Thank you again to those who are reading! I'm always accepting criticism (positive or negative). Please feel free to give me tips as well. Enjoy Chapter 3!
Tan.
Tan skin, tan socks, tan hair.
Tan straight jacket restraining hulking yet weak arms.
Patrick Jane blinked back to life, his torso aching in pain. He came to the conclusion that they'd sedated him to prevent him from attempting to hurt himself any more. The lights in the room were bright and unforgiving. He attempted to shift on the bed to no avail. Examining the restraints, he realized he was tied down firmly to the bed by his arms, waist, and ankles. There had to be some way to get out of this contraption...
A tap came at the door.
Patrick ceased his struggle. A middle aged man entered the room. Dark hair, medium height, medium build, fashioning a black suit with a crimson tie. Patrick was too exhausted to analyze him. His quick assumption was that it was George or his psychiatrist.
He smiled down at the helpless restrained man.
"Hello, Patrick."
The man paced around the room.
"I would ask how you are feeling but I'm assuming pretty shitty. Am I right?"
Patrick refused to respond, keeping his eyes closed and body still.
"No matter. I knew you wouldn't last a single day in here. You barely lasted an hour! For heaven's sake, are you really that desperate to die, Patrick?"
The question caught Jane by surprise. Surprise enough to open his eyes and examine the man as he paced.
"But, alas! The day has come! You've finally gone off the deep end. Or hit rock bottom, or come to the end of your rope. You choose the phrase, my friend. Either way this is it, isn't it? Or so it seems, hmm? One Patrick Jane is set to live the rest of his life engulfed by insanity and forever incapable of pulling himself back out. It's a shame, really."
"Who are you?" Patrick questioned.
"Who am I?" The man busted into laughter. "Who am I? You know me, Patrick." He explained matter of factually. The man moved closer to Jane.
"I go by many names. Perhaps you know me more as..."
He leaned in close, whispering into Patrick's ear.
"Red John."
Patrick felt his heart rate immediately escalate, his breathing becoming rapid and intense. He attempted to shift away from the man in fear.
"No. N-No, it can't be... You aren't-"
"Oh, but I am, Patrick! This was all part of my plan, don't you realize that? Once you decided to, oh what do you call it, 'read' me? Share with the media that I am, and I quote, an ugly, tormented little man and a lonely soul...Well, Patrick I knew I had to do something. So, I punished you by killing your family and I had the slightest idea that you'd fall off the deep end and end up in a secluded place where I could access you at any time that I need for my pleasure and entertainment! Now, how about that?"
Thoughts raced through Patrick's head. How could he have been so naive to let this happen?
"You do realize this is all your fault, right? Poor Angela. She had such a future ahead of her, you know. The best mother and wife. Beautiful. I don't know how a chump like you ended up with a woman like her. And then Charlotte. Dear Charlotte didn't even get to start her life. And who's to blame for that, Patrick? Who?"
Patrick cleared his throat, whispering. "Me."
"Oh, I'm sorry. I don't think I heard you...Who's fault is it?"
"Mine."
"You really shouldn't mumble, Patri-"
"It's my fault! It's all my fault, you sick bastard." Patrick shut his eyes tight, tears staining his ghostly white cheeks. "It's my fault they're dead! It's all my fault! Just shut up and leave! Kill me or leave me alone!"
Patrick stared straight into the man's eyes. "Kill me. KILL ME. You have to kill me, just do it. Please. I beg of you."
"Now, Patrick we both know that's what you want. And I can't simply satisfy you, can I? It's so much fun watching you suffer."
Patrick closed his eyes, banging his head back against the pillow beneath him. "Please. PLEASE. KILL ME. I JUST WANT TO DIE. PLEASE!"
Loud and forcefully, the door opened. A young blonde male filled the doorway.
"Hey, calm down. Do I need to go get the nurses?" he threatened.
Patrick frantically looked around the room, Red John nowhere to be found. His breathing was heavy and streams of tears stained his perplexed countenance. He dare not say a word.
"That's what I thought," the man stated. "Look, your psychiatrist will be in shortly. Just hang in there, alright?"
The door shut with a loud thud, then clicking as he locked it. Patrick re-examined the room in his panic.
He had hallucinated the whole thing.
Come on, Patrick. Pull yourself together. He rested his eyes, returning his breaths to normal when another tap came at the door.
"Patrick?" A petite female voice came from the doorway. The owner of the voice entered, brown hair, medium height, white coat and nice clothes underneath. She entered the room with a chair, proceeding to place it beside Patrick's bed and taking a seat. Patrick gazed at the ceiling, his eyes glossy with disinterest.
"Patrick, my name is Sophie Miller. I'm here to help you get better."
He turned to look her square in the eye. Perhaps she could read through to his brokenness and longing to escape all of this. After a few moments he returned his gaze to the white lights above him.
"I've been told you haven't spoken to anyone for the past three days, is that correct?"
He nodded somberly.
"However, George out there just explained to me that he heard you screaming just a moment ago."
She waited for a response that never came.
"Well, like I said before. I'm here to help you get better. I realize the tragedy you've been through was fairly traumatizing, however you've got a lot of life ahead of you. It may take some time, but you'll be getting back up on your feet in no time."
She let the silence linger for a while in hopes of another response that, again, ceased to exist. She proceeded.
"Since you aren't feeling like talking, I tell you what I know. You can chime in if you want to correct me." She opened a manila folder marked 'Jane, Patrick'.
"Patrick Jane. Age Thirty Two. Used to work with traveling circus's and carnivals when you branched off with your wife, Angela Jane, to start a family. You began your business as a psychic and spoke to the deceased of those who would come to you for your services. You then began studying the infamous serial killer Red John. Three weeks ago you discovered your wife and daughter brutally murdered inside your home. The act clearly performed by Red John. Ever since then you've shut yourself out and attempted suicide twice. Once in your home in an attempt to stage it as Red John had done it and once more in this very room two days ago. And now here we are."
For the entirety of his evaluation, Patrick's gaze remained locked on the lights above him.
"Well, the good news is they're going to let you out of the straight jacket tomorrow if you cooperate. The bad news is you'll be on watch for 24 hours to assure you won't be trying to tear out your stitches again."
She placed a gentle hand on the terrified man's shoulder, the touch drawing his eyes to hers.
"I'm going to help you, Patrick. You're going to be okay. I promise."
How odd. She provided a sense of comfort and hope he had been longing for since that ominous night.
Maybe he could do this after all.