Sorry that it's been a while since I've updated. In my defense, it's nearly spring break and the professors at college like to pile everything on their students right at the last minute.
Here is chapter 9. I hope you like it. It was one of the hardest to write because of Zack's breakdown at the end. Btw, here's some food for thought: which twin do you think is hurt the worst by all this? Cody or Zack? (not an easy question). Anyway, feel free to give me feedback.
p.s. In the next chapter, Zack will visit Cody!
When Cody stepped out the back door of Rosenberg Hall, the sun's blinding light made him have to shield his eyes. He'd gotten used to the darkness of his and George's room. Not that it was totally dark, or uncomfortably so. But it was a great deal darker than this.
Cody had been looking forward to outside time. It seemed it would be the best part of his day. The closest thing to freedom he would have as a patient at Fairoaks. Outside time was when he could roam around without being confined by walls, and feel the effects of nature, which—even after a day—he had already begun to miss. He'd feel the wind, see the trees, smell the aromas of spring…act as though he wasn't in a loony bin. He'd immerse himself in welcome surroundings that were normal and stable.
The acting would be hard though. He'd been given the white-pajama patient outfit earlier that morning and had been instructed to put it on. Now he looked like everyone else. He'd lost his identity. His sense of self. And besides that, he was standing among a crowd of other patients, some of whom were mumbling to themselves, and twitching, and rocking back and forth.
It's hard to break from reality when reality is constantly in your face, reminding you of its presence.
There were benches outside of Rosenberg Hall, all situated across from each other, several feet apart. And further away, up a little hillside, was a basketball court. There was also a pavilion somewhere; Cody had seen it when he first came there. But he didn't remember exactly where it was and he didn't want to ask.
Cody sat himself down on a bench and breathed a sigh of relief.
It's not freedom…but it's as close to it as I'll ever experience so long as I'm here.
It was really warm out. Probably close to 70 degrees. And Cody thought it felt good. The sun was massaging his skin. The breeze was contrasting it, creating a perfect pattern of warmth and coolness.
Cody closed his eyes and let his thoughts take over. He was weary from the night of practically no sleep before, so he half-way dozed and succumbed to whatever dreams met him.
He dreamt of a screaming girl with no face, and a woman who shape-shifted from a nurse to a government official; he dreamt of hallways that never ended and fluorescent lights that flickered and played tricks on his eyes; he dreamt of quiet bedrooms and bureau drawers, and loaded guns going off and bullets ripping through flesh—he even thought he heard the sound of a steady heart beat.
Then he dreamt about Zack. He dreamt that Zack was crouching in a corner with his hands shielding his face, and that—without warning—a transparent, featureless figure came out from within him and said, "What have you done to me, Cody?" That was the last thing Cody saw before he was woken up by the sound of Jenny Kroft's voice.
"Cody?"
Cody opened his eyes, realizing for the first time just how heavy his eyelids were.
Jenny Kroft looked beautiful in the sunlight. Her eyes shown a deeper shade of blue and her blonde hair appeared to be outlined in gold. Her skin almost looked bronze against the white light shining from behind her, and her smile was radiant. Cody took in how perfect her teeth were and how the dimples in her cheeks gave her an innocent look. It was adorable.
"Hey, Jenny," he said weakly.
She took a seat beside him and crossed her legs. Cody caught a whiff of her perfume. She smelled nice. Like crackling leaves in the fall time with a hint of dew. Very natural.
"You doing okay?" she asked, concerned.
How to answer that question?
"As well as can be expected." That was the best, most honest reply he thought he could give.
"Do you need something? I could get you a drink of water. Do you smoke? You're allowed to smoke now if you want."
"No, I'm…I'm good." That wasn't true. He wasn't good. In fact, he was far from good. But what would make him better he couldn't have.
Jenny nodded.
There was a minute of serene silence between them. Cody was afraid for a second that he would doze off again. His eyelids began to droop.
Jenny noticed them. "Tired?"
Her question woke him up. "I didn't get much sleep last night."
"I hear you." She looked at him in understanding. "I've worked the night shift before…and I'm glad I don't do it anymore. Night time is the worst. Everybody's antsy and scared. Their demons come back to them."
What do you know of demons, Jenny? Do you have any yourself? I suppose you do, but you seem too nice to know about demons.
Cody shifted his gaze downward, wanting to ask her something but not sure of whether or not he should. Jenny noticed this as well. "What is it?" she wanted to know.
Cody sucked in a quick breath and decided to go ahead and ask. "I'm just wondering…why are you working in a place like this?"
Jenny wasn't offended, but she looked at him in perplexity. "Why wouldn't I work in a place like this?"
"Well, this place is…you know…it's…" Cody tried to grasp for the right word, but the only one that came out his mouth was: "crazy."
Jenny's look turned hard for a moment, and Cody thought for sure that he'd made her angry. But then she let out a laugh and said, "You got that right."
Cody laughed too, more from relief than amusement. He watched as Jenny pulled a loose strand of yellow hair away from her face and tucked it behind her ear.
She answered the question: "This place—I mean, sure it's crazy. The people give you a hassle, you constantly have to be alert, you work strange hours, but…it's so rewarding. The work itself makes you feel good. Well, at least, to me it does. I like coming home feeling like I made a useful contribution to someone, even if it was as simple as getting them to eat their lunch, or telling them to have confidence. It makes me feel…I guess…proud of myself."
Cody nodded. He got that. He understood the need for a sense of pride. "So, how long have you been working here?"
"Just shy of a year. I'm fresh out of college so this is…intense. I spent six years training for this, and now here I am, living it."
"You spent six years in college?" Cody asked.
"I went to graduate school and got a master's degree in clinical psychology."
Again, Cody nodded. His vision scanned the grassy lawn before him, taking in the back and forth movement of legs in action. Legs of fellow patients, walking, running around, jumping, lagging, standing still. All cloaked in white, cotton material.
George was out there, among a group of three other boys, leaning against the trunk of a tree with his arms crossed over his chest. Cody could tell he was having a conversation.
It all appeared perfectly normal. An everyday life picture.
"Jenny," Cody said, "do you think I'm crazy?" He blurted the question out before he could stop himself. But he didn't regret it. He wanted to know the truth of how she felt about him.
Jenny thought long and hard before replying. Then, finally, she said, "I think…you have some…some negative feelings, and that you've been in some…unpleasant situations." Her words were slow. Carefully chosen. This was no doubt something she was taught to do. Don't offend the patients; be honest and direct, but keep their goodwill—she'd probably had that drilled into her head. "Not that everyone doesn't have problems. You just…you need to work through yours a little better than you were previously."
What a euphemism.
Cody gave her a knowing look. Not one that said "I understand and comply with that," but one that said, "Hey, I know what you just did."
Immediately, Jenny tried to redeem herself. "You're here so you can have someone to talk to—someone who knows about people and their feelings. You need to express yourself. I think you've been keeping things bottled up inside for too long, and that's not healthy. You need to get all your feelings, whatever they may be, out into the open. That way, you can move on. You can live a happy life."
A happy life. Pfft! That sounds so fairy-tale. Like happily ever after. What's going to happen after I express myself? Am I going to ride off into the sunset to some ideal place and have everything I ever wanted? Is that a "happy" life? What is a happy life, Jenny? What makes a happy life? Does it even exist?
Cody said nothing, averting his focus back to George. But he thought about Jenny's words. He thought about them intensely.
Then, suddenly, he saw one of the boys who was standing across from George haul off and hit George in the face. The blow was so powerful that it knocked George over onto the ground, flat on his face.
"Oh my God!" Cody exclaimed, taken aback. "Did you see that?"
Jenny shot up off the bench. "Stay here!" she told Cody, and then she sprinted off toward the scene.
Cody didn't exactly do what he was told. He respected Jenny, but he was more worried about George. Slowly, cautiously, he came forward, staying far enough away so as to not get anyone's attention, but close enough to where he could see George more clearly. George had scrambled to his feet and taken a defensive stance, ready to fight back if he needed to. His nose was bleeding but he didn't seem to mind.
The boy who'd attacked him was big and burly, with hair that was buzzed along the sides of his head but thicker on top. He was shouting like a maniac and spurting out a string of cuss words, but nevertheless, Cody could barely hear what he said. Nurses crowded around him, ordering him to back away. He didn't listen. Instead, he made another lunge at George and was soon pushed to the ground himself by the nurses, who practically jumped on top of him. When they had him down, one of them produced a pencil-like object and jammed the tip of it into the boy's arm. Cody knew what it was—a syringe. He didn't know what the drug inside of it had been, but pretty soon, whatever it was made the boy pass out.
After that little excitement was over, it was announced that the patients needed to go back in. Cody wanted to wait for George to come over before heading into the building; they had always been taken back to their room together. But this time, George was led away by these two nurses that Cody didn't recognize, and Cody was taken to their room alone.
…
Not long after coming back within the walls of isolation, Cody was taken once again to Dr. Thompson's office. Dr. Thompson looked rather fatigued and disinterested, but he managed to welcome Cody with a smile.
"Good morning, Mr. Martin," he said.
"Good morning, Dr. Thompson," Cody replied, even though it hadn't been one.
"How've you been since the last time we talked?" Dr. Thompson beckoned to the chair in front of his desk and, just like last time, Cody took a seat.
He probably expects me to say something that'll make him look good. Something positive. Even if it's not the truth.
Cody avoided that question and instead said, "There was a fight outside. Well, it was more of an attempted clobbering. My roommate got hurt."
"Yes, so I've been told. I'm sorry you had to see that. Sometimes, such incidences happen beyond our control. I hope it didn't frighten you too much." Dr. Thompson was clearly not satisfied by the turn of conversation, but he didn't have much of an option but to go on with it. The patients were supposed to take the lead. The doctors were supposed to follow. That was the way it was done.
"It was a little nerve-wracking," Cody admitted.
"I can imagine so, given the fact that you're so new here. But, other than that, how have you been."
He's pumping me. He's pumping me for just the right answer. He'll probably keep pumping me until he gets it.
Cody considered what to say to that. He went for the same thing he'd told Jenny earlier: "I didn't get very much sleep last night. Too much noise."
Dr. Thompson still wasn't satisfied. If anything, he was more flustered. "You'll get used to that over time as well."
Cody remained silent. His eyes scanned the room, observing the desk in front of him—which was still hidden beneath papers—where Dr. Thompson's little notebook was lying, next to a red pen, then moved over to the bookshelf, where the spines of the reference books and encyclopedias were the only source of color, then shifted to the filing cabinet, and then landed back on Dr. Thompson himself.
"Just out of curiosity, when was the last time you got some sun?" Cody wanted to know. He wasn't sure where that question came from, but he didn't care. He was curious.
"Why do you want to know?" Dr. Thompson asked, taking up the red pen, just about to write something down.
Cody felt the urge to laugh.
He thinks I'm giving him insight into my feelings. That is actually hilarious. It's funny how psychiatrists find meaning in the most meaningless things.
"Because," Cody answered, "you look like you need it."
"Well," Dr. Thompson said, trying to sound reassuring and professional, "unfortunately, with my schedule, I don't have the time to indulge myself."
Cody didn't let up. "Why don't you hold meetings outside with your patients, when the weather is nice?"
"It goes against protocol." Dr. Thompson scribbled as he spoke.
I know all about protocol. I used to follow it blindly.
"I think that's ridiculous."
Dr. Thompson stopped writing and looked up at Cody. "What you think about that doesn't matter. It's been long established that all meetings must take place in a professional setting."
And why is that, Dr. Thompson? Is it so the patients feel more enclosed—more vulnerable? More willing to tell you what you want them to?
"Would you like to talk today?" Dr. Thompson was ready to get down to business.
Cody shrugged. "We're talking now," he replied.
"Yes, of course. But I meant…well, I meant about how you feel."
Cody knew perfectly well what he meant, but he acted as though he didn't. He was stalling because he didn't want to talk about any of that, yet at the same time, he didn't want to spend this session sitting quietly in the room, trying to fight exhaustion and boredom. When trying to avoid interrogation, play dumb. That had once been Zack's advice, and it had always worked for him. So Cody was going to try it now. "How I feel about what?" he asked naïvely, sounding as genuine as he could.
If expressions themselves could talk, Dr. Thompson's would have been saying "Don't even think about being a smart-ass with me, boy." Luckily they couldn't, and all Dr. Thompson physically said was, "About dealing with your problems."
"Oh," said Cody. "That's certainly a depressing topic on a lovely day like today."
"But it's why you've been brought here." Dr. Thompson folded his hands neatly over his notebook, making himself appear eager and willing—attempting to make Cody gain a false sense of security. "You're here to talk about yourself…about your depression. And to reflect on your emotions."
Cody looked seriously at Dr. Thompson. "Honestly, right now I'd much rather reflect on my outfit." He gestured toward his pajama-like attire. "I would love to add color back to my wardrobe if it's all the same to you, cause this right here—this is depressing."
"The uniforms required for patients are beyond my line of work. All I'm able to tell you is that they are intended to be comfortable and impossible to hide things in. It's all about safety."
"Safe clothing can still be colorful, and different."
Dr. Thompson sighed in aggravation. "I suppose it was meant to prevent unnecessary stereotyping."
"Stereotyping?"
"Yes. Labeling someone by their clothes is quite common, especially with people who are mentally unbalanced. It's hard to label someone, or single out certain people, if they are all wearing the same thing."
Cody didn't think that was the case. It seemed to him that it would be the other way around—that normal people would stereotype more, because they had more expectations. They paid attention more to guidelines. Mental people, on the other hand, didn't. They were just concerned with the bare basics—food, sleep, and happiness. If that. They most likely wouldn't think twice about what someone was wearing. So long as that person didn't bother them or be an unpleasant disturbance to how they liked things, they would be just fine.
Cody shook his head, thinking it was funny how he was suddenly concerned about stereotyping and clothes. Well, it's better than thinking about nothing and trying not to doze off. It's such a funny thing when the mind wanders.
Dr. Thompson looked somewhat surprised by the topic as well. But he didn't act like he was. "So, I assume you don't want to talk today?" he asked.
"You assume correctly," Cody answered.
"That's perfectly alright. As I said before, you can take all the time you need. We'll be spending hours upon hours in this room together; I'll do my best to earn your trust."
I doubt your best is going to be enough, Dr. Thompson. You'll be spending hours upon hours in this little office, fighting for a lost cause.
Dr. Thompson dialed an extension and called a nurse to come and get Cody.
When Cody went back to his room, he found George Tanner there waiting for him.
…
"That's it!" Kurt stated sharply. "Carey, Zack—we have to talk! Right now, we have to sit down here and talk about this!" He sat down at the kitchen table.
Carey and Zack, who'd been sitting silently on the couch in the living room space, passed each other a look, and then got up and came over to the table as well. Carey took a seat next to Kurt and Zack took one across from him. They waited for him to speak.
"We need to talk about Cody," he told them seriously.
Unexpectedly, uncontrollably, a rush of anger took hold of Zack. He did not want to talk about Cody. He did not even want Cody's name to be mentioned around him. Its acid burned his esophagus. Smoldered his chest.
"What about Cody?" he retorted. "He's the reason we're in this mess."
"I know that, son, but…" Kurt paused, considering what to say. "We still need to talk about him. All this lying around—it's not good. The sooner we talk about it, the better."
Zack didn't know why, but he felt resentful of his father for saying this. "What's to say? He shot himself. That's it. He came home after a little break up, and then shot himself behind everyone's backs."
Instantly, his mother looked down and began to cry.
"Zack!" Kurt exclaimed.
"What? You said you wanted to talk about Cody. Well, there you have it—the 411 on your younger son. Nothing else to say…except that now he's in a nut house."
His mother's sobs intensified.
"Zack, no! That's not how we're going to go about this!" Kurt was frustrated. Hopelessness shown like a beacon on his face. He wanted to talk about Cody—he needed to—but he had no idea how. How does a father talk about the attempted suicide of his son? Especially with that son's mother and twin brother.
"Then how should we go about it, Dad? Huh? How should we talk about this? Do you want us to lie to each other and say that Cody's coming home tomorrow? Is that it? Would you rather us pretend that he's on vacation?"
"No, Zack, no…of course not. We can't do that." Kurt reached over and rubbed Carey's back. Slowly, her sobs were reduced to sniffles. "We sure as hell can't do that. We need to talk about how we're going to help him." Carey's eyes moved from the table to him and found his eyes. She held them there for a moment, anticipating any comfort he could give. "How we're going to…to make him better." Kurt spoke assuredly.
If the old Zack were in charge, he would have agreed without hesitation. But it was the new Zack who was in the driver's seat now—the bitter, cynical Zack who was filled with rage. And before he knew what was coming out of his mouth, he snorted and said, "Oh sure, like we can really make him better. Like we can just go in there, tell him we love him, make him promise not to do it again, and then walk back out with our problem solved. Christ! Don't you realize he's not going to get better? There is no getting better from this—there's no turning back. He made his choice. He fucked us over and now here we are, reaping what he sowed!"
Zack watched, partially in mute horror and partially in audacious defiance, as his father exploded in anger. "What the fuck is your problem, kid?" he yelled.
The last time he called me "kid" instead of "Zack" or "son" was years ago, when I accidently broke his new guitar.
Usually, he hated it when his father was angry. Especially since he'd hardly gotten to see him during his childhood, given that he was constantly touring. But now, it was different. He was different. His brain was wired with spark plugs and convulsing with a mad surge of electricity. He was on fire, riding a current without any knowledge as to where it would take him. The surge was anger, he knew that. But it felt more like something tangible—like fire. "Golly, I don't know, pops," he replied, putting on an innocent school-boy face to make his point. "What is my problem? Why on Earth should I have a problem with the fact that my own twin brother is fucking insane? That he came to me just to tell me I was right about something, and then blew his chest out with my fucking hardware! Tell me, why would I have a problem with that?"
For a long lapsing minute, neither Zack nor Kurt said anything. They were both two infuriated to speak. Zack was afraid that Kurt might actually hit him—that, at any second, his temper would get the better of him and he would reach across the table and slap him in the face. But that never happened. The only thing Kurt did was stare. Glare, more like. But, nevertheless, he was silent.
The only sound they heard came from Carey, who had broken down into unrestrained tears. Finally, Kurt leaned close to her and whispered "Why don't you go lie back down?" in her ear. Without a word, she stood up and walked back over to the couch.
Which left Zack and Kurt alone at the table.
Zack was the first to break the silence. "Why would I have a problem"—he repeated—"with the fact that I wasn't there to stop him, Dad? He tried to kill himself in my house, with my gun, and I wasn't even there to stop him."
All of a sudden, the old Zack was inching his way back into the driver's seat, pushing the new Zack out. The new Zack squirmed and kicked, and screamed to be left alone, but the old Zack was too strong. The old Zack was full of hope, and longing, and willingness to believe, and he had decided that he'd had enough of the new Zack's skepticism. "I should have seen it coming. I should have seen it. I felt that something was wrong. In my gut, I just…I knew it. But I didn't pay attention to it. I completely ignored it." The more he spoke, the more victorious the old Zack became in winning out over the new. But hope was not what the old Zack was feeling. Hope was not the feeling that arose within him, pouring water over the new Zack's fire. Neither was it willingness, or longing.
It was regret.
Zack saw that his father's expression had changed, doing a totally180 from a dangerous look of seething wrath to one of empathy.
"I went on to work without thinking about the consequences," Zack continued. "I told myself that he'd be just fine." The old Zack was in control now, and regret was enveloping him from the inside out. Strangely enough, regret was just as merciless as anger. "I told myself that everything would be fine. That there was nothing unnatural about this. Nothing to worry about. He'd been through this before; he'd get through it again. I'd help him get through it."
Right then, tears pricked Zack's eyes. "I should have stayed, Dad. I should have been a better brother and stayed with him. I should have stayed home, instead of going off like I did."
"Zack," Kurt spoke gently, "don't do this to yourself. You haven't done anything wrong. You didn't know that this was going to happen."
"I'm supposed to know!" Zack cried. "He's my brother! I have to protect him, and I didn't! I wasn't there! It's my fault, Dad! It's my fault I wasn't there. I should have been with him cause he needed me, but I wasn't. Oh God, it's my fault!" The tears spilled over and slid down his cheeks.
"Zack, you listen to me—it wasn't your fault." Kurt looked his son directly in the eye. "I don't ever want to hear you say that again, understand? None of this is your fault. All you did was go to work and then come home and find him. The rest was his doing. Not yours."
Zack seemed not to have heard him. "You know what the worst part about it is?" he continued. "I was angry at myself, but not at having left him. I was angry at having left my stupid blueprints. I only came back home cause I needed to get them…and I was so angry. But, if that hadn't happened…if I had taken them with me…" Zack grimaced at a horrible thought. The new Zack could have finished that sentence, but the old Zack couldn't. The old Zack couldn't so much as bear the thought.
Immediately, as if realizing the meaning of it all for the first time, Zack buried his face into his hands and dissolved into hysterics.
The weight of truth is a heavy cross. When Zack carried it, it forced him down. Physically. He couldn't so much as sit upright. He bent over pitifully, like a rag doll.
Kurt reached over the table and ran his fingers through his son's hair. "Hey," he soothed, "It's okay. It's okay, son. Don't think like that. It's in the past. You did come home, and you were there on time. That's all that matters."
"Don't say that!" Zack begged, his face still hidden behind his hands. "Please don't say that! Don't tell me I did the right thing. Tell me I was wrong. Please tell me I was wrong! Tell me you're ashamed of me! But please…please don't say that!"
Without his knowledge, tears stung Kurt's eyes as well. His one son tried to literally kill himself; and now his other son was doing the same emotionally. "Oh, Zack…" Kurt's voice broke. He paused and swallowed.
"Don't forgive me, Dad!" Zack implored. "Don't forgive me!"
Kurt couldn't speak, for he had begun to cry.
There was nothing to forgive…and nothing else to say.