The Great Depression of 1929 was on America's doorstep, and James Cherry was under immense pressure from the rail companies to produce more coal from the successful mine he grew out of farming lands of northern Illinois. To alleviate some of the stress that the Chicago Milwaukee and St. Paul Rail Road owners placed on him, he decided to unload his most significant burden of the last 9 years. Little did he realize that his son's removal would happen dramatically.
The burly orderly punched Clyde squarely in the face. The blunt force of the strike was concentrated on his nose. The other orderly, who was lanky, was standing off to the side of the flailing body and only moved towards Clyde after his body settled on the hardwood floor. He reached down, grasped Clyde's right arm, and pulled his torso up while pushing his shoulder to the side. The burly orderly grabbed Clyde's ankles, and they both flipped him on his stomach.
"Beside you, grab the jacket," the lanky orderly ordered. His voice trembling, and his breathing was labored. He was unprepared for the larger orderly's punch to Clyde's face, which surprised him; however, he was no more surprised than Clyde. The burly orderly crossed Clyde's ankles, bent his legs back at the knees, and rested his heavy body on them to prevent Clyde from flailing. The straightjacket was still clasped and not adequately prepared for use.
"Which way does it go?" The lanky orderly asked, unsure which part of the jacket he held.
"I think front to back. Undo the snaps. Hurry because he's getting squirmy."
At 6' 3", 275 lbs., the burly orderly was planning to use every inch of leverage and inflict severe pain on Clyde. Stretching his torso while he was anchoring his hips down. Clyde yelped in pain. Unsure of what he was doing, the lanky orderly clumsily fumbled with the jacket, trying to determine the best method of getting it on quickly.
Clyde was in agony. His body was awkwardly twisted and contoured into positions that he never experienced before today.
The lanky orderly frantically scanned the jacket and began undoing anything with a clasp. In no particular order, he managed to undo all the straps and unsnap the buttons. He struggled to get the jacket over Clyde, but he awkwardly buckled the rear clasping sleeves once he did.
All three of them were exasperated. They lay on the floor beside each other, recovering from the arduous ordeal they all experienced. After a few minutes, the burley orderly looked over at Clyde.
"You good?" The burly orderly asked in what seemed to be a brief moment of humanity.
"Yes," Clyde barely said.
"You good?"
The lanky orderly lifted his head up.
"I didn't think being an intern was so difficult."
The burly orderly stood up. Adjusted his clothing. Wiped his pants down. Grabbed a portion of the straightjacket and pulled Clyde up to sit. Blood dripped from Clyde's nostrils. A thin cut was at the bridge of his nose.
"You can't learn this in some book." He looked down at Clyde and said, "We aren't done yet. To the asylum, you will go." He then began to manhandle him.
"Are we being too rough on him," the lanky orderly asked.
"His dad said by any means necessary. He resisted." He then proceeded to drag him up the stairs by the straightjacket. Step by step, his backside scraped along the carpeted platform, his lower back striking the ledge of the next step.
He was pulled across the black and white checkered kitchen floor as he got to the top of the stairs. The kitchen was rather large, 26 x 24. The sounds of his limp body being forcefully dragged across the floor filled the space with a squealing sound. When his momentum finally stopped at the edge of the kitchen, the skinny orderly grabbed his ankles, spun him 180 degrees around, and dropped his feet, which fell hard toward the ground and made a loud booming noise when his heels struck the surface. He realized he was on the edge of the living room. He then looked up.
In the middle of his vision of the 24-foot high ceilings and between the 10-foot exposed beams that stretched upwards was his father's perfectly framed face looking back at him. His father was prepared for a final confrontation with his son.
"Son, I'm so disappointed in what you have become. A recluse, shut in, a loser," his voice rumbled. His eyeglasses slowly slid down the bridge of his nose. "For 31 years, you have been a thorn in my side. I warned you. I told you this day would come. You're unworthy of my loins."
"Please, Daddy, don't say that to me. I've tried so hard to be the son you wanted," he sobbed. The blood from his nose mixed with his tears when he wiped his eyes.
"I know you killed your mother. I know you did! Tell me. Just admit your deed. Free me from this fucking torment."
"There is no way I would kill her, daddy."
"Lies! Lies! Lies!' he ripped the eyeglasses off his face and tossed them over his shoulder. He reached down and grabbed the sleeves of the straight jacket.
"Sealing her in the room. Pumping carbon monoxide in from the flute you made on the side of the brick fireplace. You were a sick child. I spent many years rebuilding my life after those fires engulfed those tunnels. You tried to destroy it all!"
His father clutched him in close and embraced his son. "Daddy, I thought I did kill her for many years. Until He came to me in the night. The man I killed in the mines with the pickax to escape my own impending death. He killed her. He told me that the widowed women of the deceased and those who lost their children summoned him from the slag hills, the makeshift graves you made when you covered their remains in those shafts."
Their cries filled the air, cresting at the ceiling and then raining down upon them, amplifying their pain.
After 9-years of frustration, Clyde's father screamed at the top of his lungs. "Damn you to hell! You bastard." He began throwing his forearms into Clyde's body. Clyde fell over. The orderlies were unmoved and stood stoically as they watched the family drama unfold. His father pushed him to the side and began to punch wildly.
"That is enough with your delusions of grandeur. I hate you- I hate you! Take him to the sanitarium! I never want to see him again."
Sweet Tasting Freedom
An old man stepped off the Greyhound bus and meandered around people for the first time in 26 years. You wouldn't consider him old. However, the torture he's endured over the last quarter century would have aged anyone 20-plus years. Parched from his bus ride, he headed to the soda pop counter and grabbed a bottle of Green River soda. After popping the top, he turned around to admire a view he had never seen before, which overwhelmed him. Chicago was a big city. He sat on the closest bench he could find and sipped his soda while watching the people walk by.
"1955, this world sure has changed," Clyde muttered while people watched.
He sat back and removed his hat. He dabbed his forehead with his kerchief.
"Whoosh." He exhaled a sigh of frustration.
Clyde continued to sip his pop. After each gulp, he'd palm the bottle, swishing the lime flavor in his mouth. That sweet-tasting Green River soda tasted even sweeter now that he was free. He wishes there was a little whiskey to add better flavor to a sweet pop he only had sparingly since those childhood days. He leaned to his right and charged his hand forcefully into his left rear pocket. In that pocket, there was a folded bundle of paper. Once in his hands, he opens it over the front letterhead spelled out in sizeable 13-point font: "Chicago Municipal Tuberculosis Sanitarium." Embarrassed, he quickly folded it and looked around. When he realized the people around him couldn't care less that he was even sitting there, he opened it again. He proceeded to read the information in the 3-page letter.
"You are hereby granted release after a thorough evaluation by Doctor Brennan and staff..." the letter started.
The CMTS (Chicago Municipal Tuberculosis Sanitarium) was built on a sizeable 160-acre property owned by Cook County. Still, the facility itself was run by the City of Chicago. The sanitarium was opened in 1915 for patients with the "white plague" or tuberculosis. People ignored the plight of the incarcerated, much like anyone who has ever passed a county animal shelter. We all know what happens in there, but we choose to ignore euthanasia. But what happens behind those tightly secured buildings, occupied by large orderlies, ornery nurses, and doctors who rule with iron fists, is much worse than putting an animal humanly down. Men and women with severe mental problems were heavily drugged and tortured while in captivity. Doctors held them there on their orders for months, years, and some for decades. The county never looked into why patients were held onto for so long. And the city never volunteered any information. The extra financial perk the county receives for dealing with mentally ill and emotionally disturbed people who don't have cognitive function to participate in what they felt were "normal lives" was too great to pass up.
In 1955, the federal government formed the Mental Health Study Committee. Administrators of the asylum became concerned the feds would want to use their patients as part of their statistical study, so they began thinning their numbers by purging some of their more poorly treated patients. They mostly discharged the ones that were tortured and tested on.
When Clyde was finally released, he had been in CMT's "care" for 26 years, 19 days, 7 hours, and 31 minutes. And for all that time spent in their mental facility, the city only offered him a bus ticket, a 150 dollar check, and some donated clothing by Holy Trinity Church from his hometown.
From working in the mineshaft, isolation in the basement of his parent's home, and near isolation while at CMTS, Clyde's only friend was solitude. He never had visitors. His mom was the only person who cared about him, but she died in 1920. He never expected much from his father. His dad was a notorious workaholic who didn't have time for children. Some people in his father's circle speculated that he reluctantly made a child for his wife to keep her company while he was away. As far as Mr. Cherry was concerned, when his wife died, so did the heir to his fortune.
Clyde looked up from his paperwork and heard the sounds of children giggling. He was wrought with fear and leaped to his feet. He dropped his soda pop bottle, causing it to fizz and self-propel into a spin once it hit the ground. His body trembled. He looked around feverishly, assuming death beckoned.
"I'm sorry! Please, please, I'm sorry. What a bastard you are," Clyde said out loud.
Tears streamed down his face because of the emotional toll placed on him from all his torturous years in the asylum. The water dripped off his cheeks and onto his discharge paperwork. His emotional state was so intense he hid his face with the paperwork out of embarrassment.
"Let it go. Let it go, damn it!" He said while pressing the paperwork harder against his face, desperately trying to muffle his emotions. When he realized he was standing in the soda water, he yelped! "It's soda! It's soda," he pleaded while moving away from the puddle. "These are only tears on this paper," pressing the discharge paperwork harder against his face.
After a couple of deep breaths, he uncovered his face. He looked towards the sky and slowly glanced down while simultaneously moving the hand holding the paperwork along the front of his body. His palm followed along the buttons of the shirt down to his groin area. He slowly wiped his pants, checking to see if he had taken a leak on himself. He was dry. A woman pushing her child in a stroller witnessed Clyde's brief fondle and looked at him appalled. "57 years old," he told her, "you never know when and where you'll go." "You're disgusting." She said and quickly moved past him.
Clyde nodded at her, then reached down and picked up the bottle. He sat back down, glanced around, and placed it beside him. He found reassurance once he realized the laughter came from overzealous children excited about their bus trip. Clyde cleaned his face with his bandana, gathered his composure, and continued to read his discharge paperwork, which detailed his treatment. "This was no treatment, only experimentation."
Clyde did have a tortured soul. He never understood why he was born into such a difficult life. After decades of abuse, he was too far gone to remember what happiness was like. He desperately tried to forget about the little town where he grew up since the day his father expelled him from the family basement. But he missed his mother dearly.
Mrs. Elizabeth Cherry was a strong, independent woman and a prominent Chicago High Society Club figure. A place where high-profile women could associate, which was a massive deal at the beginning of the 19th century. Domestication did not suit her. Clyde was not the burden that his father declared he would be since the day he was born. She realized having a child opened up other social agendas. She worked tirelessly at them and never failed to demonstrate her power of being an independent married woman with a baby. James rarely challenged her. There seemed to be a little jealousy on behalf of James towards Clyde and the affection his mother held for him. He seldom showed love for his boy the way he coveted money. And when a new venture presented itself, the shrewd businessman got what he wanted.
"I've settled in, James. The Chicago Women's Club just accepted me. I want to serve on a committee and make a difference here."
"Fish is going to get my permits approved so I can build that mine to get coals to his trains. It's our chance to make lots more money."
"I don't want to do this to Clyde, James."
"Do it for us, Elizabeth. Not for a 7-year-old boy who has no idea what is going on! We will have a town in our name. A legacy for all of us, especially for Clyde." "You mean a town named after your family." "Do not act like you cannot leave a mark for your legacy." "Moving me away from the city is not what is best for me right now."
Clyde's father was wrong that Clyde wouldn't remember. All he had was vivid memories of his childhood because the horror of the rest of his life compressed it into a small memory bank. He may be enjoying the taste of Green Mountains' sweet freedom, but Clyde understood there was something greater brewing now that he was free, and the sweetness would soon be tart.
Signs
Released from the sanatorium was a whirlwind of a day that began at 6 AM. Frankly, he thought they would murder him before letting him free after what the staff inflicted on him, but what must have been done out of some kind of compassion for his son, the estate would still fund the sanatarium contingent on keeping him alive. He sat at the bus bench nearly all day since there was no place for him to go. He felt reborn because everything he saw was new to him. One thing in particular caught his eye. A metal, self-serve newspaper stand. He read the newspaper headline and scrolled over the top of The Chicago American header. There was a name that caught his eye, George Eddy, Jr..
Clyde dug out 7 cents and dropped it into the box, removed a newspaper, and read the article's first few lines.
"My series on my little mining town of Cherry, Ill. fond memories I had as a child resonate more with my own children…" the article began.
Clyde finished the article, folded the newspaper in half, and sandwiched his discharge paperwork between the folded halves. Nothing good could come out of Clyde going back to the town of Cherry. A city where, in 1909, a mine fire killed 259 men and children as young as 10. He was used more for experimentation rather than treatment. Clyde's mind was muddled with memories of heavy smoke, flames, and dying men and children. Some days in the mental asylum, they had to sedate him over his constant claims that he could still taste the soot and the claim that the feel of the heat singed his hair.
Voices in My Head
The institution's intake doctor assessed Clyde's schizophrenia after his thorough checkup soon after his arrival. In solitude, Clyde mentally experienced children's laughter. Their taunts seemed so natural, but Dr. Brennen convinced him that it was contrived by his isolation. When Clyde couldn't convince the doctor that what was happening to him was real, he ignored the laughter. But every year that passed, the children's laughter was relentless. They broke Clyde's composure on numerous occasions, and he ended up in the good doctor's torture room. When the children weren't laughing and mercifully gave him a break, he would talk to himself. The voice in his head spoke back. The man's voice had an Italian accent and claimed he worked in the Cherry mines.
"Death is too easy for you." The man's voice hissed. "If you ever leave this place, my reign of terror will be released. Freeing me from your conscience but unleashing hell on the town of Cherry and those who benefited from your father's greed." "There is no greed, just death," Clyde whimpered. "Why haven't you told Dr. Brennan how I killed your mother yet? Tsk. Tsk Clyde. I'm bored of telling the story to you over and over. I'd much rather listen to someone else retell my story."
He buried his face into his pillow to muffle his crying, which could alert the staff.
The voice would fade to enhance the rage that was bubbling to the surface of Clyde's persona, but the children's laughter would be singled out. Like a choir in perfect unison, the giggles taunted Clyde relentlessly. He clenched his pillow to his face even harder, hoping to muffle with his humming.
The children's laughter was in cadence.
Clyde knew his screams would be heard. Alerting the on-duty orderly who would burst into his room and hurt him badly.
The children knew Clyde was about to break. They used their tone like a dagger, strategically plunging into his emotions until he would break down.
Clyde dropped his pillow and placed an index finger in each ear to hear himself as he started to sing.
"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine."
The laughter went from unison to individual shrieks, giggles, and gawking.
"You make me happy when times are grey,"
One dagger after another is thrown into his flesh, breaking him down and wounding his soul.
"Argh"
He couldn't stand it any longer, and Clyde lost control over his emotions and charged his body into the cold concrete wall that enclosed his room. Over and over again, one hard strike after another, he repeated the phrase, "My sunshine."
Overshadowing his commotion was the sound of keys dangling by an overzealous orderly frantically trying to get the right key into the lock to open up his room and rip him out.
Dazed and confused after they repeatedly struck his body into the wall, Clyde staggered towards the door when he saw an oversized silhouette before him.
"Come on, you damn Italian, kill me! Kill me now!" He charged at the figure as fast as he could. His momentum was stopped instantly. He was out cold.
In the pasture, Clyde was lying down. His mother was by his side. It was a beautiful sunny day. Clouds seemed to be strategically placed just for the occasion. "Look, Mommy, that's a butterfly!" "I see an angel, Clyde." She turned towards him. "Me too, mommy, I see," he turned to his mom, "an angel."
Once eye contact was made with his mother, her face slowly disappeared and transformed into the Italian Miner, the voice from inside his head. His face was partially burnt. The nose and ears were missing, and the cartilage burned off. He still wore his miner helmet with his candle affixed to it. "I'm coming for you, Clyde."
Introduction to Death
When Clyde came to from his dream, he was tied up and being wheeled into the isolation room. His arms and legs were restrained. Dr. Brennan was already there waiting for him.
"I understand you're having another mental breakdown, Clyde? This better be good. A breakthrough moment? You know what will happen if this is wasting my time."
"My mother. I was instructed to tell you how she died."
"Who instructed you to tell me this?"
"That Italian Miner. He instructed me to introduce you to death." Clyde glanced at the doctor and then back at his lap.
"On the night my mother died. He was there."
"The man?"
"Yes," Clyde whispered.
"He came from the slag piles. The large hills at the end of Cherry. The dirt was dug up to form the new mines. The hills covered the old tunnels when they made a new mine to replace the fire-raged tunnels. Those men and children who died were never removed. The widows of these men and mothers of those children came mostly from Italy. They cursed the land. And created the Italian Miner out of their anger and hate. One night he came to my house. My mom was in bed. My dad was at the new mine. I was asleep, but the heat in the air woke me up. My covers had been removed. I got up and looked around. Grabbed my covers and laid back down. The whispers and giggles were coming from down the hall. I called out for my mom, but she didn't answer. 'Mom,' I yelled out again. I saw shadows on the hallway walls running, so I got up to investigate. When I peered around my door, I saw my mom's door was ajar. I heard giggles and footsteps. It sounded like kids playing. I slowly walked down the hall until I reached my mom's door. I was afraid. But I looked inside. I saw my mom sitting up in bed. She didn't say anything. The firelight from the fireplace slightly gave light to her face. Her eyes were open wide. The reflection of the fire was interrupted by a figure standing in front of her. 'Mom?' I said. There was a push, and I was laid out on the hardwood floor. In front of me was these boots. I smelt burnt flesh and burning wood. And that's when he spoke.
"Elizabeth," the Italian Miner said. "Your son is a naughty boy. How could you raise such a thoughtless son? Did you know he killed me? Locked me in the hole which blocked the escape of all these children."
The children stopped giggling and began to boo."
"My son, he wouldn't do that," she said.
"Oh, but he did. He did much worse. But I want to talk about something else. I need to know why you stayed with James after the fires?"
"He's my husband. We have people here that depend on us."
"No! We depended on you!" He lashed out.
"He told me there was a proper burial. I did not expect that he would bury bodies there." "Stop!" the Italian Miner commanded. "I no longer wish to speak about burials when we can talk about the death that created a need for burials, right, children?"
The children moved in and held her arms and legs down. Clyde was still on the floor, imploring the Miner to stop. The Miner turned and sat at the edge of the bed. The bed sheets began to turn black, and orange hues spread like wildfire around him. As the sheets burned, pieces of the material turned to flaky ashes and floated away from the bed. His body was so hot he was burning the sheets. The children laughed. Pickaxes could be heard by the fireplace. Other children were challenged at work.
"I don't know why you think money can pay for a free conscience," the Miner chuckled, "you're going to die. And death is free." The Miner pointed at the fireplace and summoned a line of smoke. "Have you ever been fed black damp, Elizabeth?" The smoke came out like a snake and made its way toward him. "I assure you it isn't nutritious. Once the heavy smoke infiltrates an area, the oxygen is consumed by the carbon monoxide. You'll inhale it and slowly begin to get lost.
The smoke slithered out in a tightly wound rope shape. Clyde screamed when the smoke moved over him and up to the Welshman; he inhaled the smoke through his mouth and turned to Elizabeth, staring deeply at her as he spoke. "May the infestation of this smoke bring you Black damp." He exhaled and shot a wad of smoke towards her. The lingering haze distorted her face. The smoke re-accumulated and bonded together in a tight strand. As it circulated, it went into her right nostril, and it appeared to drill its way in while it made a path down her throat and into her lungs.
"Who are you?" Elizabeth demanded in between coughs.
The Miner sat with his back to her. His legs were crossed. He was relaxed. And yet everything else in that room was unsettling. "Does it matter who I am when you're so close to death? I'm just a poor immigrant from Italy who was trying to make a living in your husband's mines."
The Miner took a swipe in mid-air. Elizabeth's breathing became labored. The Italian pushed his right palm towards the fireplace. Elizabeth bent over and placed her hands on her thighs.
The Miner looked at his fingernails with careful insight. "You know Clyde. My nails light up like candles. I don't know how I did it before. But it's true. I can create fire. And other things." While Elizabeth gasped for air, she tried her best to talk. The Italian leaned back without turning back to her. And with his index finger and thumb, he squeezed her upper and lower lips together, searing them. The pain of his touch caused her to shriek. Her skin made a sizzling sound. He used the heat his body generated to sear her lips together. He removed his fingers and then blew on his nails. The smoke that was hovering above his fingers disappeared.
The cloud turned slowly. The children were by Clyde giggled. They looked up and blew the smoke like children would do to burning candles on a birthday cake. The smoke worked its way over to Elizabeth, who was still gasping for air. It spun down and hovered over her like a halo before the ring slammed around her. The smoke was like a plastic bag and began to suffocate her. Elizabeth kicked, and her body flopped backward. She couldn't move much more than that. She started to convulse. Each breath is limited, like a fish out of water. Until she stopped moving. The smoke disappeared. The children faded. The Welshman uncrossed his leg and leaned towards Clyde. "Damn boy, you killed your mother," he said. His body pulled back and slowly went to smoke. He lingered above Clyde and his dead mother. The fire flickered amber light about the room. A shadow of a pick ax was displayed on the wall in the distance. The tip is embedded in the side of the brick fireplace. A flume was pushed into a hole to usher in carbon dioxide. The Welshman brought Black damp. The man was satisfied. His smokey image faded, and he receded back to the slag hills.
Not the Good Doctor
"I have heard this voice tell me this story nearly every day I have been held here. You think it's schizophrenia, doctor, but I assure you it is not. You can not release me from here. Please!"
"The idea that these men can talk to you 36 years after they have perished is not sane," Doctor Bremen said.
"It's true! Those men and children were just buried there after their deaths. The holes re-dug, and those holes filled. They are covered in those slag piles as a monument! It's a constant reminder to the dead that they were second-class people. The voices speak to me about the coming reckoning if I'm ever released. That town has it coming to them. They are coming!"
"Clyde," the doctor deadpanned, "you frustrate me so. You have never attempted to listen to me." He got up from his seat and walked towards the window.
"And now I am being forced to release you. All these years, it feels as if we were dragging you out of the basement only yesterday. And now you'll be free, but you missed all this living, Clyde. Remember, you were unwilling to help yourself." He extended his arm and tapped the window with his right index finger as a butterfly fluttered against the glass.
Clyde trembled and pissed himself. The urine saturated his legs and formed a puddle around his feet. He knew what was coming next from Dr. Brennan. He didn't plead, beg, or negotiate. After all these decades, he knew better. He understood that Dr. Brennan got off on inflicting more pain on him. The pleading would only enhance his sadistic ways. Clyde would only prepare himself to endure what was going to come.
"You have wasted your life," Brennan said. "And wasted my valuable time on you. Ever since the day I was interning for the hospital and picked you up from your dad's basement, this lanky, naive kid knew you were a stain on society and would not contribute in any way. On the other hand, I went to the best universities. I studied under the renowned psychologist Eric Cunningham Dax in Australia. Have a beautiful wife and 2 kids. The best education your father could afford. He treated me like the son he never had." He turned towards Clyde.
"I'm so sick and tired of your ungratefulness. Your dad's hospitality and the continued financial help this institution receives as long as you're alive or outside are why I was so nice to you. You do agree, Clyde? That I was good to you?"
He reached down toward the flat surface of his metal desk, picked up a stack of papers off his desktop, and threw them into Clyde's body. Most of the paper fell like litter and settled around his feet, where they absorbed up some urine.
"Are you kidding me, Mr. Cherry? How disgusting. You pee all over yourself and then proceed to throw this important documentation about your treatment in your own mess?" Doctor Brennan slaps the table with his open hand, "orderly!"
A man rushed into the room. The same burly orderly punched Clyde in the face so many years ago.
"Go back out and get it!" Brennan directed his anger towards the giant man.
He walked out, and the heavy door slammed shut. An echo amplified in the room. Clyde's adrenaline was coursing through his body. His hands were shaking. Sweat formed on his brow. Clyde began grinding his teeth and clutched his eyes shut. "I know you don't think I'm a good doctor, but all this is done specifically for you." He walked around the table and glanced at himself in a two-way mirror. He sucked his gut in and pushed his shirt into his body.
The orderly returned, holding a 5-foot stick with 2 eye hooks on both ends.
"You know what to do," the doctor commanded. "Make him sit in that piss."
The orderly grabbed Clyde's right hand and opened the handcuff. He rotated his arm behind his back and secured the cuff to the right eye hole at the end of the stick. He did the same thing with his left arm. The stick balanced at the small of Clyde's back. Clyde's arms were spread to the rear like a scarecrow on a pole that protects crops from overzealous crows.
The orderly gripped the center of the stick and jerked Clyde up. Clyde winced in pain. It felt as if his shoulders were being ripped out of joint. The chair was kicked out of the way. Clyde was forcefully seated on the ground. His ass slammed into the puddle of piss. Clyde kicked and wailed from fear, but his ankles were already connected to the legs of the large table by 3-foot chain links, and he didn't get much motion. Doctor Brennan stood on the other side of the table. He nodded at the orderly, and the large assistant stepped back against the wall.
"You can't even humor me, can you, Clyde, for old times sakes? Why don't you simply agree with me, you know, tell me what I want to hear? But this game you play with me of telling tales on purpose." Doctor Brennan became animated. He lost control of his emotions and started slamming things around. He grabbed his chair and threw it at the wall behind him. He picked up the tape recorder and smashed it on the ground. Plastic shrapnel splintered outward and showered over Clyde and the large orderly. He kicked a trash can beside the desk and jumped on it frantically until it was flattened like an aluminum can. His breathing was labored. He slowly dragged his left hand through his hair while placing his right hand in his coat pocket, then began to laugh. He fumbled his hand in the pocket, looking for something. He then removed a needle and bottle.
The sounds of the chains sliding back and forth through the rings intensified as Clyde became more anxious. Doctor Brennen removed the cap on the needle by his teeth and spit it on the floor. He then inserted a syringe into the top of the bottle of Metrazol.
Calmly but with heavy breath, he asked Clyde. "Have these induced seizures, in relation to the shock therapy, been helping you, Clyde? I have to tell you that this process has been pretty damn cathartic for me." Brennan looked away from his dose measurement and side-eyed Clyde. "4,6,12 milligrams, whatever." Dr. Brennan oddly looked at the syringe and then smirked. "Let's have fun."
Doctor Brennen leaned over quickly and plunged the needle into Clyde's neck while simultaneously pushing down the plunger. The serum was injected into his bloodstream.
"If you were more cooperative, maybe I would have given you a little anesthesia. But honestly, where is the fun in that for me?" He pointed at the orderly, which indicated he was next to help. The orderly grabbed a helmet device. He rubbed a salve on Clyde's forehead before placing it on. The orderly placed a mouthpiece in his mouth so he wouldn't bite his tongue.
"No, no-no. Never mind the mouthguard. He doesn't like to talk or tell the truth. If he bites his tongue off, so be it."
Doctor Brennan took the control switch and began to maniacally send relentless shock treatments to Clyde. Clyde screamed and convulsed into his seizures. He would pass out. It will be revived, and the process will continue until Dr. Brennon is satisfied.
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