but today is a breakthrough.”

“Great. Cue the infomercial.”

“Take it easy,” Carraway said. “It will come together. Your mind is in startling disarray, searching for all of its lost pieces. On this journey, I can help, but I can’t make it for you.”

Arson’s mind was swimming. Drowning. Maybe that would’ve been better. He fidgeted in his chair, his skin begging to crawl off. “This isn’t right. None of it fits. I don’t belong here. I’m a good kid, right?” Arson crunched his eyebrows together. “I don’t steal. Don’t do drugs. I’m not crazy!”

“Calm down. I don’t think you’ll gain anything from my divulging everything to you. I’ve already given too much, I fear. You’re brave, Stephen, but that doesn’t mean you’re invincible.”

Arson rubbed his forehead. His breathing became normal, but he was blinking fast, swallowing often. Still thirsty. He took another sip of water.

“You’re in here for doing a very bad thing, Stephen,” the doctor said. “But what happened isn’t your fault, Stephen. You are here to get well, Stephen, mentally, physically, and…emotionally.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“But Stephen is your name.”

“And what, what are you talking about?” Arson said. “Mentally well, what? I still don’t see what’s wrong with me. You keep speaking in riddles. You stupid doctors are all the same. No answers. Just questions. Forget you!”

“It will return. For now, let’s continue with what we left off with last time. Perhaps you recall that I am helping you with not only your mental state but also your completion of high school requirements,” Carraway continued. “We’ll work on all your basic studies. There’s no reason why you can’t gain an education during this process.”

What was all this? Rehabilitation and mental guidance? High school requirements? It was too much to soak in all at once. Arson wanted to fight it so badly, but for the moment, he decided to keep quiet, to go along with whatever sick joke this happened to be. 

The doctor walked to the back of the room, where only a chalkboard hung, and began writing out a quadratic equation. “This is quite basic. I want you to come up here and solve this.”

The last thing Arson wanted to do was solve an equation. His entire mind was an equation. “That seems complicated. Don’t think I was good at math. I would’ve remembered.”

“Very funny. But that’s nonsense. You might surprise yourself.” Dr. Carraway held the piece of chalk out, waiting for Arson to meet him.

Reluctantly, Arson got up and started by scribbling fractions and equal signs, hoping for some spark of genius to hit. But it wasn’t happening.

“Get all of the variables on one side first. Then check to see if it is in proper form. Once it is, factor out the greatest common factor and deal with the remaining numbers.” The doctor dragged his fingers across the slate board, one hand still in his pants pocket. “Once you solve for x, plug in the answer and check your work. This is junior-year stuff, Stephen. As I am aware, you passed algebra II with flying colors.”

It sounded so simple coming out of somebody else’s mouth. But there didn’t seem to be any answers at all, only questions and equations with no values. Primes and confusion. No absolutes. Another twenty minutes were spent toying with diagrams and complicated theorems that Dr. Carraway assured him had been covered in previous sessions.

“Have you completed the written assignment for today’s session, Stephen?” the doctor asked once they switched to English.

“Written assignment?”

“Yes, it was a writing prompt. I asked you to write about your dreams. What you recall specifically. Your grandmother, for instance, or your high school prom.”

Arson shrugged. “I didn’t go to prom.”

“So you remember? Good. That’s very good.”

Wait, how did he remember that? He thought back to that night, tried to remember what he did instead, but it was all hazy. Was he working? Hanging out with friends?

No, I don’t have any…except her.  

“You look slightly nonplussed. That means confused, in case you didn’t know. Should be one of the vocabulary words I had you look into. But I’m guessing you didn’t complete that assignment, either.” Dr. Carraway sighed, making notes. “Stephen, how do you expect to heal if you aren’t doing your part? There’s no reason your education should stop simply because you’re in here getting better.”

“Wait, stop this crap. Since when are you a teacher anyway, Doc? Just who are you!”

“Calm down, Stephen. I told you, I am your psychologist. I am also quite qualified to guide you through your basic studies. In addition to counseling you, I am your teacher, for the time being.”

“And how long is that going to be?”

“Well, I suppose that’s up to you. The overseers of this institution pay a lot of money to invest in the minds of those who need it. Play ball and they might let you go early. Your eighteenth birthday is approaching.”

“Wait. What month is it?”

“December. It’ll be Christmas in a few weeks.”

“How is that possible?”

“It begins here, Stephen.” The doctor nudged his index finger up against his forehead. “Once you realize this, the rest is cake.”

A short pause walked between them.

“Speaking of cake, why don’t we call it an afternoon? But I want those assignments, along with the reading, completed by the next time we meet. So keep busy.” The doctor signaled his guard to bring in a slice of cake. “I snuck one in for you. It was mine, but we’ll keep this our little secret.”

Arson’s face changed slightly. He nodded, slicing the fork through the moist triangle. “Your grandmother used to make carrot cake, didn’t she?”

Arson remembered the taste of something similar. His brain flashed pictures of one of his birthdays, when he was much younger. The bitter face Grandpa made when Grandma forced him to eat it, even though he didn’t want to. There weren’t kids around to celebrate, no party to speak of. He must’ve been four or something, but the image was so hazy, he couldn’t be sure. The taste of this cake helped recreate the static images briefly.

“I think so,” Arson finally answered.

“Well, I wouldn’t dare compare your grandmother’s baking to this.” A grin climbed up the side of Carraway’s mouth, as he stood up. “But try to enjoy it. I’m not much of a cake person.”

Neither was Grandpa, Arson thought. He shoved another bite down his throat and took a sip of water. “Please tell me what happened to my grandmother, Dr. Carraway. I need to know,” he said sternly, eyes peeled and narrowed with anticipation. “How did she die?”

“I don’t think that’s something you’re ready to hear yet.”

“Please! Tell me.”

Dr. Carraway looked at the guard, an air of uncertainty mixed with deliberate pause. He placed his hands on his waist, locking eyes with Arson. “It was a fire. She was asleep, the police believe, when the house went up in smoke. I’ll spare you the details, but I’m afraid your grandmother didn’t make it out alive. In fact, there was nothing left of your home.”

Arson put his fork down. He suddenly felt very sick. A thick cloud hovered over his mind. He stared at the guard then back at the doctor. None of this was right. What kind of man would lie like that? Make up some kind of twisted story? Was he toying with Arson’s emotions for the thrill of it? He couldn’t take this charade any longer. Enraged, Arson got up and grabbed Dr. Carraway by the throat. “Get me outta here!” he shouted. “I wanna see for myself.”

“Stephen, you’re choking me. I’m here to help you. Remember?” the doctor said calmly, face blistering red. “Let go of me!”

“No more lies! None of this makes any sense,” Arson said, his hands swelling hot around the doctor’s neck.

“It will,” the doctor struggled. “Your mind continues to remain unwilling…to accept…truth.”

“Liar!” Arson screamed, before everything suddenly went black.

Arson’s body thudded hard against the floor, unconscious.

“Thank you,” the doctor said, looking at the guard who had knocked his patient out. Gasping for air, he reached up to touch his throat. It stung. The skin was burned.    

“No way,” the guard pointed out with big eyes. “Look at your neck. That little runt burned you.”

Carraway rubbed his throat one last time. It stung. “I think this afternoon’s session went slightly better than expected.” He grinned, torn between concern and unbelief. These sessions had no end in sight. He wondered how long the boy’s mind could take it all, if he could take it all.

The doctor reached down on the floor to grab his pen and notepad, staring one last time at the boy on the floor. “It seems the arson is back after all.”