The Litany of Harriet Part 3

One night, completely out of boredom, she typed in Steven’s name backwards. Steven Mantup became Putnam Nevets.
Funny, she though. Isn’t Putnam an actual last name? She searched Steven Putnam. No one relevant came up. After another load of Putnam-related searches, she found a Wikipedia on Herbert Putnam, Librarian of Congress. She had always loved the idea of The Library of Congress: a giant library containing every book in the universe. She had learned about it in her last year if school. So she read up on Herbert Putnam, Librarian of Congress from 1899 – 1939.
“In 1886, Herbert Putnam married Charlotte Elizabeth Munroe of Cambridge, Massachusetts, and together they had two daughters, Shirley and Brenda Putnam. Brenda Putnam grew up to become a celebrated sculptor in the early 20th century, highly known for her “children, cherubs, and garden ornaments.” Throughout Herbert Putnam’s career, he was described by his colleagues as maintaining “an impenetrable dignity…formal manner, invariable gracious and cordial, covered shyness and a deep reserve.”
Harriet clicked Brenda Putnam.
“Brenda Putnam (1890-1975) Noted American sculptor and author. Born into a well connected family, she was the daughter of Herbert Putnam and granddaughter of George Palmer Putnam.”
It didn’t say really anything, at least not much, about her personal life, however.
Harriet brushed her teeth and got in her pajamas. She then went to bed, not realizing just how important her recent discovery was.
By the next morning, she had completely forgotten about the previous night. And so she did the same thing she always did. She missed Steven. And she fretted over the lack of clues about where Steven was.
Carrie showed up at her door, out of breath, grinning from ear to ear, and looking like a mess, the next day.

“Hello,” Harriet greeted Carrie, smiling.
“Hi,” Carrie gasped.
“You’re looking a bit bedraggled,” Harriet noted.
“Nice use of “bedraggled.”
“Thanks.” Harriet had started taking an online college class.
“I know exactly where Steven is,” Carrie said.
“Oh, really?” Harriet said smugly, and leaned against the doorway. “Oh, right, come inside, make yourself at home,”
“Oh, thanks. Yes, I do know where Steven is. And for real, this time. I’m serious.”
“Are you, now?”
“Yes. I’m very confident about this one.”
“Okay, so where is he?”
“The Library of Congress.” Carrie replied immediately.
Harriet laughed.
“This one’s even weirder than the last,” Harriet chuckled.
“But for this one, I actually have back up information.”
“...And you didn’t before?”
“Last time, I... I just had a feeling!” Carrie defended herself, playfully.
“Okay, fair enough. How do you know he’s at The Library of Congress? Oh, and by the way—coffee?”
“Sure, thanks.”
“What in it?”
“Just cream and cinnamon,”
“Just like me,” Harriet smiled to herself. “Anyway, tell me how you know he’s at The Library of Congress.”
“His grandfather was the librarian there.”
“HERBERT PUTNAM?”
Carrie was shocked that Harriet knew that.
“Yes, exactly. How did you...?”
“I did some research a couple night ago, actually.”
“Oh, did you?”
“Yes. Steven’s mother must be Brenda, the sculptor.”
“She is. And his aunt is Shirley, who took him.”
“Yeah. She didn’t have a Wikipedia.......” Harriet trailed off. The hole in her closed up a little. In fact, somewhere deep in her demented mind, something clicked.
Shirley. Shirley Putnam. That name was familiar. But... from where?
Harriet shot up out of her comfy chair and flung herself through the apartment, to the computer. She slammed down her fingers on the keyboard and clicked the mouse furiously. Safari. Click. Google. Click. “shirley putnam”. Enter. Her eyes were glued to the screen and took in everything. Especially the first result.

West Seattle Psychiatric Hospital - Staff - Shirley Putnam
westseattlepsychhospital/staff/Shirley_Putnam
Shirley G. Putnam (daughter of Herbert Putnam, Librarian of Congress) currently runs and manages the West Seattle Psychiatric Hospital. She sometimes visits patients, but usually maintains the systems and methods of the hospital. Read more here...

No. No freaking way. Harriet refused to believe it. Shirley? SHIRLEY? THIS SHIRLEY? REALLY? STRAIGHTJACKET SHIRLEY? NO FREAKING WAY. Harriet refused to believe it. No wonder Steven worked at the mental institution! He was working for his aunt!
“HIS AUNT CAPTURED HIM! HIS FREAKING AUNT IS FREAKING HOLDING HIM HOSTAGE! OH MY JESUS HOLY GOD MONKEY!” Harriet called to Carrie at the top of her lungs.
“Exactly! Jesus, you’re good at this.”
And they were off. This time, with confidence.

Part XV: Straightjacket Shirley and Saving Steven

The whole way to Washington DC, Harriet and Carrie sung “Retrievin’ Steven!”
1 day and 21 hours later, they were there. And just like that, they were face-to-face with a large, intimidating man.
“Uh... hi,” Carrie said, quietly.
“Hello!” The man said. He was cheerful, but still sounded dangerous at the same time.
“We need to... find someone.” Harriet stepped forward.
“Oh,” the man cleared his throat. “Do you have any idea where this person is?”
“Well... he was kidnapp—” Carrie nudged Harriet hard in the stomach.
“He... is hiding. Where would someone hide?” Carrie asked, taking over for Harriet.
“Why would someone hide in the Library of Congress? How would he have gotten in?” The man asked. It seemed like more of a challenge than a question.
“Listen, we just really need to find him.”
“You listen to me. I can’t just let some 2 ladies in the most important library on Earth.”
“Sure you can.” Harriet spoke up again, but Carrie shot her a look. “You can’t act like that...” Carrie muttered to Harriet very quietly.
“Alright, you ladies can go... but I’ll have to come with you.”
Carrie and Harriet looked at each other, shrugged, and then both said, “Okay.” And off they were.

They entered a huge, dark room—the storage room of the Library of Congress. At first, Harriet wondered how Shirley had gotten access to this room, but then figured the considering she was Herbert Putnam’s daughter, she had her sources. Shirley stood smugly in the middle of the room—with the only source of light hanging down on her, spilling over just her, and revealing a bit of a chained-up, dismal, Steven. It was like an interrogation scene from a spy movie. Other than the over-confident, arms-crossed-in-a-better-than-you-way Shirley, the room was completely dark. The man behind them gave them a suspicious look.
“Hey, Shirley!” Harriet said, cheerfully.
“Hello!” Carrie giggled, following Harriet’s lead.
Immediately, authorities shot out from the dark. An old memory of a cartoon she watched decades ago flashed through Harriet’s mind. The characters were rescuing a woman, chained up and held hostage. They had to fight past guards in suits and sunglasses. She snapped back to reality as the shrill, cruel voice of Shirley crept through the air.
“Harriet! Good to see you.”
Harriet’s smile faded.
“Why is Steven with you?” Harriet asked, defensively.
“Because he’s my nephew, and he belongs to me,” Shirley responded, calmly.
“No, he belongs to his mother. Brenda.”
“Well, she’s dead, isn’t she? And in her will—here, I have it right here—she wanted Steven to go to me.” Shirley pulled out a document with small gold writing on it. She threw it at Harriet and Carrie. Carrie smirked—it was quite obviously not the real will. However, she decided not to say anything about it, and instead.
“She wanted Steven to go to you until he was old enough to take care of himself, which he is.”
“Ugh. You’re right. Whatever. Let’s cut the crap. Basically, good job, you found me, and him, and now, I’m gonna give him back IF...” She paused dramatically and leaned sideways towards Harriet. “...you return yourself to the West Seattle Psychiatric Hospital, my place.”
There was a long silence in which Harriet anticipated what she would say. She was proud of thinking of something that sounded so smug and clever. And then she spoke.
“Ha. You’d probably expect me to say something like, ‘Yes! Anything for my dear Steven!!’ and then gladly return myself where I belong just for his well being. But no. Nope! I’m taking Steven. And I’m not returning to the mental institution. Ha! Why would I?” She waved her arms for all to see. It occurred to Harriet that she hadn’t heard from Steven at all today, and so naturally, it surprised Harriet when he spoke. His voice was shaky and squeaky, as if he hadn’t spoke in a while. He spoke very slowly.
“I think... I think that we should... Harriet, go back with Shirley. You belong there. You were put there for a reason.”
Harriet’s jaw dropped. Her mind caved in on itself. What? What was he... she didn’t know what to do. The corners of Shirley’s pale, wrinkled, dry lips morphed upward. Her eyes lit up. She gave a nod that tore Harriet in half.
“And I agree,” she said, meticulously.
Steven sighed, and gave Harriet a pleading look.
“I’m so sorry... I’m... so...” he trailed off.
Harriet’s vision was clouded with despair and dread. All she could see were visions of herself locked back up. All the possibilities... all the hope... all the potential... everything... gone. She was done.
She was in a petrified state, so naturally, when Shirley lunged at her, it startled the hell out of her. Shirley’s frail, wriggling fingers came in to focus, and firmly grasped Harriet’s wrists. Harriet nearly blacked out. A moment passed, the 2 of them standing there, Shirley holding Harriet’s wrists very tightly, and Harriet expectantly waiting.
“Goodbye,” Steven murmured.
And that was when Harriet blacked out.
She awoke in a black car, staring out into a gray, gloomy seaside. It was raining.
“Hello, sleepyhead!” exclaimed Shirley, who was sitting shotgun. A man in a black suit was driving. Another man was sitting next to Harriet. They were both wearing sunglasses, which Harriet thought was ridiculous, due to the cloudy nature of the sky. She rolled her eyes at Shirley.
“Look who’s coming with us!” Shirley sang. She nodded towards the trunk, where Steven sat, tied to the back of the car.
“I’m... I’m... so... so sorry. I love you so much. And this is... all my fault.” Steven wept.
“Where’s Carrie?” Harriet asked, suddenly panicked.
“Don’t worry, dear. We sent her home.” replied Shirley, blatantly.
“Home?”
“Yes, home. That is what I said.”
“But...”
“Sshhh, dear. Go back to sleep.”
“NO! Stop it! I... PLEASE STOP THIS NOW!” begged Harriet.
“John. Please. Quiet her.”
The man sitting next to Harriet nodded, and pulled out a very small syringe. The man expertly jabbed the needle into Harriet’s side, and she immediately dropped out, into a deep, dreamless sleep.

She woke up a day later, feeling like she had not slept at all. They were still on the road. It still smelled like that headache-inducing new car smell. She was still with Steven, Shirely, Harriet, Man #1, and Man #2. It was sunny outside; a late afternoon light cast long, dramatic shadows of the run-down, depressing small town they were driving through. She looked down at her arms. They were doing significantly better than they had been. It was a shame they were about to be constrained again.
Harriet thought about what had happened in the last year. Basically, her entire life. Everything had happened— and a montage, a compilation of moments drifted through Harriet’s mind. She heard laughing, crying, yelling, discussing. All she ever was to enjoy was spanned out over the course of this year. She smiled at the memories. Because she knew what she was going to do. She remembered the feeling of breaking free... of being able to control her own life. Joy. She remembered joy. And then... she remembered. She remembered her entire plot. Everything she had broken out for. Originally... it was different. She broke out not for a life. Not to have fun. Not to accomplish anything. She broke out... to kill herself. To end it, once and for all. And now, now that it was ending anyway, she might as well. Nothing good could come out of this one. Now... she could finally kill herself. She was intent on suicide. Yes. Yes!
The car hit a bump, and everyone lurched forward. Much to Harriet’s disgust, the man sitting next to her spit on his hands. Shirley’s spoke, very suddenly.
“If you try to choke yourself, by the way,” she said, “It won’t work. It’s physically impossible. Your body won’t let you do it. Try it.”
Harriet did.
It didn’t work.
Harriet decided not to talk. Things were looking very grim for her.
“I am angry,” continued Shirley, “that you broke out. It makes me angry. It honestly does.”
Harriet didn’t know how to respond.
“Er... okay...” mumbled Harriet.
“Okay.” said Shirley, cheerfully, like she had accomplished something. She was odd.
The car continued forward, and they veered onto a bridge. It was very pretty outside. Harriet decided to go back to sleep.
Part XVI: Escape

As she opened her eyes, she smiled, knowing that this was her last time. She came to her senses, observing everything in the room. The large, sinister, stone room, with windows covering one wall. She was sitting—er, lying—on a velvet, purple couch, in front of a glossy, wood, coffee table. The furniture in the room did not fit at all with the rest of the room. She stared at the door to the cell. The door with many locks. She pictured herself there, years ago: an ugly, dirty, misshapen woman in her 50s, staring at the man that was about to become her boyfriend. She laughed. She laughed some more. She was exploding with bursts of joyful energy. She was back! Back in hell... but not for long! She wasn’t in her straightjacket quite yet. They hadn’t dressed her. She was waiting.
She pondered her death for a while. It had to be soon. Very soon. Within the next ten minutes. Before Shirley and the gang arrived with the jacket. So how...?

12 minutes later, 5 pairs of hard, cold footsteps slammed against a hard, cold floor. A woman appeared. The woman. Shirley. She carried a straightjacket as well as a bright, sickening smile, and led 4 men in white coats behind her. For protection.
Harriet’s smile made Shirley’s lose its glimmer. Shirley wanted, more than anything, for Harriet to be in pain. And Harriet knew this. In fact, Harriet took advantage of it. Keep smiling, Harriet told herself. The problem was what to do now.
Suddenly Shirley brightened; she turned around and left after whispering a few undetectable words to the men. In less time than Harriet would have liked, she was back, without the jacket. Harriet was tired (even after the many naps on the way there), hungry, and confused but distant as she was, she could still detect the look of mad glee on Shirley’s face. She must have come up with another way to torture her, as her mind wandered in and out of reality.
Just as Shirley opened her mouth, her face twisted into a horrific, vile contorted mess. Harriet shrieked. The dogs appeared. Steven appeared. Numbers appeared. Letters, numbers, sounds, images, distorted clips of anything, everything, ran through Harriet’s mind, like an insane, hyped-up 4-year-old, knocking down everything in its path. The room collapsed, and so did Harriet’s lungs; there was no room to see, no air to breathe, and space to live in. Her feet dripped out of her head. Her intestines shot out of her mouth. Everything turned upside down, exploding. A deafening roar of insanity made Harriet lurch forward, and vibrate.
And then... everything was quiet. It stopped. She was back in the lobby. She was back to reality. Bone-crushing, devastating reality. There was a smile upon Steven’s face, who had entered the room, apparently. She couldn’t possibly imagine why.
As she opened her mouth to inquire, he spoke:
“We get one more night.”
Harriet’s ears rang with... feeling. Emotion. Intense emotion. Whether it was happy emotion or sad emotion, she could not tell; it was just emotion. She didn’t feel happy; she didn’t feel sad, she just felt.
And so it shall be, she thought. I may not be happy, I may not be sad, but at least I am something.

She blinked slowly at him, and suddenly found herself in a fancy Italian restaurant. She must of dozed off on the ride there.
“This is it,” he said, grimly. He was so sexy.
“So it is,” Harriet said, her eyes glistening with tears, clinging on to her eyes, not ready to be released.
“I... I wish...” Steven trailed off, sniffling.
“I know. I know. I know I know I know I KNOW and I will suffer and you will suffer but there is no other way out of this.” And like magic, as Harriet said this, the realization hit her. She could get out of this. She could get out of this fate.
She could choose her original fate.
Suicide.
How could Shirley have overlooked this? Was she that stupid? Ha!
What was she having for dinner? Steak!! Excellent. It would come with a steak knife, and then... and then...
“Steven, I want you to look away.”
Her hands fidgeted and grabbed each other, sweating. She looked down at her plate.
“Pardon, darling?”
“Please. Just turn your head. Now.”
Be calm. Prepare yourself. This is it. Your last chance. Your only chance. End it.
“Uh, okay...”
Harriet took a deep breath. She took a sip of wine. She cut a piece of steak off and placed it on her tongue. She let it sit there.
Chew, swallow. Savor it. This will be your last chance.
“Can I look, yet?”
This is it. You were dead as soon as you were born, destined to do this. This is your life.
“No, no, just a minute...”
This is it.
She held up the steak knife.
Your life.
She examined the serrated edges. They were smeared with steak sauce. It looked so much like blood, what it was about to be replaced with. She held the knife, pointing at her throat. Her entire body tingled.
Your life. You had no choice. Now end it.
Steven started to turn back around.
Last chance.
“Harriet. I’m turning back around, I want to spend these last moments with you well.”
Shit. Do it fast.
He turned toward Harriet.
“Okay, I’m... Harriet! What are—”
Harriet squeezed her eyes shut and trust the knife through her throat as hard and as quickly as she could manage. And at this point, that was all she could manage.
Thank you.

THE END.

Author’s Note:
Hi! Thanks for reading this little story of mine! I really appreciate it, I do! As you might not already know, I am Boston Meyers/StovePictures/Asher White, a filmmaker, graphic designer, and electronic musician. I wrote an album as a companion to this story, which you can listen to here: http://soundcloud.com/trisha-hewe-saile/sets/a-taste-of-trisha-hewe-saile/
I wrote most of this story as part of “NaNoWriMo,” National Novel Writing Month, in November. That should explain the patches of bad writing. :D
I started this story October 31st, 2011, and finished it May 13th, 2012. It was a very hard and strenuous process, and could not have happened without the wonderful and whimsical help from these people:
Yonit Slater, for motivating me; a good friend of mine, who had the idea of taking Harriet out to dinner with Steven, and encouraged me during times of stubborn laziness.
Julia, my sister, who unintentionally motivated and inspired me to actually write a story in the first place (she was doing it, and I wanted to copy her). She would probably murder me if she found out I mentioned her in any way so shhh! Don’t tell her!
My parents, for being great parents, and being great at being great parents.
The internet, for mentally scarring me with disturbing stories and videos when I was only 10.
Jacob’s Ladder, the movie, for giving me disturbing ideas, even if I only have seen certain clips from it.
Darren Aronofsky, for being so goddamn talented, even if I have only seen certain clips from his movies.
And finally, last, but certainly not least, I would like to thank Harriet Sullivan, for being such a great protagonist in my story, even if she is only a fictional character I made up.

Love, Boston