The Darkness

The Darkness:
By Pepz
    I swear to God, my hairspray has a mind of it's own. It is never where I put it last, and no one uses it but me. "MOM!! Where is my friggin' hairspray, I'm gonna be late for work!" I screamed down the stairs. No response. Oh well, I guess I'm going to work looking like I got rained on, even though it's beautiful out. Not that it matters, really. I'm not too worried about impressing the old black ladies that I work with. Nothing against them, I'm just not into that sort of thing, romantically. I'm actually glad there aren't any cute guys at work, because with the extreme lack of actual work to do, I'm afraid of what might happen in a closet or a vacant patients room. Not that I'm that kind of girl at all, but the sheer dearth of actual work to do is mind-numbingly painful. The prospect of a job where you literally do nothing for $20 an hour is very tempting, but in reality is quite laughable. Any extended period of time devoid of mental stimulation is sure to have permanent negative effects on higher brain functions, but I guess that's just par for the course working in an inpatient psychiatric unit for severely disturbed people. Oh right, work! I always feel like I'm going to be late, but never actually am. I have this weird thing about being responsible at work, or at least seeming to be responsible. The whole drive to work, all I could think about was my school work that I'm falling behind on. I bring my books with me to work every night, but have always opted to play video games instead of catching up on my readings. As I turn my skeleton key in the antiquated, oversized and almost comical lock on the door to the unit, the metallic KUH-KLUNK pierces the still night air, as well as my heart as I essentially lock myself into a faux-prison for the night. Except in this prison, the guard (me) doesn't have weapons to defend herself or maintain control of the unit. Good thing there hasn't been a revolt in a while.
    "Amanda, you're doing a one-to-one tonight" says manager Maude, in a heavy West-Indian accent. "Awesome" I respond in a tone that reeks of sarcasm and fake enthusiasm. But what should she expect, really? The idea of being in a dark room for 8 hours watching a sleeping psychotic person would only delight someone who is either crazy themself, or had a serious case of voyeuristic fetishism. The point of a 1:1 sit is two-fold: the first reason being so the patient doesn't commit suicide on the unit; the second reason is to stop the patient from hurting other patients, and who better to control a 200 pound schizo-affective man than me, a 110 pound female nursing student? The logic on this one is so advanced even I don't fully grasp it, but I'm sure it looks good on paper to the policy makers of the hospital who sit in leather executive chairs and talk about "managed care" and their prospective capitations for the year.
    "Who is my patient for the night?" I inquired to Maude, perhaps to mentally prepare myself for what the night held for me. The possibilities are mind boggling, really. I've had patients ranging all the way from dementia stricken, incontinent seniors (whose diaper and its contents are my responsibility), to seventeen year old heroin addict suicide attempts, and schizophrenic alcoholics going through withdrawal. "His name is David Stroud, he's fine." Maude explained. Fine? I can't even fathom a guess as to what that means. Whatever, as long as he sleeps all night I'll be happy playing my Nintendo DS instead of studying.
    Before I head on down to room 617, my cell for the evening, I make sure to grab the essentials to ensure a comfortable and fruitful shift. Such necessities include: a blanket, a pillow (for my ass, not my head), two little juice cups, a bag of chips, my iPod and of course, my trusty Nintendo DS. Entering the room with a deep breath, I relieve the PCA from the earlier shift with a high five and smile. Normally at this time, a report on the patients behavior and status is given, but once again I was reassured with a literally fleeting "he's fine" as the PCA scurried down the hall, elated to be finished for the day.
    David Stroud, a forty something year old male, with an official diagnosis of "fine", sits on the edge his mattress intently reading some type of peer-reviewed journal on health care policy. He is a short, stocky gentleman with thinning, slick-backed hair, a small, permanently pursed mouth and pedophile-esque thick-rimmed coke bottle glasses. "Hi Dave, I'm Amanda and I'm gonna be hanging out with you tonight." No response. Slowly, he looks up from his paper and turns his eyes towards my feet, then steadily up my body to my face, his mouth agape, pausing creepily at my crotch and chest. "Ooookay... Well it's after eleven so get ready for bed, I hafta turn the lights out." I mutter, utterly creeped out. Thankfully, he puts his paper down and lays back in his bed with his head elevated, staring at me the whole time. Not just at me, but into my soul. I can practically hear the perverted gears in his head grinding away as he looks at me like a dog to a piece of meat.
    Before I flick the light switch off, I glance at Dave, who unsurprisingly has slipped his right hand into his pants. Briefly shuddering and thoroughly grossed out, I pull the heavy window shades closed. Not so much for my patient, but after a night in near complete darkness, even the moonlight hurts my eyes. The moon is three-quarters full tonight and strangely bright, casting a sliver of greyish light into the room and across David's face. I can clearly see his eyes fixated on me, even in the utter darkness of the room. Now I feel so uncomfortable that I won't take out my cellphone, not wanting the light from the screen to illuminate my face and fuel David's waking wet dream.
         After what seemed like hours of awkward silence, save the rustling of my personal effects being shuffled before I settle in for the night, David finally spoke. "How old are you?" he inquired, in a drawled and calculated tone, like he'd already asked the question in his head and got a pleasurable answer. "Nineteen. Please go to sleep Dave, we can talk in the morning" I replied, my voice cracking on every other word. Even in the darkness, the moonlight reflecting off his pupils proved that his medusa-like gaze had shifted from my eyes to my body again.
         Without another word, he slowly sat up in his bed, almost effortlessly, his eyes still fixed somewhere on my body I'm certain, but I couldn't be sure where now that the silvery blade of moonlight was illuminating only some words etched on the wall. "Please lay down. Its nighttime and everyone's sleeping." I stammered, trying to realize why I am so nervous, he didn't really do anything besides be a creep. "I want to show you something, Amanda." He whispered, and by the tone I could tell the corners of his mouth were half-curled into a devious grin. Flashing and fleeting images raced through my head of all the crazy things this asshole was about to show me. Was it a something he made for his Mom in group? Maybe its a homemade prison shiv, or maybe his dick, the sole intention of both being to feel my insides in some manner.
         I jumped to my feet shaking, sending my Nintendo DS crashing to the asbestos tiled floor with an echoing, plasticky crack. The loud noise startled us both. In the split second we were standing facing each other, I could feel him debating whether to lay back down or to do whatever perverted act he was planning on.
         He shoved his hand into his pocket, and pulled out a picture. "Its my daughter. Isn't she beautiful? You remind me of her" If I was a patient at this moment, I would ask to have a full set of vital signs taken, because I'm fairly certain my heart is about to explode from tachycardia. I can literally feel my adrenal glands pumping liquid fight or flight into my veins, and even though my body isn't currently being violated, I still can't breathe, talk or even kick this guy in his balls. He's still standing there, arm outstretched and picture in hand, while I regain composure and my vision widens from a tunnel shape back to normal. Maybe years of work in this God-forsaken nut house has turned me into a suspicious, nervous wreck, and this guy doesn't deserve my possibly premature judgment of him as a psycho-rapist/murderer. To make them feel better, I often joke with the patients saying the only thing that separates me from them is my blue scrubs- but now I'm not so sure I see the humor in that.
         "She-She's very pretty. Listen, David. It's way after eleven, you need to lay down and get some sleep. I'm just gonna sit here quietly and make sure no one bothers you, and I'll get you up in the morning in time for breakfast". After about ten long seconds of him staring at my face and breathing heavily through his mouth, he started to walk back to his bed. I learned that for some reason, the simple act of pulling the covers up around someone who has been a pain in the ass can act as a sort of homeopathic sedative/ mood stabilizer. Nine times out of ten, they curl up into the fetal position, make sleepy, snappy noises with their tongue and palate, jam a hand into their crotch and drift off into wherever psych patients go when they slumber. Its probably a place where strangling small animals with guitar strings is applauded and jerking off in public is accepted, nay, encouraged. Perhaps it brings back memories of their mom putting them to bed. That's if the poor soul was lucky enough to even ever have such an experience that they can remember through the mind-clogging cloud of psychosis coupled with years of powerful anti-psych meds.
         Returning to my chair, I hear a glorious noise. There aren't many professions where the positive or negative outcome of an entire night of work is so dependent on such a small, autonomic sound. The real trick is, however, to create and environment which facilitates the repetition of this sound for hours on end. I have found an effectual combination in soft and kind words, motherly blanket-tucking, and an intramuscular injection of 200 milligrams of liquid Haldol mixed with Trazadone and Benadryl (for good measure). This veritable one-two punch keeps those coveted snores coming reliably for hours, and that means that I can play video games uninterrupted for an entire shift. Oh and get paid for it. Sadly, this doesn't seem to be one of those good nights.
         David is still sleeping. I would be thrilled, normally, but I just died fighting Death himself in the highest spire of Dracula's castle. No worries though I saved my game ten minutes ago. All Castlevania video games, dating back to the first in the mid 1980s, have one thing in common besides the primary objective of killing Nosferatu himself: incredibly awesome music. It is inconceivable how a small Asian man can program such complex, multi-instrumental orchestral scores on a tiny Moog synthesizer with only eight keys. There is some danger, however, in appreciating video game music at work, especially when wearing noise-cancelling earbuds. Violent things do happen on this unit, which is not surprising given the type of clientele we cater to, but its been calm here the last few months. The last thing I want is to be injured or violated after being lulled into a false sense of security. The steady snores give me go-ahead to lose myself in the game and the music; I feel comfortable enough watching my patient through intermittent game pauses and glances. Perhaps I'll halve the normal interval time between glances with good ol' David here.
         It must be about 5:30am now, because I can see the first hints of a citrus colored sunrise. I stop playing my game for a second to recollect the strangeness of the evening, and am relieved that nothing serious happened. With a quick shake of my head, all thoughts and worries of the nights events are pushed down, deep into my psyche with the rest of all my uncomfortable feelings, where they'll stay until a therapist wrenches them out of me in a decade or two. I can't believe how incredible the soundtrack of this game is and turn the volume of my headphones up to rock out for a little while before work ends. As the arrangement is reaching its crescendo, my eyes are closed and the hair on my neck and arms is standing on end. Suddenly, a sweaty, knubby hand grabs my arm with enough force to break a tree branch. Panic-stricken and paralyzed, I cannot even pull my headphones out of my ears or even escape his grip. I can almost hear David saying something, and I'm almost glad I can't make out what it is. For the second time tonight, my heart is pounding as a feeling of imminent doom makes my blood pressure rise so high that I go temporarily blind. "AMANDA!" David screams at me so loud I can hear it over the still blasting Transylvanian music score. "WHAT!" I scream back, finally summoning the testicular fortitude to jump up, rip my headphones out, and escape his clammy grip. "Someone just screamed 'staff' in the hall," he calmly reports. Frozen for a second, hospital protocol comes flooding back to memory and I race towards the door. I see two nurses furiously grappling with a patient wielding a broken chair leg. Apparently he feels a few thwacks to the face with a four inch thick piece of maple will do wonders for the nurses' looks. Instinctively, I charge towards the action and spear the patient's midsection with all my might, blindsiding him into a shelf of books. As I get up to brush myself off, I lock eyes with David who is standing obediently in his doorway, clutching the tattered, pocket-tumbled picture of his daughter. In that instant, I'm overcome with emotion. The creepy guy who I was about to complain about all day for ruining my night just saved my job, not to mention the nurses' skulls.
         After things settled down in the day area, David and I return to his room. Sitting on the corner of his bed, he looks sad, yet completely aloof to gravity of what just transpired. "David, I- I just wanted to say thank you," I said, sincerely meaning what I said. No response. After a few moments he raises his head and looks me right in the eyes.
"You thought I was going to hurt you last night."

"Ye- Yes I did. I'm sorry. I misjudged you. I thought you were going to try attack me or molest me or something, but I was wrong to think that of you."

"I was going to rape you. Its all I thought about the whole night," he whispered, his mouth curling into more of a grin with each word.

Completely freaked out, I had no idea what to say or do.
"What made you stop, was it because I remind you of your daughter?" I asked shakily, wishing I was closer to the door.

"No. That's what made me want to so badly in the first place."

After a moment of mouth-agaped silence, the door opens with a polite 'knock-knock'. 7:10 AM, my relief is here early, and not a moment too soon. As I'm about to give a report of what occurred the night before, I stopped myself for some reason. I don't know what made me pause. I'm guessing it was the self-pity I was feeling that made me do it, I'm not sure. "How was he last night?" my relief, a pretty black girl about my age, inquires. Thinking angrily of the slightly lacking report I was given by the nurses who knew this psycho's history, there were only two words that came to mind.
"He's fine."
***