A Family's Insanity

Raman Mandavia

A Family's Insanity

Men on the battlefield and frontiers of war often suffer sever injuries. Thomas Montare had suffered some of the worst.
A soldier deployed onto the grounds of war countless times, Montare had seen many of his fellows die. A soldier of the rare sort, Montare and troops among the squads he was set in were the government's most valuable treasures.
There was a day when Montare was the one with the worst injury. His left arm suddenly gone, Montare had the skin of his left leg burnt away, along with half the skin on his face gone. A crater was embedded into his chest, a long slash nearby. He had been patrolling alone, and somehow managed to return to the humvee. Montare was then quickly taken abroad, placed in a Colorado hospital. He has remained in its custody for the last ten years......






Jonathan Rewald's parents sat in plump chairs, soft as pillows, contemplating whether or not to pay. After all, it was just a school trip. What harm could it possibly do?
"Let's let him, Henry," said Jonathan's mother. "It's just a school trip to see a battered old veteran. He's too old for what he used to do."
"I know, I know," replied an exasperated father, sighing. "But... He's only eight, Mary. Why does he care about any of this crap?"
"He doesn't," Jonathan's mother said earnestly. "He just wants to see and experience new things. I mean, I would definitely be curious. Wouldn't you?"
"Of course I would, but that was a different time!" Henry was getting tired of arguing. She didn't understand.
"And a different place," Mary said, her expression solemn. She sighed. "His imagination is still free. Look, just let him decide. If he doesn't want to go, he won't go."
Without a word, Henry nodded.
Mary stood, walking towards the door. On the way, she glanced out the window out the window and shivered. The structure was large and intimidating, even at this distance. It never got old... And it never looked better. Or safer. Or more... decent. The memories were fresh.
The door opened with a creak. Outside, children were running around and playing, catching and grabbing each other, fighting, climbing, having fun. Jonathan sat across the street in a dark, secluded alcove between two buildings. Alone.
"Jonathan!" his mother called. "Come here!" She never seemed to notice his state of delirium and solitude.
Jonathan slowly rose and stepped out of his alcove. He then looked up at his mother, eyes gleaming in the sunlight. "What is it?"
"Come over here, your dad and I want to ask you something."
The boy briskly covered the distance across the street, brushing past his mother and plopping into one of the fuzzy armchairs. Mary closed the door, following suit.
Jonathan's dad smiled at him crookedly. "Ok buddy. You want to go on that trip of yours?"
Jonathan sighed. This was the tenth time his parents his parents had asked in the last three days. "Yes, Dad. I do."
The smile faded. "Ok then." His dad turned to Mary. "It's final. He's going on that trip."
Jonathan's face lit up. "Really?"
"Sure." Henry extracted twenty dollars and signed the permission slip. "Here."
Jonathan looked at his father in disbelief. The boy's eyes darted around, almost like that of an enraged animal. Then it all stopped. Jonathan was calm and controlled again.
"Thanks, Dad," he said. The child then bolted up the stairs and into his room. There was a deafening BANG!!! as Jonathan slammed the door shut.
Henry collapsed, breaking back down into his fluffy chair.
"We're doing the right thing, Henry," Mary whispered, although she sounded doubtful.
"I hope so....." Henry's thoughts drifted off, and soon a tear slid from his eye. It was like a vacuum, sweeping up layers of dust and dirt.
"Are you thinking of them again?" Mary's voice broke.
Henry wiped away the tear, a vise of confusion on his face. "Why?" he asked open air. "I don't understand. Why are we still unable, even after such practice?"
"Henry. We are perfectly able to raise Jonathan."
Henry's head spun, glaring, psychotic eyes.
"All I mean is that we can always teach him," Mary rushed, taken aback. "We can always get him professional help. He's still young."
Henry's shoulders fell and he slouched low in his chair. The years and age had taken a toll on the two of them.
"We should be the only help he needs...."
"Then we won't," Mary said with finality.
Henry's expression turned ever so darker. "I pray you speak truth"




An hour passed, and Jonathan's door creaked open. Dinner was always had at eight o'clock sharp.
As always, the trampled, average-looking boy waddled over to his chair at the small, round table, his ancient parents at he either side. There was never any conversation. Just the movements of plain, drab spoons and plain, drab forks moving the organized, schedule-based food. Jonathan had no feelings towards it, other than "It's food." Nothing else ever had been asked of him.
Yet, the boy always wondered, why was there so much of a need of organization at dinner? No other part of the day was ever organized. Nonetheless, Jonathan ate, set his utensils in the sink, and returned to his room.
BANG!!!
Henry and Mary shuffled off to bed. Nothing of their interest was on television. On top of that, the wrinkled, bug-eyed, tiny sixty year olds needed their sleep.
Jonathan, on the other hand, never slept.
With the phases he had as a child, insomnia could never leave him. It was as much a part of him as his soul.
Usually, Jonathan went through deliriums and psychotic states of mind, but that was when there was nothing to think about, nothing to do. Today, there was tomorrow's trip.
What were they going to see? It was such a strange place to go to, when so young. What could possibly catch the interest of young children?
Other than the place itself, of course.
Enough thinking! Jonathan scanned the interior of his room. Random drawings of people and places and creatures from Jonathan's imagination were plastered onto the walls. Professional-grade artwork. Along with it were random scribbles and writings. The bed, desk, and dresser were decorated similarly.
Hopping to the desk, Jonathan slid into the chair and got to work. He though something was out of the ordinary, though. The though quickly passed.
Jonathan could not hear the movement and clatter below.




Morning came, and with it, light. Jonathan covered his eyes and rapidly threw a cover over the window. He changed out of his home clothes into some random jeans, sneakers, and blue shirt. He also slipped on jacked and sunglasses.
"Jonathan!" his mother called. "Time for school! You don't want to miss your trip!"
"Coming!" Jonathan grabbed his bad as he bolted down out of the door to his room and then the house.
He walked over to his bus stop, where some older kids and some from his class were waiting.
Peter, a boy from Jonathan's class(among which Jonathan had no friends)asked, "Hey Jonathan, you going on the field trip?"
"Hm?" Jonathan looked distant.
"Never mind. Don't matter anyway. I'm skippin' school today." A smirk crossed Peter's face.
"Great."
A bus, yellow, with the paint peeling and fading, stopped as Peter began walking away.
A pointy eared, grim woman stood at the door when it opened.
"Jonathan Rewald?" she inquired, searching with her slotted eyes.
Jonathan took the money and slip out of his pocket and approached the woman. "Me."
She gently snatched the money and slip, thanking Jonathan and stepping aside to let him pass.
When Jonathan stepped on the bus, he was mildly surprised. His normally bustling, active class was now completely silent. Not even a whisper. As he found an empty seat, he saw the others' faces. He couldn't quite place the expression. Fear?
Anyway, it was a pleasant surprise, the silence. At least to Jonathan. The boy rarely felt any emotion.
Jonathan was the last child to be picked up of the twenty-nine kid class, so the bus turned to head to the destination. It was a thirty-minute drive.
The closer the bus got to its ultimate goal, the stranger everything seemed. Jonathan noticed that a shadow had begun to loom over the bus and buildings.
Outside, Jonathan noticed a hospital.
It wasn't particularly big, but it cast a long shadow, and all of the buildings within its darkness were strange.
Be it homes, shops, gas stations, and building; they were all boarded up, the windows concealed and the doors overlapped with wooden boards. All of the buildings were obviously empty and had not been touched in years. And, they got worse as the shadow darkened, closer to the hospital.
Soon the bus stopped, and all of the children were obviously scared as they came out of the bus. Their plump teacher came after them, looking more terrified than the children. Jonathan was a little confused, but not by the reactions of his class. He was awed by the hospital.
It was around a hundred feet tall, but its shadow stretched around five times that. It had no windows and no name across or anywhere near it, and the only entrance was an automatic, sliding pair of large doors.
The darkness was overwhelming now. It was black as night, and there were certain spots where anything could be lurking.
Jonathan didn't care for any of this. All he noticed was that the hospital looked like it was in pristine condition, as if brand-new.
Suddenly, the doors opened, and the class was approached by three nurses holding trays with an orange drink. They handed one to every person, and everyone drank.
Except Jonathan.
He didn't like the way it smelled. It was almost rancid, smelling of a long-dead, disease ridden animal. He set it down on the ground. The nurses didn't seem to mind. They were smiling the whole time.
Something about the smile was strange. It didn't look forced, no, but not natural. Natural but unnatural. Jonathan couldn't quite place it.
Two of the nurses carried away the trays, disappearing, but one--a man--stayed behind.
A couple of minutes later, Jonathan noticed yet another distortion. The class was smiling, the exact same way the nurses had been.
Jonathan dismissed it and followed the nurse inside, along with the rest of the class.
On the way to see what they had come for, Jonathan had seen only twelve doors. Only doors. There had been no other nurses through the nine corridors and two floors they had gone through. On the second floor, they stopped at a door. It was one of the doors which was on its own in a corridor.
"Alright everyone," said the nurse. It sounded pre-recorded. "Through here is our main attraction! In this room, there is a veteran by the name of Thomas Montare. He did many special things until he had to do something very dangerous. Then, he was mover here, and he has remained within these walls for the last ten years!"
Everyone's eyes widened, but Jonathan began to wander off. The man caught him, clamping a strong hand over Jonathan's throat. "No," said the man plainly.
Jonathan was let go and the door opened. The room was white, with a flickering, eerie tubelight, just like the rest of the rectangular hospital, and on a bed against the wall was a horrifying man.
He was obviously quite old, and had been through much. There was nothing but a stump sticking out of his left sleeve. He wore a white robe, and his legs were only partly covered. The man's left leg looked like it had been covered in black ash, some pieces so exposed that the bone was clearly visible.
The man's face, though, scared Jonathan.
Half of the skin was missing. One eyeball was huge, and the blood and muscle stuck to the clear half of the man's skull. The other half looked old, but battle scarred.
All of the children cheered, and the man smiled, a twisted gesture. Other furnishings were in the room, such as a drawer and a TV, among stranger things. But all that anyone noticed was a stand next to the man, which was feeding a clear liquid into his arm.
"Come, come!" the man said, his voice gruff. His tone was eager.
Everyone came closer. Even Jonathan was compelled.
"Do you know who I am?" The man's eyes scanned the crowd.
The children shook their heads.
"No? Well, that's good," the man muttered. "I am Thomas Montare, and I was a very important man."
The door opened, as if on cue, and two nurses with trays walked in. There was a clear liquid in the glasses of one tray, and cookies on the other. All of the children--except Jonathan--burst into joy. Jonathan hated cookies and water.
"Feel free! Take however many you want!" Montare said. "There's always more..."
Montare then saw that Jonathan wasn't eating. "My dear boy," he said. "At least have a drink."
Jonathan shook his head. "No, sir. I hate water."
Montare's one eyebrow rose. "Ok then. Believe me Jonathan, it'll be your loss."
Jonathan shrugged and watched his class ravenously eat and drink. Meanwhile, the man behind him scanned, his eyes stopping on Jonathan. He stared a while, and said, "Interesting." Jonathan didn't notice.
When everything was gone, the nurses left, and four more, this time all women, entered.
"Come everybody, sit," said Montare. "Prepare for your stay here!"
Montare leaned close to the children. "Did you know that I also visit many here?"
"Are they patients?" a boy asked.
"No, no. They're children, just like you. Maybe a year later or younger, no more."
Most of the children "oooo"ed or "aahhhh"ed.
"And do you know what?"
"What?" they all asked at once. There were thumps.
"I have a feeling that you all will get to be my guests, just like the rest," Montare said, his voice sinister.
The nurses at the back made a movement. Jonathan could see a flash of steel.
Slowly, Jonathan turned.
His entire class was fast asleep.
Montare shook his head sadly. "I warned you, Jonathan."
The nurses moved towards the children, knives raised, smile just as before.
"I suggest you run, Jonathan," Montare said. "Just in case my assistants get out of hand."
Jonathan's face went white, and the bolted out the door, sprinting through the corridors, down the stairs, and out of the institute. Jonathan was fast, and his impeccable memory helped him make his way home.




Peter ran from the side of Jonathan's house.
"Jonathan!" he yelled frantically. "Jonathan! Jonathan! Jona--"
Jonathan turned onto his street around two o'clock. It was silent, for it was still school time, but Jonathan gladly welcomed the light. The dim, flickering lights of the hospital had chilled him to the bone.
He ran to his home. "Mom!" he yelled. "Dad!"
The door was unlocked, so Jonathan waltzed right in. The house was dark. Shades had been thrown over the windows and all other sources of light, and Jonathan notices sound insulators.
"Mom? Dad?"
There was a clatter in the kitchen and the movement of metallic instruments.
When Jonathan burst in, his ancient, wrinkled parents were arranging tools.
His father turned, his expression dark and sad.
"What's wrong?" Jonathan asked, taking a step back.
"You're early." His father sounded just as he looked. Soulless.
Jonathan's mother hefted up a knife, concealing it. She approached Jonathan.
"I'm sorry, my son," said Henry. "We tried our best, but once again, we've failed."
Jonathan turned to his mother. "Mom?" The boy's eyes were wide with terror.
"We have no choice..."
One of the ten lockers in the basement opened, feeling the violence. A heavy, baby-sized and shaped bag toppled out and onto the ground. Another locker opened and yet another sack, this one of a person in her teens, struck the ground.
Soon, there would be an addition.