Chapter 3
And the
silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me -
filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now,
to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
'Tis some
visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor
entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing
more,' Poe
Munch and Fin strode down the hallway, more than ready to leave. As they came to the main room they were blocked by an elderly woman. She was tall and thin, with a sharp hooked nose and steely hair tied up in a bun. She wore an old fashioned black dress, with the wrists and ankles covered. Her white collar also covered her neck. She looked at them with cold beady eyes. Something about her emanated coldness, glaring down at them Munch had the distinct feeling of a bug about to be quashed beneath a boot. She sniffed as though smelling something unpleasant.
She sneered, showing brown teeth. "What do we have here?" She said, her voice high pitched and nasally. "A dirty little Jew birdie it seems." She chuckled as if what she was saying was funny. She glared at him again "Dirty birdies don't belong here, why don't you crawl back to whatever hell-hole you belong to." She made a deep, throaty sound, and a second later Munch felt something wet and warm plop onto his cheek. Wiping against his cheek, he saw it was spittle tinged with yellow. Fin blanched and lunged at her, but Munch held him back, all while trying himself not to lunge at her. Stay calm, stay calm he told himself over and over again, using his teachings over the years and personal experience to help him control himself.
Dr.Kleppinger ran into the hall. "Mother please! Control yourself!" He yelled. Ms.Kleppinger thrashed in his arms, spittle flying everywhere. "I'm so sorry" he said, still managing to look insincere even with his mother thrashing about "she's never been the same since father died, and I don't know how she slipped passed the orderlies…" Dragging his mother, he took her into his office and slammed the door. Munch and Fin traded looks, and Fin handed him a paper towel handed to him by the secretary.
"Let's get out of here before any other mental patients attack us."
Munch nodded his assent and followed Fin out of hell and into the sunlight.
OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo
She sat alone, her hands shaking as the last of the drug coursed through her. She could feel it starting, that mind shattering pain that seemed to consume her whole being as her body craved the sweet release of drugs. She had begged and pleaded for just one pill, but they had refused her. After all she was a bad girl, and she must be punished. Her hands that had moved before with such fluid grace and confidence struggled to complete the portrait before her.
In the portrait a man sat, his eyes covered with a pair of sunglasses. He had a wry smile and a nose slightly too big. His raven colored hair was trimmed close to his head, and behind his shades you could see brown shattered eyes.
In a sudden flash of rage she flung the picture across the room, and screamed her rage and defiance.
No one cared, no one ever cared.
She started weeping bitterly, the tears flowing thick down her cheeks. She wept for the drug she never needed and for the insanity she never had. She wept for the injustices and horrors in her life and the monotonous cycle of drugs and stupors. She wanted that sweet release, that blissful mist that carried her away from the day to day bleakness of life. Because anything was better than this, this shattering lucidity and the awareness it brings; the awareness that she is a shackled bird, chained by drug dependency and steel walls. She contemplated killing herself, releasing into the embrace of the reaper. And then his face flashed in her mind.
He was different, the man with the hidden eyes and guarded soul. He looked at her like no one had looked before, like he gave a damn about her. Looking back, she never remembered anyone who had ever cared. Not even her mother, with her cold eyes and wintry hands, cared about her. Chewing on the end of her tresses, she carefully gathered his face and arranged it on the table.
She lightly touched a tear stained cheek. She was surprised, though she knew what tears were; she had seen many if the other inmates moan and cry. But she herself had never cried herself. Not even when she was beaten, not even when she was in so much pain she felt as if her body was ripping apart. Not even when she was on the floor, begging for a pill. She felt clean, washed out and tired. Crawling into bed, she thought of the detective.
She had to talk to him again.