Hey guys! It's been a while, hasn't it?
Well to keep things nice and short in my author notes, I'd like to apologize for this late update. I won't get into it, but I've just had a bunch on my plate. I'm really sorry for keeping you guys waiting for so long. Thankfully, this is an interesting chapter... I've been waiting to write it for a long time! I hope you like it. The puzzle pieces are all coming together! ):D
**Oh, and before I forget: For those of you following my other stories, if you could visit my poll and vote or inbox me on which of my stories I should update next, that'd really help me out! (Seriously...I have no idea which one to update next! Help!) That'd be awesome.
Thank you guys for being so supportive and patient!
Alright, so here's chapter 10! Leave a review if you're inclined to do so! (They give me the inspiration to update faster! ;) )
Love, Blythe.
Chapter 10 - Bitten
"Are you sure you don't want someone to look at that?"
Dr. Walters leaned forward in his seat, tilting his head in every direction to get a good view of my arm. Tucking my elbow behind my back, I hid from his sight as much as I could.
"No," I hissed, "it'll heal when it heals."
"At least cover it with gauze or something-"
"Band-Aids and gauze only stick to my hair."
He backed away again, but kept gawking at the wound. The only sounds in the room that came in between words were high-trill squeaks from the hinges on my chair as I leaned away from him. I can't say I really blame him for being so concerned - after all, what kind of psychologist wouldn't be concerned when one of their patients shows up to an appointment with a blood-spotted washcloth over his upper arm?
Yes, I've had plenty of wounds in my time; I've had cuts and bruises from sports and scrapes here and there from falling off of my bike. I've had a broken heart, I've been burned numerous times by a match or a lighter, I've lost a few baby teeth, I've broken some bones, and I've even experienced the pain of having glass shards being picked out of my skin one by one while I was conscious enough to watch and remember how it felt. But I have never experienced being bitten so hard that I started bleeding - not even by a dog. I don't think I would've ever pictured this happening either. Never by a human, anyway.
The problem wasn't that I was bleeding from the bite; in fact, the wound itself wasn't extremely deep. The problem was that it happened - and by a human, no less.
"So Alvin," he began delicately, "would you like to explain to me how you hurt your arm?"
I didn't process the question mainly because I actually didn't know how to explain it. One minute, I was being pushed and pulled. The next, I was suddenly writhing in pain from someone else's teeth. Could I explain this phenomenon? Not exactly. Well, not scientifically...
"Let me ask you something first, doc," I replied, "do any of the patients in this looney bin have a history with rabies?"
His response was resentful, looking almost as if I'd just asked him if he was doing his job right, "No."
"Oh, good then. I'm not so worried now."
Dr. Walters bent toward me again, this time removing his glasses and putting them in his jacket pocket, "Why are you concerned about rabies?"
"I think anyone should be worried about rabies after being bitten hard by a wild animal."
"There are no wild animals in this facility, Alvin."
I laughed at this. After what I'd experienced, why would I think of the people here as any different than your average rabies-infested badger or raccoon? Just because they're humans doesn't mean they can't be just as sick.
"...I'm not sure if I agree with you on that." I snidely remarked. He didn't like this.
"I think you need to have that looked at by someone. If left untreated, any could get infected-"
"No." I rejected, "I'll be fine. It's not that deep."
Whether I'd agreed to treating it or not, it wouldn't have mattered - as soon as I said refused, he picked up the phone on his desk and typed in a four-digit sequence.
"Sal? Yeah, it's Eric. I have a patient here that needs medical attention. He won't show me the wound, but it looks rather serious. How soon can you get here? Okay that's...okay, good. My office. Thank you."
His eyes flitted from the telephone wire and back to me as soon as he hung up the phone. He scribbled something down on a sheet of paper and tucked it under the metal clasp on his clipboard, keeping watch of the clock hanging above the doorway.
"I didn't know your name was Eric," I said. He peered back down at his clipboard on his lap, probably taking note of what time it was during my appointment. I babbled on, pretending as though I wasn't concerned at all with my wound even though I could feel the area around the bite mark heating up and tingling like it'd been washed over with hydrogen peroxide.
"You know, I hear you can tell a lot about a person by their name. I wonder what they say about people named Alvin, hm? I wonder what personality fits someone like me. Sometimes I think about if they choose names for all those disney characters based on the way their names sound. Y'know that movie that came out a few years ago, the Little Mermaid? I saw it last year in one of those backstreet drive-ins when I came back from this place. The prince in that movie was named Eric, I think. I didn't like that movie too much. Those two evil eel things with the different colored eyes creeped me out."
He was looking up from his clipboard now, but this time, he didn't look pleased.
"Eric... heh. Eh-rick. Air-Rick. What does it mean? E-Rick."
"Alvin, please tell me what happened to your arm."
"Eric...Eric... Certainly isn't a charming name. I'd picture as more of a William or a Henry... Eric is a strange one, wouldn't ya say? Just think about-"
"Alvin," interrupted Dr. Walters calmly. He waited patiently for a response.
I recoiled from my off-topic rant, chewing at my bottom lip and allowing myself to sink into the leather of my chair. Of all the doctors I've had, Dr. Walters one was certainly resilient. Nah, maybe 'resilient' isn't the right word... maybe the word 'stubborn' fits better. Dr. Callaway took a backseat to this guy, and that's really saying something. The only difference between the two is that Dr. Callaway was more ill-tempered. This Dr. Walters guy is strangely less predictable.
I began thinking about what I'd say in that moment. I thought if it was a breach of protocol to push a patient past their mental comfort. I mean, think about it on my level: If someone has a crippling fear of heights, you wouldn't blindfold them and hold them over the ledge of a forty-three story building, would you? It's the same as someone who's being treated for claustrophobia. Is it really necessary to lock them into confinement until they got tired of screaming? The very same goes for me - was it really wise to keep pressing a kid with a history of arson?
"First, tell me something, doc," I wagered, keeping a firm hold on my covered arm, "does acupuncture usually work wonders for a basket case such as myself?"
He paused, putting his pen and clipboard back on his lap, "I'm not quite sure I get what you mean."
"I just mean that if I knew I would be poked at for answers all day, I would've signed myself up for acupuncture therapy instead of sitting in this sad little office all day."
He didn't say anything. I rambled on.
"And I'm sure an acupuncturist wouldn't be poking at places I prefer to keep needle-free."
"This is not a matter of poking around. I ask you these questions so that I know how to help you. This is for your own good."
"My own good. Huh. Y'know, I've been hearing that crap ever since I came to this god-forsaken place, doc!" I snapped, "but so far, all I've gotten out of your delightful services is a lowered sense of security, a bite mark by one of your lunatic patients, acrylic paint stains all over my clothes, and no sleep because you put me in a room around the corner from the drama queen of section C!
"What is it you prefer, Alvin? What do you want me to do for you?"
"I want you to let me out of here, that's what I want!"
"You see, this is where you don't get it..." the doctor shook his head, crossing one leg over the other as he leaned back, "I can't do that for you."
The fact that he was so calm about my confrontation made my arm sting even more. I stood up out of my seat, completely grounded, "then you're not doing your job!"
What came next was even more infuriating than a fire-back response.
"No, I don't think I'm the one not doing his job," said the doctor, "I think you are."
There came a creaking sound from behind me as three men emerged from the hallway and entered the room. Just as soon as they came, they left, taking me with them as I surrendered within their grasp. I was escorted from the office down the hall to the nurse's station, all the while thinking about how the day had unfolded since I'd woken up...
Earlier that day:
"Make me."
A few seconds had passed before I even realized what kind of pickle I'd gotten myself into. The gang of penitentiary bullies surrounded me until they took the shape of four walls; four big, intimidating walls. Each of them breathed heavily as they loomed over me, cracking their knuckles and necks as if they were about to either pick up something heavy or get into a brawl. I hadn't felt claustrophobia like this before. It was worse than being locked in a closet that only got smaller the more you struggled to fight your way out of it. Only difference was that my so-called 'closet' was made up of skin, muscles, and a guarantee of bodily harm.
"I said, make me." repeated the commanding one of the four. His bottom lip twisted into a partial grin. It was hard to tell whether he was so angry he was smiling, or rather that he was playing around with me and took some kind of pleasure out of my powerlessness.
He picked me up by the collar with one of his mighty hands and shook me a bit, expecting me to crumble at his fingertips. I think he was surprised I didn't.
"I'm talking to you, rodent!" The threads of my shirt crackled under his grip. I expected to be leaving this unpleasant experience with a few bruises and maybe even a broken jaw, but I would be getting my cap back, regardless of the circumstances.
"Don't call me a rodent," I snarled, touching my toes to the ground as much as I could. By now, I'd already accepted the possibility of of a black eye or a missing tooth the way a possum accepts his fate while clutched tightly between the ravenous jaws of a hungry woodland fox. Digging my fingernails into the skin of his wrists, I tried with everything I had to resist, kicking and flailing under I grew tired. It was embarrassing; the more I tried, the more it turned out to be a lost cause... and I didn't want to think about how completely hopeless I must've looked to them.
"Can you believe this guy?" the lead thug ridiculed, "I mean, if I didn't know any better, I'd say the this squirt was trying to hurt me!"
The remaining thugs were amused, moving in closer and shoving at my sides. I felt my shirt being tugged in several different directions at the same time and someone was pulling at the hair on my head. I was doomed, and to make matters feel worse, my pride was being reduced to mere ashes of whatever I had left of my dignity. THAT felt much worse than my external punishment.
"Argh! Stop it! Let go of me!" I yelled. The pulling and shoving continued uninterrupted as I was being moved in every direction against my will. My arms were held behind my back and I was rendered completely immobile, giving in. They taunted me during their free-for-all and each spoke at the same time until their voices became a jumbled, indecipherable mess of murmurs and laughter. I wondered if I would beunconscious by the end of their frenzy.
Then suddenly, they quieted when a sharp pain shot up my left arm, causing a holler to escape the back of my throat. I searched my arm frantically for the source of my agony until I found it: one of them had embedded one hell of a bit mark just above my elbow. Blood oozed out of the wound and spilled over my skin. Wide-eyed, I tried to make sense of what was happening - had I just been bitten?!
Abruptly, I was released and thrown to the ground. The leader of the gang drew his arm upward, smacking the stoutest member of the gang upside the face.
"What the fuck was that, Ricky? I thought I told you not to do that, goddammit!"
The others joined in, each of them following their leader.
"Yeah! Quit biting people, ya animal!"
"What do you think you are, eh? A fucking dog?!"
"What is going on here?" lectured a voice, feminine and apart from the rest. I looked up from my wound to find a woman standing before the five of us. It was the well-groomed Dr. Stevens. She stared down at me, her rose-colored lips thinning into a frustrated line; I assumed she was more aggravated with the fact her class was being interrupted once again by the same person as last time. Except this time, no one was slinging paint around.
"What is the meaning of all this?" she directed her attention to the leader, who seemed to have stiffened at her arrival, "Reginald. Please tell me you're not up to your usual shenanigans."
"Why, no, Dr. Stevens!" defended Reginald fakely, "I don't know how all of this came about, but I didn't mean to-"
"Yeah, save it." Dr. Stevens snubbed. She eyed a different member of the four - the one with all the scars, "Edward? Would you like to explain?"
"Nah, Stevens,"
"Angelo?"
The darker-skinned one with the bandana shook his head. She glanced at the one named Ricky who'd bitten me a minute or so earlier, but didn't bother asking him what had happened. From the looks of it, I'm sure she already knew what happened. Her method of asking was for the sake of letting someone come forward about it.
However, she didn't know about the full result of the clash between me and the four of them. As she helped me to my feet, she suddenly realized the consequences of their roughhousing; the crescent-shaped injury above my elbow.
"...Would any of you boys like to tell me how Alvin got a bite mark on the upper part of his arm?"
They stirred once again, but none of them had anything to say. Finally, Reginald came forth from the group and really turned on the charm, "Well you see... Me and the boys were just minding our own business and this guy just suddenly decides he wants to steal my cap..."
"Is that so?" remarked Dr. Stevens, playing along.
"Yeah, yeah! And so what happened was he tried to take it from me... "
"Okay..."
"...so my boys an' I tried to keep him off, but he wouldn't-"
"Alright, that's quite enough." said Dr. Stevens dryly. She reached up and took the cap from atop his hand, holding it by the viser, "Now Reginald...Answer me this: When did you change your name to 'Alvin Seville?'"
"What?"
"I said, when did you change your name to..." she flipped my cap upside down and untucked the tag from within the bindings, showing him what I had written on it: "'Alvin Seville?'"
Reginald didn't have an answer for her. Instead, he threw her a grin - the most nauseatingly false grin I've ever seen on a person.
There was something unsettling about this character. Everything about him reminded me of those insidious villains I'd watched in cartoons as a kid - evil and venomous without reason and drawn to chaos and trouble as if he lived to cause it. I wondered if he was one of those guys I'd always see on crime shows; the psychotic type that like to watch others suffer and took pleasures in misfortune and paradox. Maybe he started that fight with me just because he enjoyed doing it... and maybe the other few did too - even the one who bit me.
They must've thought I was so weak, standing there and holding my arm like I needed someone else to come and dress the wound for me. Each of them eyed me as if I were something to eat; as if they'd taken whatever I had left of my pride. As blood continued to trickle in between my fingertips, I took my hat back from the doctor and exited the group quickly, leaving them without so much as another word. I didn't care if I was bleeding; I didn't care about the throbbing pain.
I peered up at the clock; it was 9:25. Therapy with Dr. Walters would start in five minutes. I headed back down the D hallway and into my room, promptly rinsing off the blood from my arm. Dabbing everything dry with a wash cloth, I put pressure to the wound and pushed it to the back of my mind. Dr. Walters wasn't going to like this.
And I wasn't about to explain myself.
When I dream, I am reminded of colors I do not see when I open my eyes. They are unlike colors that filter through my eyelids while I'm awake; they don't have names, they don't have shades, yet they aren't gray. When I see them, I don't hear any noise. Instead, I feel calm; undisturbed. Whatever had happened before falling asleep is forgotten and I'm allowed to drift.
Immersed in my unconsciousness, the colors begin to mix and mingle and take different shapes. Oblivion takes the form of deep mauves and abyssal blues. Wonder begins to manifest itself into cerulean, curiosity into canary yellow, and eagerness dissipates into jagged red shapes and tangerine spots. I have no need to think about anything beyond my resplendent medley of illuminations; there is nothing else. Whatever was reality before is now part of my perfect blend of artistry.
However, they do not stay. It isn't long before my parade of pigments begins to fade away, leading into a darker part of my mind that only creeps to the surface when I have no conscious choice to push it away.
The darkness starts with a brick house - the same brick house that appears in most of my dreams. It is a house that sits alone without neighbors for the next quarter mile or so, alone in a desolate woodland. Surrounding this brick house is a garden that frames the windowsill, contrasting in color to the weathered beige and rustic red of the concrete foundation. Mom would plant shrubberies all around the house and had a patch of mulched soil for her herb garden. My brothers and I spent a lot of our time in that garden in the summer as small children, picking raspberries from the raspberry bushes and playing in the sprinkler until late afternoon. It seemed as though summer time was shorter than all other seasons. The days would go by too quickly and just as they'd arrived, they'd left.
I always remembered the garden favorably; the best part about it was that it was always on the outside. Mom never had potted plants inside the house.
What went on on the inside was the cause for my constant mental visitations. The creaky old hardwood floors undone by age and overuse were unfurnished, so we always had to wear shoes, even when getting ready for bed; if we didn't, we were at risk of getting splinters. The roof was missing a few panels from years of rain and wind, so there was always water dripping from the ceiling when it rained and the house was always cold even when mom had the furnace on. Back then, we didn't have much - not even warm water to bathe in. I remember the inside better than a photograph would. But it wasn't the poor condition of the house that make these memories hard for me to reflect on.
In this dream, I'm suddenly a small child again, exploring the more unknown parts of the house while it rained outside. My vision unaltered and arms outstretched, I follow my two brothers eagerly. My nose picks up the pungent smell of bleach and ammonia; mom is scrubbing down the kitchen floor again while my brothers and I set out on our indoor expedition.
"Over here, Simon!" one of my brothers calls out to me.
"You can't catch me!" taunts the other, tugging on the back of my shirt.
By now, we're in a fit and a frenzy, buzzing about as self-proclaimed aeroplanes as we take flight up and down each hallway. My older and more agile brother is beginning to step on the backs of my heels, so I run faster until we all separate and fly solo in all different areas of each room. We are pilots of the sky within the boundaries of a house, but that meant nothing. Jumping off of a coffee table was equally as thrilling as a nosedive in a jet plane, and if any of us needed a parachute, there were plenty of blankets laying around from when we pretended to be under the sea that morning.
Our solo flight became competitive after we'd gone through every room, so we played airplane tag, if such a thing existed before that day.
"You're it, Simon!" antagonized my elder brother. My younger brother followed closely behind him, "you gotta count to ten first!"
I followed the rules promptly, covering my eyes against the doorframe of the kitchen.
"One...two...three..." I counted, pausing evenly after every number. Like many children, I was too impatient to play by the rules. I continued to count, but I was already moving. My eyes, though sealed shut, were anxious to flutter open and begin to search. I reached the other side of the kitchen by the time I reached ten.
"Nine...TEN!"
My eyes opened... but by then, it was too late. As I'd been rushing out of the kitchen, mom was rushing in with a new opened pail of mixed bleach. I collided with her and my face was suddenly wet with what felt like soap water. I thought nothing of it for a moment, taking a moment to assess what I was feeling, irritation forming at the corners of my eyes.
Before I even knew what was happening, I was burdened by a debilitating pain; a pain that brought me to my knees. It felt as though my eyes had caught fire - it was sickening; excruciating and unlike any pain I'd ever felt. I touched my eyelids and tried to rub the pain away, but it escalated rapidly, causing me to panic and call out in agony. I cried, I screamed, I even begged for it to stop. I hit the floor with my fists and tried as much as I was able to wipe the bleach and ammonia from my eyes, but the pain only seemed to worsen. I sobbed and pleaded for help until each of my words was a high frequency screech, but to no avail. I tugged on Mom's skirt, desperately trying to pull her out of her trance.
"Mommy, please! Please! Help! Mommy! Help me, please! It hurts, Mommy!"
Mom just stop there, watching. She said nothing, she did nothing. She just watched silently. Why wouldn't she help me?
My brothers immediately came back for me, trying to comprehend my frantic words. One of them ran outside to our nearest neighbor's house, yelling for help as the other dialed the emergency hotline. By the time our neighbor came, it'd been several minutes and I was beginning to feel the corrosive effects of the ammonia. I could barely make out the vaguest outline of my neighbor as he burst through the door, but he immediately took action, pulling my head under the faucet and running water over my eyes and nose. My face had been rinsed off, but it still burned and wasn't getting any better.
Thankfully, the paramedics arrived a short while later and took me into immediate care. I was rushed away with sirens and the raw after effects of chemical burns.
After the pain finally went away, I was admitted into the hospital and treated for my chemical injuries and a day or so later, I was visited by the hospital's optometrist.
"You're very lucky," she said, "if you hadn't gotten here sooner, you might've gone blind."
I might have gone blind. Blind. No more colors, no more shapes. Blackness all the time.
As my eyesight was tested, I began to feel my very first taste of resentment - a feeling one doesn't feel until a more mature age. Resentment towards my mother. I would never forget her face; that blankness that seemed to consume her as I fell to the floor. She didn't do anything. How could she just sit there and watch as her son writhed in pain? What was she waiting for? Didn't she care?
When my results came back, I discovered I'd need to wear glasses from then on. My eyesight was permanently damaged, and the scars from my chemical burns would remain permanent as well. This was the new me: Simon with glasses. Simon with discolored hair and damaged skin. Simon with a grudge toward his mother.
I wasn't the only one who noticed her strange behavior. My neighbor reported it, claiming that mom was 'unaware,' 'negligent' and 'unresponsive.' Agreeing with him made me feel as though I was turning my back on something I'd been faithful toward my entire life, but I was still in pain - the worst pain of all: betrayal.
After the incidence, we no longer lived with mother. We were taken away to another home on Cedar Avenue, Los Angeles, several miles away from what we'd called our home to live with a man who'd never been married, never had children, and wrote music for a living. It was the type of place we eventually grew to love - it was the type of home built just for the sake of growing up in. The three of us grew to love it as we'd grown to love the little brick house.
Mom was taken to a new home, too; it was a place the authorities called 'a better place for her,' but my brothers and I didn't know what to make of that. What could've been a better place for Mom other than the little brick house? The idea wasn't possible for my two brothers to comprehend...but it was for me.
From here, my memories recede and I do not remember the weeks following the incidence. Bits and pieces of my reminiscences filter back to me in my dreams, some of them pleasant, and others are not. Suddenly, I'm pushed in a deeper, more unknown part of my unconscious mind. I don't see anything at all.
"Simon!" calls a voice. I don't see anything, but I begin to open myself up to the sounds around me as the voice continues to yell, "Simon!"
I open my mouth to make a sound, but nothing comes out. A throbbing pain begins from my right ear to my forehead and a headache soon follows until I can finally see vague images in front of me. I see a figure in red standing over me. I can't tell who it is; it is a beclouded image. This must mean I'm not wearing my glasses.
A shorter, stouter figure comes into view - the figure is green and pushing against the red figure. I am confused, and my headache worsens the more the screaming continues.
"Run, Simon!" the voice shouts again, "Run! Hurry!"
"Fake! Fake!" shouts another voice. This voice is different - deeper than the one telling me to run.
The red figure holds up an object - one that is deep, gray and shapeless - and brings it down towards me. I feel more throbbing and the headache bewilders me. I try to find the feeling in my arms and legs to crawl away. No use. The figure in red brings the gray shape down again and again.
"Imposter!" yells the deeper voice of the two, the red figure, "Where's Steven?!"
"No, stop! Please!" begs the higher voice, "You're killing him!"
I try to say something again. Nothing. I don't know what is unfolding in front of me and I cannot see it. The green and red blurs fight against each other, struggling and huffing until I begin to fade away again. This time, the pain fades with me.
Blackness again. I see nothing. The colors are gone, the shapes have disappeared. I'm now in the more nameless territory of my mind. I'm finally able to rest once again, no more images to bother me or memories to relive against my control. My mind begins to feel weightless once again and my heart beat is the strongest commotion in my entire body. I'm okay, I tell myself, I'm okay.
"Simon? Simon, wake up."
I don't stir as my body regains its feeling again. My fingers and toes stretch out and the sensation in my knees and arms begin to return. I am conscious now, but I'm still heavy from sleep. Somebody is shaking me.
"Simon. Simon?"
I open my eyes and see a blob of green sitting next to me. I put on my glasses and see my brother, worry-stricken. He has a grip on my leg, shaking it as my eyes adjust to the dim lighting.
"Simon, were you having a nightmare?"
I nod against my pillow, "Yes. But I'm alright now."
He gives me a weak smile, "I-i'm making breakfast. Come downstairs when you're ready, okay?"
"Okay," I said, "Thank you, Theodore."
Thanks for reading! For those of your who've been waiting for this update, thank you again for your patience!
More of the puzzle pieces are coming together, it seems! What did Simon's dream mean? Will Alvin become a rebel against the hospital staff?
Reviews are appreciated!
Until next time,
-Blythe