CARRIE 3: Shadows Of the Past
NOTE: so you're not confused. ( ) is Becky's thoughts. ( ) with italicized words is Carrie's thoughts and voice, and ( ) in bold are Momma's voice and thoughts.
PART I: BLOOD SPORT AND PLAYING WITH FIRE
Prologue
From The Medical Files of Rebecca White from Chamberlain County Psychiatric Primary doctor: Henry Bell (p. 10)
The bars on the window cast a shadow on the white tile floors from the sun. There is a smell of sterility, body odor, piss, shit, and dust. There are sounds coming from the TV and calming classical music from the radio echoing through the white halls, the shuffling of feet on the white tile floor and bodies in hard beds, the clomping of high-heels from nurses, heavy footsteps from doctors and the squeaks of wheels from partitions and gurneys. There are straightjackets, muzzles and booties hanging on the wall and leather straps on beds, and a room with padded walls with triple locks on the outside of the door, but no handle on the inside.
All this that is described here you can find in Chamberlain County Psychiatric Hospital, just about three blocks away from the park, which is another two blocks from Carlin Street. Everything here at Chamberlain Psychiatric is barbwire and fence on the outside; but on the inside, it's sterilized, white, and occasionally quiet if there isn't a patient causing commotion. Then, nurses would come in with a sedative and a straightjacket, strap them down in the white jacket and inject the sedative into them until they passed out.
A girl's pale thin face reflects off the glass of the window, her bony pale fingers entwining and gripping the bars on the window, her breath fogs the glass, her black sunken-in eyes stare out the window through her unkempt hair, watching the people outside and inside the barb-wire fence with vigilance.
It was indeed a beautiful day outside. The sun was shining, the flowers were in bloom, children were playing outside, people were walking outside…even the patients of Chamberlain Psychiatric were outside, playing sports, talking to each other, and smoking.
(oh, yes, the sun is shining indeed…just not for me. with the voices and the images in my head that keep me awake, being a patient with post-traumatic stress syndrome. that's why the sun ain't shining for me…)
Her body trembling, eyes aching from holding back her tears, her lip trembling. Blood hot, veins pulsing in her temples, and heart beating hard against her sternum and her fingers grip tighter on the bars.Soon, she falls to her knees, crying bitterly while her fingers still grip the bars.
"Why? Why did I leave you alone?" she whispered, "it's all my fault that you're dead!"
(No, it's not, Beck,)a voice replied in the darkness of her head.
"Yes, it is, Carrie!" (No, Beck! you just didn't know…)"I did! I should've known what was going to happen!"
(Beck, it's not your fault!)"Why did I do it, Car? Why? I knew Momma was going to kill you. I tried to stop her, I tried!"
(I know you would've, Beck 'cause you're a good sister.)
"I love you, Carrie."
(I love you too, Beck. We'll stay together…)
"Forever and ever, here in your world…"
Another voice came in. One of an older woman.
(sin never dies, rebecca)
"Bitch," she whispered. "You can stop your bullshit."
(sin never dies, rebecca. even in one's past, present…and future)
"Bitch," she said again. "You have no future. You never had a future."
After this, she giggled…
(good girl, becky. Tell her.)
"She's a bitch, isn't she, Carrie? She's always been one. She was born a bitch, she died a bitch and she is burning in Hell, sleeping in Satan's bed, fucking him…"
Becky burst into peals of laughter. The young girl's voice laughed too.
"Becky?" said a voice behind her.
Becky turned her head from the window. It was a nurse, holding a wheeled veiled screen.
"What's so funny?" asked the nurse.
"Nothing," she said. "Something I said. Carrie thought it was funny."
"Who's Carrie?" The nurse raised her eyebrows.
"She's my friend."
"Where is she?"
"She lives in my head…I talk to her sometimes…I tell her everything."
"And who's a bitch?"
"Bitch?" said Becky, clueless at first. "Oh yea! The Bitch. The Bitch who birthed Carrie and I. Yea…I know who you're talking about. Yea…she's in Hell, fucking Satan…sucking his cock and…"
"OK, Becky," the nurse said. "You told me this yesterday. I'll have none of that foul talk from you, young lady. You understand?"
Becky just giggled. "You wanna know how I know? 'Cause Carrie told me. She shows me everything. Anyway, why have you come to interrupt our conversation? You know I'm a busy girl."
"Well, I'm sorry to bother you, Becky, but you have a visitor who want to ask you some questions. Please come with me."
"Send them away," Becky said, quietly. "I don't want any visitors."
"They insist, Becky. They say it's about your sister."
Becky sighed and followed.
Chapter I
From Interview with Rebecca A. White (p. 12) The White Commission. Written by Detective John Mulchaey.
CHAMBERLAIN COUNTY PSYCHIATRIC
I walked into Visiting Room 4; it was small with a single table and two chairs with a large glass window and a single telephone. The nurse turned toward me.
"Rebecca will be coming shortly. But, I must warn you, Rebecca has been diagnosed with severe post-traumatic stress syndrome and schizophrenia. She can act a bit, you know, funny. If she gets too out-of-hand, we'll have a straightjacket and the Thorzine ready."
"I will," I replied. "Thank you."
I had interviewed Susan Snell, the only survivor of Black Prom Night, last week. She had told me all about this Rebecca White, the only survivor of the White family. I was unable to locate the father of the White girls. Rumor had it he was living with another woman, but no one had seen him in Chamberlain. Carrie and Margaret White were dead. I had read the report about Rebecca A. White, Carrietta N. White's younger sister.
"The day Rebecca White dies, Chamberlain County will declare that a national holiday," Sue told me that's what everyone said.
"Why would they say that?" I asked.
"Everyone hated Rebecca, not as much as Carrie. Becky was mean as a pit bull and as mad as a March Hare. You bother her, she'll yell obscenities and insults to you. You bother her sister, she'll rip your face off," Sue said. "She almost killed Chris Hargensen one time in a cat fight."
Sue told me her last place of residence was Chamberlain County Psychiatric, claiming Becky kept hearing voices of the dead speaking to her and having dreams of Prom Night repeatedly.
I couldn't wait to meet this Rebecca.
Outside the door, there were squeaks of wheels; a large veiled screen that was being pulled by a nurse toward the visiting room. Behind it was a shadow of a girl, walking behind it. Soon, the door opened slowly and the nurse guided the girl inside. There, standing in the doorway, was Rebecca White, herself. I was very surprised to see this girl myself; because of her appearance, she was more creature than human; by every second that went by, she seemed to be dying.
She was about sixteen years old, yet seemed hardly fourteen. She was extremely pale and thin. It appeared that her sanity was barely hanging by a thread. She had black eyes, large and sunken in shadow, making her seem so melancholic, frightened, and sickly; they gazed downward, avoiding eye contact. The mouth was very thin, pale and dry, seeming to have never smiled in years, expressing prolonged silence. Her hair was a dull mousy color, yet it was very unkempt and hung miserably over her face. One portion of her hair was drawn back, revealing her right ear, which had multiple punctures, suggesting multiple piercing; her earrings were missing and the holes were closing up.
She wore a sad green woolen robe and a pair of dirty gray pajamas, both rumpled like she had slept in them; the front was open just above her breasts, showing the deep hollows of her neck and her pale bosom. The sleeves of her robe covered her pale hands, which were smooth, yet freckled with very thin fingers and shortly cut clean fingernails. On the milky neck was a sad silver chain cascading into her pajamas. Her feet were bare, pale and freckled.
Becky soon stared at me and slowly sat down. Then, she stared at the table. She had placed both feet on the cold floor and folded her hands and rolled up the sleeves of her robe, revealing a medical bracelet on the right wrist and a tattoo on her left wrist that said, BECKY.
I set up the tape recorder on the table, along with a plastic water bottle and a box of fresh hot sugar-glazed donuts. I plugged it in and then pressed the red record button. Becky watched. The tape began to roll.
"Rebecca White?" I said. Then, seeing the tattoo, I corrected myself, "Or is it 'Becky' you like to be called?"
The girl didn't answer. She merely looked at me and then, stared back at the table.
"Becky," I began. "I'm Detective John Mulchaey."
Still nothing from her.
I looked at the box of donuts, smiling, I pushed tehm in front of her, saying in a nice, sweet voice: "Say, would you like a donut? They're fresh hot." Silence. "They're sugar-glazed. I know they're your favorite. Nurse Betty told me."
She reached over to the box slowly, avoiding eye contact. She mouthed something to me, but I guess it was a 'thank you'.
"Delicious, aren't they?"
She made an inclination of her head. I watched as she took big bites, wiping the sugar glaze from her lips and licking her fingers like a hungry beast.
"Anyway, I'm working on the Carrie White case. I'm here to ask you some questions about what happened two weeks ago. We found that two people from Black Prom Night were survivors of the fire: Susan Snell and you. We questioned Miss Snell already, who told us about you and where we could find you. First off," I pushed a photograph in front of Becky. It was a photo a girl about sixteen, pale, eyes closed, hair drawn behind her neck, lying naked on the autopsy table. "Do you recognize this girl?"
Becky merely stopped eating her donut and stared at the photograph, transfixed. Then, she reached out her left hand and touched the photograph, getting sugar-glazed fingerprints on the photo.
"Hey, sticky fingers," I said. "Careful."
She moved her hand away and I saw another tattoo on her wrist, which said, CARRIE.
"So, is Carrie your sister?"
Becky was still silent; eyes still cast downward and not moving.
"Becky, you need to answer my questions," I said. "It's the only way we can investigate about what happened to your sister. We could arrest you and hold you a suspect for the murder of your sister and mother."
Becky's black eyes looked at me, giving me shivers up my spine. Then, her thin mouth opened slowly, revealing some white teeth and her voice creaked softly.
"And what would I get for that?" she spoke. Her voice was soft and she barely spoke in a whisper.
"Double homicide is a class-A felony, which is a life-sentence, no possibility for parole, and possibly the death penalty. We can't make a deal if you keep your mouth shut, Becky. And prison is nasty place for nice young girls like you."
She let out a sigh. I could tell she'd rather rot in peace in the psychiatric hospital rather than prison.
"No…we're more than just sisters, we're soul sisters."
"What's the difference?" I asked.
"Soul sisters," Becky answered, still quietly. "Understand each other and stay together forever."
"We found your sister in the kitchen closet of the wreckage, stabbed in the back. We also found your mother in there too." I pushed the other photo of a woman about thirty or so, naked on the autopsy table with her hair pulled back. "She was stabbed multiple times in the…"
"That wasn't the cause of her death," said Becky, interrupting.
"What do you mean? The coroner said that…"
"She didn't die from that." Her voice sounded irritated.
Suddenly, I noticed that the room felt much warmer than before: the water in the bottle started to simmer and bubble a bit and there was fog on the plastic like it was on a heater. It didn't seem natural at all. I shook it off, thinking it must be the lights in here making me see things.
"Then, what did she die of?" I asked.
Becky calmed down…the room cooled again, reached inside her dirty pajamas with grubby bony fingers and pulled out a sad looking crucifix on a link chain.
"Religion," she whispered between her teeth, "is the poison of society: too much will kill."
I stared with disbelief at Becky. Shivers went up my spine, the hairs on my neck and arms were stiff bristles…and I realized I had an erection; it pressed painfully against the zipper of my pants. I shifted uncomfortably in the chair, crossing my legs, trying to bend my penis back into place. Just like that, Becky started giggling. This giggle sounded like a giggle of a schoolgirl giggle, yet with a touch of evil.
"Scared?" she said, smiling.
I didn't like this. I felt uncomfortable in this very room with this girl.
"I noticed the hair on the back of your hand is standing up," she said. "And your dick is pressing against your pants, isn't it? Uncomfy, are we?" Again, she giggled. "I know all about what happens when people get scared. Hair stands up, heart pumps faster, veins and arteries pulse in the neck or temple, body starts trembling: from the inside out, your skin crawling. For girls, the muscles in the vagina pulse involuntarily and for guys, they get an erection."
"That's very interesting," I said, trying to calm down. "Now, let's stay on subject. Now, do you remember what happened that night, on Prom Night? The night your sister died?"
Becky stared at the table again, silent and still.
"Becky, please," said Joan. "I need to know."
"And you will…" she said quietly, staring at them with her black eyes.
The tape kept rolling, recording events in Becky's own words of what happened…