Chapter 13: Breaking Free
(Monday, 28 July, 2003. 1330 hours.)
"Aren't you coming with me?" Steve asked Jesse nervously.
Jesse shook his head. "Not this time, no. You need to do this on your own."
"But, Jess, what am I supposed to do?" Steve was feeling very apprehensive. He'd known for a while now that today was the last day he would ever have to face the treatment room. It was the first time he'd even been there without the benefit of drugs in his system, and he wondered anxiously if it would be as scary and depressing now that he had all his wits about him. To find out that he had to enter the place alone made him quite frightened.
Jesse smiled mischievously. "You'll know when you get in there." To make things a little easier for his friend, Jesse turned the knob and left the door slightly ajar. "Trust me, Steve, you can do this." He gave his friend a pat on the back, and walked away down the hall, leaving Steve to enter the room in his own time, when he felt ready.
Steve battled the butterflies in his stomach for several minutes, searching for the courage to go in. In the end, it was his friend's words, 'Trust me,' that gave him the strength to press on. Steve did trust Jesse. The young doctor was caring and compassionate, and fiercely protective of the people he loved, and Steve knew he was lucky to be included in that group. Jesse wouldn't push him to do this if he wasn't ready, so, feeling very much like Daniel entering the lion's den, Steve nudged the door open and walked in.
It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimness, for the room was exactly as he had seen it that first time, with only the light above the tank shining. After a moment, his vision cleared, and he had to smile at what he saw. Several times during his recovery, Kat had asked him to write down what he would do if he were charged with the task of dismantling the treatment room. He supposed imagining himself disassembling that which had tormented him for so long was supposed to have some therapeutic effect, but more often than not, he had just found himself feeling more frustrated and helpless knowing the suggestions he'd made would never really be considered. He'd come up with some rather creative scenarios, but this had been his personal favorite.
Walking up to the tank, he found a note scrawled in Jesse's distinctive scribble.
Knock yourself out, Steve, but please, wear the protective gear provided
and stand to the side when you swing. You've come too far to get hurt now.
Grinning, Steve pulled on the clunky rubber boots and the heavy canvas shirt. He put the protective goggles on his face, and slipped the leather gloves on his hands. Lastly, he put the hardhat on to protect his head. Calling out to whoever may have been watching, he said, "I sure hope you guys have cut the power to the cameras in the floor." Then he picked up the sixteen-pound sledgehammer, stood a little off to the side of the tank, and swung for all he was worth.
His first blow cracked the thick glass from corner to corner with the sound of a rifle shot, and water started leaking out of the tank at various spots along the split. Not satisfied with that, Steve swung again, grunting with the force behind the blow, and the safety glass disintegrated as hundreds of gallons of water came out with a rushing roar. Grinning delightedly, Steve decided knocking out the one wall to drain the tank wasn't enough. Stepping inside of his own free will, he turned to one of the other walls and with one swift swing, shattered it to bits.
(Monday, 28 July, 2003. 1345 hours.)
Steve paused for breath, but he was far from finished. He could feel the blood singing in his veins. He was taking great pleasure in dismantling the treatment room, and he was feeling more alive than he had in weeks. Shortly after destroying the water tank, he stopped for a moment when he realized he was destroying evidence. After some thought, though, it occurred to him that Jesse knew enough of police procedure not to allow him to do so if it would make any difference. Elaine and Mateo were not run of the mill criminals, and though he didn't know who would be dealing with them, he doubted that they would be facing a run of the mill trial. He knew there were certain systems that operated outside of the conventional law, and while he didn't necessarily approve of suspending anyone's Constitutional rights, he knew, if the Chief were involved, they would be punished exactly as much as they deserved and they would never again be allowed to hurt anyone as they had done him.
Satisfied that he was in no way hindering justice, Steve had then turned his attention to the cameras that had been mounted in the floor. He'd had to bash his way through several inches of concrete to get to the workings of each one, but he had pounded away steadily at the cement floor until he'd found the hated cameras, and then he'd beaten the hell out of them.
Next, he put the ladder Jesse had provided him in the middle of the tank, strapped on the tool belt, climbed up, and took the camera that had been mounted over the tank down. When the last of the screws was removed, he let it fall carelessly to the floor. Back on terra firma, he picked up his sledge again and smashed the camera to bits. As he carried the ladder into one of the dark corners of the room to repeat the procedure with another camera, someone in the observation room turned the rest of the lights on for him.
"Thanks," he called out, and went to work on the next camera.
(Monday, 28 July, 2003. 1450 hours.)
Wiping the sweat from his brow, Steve surveyed the destruction around him and smiled. It had taken nearly an hour and a half, but he was almost finished now. He'd stopped for a breather after destroying the last of the cameras, and then had bashed the speakers to bits. There had been twenty of them, four along each wall, and now there were twenty piles of shattered plastic, wood, and metal, every one covered in its own little black cloth shroud.
After the speakers, he'd turned his attention to the computer and data projector. Again, he'd left nothing but rubble in his wake. Not even the table on which they had been sitting was untouched. It had taken him three tries, but he'd finally broken it in half with his sledgehammer. He was relieved to find that the real photographs that had been used in his torment and later treatment had been removed. He hadn't given them a thought when he'd emptied the water tank, but since they were gone, he supposed Jesse had taken them out beforehand. He was glad to know they would be returned to his father undamaged. The fake photos though, had been left to him to dispose of.
By now, the water had all run down the drain in the middle of the floor, and the concrete was dry once again, the perfect surface for what Steve had in mind. Jesse had even provided a broom. It was part of the fantasy Steve had described when he wrote about how he would disassemble the treatment room. He started by sweeping the remains of the speakers into the center of the room. Then he added the carcasses of the computer, the data projector, and the table. All of the cameras went onto the pile, too, and the projector screen was placed on the very top. Then, finding the lighter Jesse had slipped into his tool belt, he poked the faked photographs into the pile here and there, and lit them afire one by one.
He knew the toxic fumes from all of the plastics in the fire would become overwhelming soon, but he didn't have much left to do. Looking up at the observation window, he muttered, "I hope someone up there has read the whole plan." Just in case they hadn't, Steve pointed at the hammer, then at the window, made a sailing motion with his arm toward the window, and acted like he was ducking for cover. Turning his back to the window and gripping the hammer in both hands, he began to spin. Half way through his second turn, he let go of the hammer, and watched it sail across the room and through the window. Half a tic later, the glass came shattering down and he could see sparks flying in the room beyond. A couple of very distressed technicians peeked out at him and then withdrew.
Finally, just on a whim, he took the screwdriver out of his tool belt, turned, and threw it at the golden light above the disaster that had been the water tank. Whether due to many hours of practice on the shooting range or just desperate need to completely break free of this room that had haunted him for so long, Steve would never know, but to his utter surprise, the screwdriver shattered the bulb with a tinkling sound and then clattered to the floor on the other side of the room.
With a satisfied smile, Steve removed his boots, the goggles, gloves, tool belt, hardhat, and the heavy shirt and added them to the small, merrily crackling bonfire in the middle of the room. Then he turned his back on that whole sad and sorry chapter in his life, and walked out, shutting the door behind him.