A Slice of Life

Part four


Great wits are sure to madness near allied,

and thin partitions do their bounds divide.

–John Dryden


"Five years? I don't remember any of it!"

"You only remember from one bad episode to the next Then You have what you call a black-out, and I explain it all to you again." He continued to talk to the floor, not looking at Kolchak.

"How long do I go between these... episodes?" he asked, deeply concerned.

"Anywhere from a day to sometimes a couple weeks."

"That's the biggest slice of life I get? A couple weeks? Then I start over?"

"Yes You have a hard time forming a 'big picture' You complain often of that. I don't mind explaining it to you again and again Repetition is something I enjoy That's part of my stuff." He began tracing the seams sewn in the chair on the other side of him with his index finger.

Kolchak sat in shock, trying to absorb it all. "Why don't I remember?"

"Nobody knows– It's just the way you are."

"It's not the way I was!"

"That's true You do have your memories from before you arrived here." He continued the tracing.

"That's right. How would you know that?"

"When the small-slice-of-life problem bothers you too much we talk about your monsters That calms you down and I enjoy the stories."

"What do we talk about?"

"You tell me stories about your monsters. I know it's all just part of your stuff but I enjoy listening The words you use are flowery You used to write for newspapers."

"Which monsters of mine?" he asked cautiously.

"The ones you imagine you have fought." He traced.

"Ah. My monsters are part of my stuff, you think." he said warily.

"Sure. Vampires are fictional beings."

"Ah-huh."

"You are working with Dr. Harrelson on remembering that they are all just made-up in your head But sometimes you forget to remember, and we talk about them."

"Ah-huh."

Down the hall, a woman screamed a blood-curdling scream. Kolchak started violently, but Danny sat calmly tracing and indicated various people in the Day Room with jerks of his head. "Over at the table that's Sammy and Raj. Raj doesn't talk much but he will answer you if you repeat it Sammy is non-verbal so don't bother trying to talk to him––"

"Did somebody just scream?"

"Yes That's Sarah There go our doctors: My doctor is on the left He is Dr. Bennett and your doctor is on the right He is Dr. Harrelson––"

"We've met." Kolchak frowned, distracted. "Why did Sarah scream?"

"Sarah is bad today." Another scream, longer this time. Danny traced the seam-lines in the chair.

"Shouldn't we go help her?" Kolchak asked, unnerved.

"The staff help her. They will have her in the Safe Room."

The woman in question continued with loud inarticulate protest, and Kolchak could sit still no longer. He followed the sound around the corner and down a hall. Danny and sketchbook followed.

Two orderlies stood outside a heavy door with a large glass-and-wire-mesh viewing window. They were watching a woman through the window as she spun and cried out, screamed and threw herself blindly at the walls of the room. She bounced and jerked like an amateurish marionette.

"Stand ready with the vest in case she needs it... Blast! She has some fingernail showing! Why weren't they trimmed?"

"Somebody dropped the ball on that one," the other orderly agreed.

"A padded room. An actual padded room..." Kolchak realized with shock.

One of The orderlies noticed him watching and scowled. "It's not your turn, Carl. Move along."

His words hit Kolchak like a Mac truck. "You put me in there?" he croaked.

Danny pulled at his arm, and led him back to the Day Room. "All this is a shock to you each time."

"What was she doing?"

"Raging. They will see she is not injured."

"And that's what... I do?"

Danny nodded. "Haven't you noticed how strong you are? Often that's one of the first things you comment on."

"I have noticed." He touched his biceps. "Not an ounce of fat on me. I haven't been this toned since high school..."

"You get strong fighting them, and the raging is pure exercise." Danny returned to the same chair he had before. Kolchak sat also, the wheels spinning in his head.

"Has Sarah always done that? Like me?"

"No This is new for her She started two months and four days ago."

"She must black-out about life with the raging, too..."

"No She blacks-out during the raging, but her slices-of-life are strung together." He began tracing the seam-lines in the chair next to him.

"Oh. Lucky her." Kolchak leaned forward to rest his heavy head in his hands.


ooooooo


"I don't need and I don't want any therapy session."

"It's part of your road to mental health, Carl." They were in Dr Harrelson's office again, facing off with the large desk between them.

"I don't know you, or trust you and I can't see how looking at inkblots is going to help anything." he said resolutely.

"We've never done inkblots." the doctor responded calmly. "We just discuss what's going on in your life, and I help you interpret it."

"And you're better at understanding me than I am myself because of...?"

"Five years of medical school followed by six years of Abnormal Psychology training."

Kolchak shook his head. "Sorry. Even that doesn't qualify a body to understand my life." He crossed his arms and leaned back into the chair.

"Carl, we need to talk to continue your progress."

The patient sat mute.

"Carl. I know you can be stubborn," (Kolchak smiled smugly) "But we must have therapy."

"Doc, your big blue men can keep me in this office ––it's true. But nobody can make me talk."

"Carl," he rubbed his hand over the back of his neck wearily , "don't make me pull out the big guns. Please."

Kolchak sat in stoney silence.

The man in the white lab-coat sighed and watched him. A battle of wills.

Kolchak sat.

"Alright." the doctor sighed. "This is your choice. Let's talk about ... Thomas." He had the confident expression of a man who knows there's an ace in his cuff.

Their eyes locked. Silence hung between them for a pause. Kolchak raised his chin slightly. "Tom who?" he asked warily.

"Thomas, Carl."

Kolchak's eyes went narrow. They glared at each other in long silence.

"... you bastard." Kolchak said quietly.

"My thinking is your psychosis began back then––"

"Was I, by any chance, drugged out of my gourd when this came up, Doctor?" he asked, his voice tinged with hatred.

"Obviously, it would be traumatic enough to scar any 10-year-old, deeply, even without considering the implications to the family's bonds––"

"You know, I know a lot more about a citizen's civil rights protections in this country than you would want me to right now––" Kolchak stated desperately, feeling the Old Panic rising. His pulse began to race for no apparent reason.

"Your constant willingness to believe there are monsters 'out there' is a direct result of this trauma. You have been practically unable to experience feelings of security after the incident."

"Not to change the subject, but––" perspiration was gathering on his brow.

"But you must face the shock, not constantly turn away from it. Your father shook your infant brother in front–––"

"Stop it! Stop it!" Kolchak roared. He leapt to his feet and leaned onto the large desk, breathing hard. "That is not spoken of!"

The psychiatrist frowned at him calmly. "Carl, if you become agitated, we will only have to take a trip to the Safe Room."

Kolchak was vibrating with emotion, barely even hearing him. "No." He pointed a finger at the doctor shakily. "No. You have everything else. You have taken my career, you've taken my past away from me, you've taken my future, you even have my sorry corpse locked up–– No; this is a part of me you can not have... "

"I already have it, Carl." he regarded him cooly. "Now, are you willing to do a talk therapy session with me?

Kolchak stared at him for a long time. Eventually, however, he sank silently back into his chair. He took four slow, deep breaths. "It doesn't need to come up again?" he asked, as if standing on eggshells.

"No, not unless I need it again." He smiled and leaned forward. "Now then, last time we were working on zombies..."


oooooo


Two hours later Kolchak sat hunched over on a chair in the Day Room, his eyes staring unfocused in front of him. His facial expression was deflated, his color –– in spite of the mushy-yellow shirt –– was almost grey. Danny approached him.

"Hey." No response. "Carl, are you going downhill?"

The older man seemed to come to himself. "Oh. Danny. Hi." he responded listlessly.

"Carl, are you going downhill?" he repeated.

"I don't know, Danny. I don't know. Can you do me a favor and leave me alone a while? I really don't feel like talking..."

"I can sit without talking That's easy for me. And it might help you." He sat in the chair next to him and stared at the floor, but didn't speak a word.

Carl watched him a while with a bemused expression, then a small smile played on one side of his mouth.

They sat, together.