I do not own Ratched.

I do not own my angel boy Huck. But I love him.

Huck Finnigan Lives Again: A Ratched Fairytale

The Silent Indian


It's the talk of the hospital.

Huck's clocking of Al Davenport, not Huck's near kissing of Grace Miller.

No one knows about that except Huck himself.

Whereas everyone knows about . . .

". . . decked him so hard, he fell down, right on the floor, it was better than a movie-"

. . . the punch.

Al's gone, hasn't returned since the fateful Joe Louis Extravaganza of St. Lucia.

Hasn't called. Hasn't written.

Hasn't anything.

And Huck figures . . .

"Nurse Bucket, I think we need to place an ad for a new orderly."

"Sure. We'll even add a special skill of keeping his damn trap shut, whaddya say?"

"Uh, well, they charge by the letter so we might, uh, shorten that part."

"Oh, you big baby."

. . . that's answer enough.

In the meantime . . .

"Nurse Baker, where's Peter?"

"Who?"

"The indian boy."

"Oh. Uh . . ."

. . . he's got other fish to fry.

The boy, the indian, just seems to wander.

A silent lost apparition.

That's what he is.

A lost boy.

Without Peter Pan to fly him to Neverland.

Huck's read his file.

Peter Bromden.

Brought to St. Lucia months ago from somewhere up north when he was caught by police sneaking through a town square, knife in hand, warrior stripes painted in blood on his face.

And the story he had told, oh the story.

His father, proud chief of their people, mother a white woman.

And they had wanted their tribal lands back.

Had announced their intentions, staked their claim.

And begun to fight back . . .

". . . State of California . . ."

. . . against the oppression of the white man.

The faceless, nameless townspeople whose burg was built upon said land hadn't liked that.

Father, killed.

Castrated and hung from a tree.

Mother, defiled and slain as well, Hester Prynne 'A' carved into her forehead where she lay crumpled in the bloody dust.

The boy, a silent witness to it all.

And, according the file, no person could be found to either corroborate or disapprove the story.

Electro-shock therapy had been administered multiple times throughout his stay.

Restraint. Isolation.

Schizo-affective medications that left him a helpless, drooling heap.

And now, he is simply a ghost.

Withdrawn and fading.

Moreso now since some late night incident months ago Huck isn't privy to.

Something that happened on the hydrotherapy . . .

Torture room. I'll cut that cord again with my Army knife if I have to. I don't care.

. . . hall.

And now the boy simply does not speak. It is unclear if he even hears the people that speak to him.

He simply abides.

And since he is the lone child in a sea of adults and appears to be of no ill intent toward anyone, he has been left.

To wander. To subsist.

To abide.

During meals, if he is found, he is taken to the dining hall.

During bedtime, his room.

Occasionally it is assured he is washed, teeth brushed.

Clothes changed.

Hair cut.

They move him as they will. Take him here and there and yonder.

He is pliable, compliant.

Never speaking, never engaging, never giving any sign of recognition of human faces or forms.

His blank face remains slack. Hands still.

Eyes fixed upon whatever they may.

And seem to be depthless, empty, devoid of all sentient awareness.

He is simply, now, the silent indian.

Communing with nothing.

Belonging to nothing.

A part . . .

This is not right.

. . . of nothing.

And Huck . . .

There's got to be something that can be done.

. . . decides to think on it.


"Hey, Chief, I'm short-handed today. Can you help me out?"


Cows. Pigs. Horses.

A goat.

Hay and dander. Animal musk.

In general, life outside the four walls of the mental hospital.

The boy, mute and still, stands beside Huck.

Where he has stopped walking.

Just inside the door.

Dust motes lazily floating in the rays of sunlight filtering through the light honey colored redwood slats of the walls.

Almost glowing, they seem to be.

Heaven's light.

A light of . . .

"So, what do you think?"

. . . hope.

Soft whinies and oinks and shuffling hooves and swishing tails all a part of the gentle press of life within the barn.

The boy, the silent indian, does not speak nor move.

But his dark, mysterious eyes seem to fix upon one thing and one thing only.

"Do you like horses?"

The Arabian.

Pure white, save for the dusting of black around her nostrils.

"You can touch her if you want. She's tame."

Dark, liquid eyes docile.

"Ready for the glue factory so I've heard. Until Dr. Hanover bid them down and brought her here."

Tail flickering flies.

"Her name is Duchess."

Coat in need . . .

"But you can call her whatever you want."

. . . of a good brushing.

And the boy . . .

"Want to go say hi?"

. . . goes.


The boy is still outside.

Horse with him.

Both standing quietly.

The horse munching grass, tail swishing here and there.

The boy next to him, hands upon the solid, warm side. Head down.

An attendant there is as well, one of the better ones.

At a distance as directed, watchful, yet peaceable.

And though the boy seems as withdrawn as always . . .

Well, at least he's in the fresh air.

. . . Huck Finnigan is hopeful.

And the sunshine ought to do him good.

As he goes on about the tasks . . .

Horse looks better too.

. . . of his daily workday.


Actually the boy who played Peter is Jon Jon Briones (Dr. Hanover)'s real life son.

And though they didn't say it, a clear reference to Chief "Broom" Bromden from the movie.

So I mixed and matched until I found something I liked.

Thanks to DinahRay for previously reviewing. You're so gracious (but no longer Guest, right? )!