The Life of the Mind

Ch. 2: Welcome Back

A/n: Rating has gone up for violence…Steve Buscemi turned into demon…I don't know if that's a good thing...
Barton heard the explosion and waited for the stereotypical light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel experience. He knew that the right side of his jaw—or more probably, his face—was blown away. There was no light, and yet no fire and brimstone either. Nor any tunnel for that matter. Fink heard screaming; terrified, instill-the-fear-of-God-in-those-who-heard-it screaming. Was he dead? No, he couldn't be. He was the one screaming. One couldn't scream with the half of one's face blown apart, right?

"He's awake, Doctor," said a faraway female voice. Barton's senses seemed to all be separate parts of his body. He knew he was screaming; he could feel his throat rupture and the screams turned to choking, even though his mind was far away. Fink felt himself spit out a mouthful of blood. His thoughts were slow, as if he'd just wakened from sleep.

Doctor…? Where am I? How'd I get here?

An intense-looking man, obviously the doctor by the looks of him, gave Barton a weak smile. Fink looked into the doctor's steely gray eyes, searching them for an answer he couldn't find.

"You're a very sick man, Mr. Fink," the doctor said quietly. He sighed and continued. "My name is Dr. Gressman. I'm here to help you."

I'm not sick, what are you talking about?

Barton felt a nauseating pang of dread as he looked at his surroundings. He was lying in a bed, leather belts lashed around his wrists, chest, knees and ankles. This was a hospital. Worse yet, it was an insane asylum. Fink tried to talk, but his voice was gone. The only sound to escape his lips was a gurgle of blood that issued from his ruptured throat.

"You were found in a condemned building, covered in the blood of two recent murder victims. Both bodies were with you," Gressman explained. Barton, mute, shut his eyes, tears falling down his face.

Audrey, Mayhew…God in heaven, it wasn't a dream. They really are dead!

"What were you doing in that building, Mr. Fink?" the doctor inquired. "Why did you kill those people?"

It wasn't me! Barton raged mentally. It was Charlie Meadows! Madman Mundt! For the love of God, ya gotta believe me! I don't belong here! I'm just a tourist with a typewriter; I never harmed anybody!

Barton jerked his head to the right, looking past Gressman's shoulder and over at the man who had just been dragged into the room, secured to a bed (just as Barton had been) in the opposite corner of the room. The newcomer had blood-soaked bandages wrapped around his wrists and torso. Fink recognized him. It was Ben Geisler, the producer Barton had worked for when he first came to Hollywood. Ben had been fired due to the screenplay Fink had written and had tried to get Barton fired alongside him. It didn't work.

Mr. Geisler! Thank God! You've gotta tell this man I'm no murderer! You know me! Please!

"Buh—Ben!" Barton choked. Dr. Gressman blinked, looking over his shoulder at Geisler's copiously bleeding (but very much alive) body on the other bed.

"You know this man, Mr. Fink?" he demanded, turning his attention back to Barton.

"I—I did—not—kill those—people," gurgled Fink in between mouthfuls of blood. "He'll tell—you. He'll tell—!" Barton stopped, choking again. He strained at his bonds, his back arching in pain from coughing. Fink wasn't sure what was worse—the Hotel Earle, or this place.

Gressman disappeared out the door to this cold prison-like hospital room. Barton and Geisler were alone. Or so Barton hoped. Fink looked around, trying to make sense of what was going on as he looked back at where Ben lay. The former producer was awake, his breathing rapid and shallow. Chet was sitting at his bedside.

"Who are you?" Geisler asked. Chet grinned, his eyes and teeth demonic once again. His heart was visibly beating from within his ruptured chest.

"I'm nothing," replied Chet. "My boss is the one you should worry about. You're a very egocentric man, Benjamin Geisler." He flashed a straight razor in front of Ben's face.

"Chet—NO!" Barton howled. "Enough blood—has been shed!"

Chet let out a frightening bray of hellish laughter.

"Why should I listen to you?" he asked. He jerked his head side to side, the vertebrae in his neck cracking audibly. "You don't own me."

"What—are you doing here?" Fink coughed, straining all the more at the belts around his wrists.

The bellhop from Hell stood up and took one step forward. Barton let out a shout. Chet now appeared right at him, clamping a pale, long-fingered hand across his bloody mouth.

"Welcoming you back to the land of the living, Mr. Fink. Thought I'd stick around, if that's all right with you," he said.

"O, ift ot aright wif be!" Barton raged; his voice muffled thanks to Chet's hand over his mouth. Chet released Fink from his grip, looking at the blood covering his own palm. His features turned wolfish as he licked the blood off his hand like an animal. He licked his lips when he had finished, chuckling.

"It always tastes so much better when you're scared," he said. "I can taste fear, you know. But with you, Mr. Fink, it's different. I taste confusion. You're probably wondering why you're here, right?"

"Go away!" Barton snarled. His mouth began to blister, as though Chet's touch had burned him. Chet angrily placed the blade of the straight razor against Fink's throat.

"I already told you! You don't own me!" He cracked his neck audibly again and continued. "Not anymore."