Callum Chester
06-23-2009, 04:50 AM
The Prisoner
by Callum Chester
Copyright (c) Callum Chester 2009.
13th April, 1999.
I wake at a quarter past eight, hoping to hell that the last three years of my life have been nothing but a nightmare – just some hellish creation, conjured up in the deepest chasms of my twisted imagination. But of course, I open my eyes to face my familiar, disheartening reality. Same four walls. Same barred window. Same bitter taste in my mouth. It’d been no dream. It was real, all right. As real as the stale air I breathe tirelessly – day in, day out. It seems such a chore these days. Sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it.
I mean, what kind of life do I have? I wake up, and I sit here in my kennel until she comes. She takes me to a room with a large granite table – a lot like one I used to have. Hell, that seems an age ago now. Anyway, she makes me sit down and fixes me a coffee, and then we talk. Well, I say “talk”. I’m not much of a conversationalist these days. I don’t have an awful lot to say. Especially to a goddamned sociologist like her. What right has she got? Poking around in my head. But she’s my only link to the outside world – so I get what I can out of her. Soccer scores, news updates... and information about them. Not that she’s ever willing to tell me much. She only ever wants to talk about my thoughts and feelings. It’s like she thinks I’m crazy. I’m not crazy. I’m not crazy.
When she’s done squeezing all she can out of me, she cooks up something half bearable and leaves. I return to my cell on the floor above. It’s so cold and isolated up there. I can’t remember the last time I saw another inmate. Jailors are a hard thing to come by, too. But I know they’re around. I hear them late at night. I hear their heavy footsteps patrolling the empty corridors.
When I’m back in my cell, I have extremely little to do. She brings me the occasional book now and again, but I’m not much of a reader. It gives me headaches. So most of the time, I just write in here. Then it’s lights out – and I put my head to my pillow and drift into a cruel dreamland, full of terror and spite. I dream of her. I dream of them.
How I long to see their sweet faces once more. But they’re a long way away now. No-one will tell me where, exactly. She tells me it’s best if I don’t know. God knows why. It’s not like I’m going to escape and look them up, is it? Although, sometimes, I wonder just how easy that might be. But hell, I’ve been cooped up too long. I’m already at the point one might call ‘institutionalised’. I’m no match to the perils of this world. It’s a hectic jungle of malice and carnage out there. I’m sure of that. I dream about it. I dream about wars and mighty, nuclear storms that destroy everything in their path. The world has changed, and I’m better off in my cell.
23rd April, 1999.
Something’s wrong. It’s a quarter past two according to the clock by my door, and she still hasn’t been yet. Normally she’s here at twelve, every day – on the dot, without fail.
What happened? Is she okay? Was she hurt? Maybe there was an accident. God – “accident” – I hate that word. She uses it a lot. Too often, if you ask me. I do hate it when she bangs on at me. I just block out her words and nod along. But she feeds me, and she’s the only company I have.
Somewhere down the corridor, a phone had been ringing for most of the morning. No-one answered it. They just let it ring. Sometimes I wonder what kind of halfwits are actually running this crummy penitentiary. I doubt they could arrange a piss-up in a brewery.
Where is she? She can’t do this to me. I’m starving. My stomach is shrinking to the size of a peach and it hurts like hell. Her tasteless slop would seem a regal feast to me now.
At one, I tried banging on my door and shouting for a guard. None came. None ever come.
This is so ****ing typical. I rely on one itty-bitty little goddamned person and they let me down. Does she not know how much I depend on her? Does she not know how much I need her? Of course not! She’s too busy spending her killer ****ing salary on handbags and jewels, while I’m sitting here rotting next to a crap-filled toilet that refuses to flush! My skin’s crawling. My blood’s boiling. I feel the long-silent rage awaken deep within me. And for the first time, I begin to think her suspicions are correct. Maybe I am crazy. Maybe I do belong here. Or maybe it’s all just a bunch of federate bull****. Maybe they’re making me dream those things. They could be piping nano-signals into my cell at night. I hear the guards creeping around in the early hours. Maybe that’s what they’re up to. They’re making me dream about wars and fires and death. They’re making me scared of the outside world – and why? To keep me locked up in this **** heap.
Well I’m not standing for that. Not while I’ve got a wife and two beautiful kids out there. I don’t know where they are, but I could find them. I could be there for them, like I used to be... before – before what? Hell, it’s been so long I can’t even remember.
I’m coming for you, Kathy. Just you sit tight now. Daddy’s all better. And he’s not crazy. He’s not crazy.
24th April, 1999.
I didn’t sleep a wink. No time for sleep. Today’s the big day. Today, daddy’s coming home. But first, he’s got a little business to take care of. He’s gotta wipe the ****-eating grin off a certain sociologist’s face. She’s his only ticket out of here. She’s the only one who opens daddy’s door. And she’ll have the key to the outside world. But she’d never let him go. She’d go and get the invisible guards. They’d come after him, all guns blazing, and they’d stop him from seeing Kathy and his little girls. So daddy has to shut her up. The big bad wolf has to stop the little piggy from squealing. He’ll huff and he’ll puff and he’ll bash her brains in.
Twelve-o-two. I hear the metallic clank of the downstairs door. Footsteps cross the marble lobby. Now she’s coming up the stairs. My hands clutch the heavy ceramic lid of the toilet tank, and I step over to the door, hunching it up over my shoulder.
She’s coming down the corridor now, jangling her key chain between her chubby, manicured fingertips. I brace myself. I need to floor this ***** with one foul swoop. Just like baseball, back in college. Keep your eyes on the ball.
The door opens and I swing. Home run! It’s up! It’s over! It’s out of there! Her face bursts into a tragic array of blood, dismantled flesh and splintered bone. I catch a spray of brain matter as she falls. The ***** is down, and this little piglet ain’t squealing to nobody.
MURDERER ON THE LOOSE IN SLEEPY TOWN OF BRASSWOOD
Paranoid schizophrenic Eric Lance Draven has murdered his sociologist, it has been confirmed. The murder occurred on Saturday 24th April, at around midday. The victim, Mrs Teresa Cartwright, had been at Draven’s house in the small, rural community of Brasswood, East Maine, when it happened. According to her employers at Rentwood Care, she had visited him every day for the past seven years and was a loving, loyal carer.
We spoke to Dr Hauffman of Rentwood Care, to get an understanding of Draven’s condition. It dates back to an incident which Mrs Cartwright had come to refer to as ‘The Accident’. Draven had been driving his wife and kids back from a summer barbecue party out in the peaks. He was a couple of units over the legal limit, and made a bad turn on an unforgiving corner. The family Sedan had plunged fifty feet into the rocks below. Eric was the only survivor.
When he came out of the coma, he simply couldn’t cope with the guilt of what he’d done. He suffered a complete mental breakdown, and his only way of survival was denial. He created these prison fantasies, designed to cage him in his own home – to keep him away from the truth. To keep his family alive.
The psychologists gave up on him. They handed him over to Rentwood, the leading state home-care specialists. Mrs Cartwright went over to cook him a meal and try to coax him into talking. She didn’t succeed, but she knew that progress was slow with this kind of patient. So she went back the next day, and then the next. And so, the routine was set. And it lasted seven years. Right up until the day she died.
So what had caused that seemingly-unprovoked and grossly-violent attack? We asked Dr Hauffman.
“Having conferred with her husband, Martin – a good friend of mine and a man distraught – I was able to derive that Teresa had been unwell the day before. She’d tried to ring Draven to tell him she wouldn’t be coming in, but, as expected, he didn’t answer. The phone is outside his ‘cell’.
“And so, he went that whole day without eating. Without leaving his cell. And in cases as extreme as his, when routine is everything, you do not want to break that routine. It can prove very dangerous. As, indeed, it has. I have no doubt that this murder was the result of her absence on Friday the 23rd.
“Now we have an extremely deranged and dangerous subject on the loose. He’s looking for his family. And god help us if he finds out what happened. That’s why it’s imperative that your media coverage does not detail the accident itself. That could prove deadly.”
We caught up with local Sherriff Reece Manderville to get details of the crime itself.
“It was actually Martin Cartwright, the victim’s husband, who made the gruesome discovery. He’d driven over there at around four o’clock when she hadn’t returned from her visit. As far as I could gather, her scrutinising care routine put great pressure on their relationship, and he greatly disapproved of her caring for Draven. He’d always considered him ‘a raving psychopath’. So when she hadn’t returned on Saturday, he took great haste in driving over there.
“He found the body on the upstairs landing, outside the bedroom Draven had come to call his ‘cell.’ The skull had been bludgeoned completely beyond recognition. He knew it only as her by her clothing, and the bracelet he’d given her on their honeymoon.
“Martin had passed out at the sight of it all. He rang us not long after he came round, just after five. I arrived on site about fifteen minutes later, with all the King’s men. Draven was nowhere to be seen.
“That was three days ago now. There have been no sightings. No leads. But he’s out there. That son of a ***** is out there. And I’ll find him. And when I do, I’ll put a bullet between his eyes for what he did.”
What shocked us most of all is what we found in the autopsy report. Carved with a breadknife across Teresa Cartwright’s breasts, the words, “Daddy’s coming home.”
Hugo Myers, The Outpost.
by Callum Chester
Copyright (c) Callum Chester 2009.
13th April, 1999.
I wake at a quarter past eight, hoping to hell that the last three years of my life have been nothing but a nightmare – just some hellish creation, conjured up in the deepest chasms of my twisted imagination. But of course, I open my eyes to face my familiar, disheartening reality. Same four walls. Same barred window. Same bitter taste in my mouth. It’d been no dream. It was real, all right. As real as the stale air I breathe tirelessly – day in, day out. It seems such a chore these days. Sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it.
I mean, what kind of life do I have? I wake up, and I sit here in my kennel until she comes. She takes me to a room with a large granite table – a lot like one I used to have. Hell, that seems an age ago now. Anyway, she makes me sit down and fixes me a coffee, and then we talk. Well, I say “talk”. I’m not much of a conversationalist these days. I don’t have an awful lot to say. Especially to a goddamned sociologist like her. What right has she got? Poking around in my head. But she’s my only link to the outside world – so I get what I can out of her. Soccer scores, news updates... and information about them. Not that she’s ever willing to tell me much. She only ever wants to talk about my thoughts and feelings. It’s like she thinks I’m crazy. I’m not crazy. I’m not crazy.
When she’s done squeezing all she can out of me, she cooks up something half bearable and leaves. I return to my cell on the floor above. It’s so cold and isolated up there. I can’t remember the last time I saw another inmate. Jailors are a hard thing to come by, too. But I know they’re around. I hear them late at night. I hear their heavy footsteps patrolling the empty corridors.
When I’m back in my cell, I have extremely little to do. She brings me the occasional book now and again, but I’m not much of a reader. It gives me headaches. So most of the time, I just write in here. Then it’s lights out – and I put my head to my pillow and drift into a cruel dreamland, full of terror and spite. I dream of her. I dream of them.
How I long to see their sweet faces once more. But they’re a long way away now. No-one will tell me where, exactly. She tells me it’s best if I don’t know. God knows why. It’s not like I’m going to escape and look them up, is it? Although, sometimes, I wonder just how easy that might be. But hell, I’ve been cooped up too long. I’m already at the point one might call ‘institutionalised’. I’m no match to the perils of this world. It’s a hectic jungle of malice and carnage out there. I’m sure of that. I dream about it. I dream about wars and mighty, nuclear storms that destroy everything in their path. The world has changed, and I’m better off in my cell.
23rd April, 1999.
Something’s wrong. It’s a quarter past two according to the clock by my door, and she still hasn’t been yet. Normally she’s here at twelve, every day – on the dot, without fail.
What happened? Is she okay? Was she hurt? Maybe there was an accident. God – “accident” – I hate that word. She uses it a lot. Too often, if you ask me. I do hate it when she bangs on at me. I just block out her words and nod along. But she feeds me, and she’s the only company I have.
Somewhere down the corridor, a phone had been ringing for most of the morning. No-one answered it. They just let it ring. Sometimes I wonder what kind of halfwits are actually running this crummy penitentiary. I doubt they could arrange a piss-up in a brewery.
Where is she? She can’t do this to me. I’m starving. My stomach is shrinking to the size of a peach and it hurts like hell. Her tasteless slop would seem a regal feast to me now.
At one, I tried banging on my door and shouting for a guard. None came. None ever come.
This is so ****ing typical. I rely on one itty-bitty little goddamned person and they let me down. Does she not know how much I depend on her? Does she not know how much I need her? Of course not! She’s too busy spending her killer ****ing salary on handbags and jewels, while I’m sitting here rotting next to a crap-filled toilet that refuses to flush! My skin’s crawling. My blood’s boiling. I feel the long-silent rage awaken deep within me. And for the first time, I begin to think her suspicions are correct. Maybe I am crazy. Maybe I do belong here. Or maybe it’s all just a bunch of federate bull****. Maybe they’re making me dream those things. They could be piping nano-signals into my cell at night. I hear the guards creeping around in the early hours. Maybe that’s what they’re up to. They’re making me dream about wars and fires and death. They’re making me scared of the outside world – and why? To keep me locked up in this **** heap.
Well I’m not standing for that. Not while I’ve got a wife and two beautiful kids out there. I don’t know where they are, but I could find them. I could be there for them, like I used to be... before – before what? Hell, it’s been so long I can’t even remember.
I’m coming for you, Kathy. Just you sit tight now. Daddy’s all better. And he’s not crazy. He’s not crazy.
24th April, 1999.
I didn’t sleep a wink. No time for sleep. Today’s the big day. Today, daddy’s coming home. But first, he’s got a little business to take care of. He’s gotta wipe the ****-eating grin off a certain sociologist’s face. She’s his only ticket out of here. She’s the only one who opens daddy’s door. And she’ll have the key to the outside world. But she’d never let him go. She’d go and get the invisible guards. They’d come after him, all guns blazing, and they’d stop him from seeing Kathy and his little girls. So daddy has to shut her up. The big bad wolf has to stop the little piggy from squealing. He’ll huff and he’ll puff and he’ll bash her brains in.
Twelve-o-two. I hear the metallic clank of the downstairs door. Footsteps cross the marble lobby. Now she’s coming up the stairs. My hands clutch the heavy ceramic lid of the toilet tank, and I step over to the door, hunching it up over my shoulder.
She’s coming down the corridor now, jangling her key chain between her chubby, manicured fingertips. I brace myself. I need to floor this ***** with one foul swoop. Just like baseball, back in college. Keep your eyes on the ball.
The door opens and I swing. Home run! It’s up! It’s over! It’s out of there! Her face bursts into a tragic array of blood, dismantled flesh and splintered bone. I catch a spray of brain matter as she falls. The ***** is down, and this little piglet ain’t squealing to nobody.
MURDERER ON THE LOOSE IN SLEEPY TOWN OF BRASSWOOD
Paranoid schizophrenic Eric Lance Draven has murdered his sociologist, it has been confirmed. The murder occurred on Saturday 24th April, at around midday. The victim, Mrs Teresa Cartwright, had been at Draven’s house in the small, rural community of Brasswood, East Maine, when it happened. According to her employers at Rentwood Care, she had visited him every day for the past seven years and was a loving, loyal carer.
We spoke to Dr Hauffman of Rentwood Care, to get an understanding of Draven’s condition. It dates back to an incident which Mrs Cartwright had come to refer to as ‘The Accident’. Draven had been driving his wife and kids back from a summer barbecue party out in the peaks. He was a couple of units over the legal limit, and made a bad turn on an unforgiving corner. The family Sedan had plunged fifty feet into the rocks below. Eric was the only survivor.
When he came out of the coma, he simply couldn’t cope with the guilt of what he’d done. He suffered a complete mental breakdown, and his only way of survival was denial. He created these prison fantasies, designed to cage him in his own home – to keep him away from the truth. To keep his family alive.
The psychologists gave up on him. They handed him over to Rentwood, the leading state home-care specialists. Mrs Cartwright went over to cook him a meal and try to coax him into talking. She didn’t succeed, but she knew that progress was slow with this kind of patient. So she went back the next day, and then the next. And so, the routine was set. And it lasted seven years. Right up until the day she died.
So what had caused that seemingly-unprovoked and grossly-violent attack? We asked Dr Hauffman.
“Having conferred with her husband, Martin – a good friend of mine and a man distraught – I was able to derive that Teresa had been unwell the day before. She’d tried to ring Draven to tell him she wouldn’t be coming in, but, as expected, he didn’t answer. The phone is outside his ‘cell’.
“And so, he went that whole day without eating. Without leaving his cell. And in cases as extreme as his, when routine is everything, you do not want to break that routine. It can prove very dangerous. As, indeed, it has. I have no doubt that this murder was the result of her absence on Friday the 23rd.
“Now we have an extremely deranged and dangerous subject on the loose. He’s looking for his family. And god help us if he finds out what happened. That’s why it’s imperative that your media coverage does not detail the accident itself. That could prove deadly.”
We caught up with local Sherriff Reece Manderville to get details of the crime itself.
“It was actually Martin Cartwright, the victim’s husband, who made the gruesome discovery. He’d driven over there at around four o’clock when she hadn’t returned from her visit. As far as I could gather, her scrutinising care routine put great pressure on their relationship, and he greatly disapproved of her caring for Draven. He’d always considered him ‘a raving psychopath’. So when she hadn’t returned on Saturday, he took great haste in driving over there.
“He found the body on the upstairs landing, outside the bedroom Draven had come to call his ‘cell.’ The skull had been bludgeoned completely beyond recognition. He knew it only as her by her clothing, and the bracelet he’d given her on their honeymoon.
“Martin had passed out at the sight of it all. He rang us not long after he came round, just after five. I arrived on site about fifteen minutes later, with all the King’s men. Draven was nowhere to be seen.
“That was three days ago now. There have been no sightings. No leads. But he’s out there. That son of a ***** is out there. And I’ll find him. And when I do, I’ll put a bullet between his eyes for what he did.”
What shocked us most of all is what we found in the autopsy report. Carved with a breadknife across Teresa Cartwright’s breasts, the words, “Daddy’s coming home.”
Hugo Myers, The Outpost.