I do not own Ratched.
I do not own my angel boy Huck. But I love him.
Huck Finnigan Lives Again: A Ratched Fairytale
Huck Finnigan thought he was dead for sure when the gun in the hand of the Negro patient Ms. Wells went off -
Shit-
-and all he could think was that he had failed.
Failed to stop her.
Failed to save anyone.
Failed even to save himself.
Like a man.
And then the liquid fire erupted in his shoulder and it was the only thing that let him know he was still alive.
Well, that and the fact that he was still somehow on his feet.
Punched back a step.
But not dead.
Not yet.
And he only had a second.
Huck Finnigan had worked in a hardware store afternoons in high school instead of playing football.
But any man in a desperate situation knows how to go in for a tackle.
A guttural scream raked his remaining ear when his wounded shoulder collided with the hollering woman's torso.
And only later would it occur to him that it had been his own.
Another gunshot in his ear-
Half deaf and half blind, golly, I'm a catch now for sure-
-as he held on to the screaming, cursing-
"-cker, take your goddamn hands offa me-"
-mad woman fighting tooth and nail to writhe free-
If she bites my nose off-
-scratching and clawing and-
-I won't even be able to work here anymore-
-hitting and punching-
-dammit, she is strong, Jiminy Cricket-
-and then other people-
"-down, hold her-"
-were there-
"-go, Huck, we got her, Huck-"
-and he felt them fighting her instead of him-
Oh good, thanks, fellas-
And the red shag carpet rushed up at him-
-ke a little nap now, here's good-
-and Huck Finnigan knew no more.
He still isn't dead when he manages to open his eyes.
And finds himself-
Does Heaven smell like Borax-
-in a red paisley-papered room.
-I don't like it-
With all the distinct sounds and smells of the mental hospital-
So it's Hell then-
-he has come to hate.
-paying for my sins-
Except he isn't in Hell.
He's just a gunshot man in a hospital bed.
Being tended to by a . . .
"Huck. You're awake."
. . . vaguely female shape he instinctively knows must be a nurse.
"How are you feeling?"
And he doesn't know.
He doesn't know how he's feeling.
Only that he's glad to not be . . .
"I don't . . ."
. . . dead.
". . . I don't know."
He thinks.
"Can you sit up?"
He's leaned back against a pillow, half up and half down.
Bandaged shoulder immobilized in a sling.
"Uh, oka-"
And he tries to comply, to sit up, just a little.
"Oh-"
And the pain overwhelms him so much that he feels his stomach churn.
Flip.
And-
"Hur-"
Empty its meager contents from whenever the hell it was the last time he ate.
"Oh, wait-"
And she catches it, the nurse does.
Deftly hooks a white bowl under his chin, catches the bile that his stomach has sent back the way it came.
It smells and that's bad and he retches again.
Vaguely aware that she's holding the bowl and grimacing just the tiniest bit-
Oh god, this is humiliating, oh god-
-and then he's sagging back onto the pillow.
Weak and nauseated and-
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. . ."
-ready to pass right back out again.
"It's okay. It's alright. You lost alot of blood. You're still weak."
And there is a damp cloth on his head and it's . . .
"What . . . what day is it?"
. . . cool and refreshing.
"Tuesday, the 12th."
And it's still . . .
"Where is Ms. Wells?"
. . . the same day it was when he was just changing the linens on the bed.
"They have her."
And Nurse Bucket called him to Dr. Hanover's study.
"She's back under lockdown."
And that Negro woman shot him.
"Oh."
And then he does pass out again.
"That's good."
And knows no more.
Oh, come on! Why did that bitch have to be such a damn deadshot?!
I loved her and would have forgiven her for anything until she shot my angel boy Huck.
Ask my husband, I flipped right out.
That was two weeks ago.
And today I decided I would bring him back because I could.
The use of the term Negro here is appropriate only because of the time this movie is set in. I do not intend any insult.
Black Lives Matter. Everybody say it. And keep saying it. And saying it and saying it.
Thank you for reading my story.
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