~
When I asked Suseas aboutthe theory of talking to the patients, asking them about their trauma, about their lives—she invited me to work with Chekiss as a reminder that I can’t get through to anyone. It’s to show me the fatality of working here. That no matter what, there will always be a sense of hopelessness.
I relax into a metal-framed chair parallel to Chekiss’s bed. With a single deep breath in, I let my eyes study his features. Looking into his face is like staring into the depths of the vast sea—dark within its abyss and harboring broken ships upon its ocean floor. His head is anchored off to the side, midnight-green eyes unoccupied yet polluted with worry about the next treatment. He’s in his early fifties, although his pencil-thin frame suggests that of a teenage boy.
I’m not entirely sure what to say. I only know the bare minimum about him. He killed his wife and daughter. I don’t know how. I don’t know why.
I once found a mouse caught in a trap in Scarlett’s attic. It had been there for days, starving and slowly becoming too weak to stand. When I set it free from the trap, it didn’t move, didn’t try to run to go searching for its next meal. It blinked with a hopelessness that possessed its tiny body, and not even the honey-sweet taste of freedom was enough to motivate its tiny legs to scurry across the wooden floor.
Chekiss’s legs are caught in the same trap. Kindred souls, I think. I wonder what would happen if I were to set him free.
“My name’s Skylenna.” I slowly balance my hand in the air for him to shake. He watches it like a dog, hesitant to sniff. Then, becomes mildly uninterested and looks away.
The stream of Suseas’s stare washes over me like an ice-cold shower.
What could I possibly say right now that could separate me from the others?
“It’s cold in here,” I say, rubbing my hands over the backs of my arms. “Is it always like this here?”
The only sign of life is his chest operating like the gentle rhythm of waves in the sea. In and out. In and out.
“Of course it is.” I sigh. “Hell has a sense of humor.”
His eyes awaken, and they flicker over to me. Not coming close to connecting to mine, but hovering over my hands clasped in my lap. The soft glow from the gas lamp illuminates the raised freckles scattered over his nose and cheeks.
I don’t let the sudden tickle of hope distract me. There’s a gentle river of intuition coursing through my veins, splashing along the walls of my thoughts, guiding me through the doubt that he will ever see me. Therealme. The me that has come to his aid.
“When I saw you drowning in that room… I was waiting for a strike of anger. A fit of fury to emerge from you.”
His focus leaves me again, trailing off to an empty space in the room.
“But I saw nothing. And I think that can only mean one thing. I think that can only mean you believe you are deserving of this treatment. Thispain.”
Like a reflection of water in a pond, I see Chekiss gasping for air, cold water and saliva pouring from his weak body. And my heart shudders for him.
“And I know what you did to your wife and child. Anyone who could do something so horrid must be soulless—right? Feel not even a sliver of remorse?”
His unkept eyebrow twitches.
“If that were the case, then why would you believe you were deserving of this suffering? Unless—”
A long whine is released from the opening door.
“Miss Ambrose?” Suseas silently signals for me to exit the room and join her elsewhere. I look back at Chekiss before the door closes, and to my surprise, he meets my eyes expectantly, like he wanted me to finish my sentence.
Day after day, I come back. I sit down in front of him. I make casual conversation while I take his vitals and follow up with questions after daily treatments. I talk about the food, the treatments, the weather. He doesn’t even look my way. Every now and then, he huffs. I found it to be his way of letting me know he’s ready for sleep or just wants to be alone again. He struggles to breathe normally most of the time, the drownings taking their toll on his lungs. His lips—a light tint of blue. His eyes—collecting dark shadows.
Even in a controlled setting, drowning someone breaks away pieces of their psyche, of their life source. I find ways to get creative with his responses. As soon as I came up with the first form of communication, I could see it in the way he straightened his back, his algae-colored eyes became focused on me, and he watched carefully, full of curiosity. I invented a tapping game. Every time I talked about something he agreed with, he would tap my hand. It was kind of fun, like playing with a child.
Sometimes it feels like they hire mentally unstable people to perform mentally unstable punishments on patients.Tap.
Meridei and Belinda seem like they actually enjoy inflicting pain onto patients.
Double tap.
I bet you miss your old life.Nothing. That tells me much.
We tried a numbers game too. I’d ask him a question, and he would hold up fingers to tell me how much of what I asked.
