Skeleton Key for Skeletal Closets

I drum my fingers on the arm of my chair. I glance at the clock high on the wall and its hands point to 7:47. I've been here for roughly fifteen minutes. Even in that small amount of time, the winter sun has dropped significantly, so now the night seems to arrive early. A chilly downpour has picked up as well, battering the glass door with arrhythmic taps. The room I'm in is a poor visual distraction from the slow moving clock, not that many waiting rooms are the work of Van Gogh; just a couple plants in the corners and some pictures on the wall. Most of those pictures include different groups of people all sitting in chairs that form a circle. Some groups are smiling for the camera while others ignore its presence and continue their energetic discussions. I look from the pictures to the strangers sitting with me, each waiting to find out what group they'll be put in. None of them seem nearly as jovial.

A shriveled old woman sits perpendicular to my right, next to the entrance. I noticed that she has been mumbling to herself half the time. A young trembling man in his twenties is seated on the opposite side of the room several meters away. His dark skin and matted oily black hair seem to make his bloodshot eyes glow as he shivers in his chair, legs bouncing with hands just as fidgety. Next to me is a dignified thirty-something year old blonde sitting neatly in her seat, waiting patiently for her name to be called. She has been sitting up straight the entire time with her hands folded neatly and her legs crossed.

She catches my eye and says pleasantly, "Hello."

"Um, hi," comes my tentative reply.

"How are you?"

"Fine. Er--you?"

She smiles. "Oh, just fine. But I must say, this organization is making a terrible first impression."

"Um, how so?" I ask. I'm distracted by this woman's attire, which comes off as businesslike. She seems to be a little overdressed for something of this matter, wearing dress pants, a button up shirt, and a suit jacket to match. She is also probably is the cleanest person in the room. The unkempt trembling man needs serious grooming, the old woman sports a few moderate stains on her clothes, and even I am not up to date on hygiene: I haven't showered in three days. But this woman is spick and span. She fumbles with the button on her sleeve as she answers.

"Well for one thing, the wait is taking much longer than anticipated. But it's all worth it, I suppose."

"Oh. Yeah. I guess it is . . . How long have you been waiting?"

"I was the second one to arrive, and I've been waiting for thirty two minutes before you entered."

"You've been here for almost an hour?" I ask, adding up the total times. "And has no one been called up?"

The woman almost physically waves my question aside. "Of course they have. You see that boy over there," indicating to the dark trembling man across the room, who is now staring at the floor. "He was the only one here when I walked in. After nine minutes a man named Riis walked in, followed eleven minutes later by a man named McDaniel. And, obviously, both men have been called up before you arrived. That woman by the door came in thirty two seconds right after McDaniel," she added as an afterthought.

"You know all of times it took for people to arrive?"

"Yes . . . is that wrong?"

"No, I--I just don't know a whole lot of people with that kind of memory."

"It's not so much memory as it is just simply paying attention."

I wasn't sure how to interpret her tone. "Okay . . ." I scratch at my ear. "So, are these people in your group or something?"

She gives me a puzzled look. "What?"

I assume I must have phrased my question oddly, but it made perfect sense to me. I try again, "I mean, you seem to know these people, so were you all put into the same group?"

"If we were in a group, we wouldn't be waiting out here. And no, I don't know these people."

"But how do you--"

She interrupts me, "I told you, their names were--"

Just then the wooden door leading into the building opens up and a female calls, "Morgan?"

"--called . . . so that's her name," the woman finishes.

The old lady mumbling by the entrance gets up when she hears her name. Amidst Morgan's incoherent speech, I register the word "yes", as if to answer the female at the door. She grabs her purse and shuffles through the awaiting doorway.

"Oh, right," I respond. I realize that it should have been obvious, but in my defense, I don't spend my time memorizing times or strangers' names. With that in mind, I ask, "So was that all you did the entire time? Just learning people's names?"

"Oh, not at all. There were a few times when I poked around in one of the magazines they keep here. They're much more interesting that they appear."

The sophisticated woman reaches over to the glass end table next to her, retrieves an erotic magazine, and turns to show me the cover, at which point I promptly stare at something fascinating on the wall behind her.

Taken aback by this sudden twist in conversation, I attempt redirect it to the first thing I can think of, which happens to be something that has been nagging at me for a while, "S--so do you . . . er, do you know any details about these classes? I--I mean, is there any kind of registration or are we simply put straight into a group?"

She replaces the magazine and for a second I wonder how different it would look under a black light. With a casual air of authority, the woman responds, "Of course I do. They basically restate what they're about, ask you to fill out a questionnaire, and then put you right into a 'Group of Best Fit'. I've been desperate to find a place like this for a very long time; I wanted a place that actually can understand me and what I've been through. Some have recommended me a counselor . . ." Her professional image melts away and her eloquent tone is replaced by one of contempt. This transformation is foreign and unsettling as she carries on. "My psychiatrist, on the other hand 'suggested' something much more extreme. PhD my ass. Who the hell does he think he is? I'm so glad I rid myself of him."

The woman is silent for a moment. Another. Then she slides back into her previous state. She begins smoothing her clothes and adjusting the buttons again, as if she is trying to redeem her professional image after sinking to such a low level.

My eyes dart from scanning the "No Refund" policy next to the wooden door to the blonde. I become wary of her sudden shift in demeanor.

She picks up the ball and persists with the conversation as if nothing out of the ordinary happened, "I didn't discover this place until a few months ago, actually. One day I went to check my mail and I received an invitation from them."

"What did you say?"

"I said a few months ago I received an invitation in the mail from this place."

"So did I . . . do they do that with everyone?"

"I believe so. Morgan received a pamphlet as well, along with Riis and McDaniel. I can only assume that boy received one at some point."

It was one thing paying attention to peoples' names, but how could this woman--as attentive as she is--possibly know what went through their mail?

"How--?"

"The same way I learned their names and what time they came in: I observed . . . I saw the same pamphlet in Morgan's purse because one corner was jutting out. Riis pulled it out and briefly looked through it. McDaniel was looking at it outside the entrance, presumably to clarify that he was at the right place, and put it back in his pocket."

"Oh." At that point I resolve to stop questioning her knowledge.

From somewhere inside the building, I can faintly hear a woman screaming followed by a few other loud voices. I look at the closed door and clutch the ends of the arm rests. My heartbeat picks up. Is someone getting hurt? Is there a fight going on inside? I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone. I push 9 before my eye catches to pictures on the wall. The smiling and joyful faces look back at me and fill me with a kind of reassurance. Those aren't screams of fear or pain, they must be screams of laughter. I tuck away my phone and muse over what sort of activity or discussion the group inside is having, what my group would be like. On some level, I can relate to the blonde next to me. I too am looking for a place that can empathize with me; a place that can help shoulder my life's calamities; a place that can live up to its expectations; a place such as this.

I notice that the blonde isn't attempting to continue the conversation. That part doesn't bother me. What does, though, is her clean professional manner and her acute memory. It all contrasts with the people and environment around her. A woman of this standard doesn't belong at this organization; surely she has a family and a steady job somewhere?

Without providing the context of my thoughts, I ask her, "What's someone like yourself doing at a place like this?" Only after the words leave my lips that I realize I completely phrased it the wrong way. I flush at the thought of the misinterpretation--I really was not in the mood for flirtation--but the blonde looks at me and simply smiles. Hopefully she understood the true meaning of my question.

"I think I'm going to take that as a compliment," she begins, "but to answer your question: the same reason why we're all here in the first place."

She takes in my perplexed expression and smiles even wider, this time showing her flawless teeth. Her eyes seem to light up, not in the same way that the dark trembling man's does, but in a way that suggests we've reached the million dollar question.

"Yes, each one of us is here for our own specific, and might I say, personal reason . . . and just like everything earlier, I can tell you exactly why someone is here."

My jaw tenses.

She embarks on a condescending ramble, "Indeed, I can do much more than trivial memorization. I can read someone's body language and inquire on, in this case, why they're here. Let's start with McDaniel. His crime is theft, he stole many things from family, friends, and neighbors, but if I recall, the worst thing he stole was a young woman's heart from his best friend. That sort of crime is one that can't be punished by law. I'd say he's here because the only other alternative is church or prison. Maybe both of those options are the same to him.

"Next is the man named Riis. That spider has been spinning an intricate web of lies for quite some time now, unbeknownst to the great many people trapped inside of it. Of course, webs can only hold so much prey; catch too many flies and the web will come crashing down on him. And of course, being the spider he is, he fears the idea of being crushed, so he came here to avoid the sole of the people who believed whatever it was he claimed.

"Morgan, on the other hand, has been having an . . . 'affair' with another man, I think that's the most polite way of putting it. Considering her age, this must have been going on for at least a decade. Her husband found out about it two days ago. No, wait . . . a little less than a month ago?" This woman seems surprised at her own findings, "Damn, I'll give him points for loyalty. Her lover was not so lenient. I believe he left as soon as he found out, Morgan and her husband had many rows about it, and I believe their recent one was the worst. That's why she's here. She wants to be rid of it all, all the worries and drama that she faced all this time.

"And then . . . there's him." She gestures to the isolated trembling man. I hear him whispering "please" over and over again, head in his hands. The man's uneven breathing is broken by an occasional sob. I would say he's on the verge of insanity. I fear him almost as much as I have begun to fear the woman sitting next to me. She looks at me, smiles, and with her pleasant voice says, "Would you like to take a guess at why he's here?"

The atmosphere changes. The rain outside has increased, making angry thunderous sounds against the glass. On the stark walls the smiling faces appear less sincere. The scream I heard earlier from behind the closed door doesn't sound like one emitted from joy anymore. I don't know how to answer this woman's question, and I struggle to formulate one, "I . . . er--"

"Oh, don't worry; your guess is as good as mine. Well, maybe not as good. He arrived before I did, so I didn't see the way he walked through as I did the others. But I must say, even though I didn't get a proper evaluation, his pressure and guilt isn't making it too hard to figure out."

I can hear the mysterious trembling man still rocking in his seat whispering, "Please, please, please--"

She ventures, "He seems deeply troubled and conflicted, so it must have been something serious. His eyes are bloodshot from the drugs he's been taking to handle himself . . . maybe there's no guilt, but there is undeniably fear in him . . ."

"Please, please, please--"

" Fear of what? I noticed that he deliberately avoids looking at the pictures on the wall, in fact, he acted the same way with a few people here . . ."

"Pleasepleaseplease--"

"His legs, and more importantly, his hands. The way they're fidgeting . . ."

"Please"

She pauses for a minute, contemplating the possibilities of this man's sins. I for one am not eager to find out. My mind races as I try to estimate how fast I can make to my car parked outside.

"Ok, I've got it. My first guess is that he is involved in heavy pedophilia; he may even have hurt or killed some of the children in the process. That would mean his fear is from the anger of the broken families he's left in his wake. But, of course, that first theory is not without its flaws. My second guess is that he most likely--"

She is abruptly interrupted by the wooden door opening, and the same female appears and calls, "Johnson?" The quivering man instantly jumps up from his seat with frantic eyes and shouts, "Please! I've changed my mind!" He bolts for the glass door, almost tripping in the process, and grabs the cold metal handle. I see a yellow head give me a sideways glance and say nonchalantly, "It's locked."And sure enough, the door somehow managed to lock itself during the time I was here because Johnson struggles to open it. He vigorously jiggles the handle. Again. This time he tries kicking it down, "No! No!" The female disappears, and it isn't until the door starts making a painful sound that two additional men take her place. I am taken aback by how casual they're dressed: just some simple jeans and t-shirts. Not really what I would expect someone to be wearing when they charge forward with a taser gun.

Johnson also catches sight of the men because he half turns towards them and bawls, "Please! I don't want to do thi--!"

A small pop and two wired probes plunge into the Johnson's shoulder. A series of rapid clicking indicates that the electricity is now flowing through him. Yelps of pain follow as his body spasms and crumples at the foot of the entrance.

"What the hell . . ." But if I expected some sort of explanation I was greatly disappointed. The two assailants carry Johnson by his arms and legs back through the door they entered through, into the bowels of the building. The silence the assailants leave behind is penetrated only by the fading scuffling of their feet in the hallway behind the closed door.

The woman next to me remained calm and composed as usual throughout the entire scene.

Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick.

A male scream similar to the one earlier echoes from somewhere inside the building.

"He really shouldn't have done that. So unprofessional," she comments with a shrug.

I shiver. I can't contain my bewilderment any longer and ask the million dollar question I should have asked a long time ago.

"Who the hell are you?!"

This woman simply grins and says, "I'll answer that question if you answer mine first."

I open my mouth to retort, but I sit without a word and test my tolerance.

"I've told you everyone's reason for walking through that front door, and now it's your turn. What did you do?"

A fleeting image of blood.

"I--I don't know what you're talking about."

"You know plenty well what I'm talking about. Did you think that after my evaluation with everyone else that I would not do the same with you? I told you; I know exactly why everyone is here. The only difference between you and them is that I'm curious as to whether you'll tell me directly or whether I'd have to pick you apart. Piece by piece."

"I didn't do anything." I persist, but my voice claims otherwise.

"Well . . . I guess it's the latter, then."

"No! This is none of your business!"

"Ah, but it's the personal things that make it so much fun."

I swallow.

"So," she continues, "where to start . . . ? This happened yesterday--last night, in fact--"

Bloody knuckles. I couldn't tell whose blood it was.

"Stop!"

"--and, let's see. A woman."

A crippled body.

"Please!" My heart pounds behind my ears.

A sly smile creeps on this woman's face. "Your wife, perhaps?"

Her blank eyes were like pearls among the crimson mess.

I begin to sob and shout, "It was an accident!"

Her signature smile forms, only this time they're adorned with malicious eyes that penetrate me as I shake.

"You know," she softly says, "there's a very fine line between manslaughter and murder."

I've managed to pull myself together since that night with merely duct tape and here this woman is peeling each strip off with every passing second. My head falls to my palms as tears start sliding down my cheeks. Through my swirling haze, I barely register something different in the blonde's voice as she leans forward. Solemnity.

"How much of an accident could it have been if you wanted to beat her to a pulp?"

I almost visibly cringe at the way she phrases that sentence. My head snaps up to look at her, but all I see is a large wet blur. My voice cracks slightly, "It wasn't like that! We fought! And I was angry! I never meant for her to--" I choke on that last word just as I try choking back my tears.

I spend the next minute trying to prevent my emotional state from going overboard. I suck in a few deep shuddering breaths and I notice that this woman's mask of smiles is gone. Now her brow and nose slightly scrunch together.

"Is that the face you make whenever you 'analyze' someone?" I speak with quiet venom.

She ignores my remark and lets the silence linger a second longer.

"People like you sicken me," she says equally quiet.

I stare at this aristocrat of sin and I begin to boil at her hypocrisy

"I sicken you? As if you're any better? Why are we talking about every other person when you haven't said anything about yourself? What did you do to get in here?"

I feel my pulse pounding.

"What makes you so exceptional that you can sit on top of your soapbox and judge everyone else? Huh? That man was electrocuted and possibly tortured for trying to leave and you call that bad manners!? W--"

"Ninety seven."

"Ninety seven what?" I bite. I'm still fuming and I'm not going to allow my funnel of antipathy to be diverted.

"Bodies," she states.

A stony silence elapses. Her face reveals no sign of lies. Appalled, I close the gap in my mouth, my fury snuffed out like a breath to a candle. "You . . . you killed ninety seven people?" I can feel more of my tape peeling off.

"Yes, but never with a gun; that takes all the fun out it." The woman's eyes take on a glassy quality, not like my wife's eyes from death, but dreamlike at the prospect of death.

Despite all evidence otherwise, I can't seem to grasp the concept of this business woman being capable of such horrors when eyes shut at night . . . a night like this . . . Only now do I realize how alone we both are, and how vulnerable I am.

"I said that there's a very fine line between manslaughter and murder. I'd say I broke that line a long time ago . . . don't worry, I'm not going to kill you," she mentions nonchalantly

A woman's head pokes out from the wooden door, "Compton?"

This serial killer, Compton, puts on her mask again as she stands up to leave. She continues, "This place will either help you, or hurt you. If it hurts you, then may god have mercy on your soul."

Compton leaves with the lady and shuts the door behind her, leaving me to wallow in my loneliness.

Tick, tick, tick.

At long last, I finally break.