Reticent Rain Page 2

“To his good friend thus wide I'll open my arms and repast them with my blood.”

  -Laertes to King Claudius

  Axis VI

  “A leaf from one of the oaks saunters through the wind and nestles the chain link.”

  Westwood in the peak of fall was an interminable place to exist. The flecks of paint holding the state run institution together would peel and crackle under the rising pressure of the last of the summer’s humidity. The Indian summer was evident within its confines and would only serve to stir up the patients to a higher fervor. The urine painted walls of the rooms was a welcome reprieve to the harsh scent of bacteria fermented ammonia entrenched throughout its many corridors. It was a jungle inhabited by shit crusted lamented creatures of which only existed for the perverse notion of the law of “harm of self and others”. Drug induced zombies to many, non-righteous zealots to others.

  Westwood was a crumbling mesh of all of the society’s dogs of dusk. The doors were opened to all of the moronic moon howlers, freaks of nature, insipid street addicts, the diseased whores of oblivion, abused pundits borne of deviancy, abhorrent sexual miscreants, and the medically fragile ghosts of some long abandoned form of pharmacology gone awry. The relentless horror show of mental instability was like a menstruating woman stirring the acute senses of a municipal zoo’s occupants.

  This place was “alive” today with the all too many disposable rats of society crawling through the labyrinth. Some were huddled solitaire against the grain of tiled cement with their heads pillowed by the peeling flecks. Others sat gratuitously using their chairs to chisel away to the underlayment by rocking to and uncontrollably fro. While still others clawed the many open rusty chain link covered windows gasping for any sporadic gusts of un-ammoniated air.

  The sun had beamed through every orifice of Westwood igniting the sullen putrefaction to a light hazy mist. The piss steam would stick to your skin upon entering any of the wards burning your olfactory nerves in the process so as to withstand these very confines for any amount of prolonged periods. The rats would never mind the stench; their nerves were burned off eons ago. Most of the rats would barely blink an eye or hesitate to paint their flesh of it, the squalid stench that is, let alone recognize the air as indifferent.

  The doors to abyss had opened early this day. Quick paced white coats and suits alike were perusing the many halls being very careful not to stir the rare incorrigible mutant with a lack of any impulse control left intact. The suits were being escorted very rigidly with imaginary leashes and tight muzzles into fantasyland. Their shock was muted and their facial expressions were drawn with the stillness of wide eyed sleep. As the white coats traversed the many halls, the amplitude of screams had come and gone. The insidious mumbling had ebbed and flowed in through one ear and out the other like an ocean filled with drowning bodies gargling sea water between cries of agony and despair. This army of white coats and dark suits would never waver in their cadence nor give up on the last grips of sanity that lied deep within themselves. Their selfish march literally had walked the line between sanity and insanity.

  Dr. Pierce was amongst the suits. He was a scab, newly minted as an internist, brought in to temporarily peruse the corridors of Westwood. He, like many of his peers, was given a week of Westwood boot camp before being thrown to wolves that threaded lunacy on their imaginary patches. The institution had been rife for weeks with labor strikes that were now threatening the routine of sleep, medication, and sleep some more. Staff had been leaving at unprecedented levels due to the “conditions” of the hospital, mainly pay influenced. But he was no more sentimental than many of his peers that were leaving for the glory of a better paying institution. He needed the monetary gain more than the subservient soul searching that was buried within him and more so when christened by the Hippocratic Oath.

  As Dr. Pierce walked the labyrinth his footsteps were of remorse. His head had sunk a degree lower more than usual and his gait reflected that of a nervous cub being tested by the apex nature of a lion’s pride. There was order amongst disorder in the labyrinth; it was evident with the mannerisms of the rats. Screaming and yelling was a foray into blind allegiance to the creatures, however fleeting that obedience appeared to be. Pity was a tool to evoke some form of so called “normalcy” into the paws of the discordant manipulators. He had marched amongst societal ghosts whose skeletons draped the uniforms of decades of inner strife.

  The rats had come out of every ammoniated hole today just to fester on their new parading prize. The shit covered paparazzi invaded the doctor from every angle testing his might against the pride. He walked unraveled in the sea of scream and pity. He was pious to “normalcy” and refute to obsolescence. He was a young intern after all, although a weak one at best. His actions were inscribed long ago from the likes of Freud and Jung but he was never to be stall worth with his prescribed reactions. Every step today was brisk, furthering him into the stench of the abyss. Crooked toothless smiles greeted him with every move as well as the occasional pitted and scabies infested arm had reached out to the internist trying to welcome him, of which the young Dr. cautiously reciprocated. Some of the rats would even wake from their stupor long enough to paw at the slim leather briefcase buried tight by his left fist and caress the pants of his cheap hundred dollar black leisure suit.

  The only respite to Dr. Pierce was the beautiful tight white nurses uniform wrapping his subordinate escort. His eyes had drifted from the pungent corridors to follow down the side of the white wrap to the back of her smoky black hosiery then to that of her patent leather shoes. His eyes had squinted to notice a peace symbol and the date of ’67 archaically drawn with a permanent marker on the right side heel cap. It was her way of screaming her very own individuality, making her own mark in this cruel world with a slight catalyst of inoffensive minimalism. A simple smile had adorned his face, though peace and love was truly not afoot here in this place; the grand summer had been over nearly four years ago and the world had to keep spinning backward from that magical point onward.

  “Here’s your new office, hope you last long enough to collect a paycheck…” her soft southern drawl interjected his temporary gaze while she was opening a door. Her hosiery had temporarily worked its magic on the young doctor to distract him from the abysmal surroundings; a sexual pharmacology.

  “Thanks…”

  “Here it is in all its glory, you even have a window in here, one of the few without bars.” Facetiously the young brunette introduced him to his temporary closet of an office like one of the “Price is Right” showgirls. She paused for a quick two second rundown of the young doctor. She looked unimpressed at one of Westwood’s newest prize. She knew all too well he wouldn’t last much like the others; it was tattooed all over his face.

  “Thanks again. Miss…” The Dr. retorted as she flung her hair back towards his face to quickly exit the room.

  Pierce had looked around at his glorified broom closet with the layered painted shut window attached. All of the few pieces of furniture had been permanently bolted down in their final resting places with the exception being that of a heavy and weathered rolling leather covered chair that was behind a long table. The only other place to sit was a slatted wooden bench that sat in front of the table as you entered the room. Four cream colored walls, a conference table for a desk and a filth caked window, which by the way served to blend the syncopated flickering fluorescent lights with that of pure sunlight, was all the security he was granted to one of the most dangerous trenches of this state facility. He made one last fleeting glance at her glorious hosiery as the door had clinked shut with it subduing the rancor of noise behind her. He placed his slim briefcase that survived the onslaught of the shit paparazzi on the table. When he had opened the case, the sunlight had begun to reflect like a lit up disco ball all around the pale walls. He had pulled out a small 8x10 picture frame with a mirror placed inside of it and had placed it on the table to the nearest part of the wall that the table had been af
fixed to.

  He briefly had begun to study the inverse echo of his face in the mirror as he swung around the table to sit in the leather chair. His gaunt jaw line still had stubbed traces of the 6 inch beard it once held just weeks ago prior to his hastened “interview”; which was more of a formal offering of a temporary position. His jet black hair, also at one time was just as long as his beard, had been neatly cut down to a Beatles mop top. He was John Lennon’s doppelganger without the glasses or the light brown hair but his eyes refracted the same mustard brown glowing irises. True, as it was, he was a reformed hippy painted incognito by his uniform as a psychiatric internist. He too had previously embraced the echoes of ’67 that adorned the figurative glass slipper of his subordinate coworker.

  He hazily remembered his salad days of alma mater as he grazed with his right hand the various ingrown hairs upon his chin. The lysergic acid remnants infused with that of red blood cells and plasma had seemed to ooze from the small stubbly pimples. His days of yore and initiation into manhood had been shadowed by his newly shaven mask. He had been manufactured with the stamp mold of many an army of eternal hopeless psychiatric internists. Pierce had quickly realized that this was all that he could ever be to any of the people he would attempt to help, not by a lack of perception, but as such was prescribed by the state institution. He was another temporary fix to a long term problem. There was no moving forward here between the psyche of abhorrence and normalcy; a true stalemate between insight and obsolescence. The facility was in a chronic state of standstill.

  The young Dr. had caught a glimpse of the world beyond the painted window reflected in the background of the mirror. His office was in an “L” shaped building with the window facing the southern exposure. There was another one story labyrinth attached to the left of the mirror’s visage that had appeared to meet in the distant cloudless blue skies. He had noticed the edges of the decaying brick that encompassed the fortress of dementia. Morning glory had firmly entrenched itself upon one of the walls and was slowly encroaching its rope to the roofline of the one storied building.

  With this first window of Westwood as a source of inspiration, Pierce had reached back into his slim leather briefcase retrieving one of the many of his black marbled college ruled composition notebooks spread about half hazard in the bottom. He had merry go rounded the chair to face the dirt smeared window. He had quickly begun to peruse the many pages that had been sporadically filled with scribbled poems and primitive cave wall like drawings for an empty canvas. It was there upon one of the last few blank pages that he had scribbled “windshield” and thus had begun to sketch a caricature of the southern exposure just outside the window.

  The sketch showed, on the right side, the “L” shape of the building as a children’s wooden block with the horizon as a simple line extending from the middle of the distant edge of the block. From the bottom of the sketch, curved black slash marks represented some of the patches of overgrown grass of the surrounding grounds. Interrupting the horizon to the left was that of a glass octahedral greenhouse that connected to a downward sloped hump extending off of the page.

  “D-D-Doc, your f-f-first patient is here” a stuttering voice had mumbled from behind Pierce.

  Pierce had flung around his leather chair to reveal a big black burly psych attendant shadowing the syncopated light. His white uniform had barely fitted the lumberjack as it appeared to be compressing his chest to the point of him laboring his breathing. The pearlescent buttons were barely holding back his mountains of flesh and muscle from exploding all over the office. He had a shaved head had small stars of light glistening from the sprinkles of sweat beading down his mocha colored face.

  “H-H-Here is t-t-the file, Doc” the lumberjack explained as he had lopped the dictionary sized file folder on to the glorified desk. “We don’t keep ‘em stored in here in case the patients want to tear things up. If you know what I mean.”

  The psych attendant had just then placed his straightened arms along either side of the table hovering over the file. He was in a push up stance with his head down trying to catch his breath. Every deep inhale had quivered his muscles until he was relaxed enough to rise from the face of the table. His weathered name badge had read “STANLEY” in bold print and had been pinned juxtaposition on his shirt pocket. He took a stance in front of the Dr. like a buck private standing in formation.

  “Are you o.k.” Pierce had inquisitively asked.

  “Y-y-yep. Sometimes just walkin’ a few steps takes it all out of me. ”

  “I see that your name is Stanley, nice to meet you I’m Dr. Pierce.”

  “T-t-think of me like a tool..”

  “Like a tool?”

  “A lot of f-f-folks can’t remember names too good round here.”

  “So they call you a tool just to remember your name?”

  “Well, suppose you p-p-put it that a ways it sounds bad, b-b-but I don’t mind none”

  “So when staff or patients see you in the hallways how do they interact with you?”

  “W-w-what you mean by that?”

  “I mean do they have a nickname for you or do they use your surname properly.”

  A short pause was garnered from Stanley. Then he had begun to smile as he blurted out “STANLEY THE POWER TOOL” while pounding one of his sledgehammer fists upon the table.

  “I suppose with a moniker like that you truly are unforgettable, but I would like to just call you Stanley if that’s o.k.”

  Stanley had now extended one of his ballooned meat hooks towards Pierce and had reached out his open hand. The young intern reached out as well to shake it. Pierce’s hand was temporarily swallowed of all of its blood and turned a light purple in the interim as the vice grip locked down.

  “Y-y-yous a good man Doc. I can see that already.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t mind the mess round here it’s just the way it ended up, the union wants us to care more about ourselves that’s all..”

  “As a matter of fact and understanding, I was taught to be selfless. I make can make do with what little I have.”

  “See, I knew yous a good man Doc. There aint enough folk like you left and it’s just getting’ worse and worse every year. Most come in just for the pay and they never fix anybody in here. These people never get any better, they’s treated like left overs.”

  A brief pause amongst the two men had been interrupted by a trio of sneezes erupting from behind Stanley.

  “Oh, I almost forgot, this is Miss Stark.”

  Stanley had moved aside to reveal a gaunt and ghostly white sparrow of a young woman. Her long straight black hair was thick with sweat and had hung like heavy wet drapes over her eyes. She was dressed in a loose old hand sewn one piece missionary styled frock but with the imprint of ‘60’s psychedelic paisley. She had appeared to be a long discarded flower child of years ago with malnourished praying mantis like arms poking out of her psychedelic dress. She had been sitting like a good catholic school girl was taught to sit; back straight up, hands folded into her lap but her head and eyes had hung low.

  “N-Nice to meet you Miss Stark.” Pierce had begun to temporarily pick up on Stanley’s stutter.

  “Oh, she don’t talk but she’s real good on the piana, damn good I’d say” Stanley interjected the Dr’s introduction. “O.K. then I‘ll leave yous, she’s a good one, she’ll be no trouble to you at all Doc.”

  “Thanks Stanley, I appreciate it and it’s very nice to have met you.”

  “Same here Doc… If there’s a thing in the world you need, call on me.”

  “I will be sure to do that. Thanks again Stanley.”

  As Stanley exited, Dr. Pierce had begun to briefly look over Miss Stark’s file. He had quickly seen the same consistent rubric of her assessment. She had been labeled schizoaffective by numerous doctors; some had also stamped her with a co-morbidity of avoidant personality disorder. Within the axis of the file it appeared she had been having progressive epis
odes of catatonia. Her prior mania that was evident in her intake at Westwood years ago was now long suppressed. It was apparent she had been retreating completely from the cohesive hierarchy between the rats and eternal internists. Her simple action implied that she had manifested herself into a puppet going with the wills of Westwood’s society. She had given up the early fight.

  “Fuck you, you’re all god damn mother fuckers!” another patient had burst in lunging at Pierce. “Don’t you know who you’re fucking with man! I’m a highly decorated Army Ranger and I did em all in!” The patient had grabbed at and ripped one of the top buttons of the Dr.’s cheap hundred dollar suit. “I’m not your god damn property anymore!” The patient had managed to hoist the young intern and drag him out into the corridor of the labyrinth. “Fuck you!” he screamed as his begun jabbing the Dr. in the ribs. Every consecutive “Fuck you” was a hard blow allover Pierce’s body as he curled up in a defensive stance against the patient.

  Stanley had raced in to subdue the overgrown rapscallion that couldn’t stop the impulse to destroy the young doctor. But when the patient had gotten first site of Stanley he had immediately took to his knees crying and begging for any mercy from him. Stanley had that affect on many of the patients and was a powerful man indeed in many more ways than just sheer muscle. Just the mere stare from him would evoke fear. He had quickly took control of the situation by using one of his mighty vice grips to wrap around both of the patients hands. The cry of the patient had overtaken the entirety of his own body, paralyzing him in the process. The tears were raining all over Stanley’s hands as he slumped to the floor in retreat like a sopping wet floor mop.

  “Y-y-yous allright Doc?”

  The doctor had slowly awakened from the stupor of the moment while managing to get up from the floor. He was seemingly unscathed but his cheap suit had bore the bruises of dust and sweat from the instant scuffle.

  “Never better, Stanley. Never better.” The intern grunted out.

  “I’m fixin’ to take out the trash if you catch my drift. I’ll let you get back to your bidness Doc.”

  “Alright. Thanks.” The doctor begrudgingly told Stanley.

  As Stanley was escorting the dead weight of the patient, Dr. Pierce had noticed through the open door to his office that Miss Stark had run off in cowardice. The young intern called out her name several times much to the beguilement of the other patients that were transfixed along the corridor. He then reentered his glorified broom closet, replete with the painted shut window, and retreated back to his leather chair to garner a calming breath. As he swung around back towards the window he immediately noticed on the sill that his composition book that he earlier had been etching in had the last empty page torn from it. He scanned the book to see if any other pages were missing but only found a poem had been scribbled on the underside of the caricature he was working on. This was neither his handwriting nor his usual prose which could not be found elsewhere.