Dear Tukkie:Yes I got all your emails, but have little energy to respond. My very bad flu and cough degenerated into bronchitis, which is not at all a good thing to have when you're pregnant. With no access to childcare over here and a crazy boy running amok in the house, I was really living half zombiefied for the last two months. Last week, my chest specialist told me I cracked my ribs... so I was really not in any shape to respond, much less write. But here's the next chap... hopefully the next email I get from you would be a get-well soon e-card?
Prank: you know I rarely say 'no' to you. But this time, let me think about it, eh?
franknjoe: if you have finally come back down to earth... THANK YOU for that wonderful wonderful parody. I've sent a response, if it sounded weird, just blame it on the medication I'm on, please.
Red Hardy: Thanks. I really love Happy Birthday. I admit I am glad I did not see yours and franknjoe's comments earlier because then I would be compelled to write, which could be detrimental to my health.
Tifa: thanks for sharing your experience re- Brotherhood.
Chromde, Polaris, Tifa, nightwatcher, Ms Fenway: you have no idea how happy I was to see your comments as I loaded up this chapter. Thanks very much. I can only apologise for making you wait so long for this update.
WHEN IT RAINS IT POURS
Chapter Six
-o-
On a pristine white bed in a little private psychiatric ward, one patient was tossing and turning fitfully, his tired mind and body desperate for the rest that his over-active mind refused to give him. He dreamt he went psycho and was on a killing rampage, maiming slaughtering innocents, family and friends, laughing at their screams of terror and agony. He dreamt that his little brother was being sliced and diced alive while he watched and that there was nothing he could do to help…
Frank Hardy woke up in cold sweat, his heart pounding, his brother's screams still ringing in his ears.
"Just a nightmare… not real," he muttered over and over, just to reassure himself. "Joe is still alive. All I have to do is to get well, and then help Dad find him."
As usual, that was easier said than done.
First, there were the unexpected aftereffects of whatever drugs Andrew used to turn him into a frenzied maniac. Even after his blood test showed that his system was clear, he was still susceptible to hallucinatory attacks that sent him into a violent rage. He shuddered at those vague memories of himself going on an uncontrolled rampage around the hospital seeing everything through a red haze. That was how he ended up in this private psychiatric ward under constant observation; for his safety, and that of the hospital staff and other patients.
He had not even had the opportunity to see his mother, and instead had to rely on second hand reports from his father, Sam, the doctors and the nurses. At least his mother was alive, stable, and recovering, even if she was still in the ICU.
But he had not had any attacks for three days! Frank thought optimistically as he allowed himself to believe his system might finally be clearing everything after all. Then he gnashed his teeth in frustration as the doctors insisted on keeping him for several more days 'for further observation'.
He wanted to be out there working on the case and searching for his brother. His father, whose right arm was broken, by him, clearly needed all the help he could get. Most importantly, he, Frank Hardy, needed to be out there working and doing something before… before…
His fingers reached desperately for the files he blackmailed from his father. Give me something to work on, something to do, and I will cooperate with the doctors and the psychiatrist, he bargained with his Dad. His father agreed and passed him a copy of everything he had on the Kemptons, plus daily updates from the investigative team.
Frank calmed down the moment he got his hand on the first file. He could still work on the case in his own way on his own time, and he already had a few questions for his father and for Sam. Leaning back onto his bed, he stared out of the window into the inky darkness. Morning was clearly still a long way off.
He recalled how furious he was when Dad told him what happened. His father had no right keeping something so crucial to Joe's safety from him was his initial reaction. Then he would have been more alert and more careful. He would be watching out for his brother, and the Kemptons would not have been able to surprise them so easily… he ranted on and on angrily, ignoring his father's pale guilt-stricken face.
And in your over-zealous need to protect Joe, plus your fears for him, you will end up pushing your brother away from you, Sam's firm voice cut cleanly across the room, silencing his rants.
Sam Radley was right. For the first time, Frank saw exactly what happened between his father and Joe over the last four years. Then he saw what he and Mom had that his father did not. Finally, he saw the guilt and the pain that his father strove to hide.
"Sorry, Dad… and thanks…"
There was this uncomfortable moment between all three of them. And then they all got straight down to work. After all, the only thing that really mattered was finding Joe and getting him back well and alive.
"Just hang on, bro… we'll find you… promise…" Frank vowed as he drifted off into a restless sleep.
Suddenly, he was drowning again.
There were invisible hands holding him down dragging him deeper and deeper into the freezing darkness. His lungs were crying out for oxygen, but he kept his mouth firmly shut, knowing intellectually what would happened if he were to take in that first deadly mouthful of salty seawater. Drowning was after all a most horrible way to die. It did not take long for that instinctive need to survive to take over. His mouth opened on its own accord, he choked, his lungs filled, his body spasm painfully as it failed to get the oxygen it craves.
Frank's eyes snapped opened for the third time that night and he sat up so quickly he was assaulted by a sickening sense of vertigo. He was panting and his mouth was opened in a silent scream, choking on mouthfuls of non-existent water. He almost threw up.
But the room was no longer dark. The soft beams of sunshine streaming in from the windows bathe his room in a warm golden light.
It was the start of a new day.
It was the start of the thirteenth day since Joe was taken by that psycho.
He was found at the end of the first day. He was knocked out for two days straight after that. He spent the next three days trying to remember who he was and what happened. The following four days sped by as he lived in the shadow of unpredictable hallucinatory attacks and recovering from all those berserker romps. It was only in the last three days…
Frank threw the bedcovers off him in disgust as he made his way to the bathroom. He could no longer sleep, no matter how tired he was. He dreaded to think of what state his younger brother might be in by now. Joe, who was in a much more vulnerable psychological state than he, who was just recovering from Iola's death…
He stopped just before the shower stall. For a long few minutes, he stood and glared at the little innocent looking shower-head that was positioned a mere few inches above his up-raised face. He fought a mental battle against the panic attack he felt was hovering just at the back of his mind. His heart was pounding wildly, his breath deepened.
And Frank knew he had one Andrew Kempton to thank for his current phobia of water landing on his head. Andrew Kempton, the man with an axe to grind with his father, who attempted to kill his mother, and took his brother from him.
The man that made him drown for over an hour without killing him…
For the last three days, he forced himself to take multiple showers, working hard to overcome this phobia that Kempton gifted to him. He was managing well. His psychiatrist, whom he was seeing every other day for the moment, was impressed by his progress over the last ten days, saying that some known victims of water boarding were susceptible to panic attacks when the unexpected raindrop landed on their head as long as eleven years after the event. Frank also knew the 'keyword' was 'unexpected'. The 'unexpected' was what led to unforeseen circumstances that could be fatal.
'Lasting psychological impact' was what Andrew Kempton promised him.
'No way' was his gritty response.
He would not allow someone like Andrew to leave that kind of an impact over his life. He would overcome that phobia. He would get his friends to help by pouring water over him without warning after he gets out of this little medical prison. He would find his brother. Together they could and would recover from anything Andrew throws at them.
Today, he would take his shower without a nurse on standby. Then, he would start working on convincing his psychiatrist he was fit to go home.
Frank Hardy took several deep breaths, gritted his teeth, reached for the tap, and turned on the cold water.
-o-o-0-o-o-
"He's not my father… he's not my father… he cannot be my father…"
I muttered over and over as I rocked back and forth on my little hard and narrow bunk with my arms tightly wrapped around my bended knees.
"And Frank cannot be my brother… he cannot be… he's not my brother…"
Fathers and brothers do not keep their sons and siblings locked up half starved and shackled to a cold hard bunk in some windowless room, do they? I asked myself.
"They're not my father and brother…" I continued muttering out loud; first because I needed to believe in it, and second the sound of my voice broke the awful silence and bought me a small measure of relief from the unreasonable sense of terror stalking me.
Something moved in the shadows and I flinched violently, barely managing to stifle a scream by biting down hard on my lips. Tears flowed instead, whether from the pain from my bleeding lips or from sheer fear, I could not tell. I did not want to be able to tell. All my life, I never thought myself a coward. I did not understand this inexplicable, unadulterated fear I am currently feeling. Something was just not right.
The heavy wooden door to my cell creaked opened. I trembled. The dim lights came on, a bare bulb in the center of the ceiling. But it was bright enough to blind me for the moment. And then they, they were there before me.
I cringed almost instinctively. But I refused to be beaten. I fought against that fear that rose from nowhere. I fought hard. Nevertheless, a tiny whimper escaped my throat. They laughed. I hated them. Even more so, I hated myself for being so scared and so weak.
"Good morning, son…" The man who claimed to be my father greeted with a sinister smile. "Guess what… its feeding time again…"
I hated these 'feeding times'. Frank was approaching with that much hated feeding tube. I hated that knowing smiles plastered on both their faces. It was clear to me that they both enjoyed the torment they were inflicting.
"Say Ah…," Frank said.
I opened my mouth, the memories of my recent experiences when I fought against the insertion of that feeding tube still fresh in my mind. I was in no shape to go through another one of those harrowing experiences. It was strange that I could remember all the torment of my last few days, but nothing else. Then that thought fled as I had to deal with the pain of the tube being shoved roughly down my throat that was still sore and raw from recent transgressions. That was followed by the most uncomfortable sensation as the liquid food was dump straight into my stomach. After the tube was roughly withdrawn, I had to battle the nausea. Again, I was too well aware of what would happen if I actually did throw up. I would not give them more reasons to torture me than they already have. Not that they needed any reason to…
The other reason why I fought to keep that meager nourishment down was the fact that I still harbored hope of escape despite my weakened state. I still dream of being free…
Soon, the nausea faded. The food had settled in my stomach. I supposed I must have looked less sickly, for that man who claimed to be my Dad spoke.
"Did you enjoy your meal, son?"
As if I could taste whatever it was he gave me! I was suddenly angry. From that anger, I drew strength. I still refused to believe he was my father.
"You're… not… my father," I stuttered just a little, but I was proud of the fact that I actually say that out loud.
Soft laughter greeted my little act of defiance. By then, my eyes got used to the light. I looked up into a pair of brown eyes that should have felt familiar if he was really my father. Then, quite unexpectedly, a quick memory flashed, incomplete, but enough. Or so I thought.
"My father is an investigator… he helps people…"
"I am an investigator. And my investigations helped lots of people. A lot more than you know, son…" There was mock sympathy in that voice. "Don't you remember?"
"No… You're lying…"
He had to be! My father's a good man. He helps people. I would know… wouldn't I?
"How can you be certain I was the one lying and not you? What do you remember of your past?" The voice I was starting to hate continued, mocking and amused. "You cannot keep lying to yourself, son. You cannot hide from your deeds forever…"
What could I remember from my past? Just a few blurry moving images that tittered teasingly at the fringes of my mind before flitting away again…
"You did something to me…" I decided to go on the offensive, using whatever righteous anger I could conjure to counter the unreasonable fear assailing me. "You made me forget…"
"What make you so certain it wasn't you who chose to forget?" The voice was so confident I faltered. "You want to forget, because of what you did…"
I chose to forget, because of what I did? What did I do? The questions kept coming, and I had no answers. The fear returned and I could not help another soft whimper...
"You killed your mother, remember?"
I did?
"No…" My voice was the merest whisper; I was starting to feel sick to my stomach.
"So you want proof?"
For some reason, the prospect of proof terrified me. I did not answer. The smirk on that man who claimed to be my father filled me with dread. I had a really bad feeling he was telling the truth. Still I refused to believe that I was a killer, much less one that killed my own mother.
He is lying. He must be lying. He must be!
"Frank! Your little brother wants proof of what he did!" My Dad guffawed. "Show him!"
Frank… My heart constricted painfully. The big brother I have who should be looking out for me. Instead, he gave me a series of good pounding. The bruises on my arms and torso were still visible. And now I recalled Frank said he was punishing me for killing Mom…
"You know I have hidden cameras all over because of my profession as an investigator. I keep records of everything, son, and here's what one of the cameras recorded…"
"No…" But even my denial was unconvincing to me this time.
Frank carted over the little TV that was connected to a video player. He inserted a tape and started the video playing. My eyes were glued to the TV screen. I watched my mother's last desperate moments before her head lolled back and her eyes closed - forever. My eyes started to sting. Tears filled my eyes that refused to flow. My vision blurred. Yes, I remembered. I could still feel the weight and the warmth of that newly fired gun in my hand.
I killed her.
Why? A tiny voice deep within me asked. Why did I kill her? Yet, did reasons matter? I killed her. Murder was murder no matter the reasons…
"You never had the guts to face up to what you did," my 'Dad' was saying most cruelly. "You are a disappointment. Always is. Despite all my time and effort training you, you are never a fraction of what Frank is…"
The hurt I felt was real as it was familiar. Something about that rang true. There was a sense of familiarity to the thought of me trying hard, very hard to win my Dad's approval. I never was good enough. My big brother was everything that I was not. I looked up again at the sight of my big brother and father standing side by side. Both of them had dark brown hair and brown eyes. They even looked alike.
I was never part of them, was I?
"… weak… stupid… just like your mother…"
Oh Mom… I sobbed. I'm sorry… I'm so sorry…
Yet something in those last few words from Dad actually soothed me a little. I was like Mom. I am not like… them. Then the grief hits. I killed her. I did not know how or why. But I knew I was responsible for her death.
Heart wrenching sobs filled the tiny little cell as grief overtook terror. Within minutes, I was drenched by my own hot scalding tears. There was pain and there was pain. This was the pain of death and of loss, final and unredeemable. I curled into a tight little ball, a worthless physical defensive act against the onslaught of emotional agony.
A bony hand held me firmly and painfully by my chin, re-directing my eyes back towards the TV screen.
"You killed your mother…" A sibilant voice hissed.
The pain of grief returned two-fold at that reminder.
"Because we made you kill her… I made you kill her… forced you to pull the trigger…"
Another image flashed in my mind. It was a memory. I could see Dad's hands around mine. It was his hand that forced my finger to press the trigger. 'Say goodbye to your mother, Joe. Kill her for me, son…'
"And I made you kill her… so that you will now truly belong to us… with us… You will no longer defy us for her sake…" Then the cold hard voice turned casual, even friendly as he continued. "And it's all your fault… if you did as you were told, we would never need to kill her…"
What did I do? Or what did I not do? I don't know, I don't know. But did it matter? It was my hand on the gun, my fingerprints on the trigger. And Mom's dead because I failed in some way to please Dad. I was still responsible for her death. I killed her…
Something else struck me, and I turned to Frank. "You never loved Mom… You lied… You were just beating me up for fun…"
"She's weak… you're just like her… it was fun watching you think that I really cared about her…" Frank answered with careless shrug and a smirk on his face. "But you know you have no one but yourself to blame for her death… you have always known that…"
"I hate you…" I threw every bit of hatred I felt into those three words.
They laughed.
Yes, I hate them… I hate them… as much as I hated myself…
"That's very good Joe. Hate us all you want. But in the end, you will do what we want you to do… You know that, don't you, son? Of course you do… you already killed your own mother because we wanted you to…"
My eyes started to tear again. That scene where she died played itself over and over in my mind. My father and brother were psychos. They made me kill her just because I failed to do something they wanted. I killed her simply by disobeying them…
"Another warning, my son… if you ever remember anyone else from your past… you will condemn them to a fate worse than death…"
There were screams of pain and terror from the TV. On the screen were images of people in their dying throes. Those were my father's and brother's past victims, I realized rather belatedly. I felt sick all over again.
"Is that the fate you want for your friends?"
No… no way… no… I shook my head violently.
My Dad's fingers took a firm hold on my chin, forcing me to look into his eyes before continuing with his threats in a cold hard voice. "You know I have the means to make you tell me the truth… drugs that you cannot resist, with side-effects you never want to experience… So don't even think of lying to me…"
My tears were now flowing freely. I was terrified for my friends, even though I could not remember who they were at the moment.
"Poor, poor, little Joe…"
The hand that wiped away my tears was gentle, almost loving. Someone sat down next to me. A gentle hand was rubbing my back comfortingly. I shrank away from it as much as I yearned for comfort.
"You belong to us now… "
I shivered as a sliver of fear raced up my spine.
"I am your father. My name is Fenton. Now, call me 'Dad'."
I saw the dark brown hair and brown eyes. The face was fuzzy. I could not get a clear grasp of the features. If I weren't drugged up to my eyeballs, I would have noted the intent.
"Dad…" I complied only because the tone was sinister, and the threat to my friends whom I could not remember was still fresh in my mind.
"Good. And who is that?"
Dark brown hair and brown eyes, with similar and much younger features, clearly father and son…
"Frank… my big brother…" I gave the answer I knew Dad wanted to hear.
"Very good… You are learning… and you will learn everything that we want you to learn… won't you?"
I hated myself for my cowardice as I nodded again, too far gone in my fears to think of defying them at the moment.
"You will do what we want you to do… And you will die only when we are ready to let you die…"
At least they planned to kill me eventually.