We Were Inseparable
By: Kova Lakefield
Adam
The recorder lay in the center of the desolate room. It was tilted on its side, show casing the dull black metal. A doctor sat nearby, staring at the machine through squinting eyes. It had been too long since he had slept a sound night, and things would only be getting worse. He took a deep breath, inhaling the generic vanilla scent, and reached over to click record.
"Test; Check," the words came as a natural reaction to being on tape.
"Well, he's been released again today, and I'm back where I started," the doctor ran his hand through his long blonde hair, twisting and curling the slender fibers between his fingers, "Looking over old notes, listening to tapes, wondering how bad I potentially messed up this time. My patient's wounds seemed to be healing, and he seems to getting along with his appendages, and I know he seems find, but seems can be a dangerous word." The doctor rustled through some paper placed upon his desk, crude writing drawn about the long paragraphs like gang symbol graffiti.
"My initial diagnosis:," the doctor started, staring at the very first paper that he had ever received about his patient, "Catatonic." The word seemed to slither off his tongue, searching for an invisible victim in the tiny, empty room.
"I know he's somewhere in there. But there's just no response whatsoever to any kind of stimulus. We'll start him with medication tomorrow." The man ended the tape, sighing in relief, throwing the device off his desk and onto the floor. The doctor felt as if he had failed. He scanned across the papers on the desk, flinging them off in ferocious sweeps. The anger pent up inside his heart was lashing out again, and finally, with his medical records sprawled across the floor, something caught his eye. The doctor took deep breaths, lifting the paper skeptically.
Medical Note, January 28, 2006:
This man's tragedy has made him a prisoner in his own body. And it's not just tragedy, it's dementia, despair; it's this hole I can see in each of his eyes where all the events that happen in this real world fall through. It's loneliness in the most crippling form, the kind no amount of love, or human contact, could ever mend. The patient was plagued by violent nightmares, terrible, deeply troubling dreams. Those images one night overflowed into reality, and he murdered his wife in his sleep. They were in love, deeply in love. That love was filling those holes. And now, it's my job to fill those holes with something else. But what? Hope? I can attempt to fill them with drugs, soothing words… but that's all. Maybe his wounds will heal with time, but right now, I don't know.
Medical Note, January 29, 2006:
He spoke with me today, the only part of the conversation that really stuck with me was when he referred to some invisible sickness that was spreading across his body. He told me it was centered in his torso, spreading down his arms and body. We made a thorough examination and found nothing. When I tried to tell him that it was his grief, depicted within his mind as these long red lines spreading across his body, he retorted with, 'you don't know what it is, so don't try to press your medical bullcrap on me.' I don't know what to do.
Them
Dreaming, falling, reaching, and there is something to hold. The nightmare never wanes. The light burns him, his palms seared beyond recognition. There he hangs to life, in a deserted dream, his hands wrapped painfully about a blood stained figure of God. The Song of Man, with eyes draining streams of bright red.
The dreamer's arms find a throat, there he holds, the statue gaping as its life falls through the murderer's fingertips. The sleeper, the dreamer, a married man with a beautiful wife that his heart belongs to fully; a haunted husband, damning himself for days of futile prayer. So in his dreams, he kills his Savior, his Loving Creator, but when dawn breaks, the killer will kneel and pray for forgiveness.
His beloved God dying in a feral grasp, tears failing to flow.
The dream is gone, David is awake, his hands tied around the neck of his wife. The scene refuses to register; David blinks, staring at his bride, expecting her to move, give him a kiss, and say it was all a dream.
His fingers begin to unclench.
He stares at the body, a pale porcelain statue, a corpse. A smile escapes his lips. Reaching over the bed to the dresser, he grabs a bottle of her perfume. The rosy smell is intoxicating, the only thing in his head, thousands of memories plague him.
With one hand drenched in her scent, the red liquid painting words across the bedroom wall, David stabilizing himself as his knees buckle constantly, defiantly. His fingers move, drawing cryptic love about every surface.
He kneels, stripping what little clothes he had on in the process, and he prays. Every syllable jumbled, unclear, forced.
By the time he finishes, David is in the bathroom with open bottles of Benzodiazepines in one hand, Zoloft in the other. The pills taste bitter, the vodka he found a burning sweet. A phone begins to ring, sirens sounding outside his doorstep. David lies sprawled across the floor, draped in medication, drowning in alcohol. The door falls, police and paramedics rush into the room.
David grins, feeling nothing but his body shutting down as they enter his home.
Adam
The doctor threw the report on the ground, next to the mess he had already made. The next file wasn't medical, no, it was from the police. On the top was a tiny sticky-note that said "Fax to Doctor Adam Sinclair". He had never gotten that fax, in fact, the doctor had to drive all the way down to department and retrieve the report.
"Fucking cops," Adam reminisced, wondering why they had left him for an hour and a half in their lobby before handing him five pages of work. He peeled the tiny note off and threw it over his shoulder. The yellow looked quite out-of-place on the collage of white.
Police Report: January 27, 2006
David Blakefield was found in his home today, January 27, 2006, after a 911 emergency phone call made by his wife, Mary Ann that he was suffering from a violent seizure. When we arrived, we found Mr. David Blakefield naked, and alone in the master bedroom. He was covered in medication and alcohol. A toxicology report was later made, finding that the substances were as follows: 95 pure alcohol (vodka), high dosage Benzodiazepines, and high dosage Zoloft. All three of these were prescribed to Mr. Blakefield by a local practitioner, Dr. Adam Sinclair. His records were checked, and he came off clear. Not even a speeding ticket, the man is a golden boy.
Police Report: January 27, 2006
The writing on the walls has been deciphered. It was written in some sort of expensive perfume. The experts tell us that the lines were as follows: above the bed, "Angels with silver wings shouldn't know suffering". On the mirror in the bathroom, "You scream wake up inside your own body, but your buried or suffocating… or worse, tonight its worse, tonight the screaming hurts". Diagonal on the doorway wall, "We were inseparable". On the eastside wall, "Precious and fragile things need special handling". Smeared on the bathroom floor, "If God has a master plan that only he can understand, I wish it could be my eyes he was seeing through". Stained onto the bed, "She had so little left to give", and lastly, written on David Blakefield's chest, "Words are very unnecessary, they can only do harm". The sentences don't seem to mean anything, they seem too free-verse to actually be a suicide note, and the content and context just doesn't fit the situation.
Adam brushed the papers aside, determined not to tear them apart. His body was screaming at him that his actions were all for justice, but the facts said otherwise. Everything pointed in another direction that he didn't understand. David was already free, the judge seeing him fit to return to his daily life because there wasn't enough evidence to convict him of the murder of Mary Ann Blakefield. The 911 call wasn't enough, voice specialists had discovered that it was David Blakefield himself that had made the call and impersonated the female voice.
"But why?" the doctor muttered, picking up the ER Hospital records from the night of the incident.
Hospital ER Records: David Blakefield January 27, 2006
The man is lucky to be alive. He had enough medicine in his stomach to start his own pharmacy. From what we can tell it was a suicide attempt, OD. But the method was just so, unusual. It is rare to see a patient these days that tries to overdose on his catatonia medication. The Zoloft could have done him in, but the Benzodiazepines simply don't make sense. It is a medicine that has been proven to work effectively. In fact, it keeps the user alive for some extra time; you could call it, life support in a pill, if you really wanted to. I suppose that is why they give it to these Schizophrenics; they need all the help they can get.
Hospital ER Records: David Blakefield January 27, 2001
I may not be a doctor, but I have been a nurse for seven years and have never seen anything as tragic as the newest patient Mr. Blakefield. I've known this man for the past four years of my life, and never expected for someone like him to try and kill themselves! Although I never met the wife he would always spoke of, I know for fact that she would be traumatized if she knew that her husband had just been sent to the ER due to overdosing. It was strange however to see Mr. Blakefield up late at night though after the incident. Somehow, he had gotten his hands on a red marker. I took it away, and he began to whisper something. When I leaned in to hear, he screamed it at me, "These lines I wear around my wrists are there to prove that I exist!" The doctor was in the room within a few minutes, and we had the patient under control. The lines he was talking about were strange drawings across his forearms. Mostly along the veins. It is pretty common among traumatized victims to do such things, but usually with a knife. Luckily Mr. Blakefield is alright, we will be sending him to the Rehabilitation Center tomorrow. Thank God Boontown has one.
The records gave Adam a tart taste in his mouth. David Blakefield did not even need to be sent to court after his supposed murder of his wife. He went straight to Boontown Rehab and his lawyer took care of the case with David's consent. Power of Attorney can do that kind of shit for you. Sign your life over to some law school grad to either let you live on happily or be put behind bars. David never actually pled guilty or innocent. The records of Mary Ann Blakefield were all incomplete, corrupted, or lost. It was as if she had never existed. No one even knew her date of birth, parents, if she had siblings, anything, and David wasn't talking.
"Kill your wife and go free due to lack of evidence, that's what is happening to the USA," Adam Sinclair commented, folding the hospital records and putting them aside.
The next page read "David Blakefield's Diary," at the top of it. Adam sighed, he must have read this same pamphlet one thousands times, and every time it just seemed to become more of a mystery.He read slowly, determined not to miss anything.
Today,
Mary Ann woke me up early to go to the store. I went, she came. She waited in the car as usual while I went in. We got eggs. I hate eggs, but she loves them. When we got home, we ate eggs and toast. I ate the toast, she ate the eggs for me. The taste, I can't stand the taste, but she can, that's why she eats them for me. I get the sustenance, but she gets to enjoy the taste. I hate the taste, it is always taste.
Today,
Mary Ann told me that we should start to date this journal, but we never know what day it is and in the end we will just be putting "Today" again, so I convinced her to let me keep it like this. Maybe one day I will get my own private diary, but she always knows where to find it, where to read it, and is always reading with me. I don't think I can hide anything from her, we are simply inseparable. Sometimes we laugh about having the same thoughts.
She let me hear her song, it was good, but now it is stuck in my head. Sometimes I sing it, but cant remember the words. She named the song, "The Song of Man", I don't know why, but the title is pretty, I will agree with her.
"The Song of Man," the doctor repeated, throwing the paper over his shoulder. The phrase seemed very familiar. Adam turned around, and shoveled through the papers on the floor until he found the one he wanted.
"The Song of Man," he read, his voice hushed as he scanned the picture and text.
Patient Records: David Blakefield
Category: Catatonic
Medication: Benzodiazepines, Zoloft
During exercise hour we found him in his room. Somehow he had managed to get his hands on a marker. When we walked in, he started to sing the words he had written on the wall above his bed. It was mostly gibberish, the photo of his "art" is below.
Adam looked over the portrait, his eyes squinted in order to see the small print. The title of David's work was… "The Song of Man". Dr. Sinclair smiled, beginning to say the words of the song allowed.
"It's all about the song in my head, the one where the audience is all dead. Convulse through the chorus all those who are sinners, and feel the sharpness of the beat as A perfect blade across perfect lines. She can only do them harm. Oh, remember how shallow of a grave, she can feel the rain."
The rest was illegible. It was so strange, murderous, but soothing in a sense. The line, "…She can only do them harm…," stuck with Adam. It seemed ironic. He had killed his wife, then was referring to Mary Ann as her? It seemed plausible. But how was she doing anyone harm when she was dead? Nothing made sense.
Them
There is only one word to describe Mary Ann Blakefield: glamorous. Her morning routine was ritual. Wake up, put on some make up, serve David his breakfast, take off the make up, and do whatever chores were necessary for the day. A house broken wife, Mary Ann didn't mind; she was old fashioned like that.
As she slept, Mary Ann could hear David's rustling, "A bad dream," she told herself, ready to awake the dreamer. Her ring was spinning on her hand under the blankets, right next to her lover's. She fiddled with the diamond nervously, "Has he taken his medication lately?" she wondered, staring at the side of her unconscious groom.
David began to flail his arms above his head, reaching desperately for the ceiling. Mary Ann leaned her head in whispering, "Honey, wake up," into his ear.
The man retaliated, spinning his reach towards his wife. Mary Ann desperately tried to scream as David's hands found her neck and began to squeeze harder and harder. Her gasps flowed forth as gurgles, her screams, yelps. Mary Ann pleaded silently till finally her husband let go with a long yawn. The victim panted, fleeing the bed and rushing towards the phone in the hall.
Mary Ann picked up the receiver dialing 911, and immediately hearing the voice of the operator.
"911 What's your emergency?" a high pitched, apathetic male voice asked.
"My husband tried to kill me!" Mary Ann croaked, her esophagus still feeling as if it were in David's grasp.
"Ma'am, please, remain calm."
"He tried to kill me!" she repeated.
"Ma'am, what's your address? We can send police assistance, just tell me and don't you dare hang up," the operator cooed, realizing that this may not be some kid's idea of a joke, but instead, an actual problem. Those were rare. The man's palms were sweaty, adrenaline pumping fiercely, and his heartbeat ringing loudly in his head.
"4193 South Crowich Drive," Mary Ann screamed, her voice cracking as she finished the sentence.
"Stay on the line, help is on the way," the operator ordered.
Mary Ann nodded, but still stood in the hallways leading up to the master bedroom. She listened to the high pitched voice converse in her ear. She heard the words, understood the questions, but couldn't answer. Mary Ann's entire being was concentrated on the words forth from the room nearby. The receiver fell, hitting the floor with a banal thud.
"Hello?" the operator prompted, "Ma'am are you there?" His questions repeated, an endless cycle within themselves. Mary Ann ignored the robotic murmur. She felt her way back towards the room, cocking her head at every alien sound emanating from the dark corner of the house.
"All I ever wanted," David's voice sung, "my beautiful angel with so much to give." The rhythm was hectic, the pitch horrifically sharp. Mary Ann pushed the half closed door, and what she saw she could not believe.
"Picture yourself in a scene of such grotesque complexity you'd kill to be dreaming," David rambled on, delicately caressing the corpse of Mary Ann upon the bed. There were long red lines across her entire body, the same exact lines that David had contracted.
The bride was the kill, the groom a murderer. Then the world was black, and Mary Ann was falling, completely formless, shapeless, suffocating on her own ethereal existence.
"And I fall, and I fall, and I fall, because we were inseparable, destined to be together forever."