Fifty-Six

He had a concussion. From the blow to his head by the cop’s girlfriend. He had been unconscious for thirty-seven minutes, they told him. She could’ve killed him, if the log she hit him with had been one inch closer to the left temple. He’d had a terrible headache and couldn’t think of looking directly at any light. They had finally taken the restraints off him the day before, after he kept begging nonstop for hours for a proper shower. To be able to wash himself properly. He was filthy. Once they let him wash, he figured they thought he’d just vomit it all out, his traumatic past, what led him to do it, why he couldn’t be fully responsible for his actions.

Despite the concussion, a veritable army of psychiatrists, psychotherapists, social workers, and neurologists from the Pinel Institute where he was being held—wasting all that precious public money on him—spent the last five—six?—days asking him question after question, to determine his fitness to appear in court and face the criminal charges laid against him. Did he understand the nature of the charges laid? Could he clearly communicate to his lawyer? Is he aware what a trial is and that it might take place?

He refused to speak at all. He thought perhaps his silence, along with the concussion, should keep them off his back for a while, until he figured out what to do. He could only hope and believe that they hadn’t arrested his sister Janey, and that she was still able to care for the dogs at La Crèche. He had to believe that, because if he didn’t, he would go out of his mind. The thought of all those beautiful trusting boys and girls wondering where he was, what had happened, when he was coming back, had nearly driven him truly crazy. But Janey was so fragile, and without him he feared she would simply revert to her old behavior—a lifeless abdication of all responsibility to anyone, including herself.

Then the social workers would swoop in again, the vultures, and she’d be off to the home again. He had to get out of this, but it was hard to focus. Whatever they were giving him were causing vivid, terrifying nightmares of the kind he hadn’t endured in years. Palpable, visceral moments from his past kept coming back to him, sometimes during the day as well when he fell into a court-ordered drug-induced sleep. This was typical of these so-called healers who ethos was first do all the harm they’ll let you get away with.

He looked up at the holes in the ceiling tiles. He looked out the tiny, filthy window and tried to see something. Anything. But it was all gray with winter smog and general negligence. Her windows were like that—if he hadn’t cleaned every one of them that third time he visited. He couldn’t imagine how she’d left them like that, but then he couldn’t imagine her leaving him, either. Without a word. Like he was a fucking piece of gum under her shoe she had to scrape off and drop in a garbage can. When he got out—which he would—he would find Hélène and prove himself to her. Again.

He checked the time on his monitor. They would be back again in twelve minutes, for more stupid questions and his continued silence. In the meantime, he reached under his mattress with his liberated hand, and pulled out an envelope. In it were letters from several women—who were very passionate supporters. They had been smuggled in to him by a friendly member of the cleaning staff—a very pretty girl who couldn’t have been more than twenty years old. She was a dog lover, too. He opened one of them and began to read the first few sentences one more time.

“Dear Peter, I want to thank you, from the botom of my heart, for saving all those beutiful animals off the streets. They did nothing to deserve that life. There are no laws which protect them. You are the law. I think YOU are a grate hero—” Suddenly his door opened and he could hear the chatting voices for a few seconds before they turned to him and their tone shifted completely. He had just enough time to refold the letter, hide it with the others, and rearrange his face to that of complete and utter indifference.