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Novel Treatments / Midsummer Nights' Madness Chapter II
Chapter Two: Paying The Devil His Due
The bill collectors still called my cell phone. It was one of the few luxuries I was allowed. Talking to my family helped keep me sane as I detoxified. My family rarely called. I didn’t blame them. I positioned to have my phone in case they did.
Sporadic calls came throughout the day. I leapt for the phone every time. Connection! Intimacy! Something outside of myself! It was not of that.
It was another fucking bill collector. The debtors wanted their money. I wanted my sanity. We were both highly demanding. Neither of us was winning.
I couldn’t help but feel for Larry. My predatory instincts led me to one objective: escape. Hours passed in my mind as I rationalized releasing him from his trappings. It was only seconds that passed. To Larry it was days. He counted the moments till he would be free. The muted mumbling of this defeated mad man echoed throughout the halls. No one was listening. I mused “Perhaps they should.”
Time is relative to one’s cause. I had spent thirty years attempting to get laid on a regular basis. With all of my fumbling and bumbling about with women, I was still very much fourteen. The cocktail of depressants had my libido suppressed. Having relations at this point with Amanda would have involved duct tape and a 2×4. Less romantic than one would want but definitely would add to the sense of foreplay.
Foreplay was definitely lacking along with other things in our relationship. It wasn’t fair for her to have to bear the burden of loving a mad man. It was perhaps the one thing that made the relationship remain real, even salvageable in my mind. Amanda wanted a stable man to plan a life with. I wanted a woman of the same. It was the life we planned that somehow changed. Ninety days later I was trying to escape the asylum. I’d be better off on my own.
“Errrummmm…” came from the bed. The muddled mews of a sedated patient. Normally this would have been the time to break out the toilet paper, magic markers, or toothpaste. Whenever a patient was papoose, this was the standard practice.
The memories of being strapped to a wooden board filled my conscious thoughts. Orderlies standing over me with large needle and harnesses. I shuddered at the notion. My senses then became inflamed. The sight of fellow patients surrounding me laughing maniacally as they graffiti my prone body with paper and liquids. It was surreal. It was sadistic. It was what we did to pass the time. Even the insane have a sense of play. However my conscience got the best of me. I sighed. No Graffiti on you tonight Harold… you lucky bastard!
Shaking my head reluctantly, I moved closer to the bunk. Sensing someone near, Larry went wide-eyed, using up his remaining strength to squirm.
His face was flustered. Red blotches highlighted the endless beads of sweat dripping down. I didn’t want to but I took pity on him. “Dammit fine Harold! Hold still and I’ll free you. So help me God if you get me caught….”
Larry interrupted as I freed the arm straps. “Not Harold. Larry!” He stuttered as he flailed. In hindsight I would have been better served to release his legs first. Any movement for a captive limb while trapped is a positive one. Instinct kicks in as one subconsciously flails about testing the limits of their release.
Larry’s index finger surreptitiously found my ear. His finger was cold and clammy. The sensation of a giant’s finger in my ear is something I’d never forget. I only wish I could. Drool trickled down his face as I helped him up. “Hi Trent.” I was beginning to curse my lapse in judgment.
“Hi Larry.” I said with a curt response. “Now be quiet for a minute and let me think.” He patted me with his hand to the side of my face affectionately. The better part of my nature wanted him to slap me. Maybe even punch me for the plan I had just devised. He was to be my patsy, my distraction. Getting out the door was the first part… hell the only part. Everything else I would have to wing.
I worked at a Taco Bell before being institutionalized this time. Twenty years prior I was institutionalized as a child. The doctors said it was to regulate my medicines. I knew it was because I tried to kill myself. The here to now is a chemically induced haze. One day the drugs stopped working. That or I had stop taking them. I picked up alcohol and street drugs instead. They’re cheaper and more effective. They too couldn’t keep me sane.
I was the assistant manager over the night shift. The title was meaningless. Being one step above the geeky, high schoolers surrounding me only meant that I was too old to be in this type of job. This fact never escaped me. It even perpetuated the drinking all the more.
I tried to quit. When things were good at home, life was bearable. Fleeting moments of a normal life filled my thoughts and emotions. Holidays with family and friends became enjoyable, consistent. Work was work but I came to appreciate the vast personalities surrounding me. It added to my comedic fodder as I wrote story after story encapsulating it all. I will be a writer. I’ll make something out of this meaningless life.
The months went by in a blinding flash. I laughed more than I cried. For once I felt as if I had consistency. On the fringe of my mind however lurked instability. It was dormant yet still determined to pounce. The mind of the manic can’t fathom a stable life. It functions in levels of highs then lows, with spots of controllable angst. I was in the latter. That was soon to change.
“What the hell is wrong with you Amanda? What the hell is wrong with us? Its like you don’t even care anymore. You aren’t even trying!” Slamming my fist down upon the kitchen table in her parent’s house, the rows of empty beer bottles toppled then fell. The clings they made before individual smacks upon the cherry top table resonated briefly which brought a sort of chaotic peace to my mind.
I was trying to communicate my needs. The alcohol only intensified my rage, my vulnerability. I had been isolated from others all my life, either by circumstance or my own choosing. I didn’t want to be alone anymore. She was my ticket out of the hell I had been living. I was done paying the devil his due. I wanted the opportunity to experience a better life. I wanted the chance to experience personal freedom. I wanted control and consistency back. The cell phone kept ringing.
“Hello? What the hell do you want?”
“Uh sir…. Is this Mr. Anderson? Mr. Anderson do you realize you are past due on your student loans? Sir, I have to inform you that this will directly effect your credit sir….”
The alcohol had taken hold. I had no control over my very nature – the bad or good parts of it. “Credit?” I responded incredulously, screaming into the phone. Amanda sat in the background crying. “I’m drunk and losing my fucking mind! Call me back when I’m sane and sober!” The woman called back fifteen minutes later. You have to love the government.
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You have the gift for writing. Here are some humble suggestions:
Tie some of your short sentences together with contractions to provide a smother flow.
Add some tropes (especially metaphors). Look to adverbs for a replacement with a metaphor. Example: “Shaking my head reluctantly…” becomes “Shaking my head like a soon-to-be firing squad recipient…”
Try to restructure some of the occurrences of “was” to use other verbs.
Even with first person, the early part of the narrative feels a bit like a news report. It would read better if it contained more dialog. The dialog that you do have is very good.
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I like this very much. It moves smoothly,with good descriptions. It has a dark side with a positve chaser. I think people can relate to this story, and will appreciate the desire to be better. I love the line about the duct tape and 2×4, but all I can think of, how that would hurt.
You’ve got a good idea of what Stream of Consciousness entails. However, I would suggest working on continuity. For instance, you talk about Amanda towards the beginning and then again, quite randomly, towards the end. If you’re going to separate the ideas, that’s fine, but you have to find some sort of segwey. Also, you have Larry strapped down to something…then you let him go, but what happens after that? Your narrator frees Larry and he grabs his ear, then your POV voice goes into something entirely different. It’s a little choppy, but overall, it’s a great start.
Trent is funny and easy to identify with. Adding that institutions typically wreak of urine and bleach may give your surroundings some more depth. I’d add more emotion – how he felt when he lost control, cruel things he remembered saying to Amanda, why her presence seemed to aggravate him so much despite his feelings for her and her devotion to him.
Tne insight into the guy losing his mind is well done. It strikes realistic note – and the little patches of humour that come through – the government debt chaser expecting sober and sane in 15 minutes – good stuff.
I think my main issues are structural rather than based on the style – the action seems to happen in a vacuum, your writing is wholly internalised, stream of conciousness, but the external world leaves no apparent impression.
I am also not sure where this is going – there seems to be no plot. OK life doesn’t have a plot, but in order t keep a readers interest surely we should be on a journey to somewhere?
I really enjoyed the writing style in this piece of work. Furthermore I felt the use of a displaced chronology was very effective.
One criticism I would have however that the overall dark tone is very good some of the phrases used about alcohol and madness and suchlike are a bit obviously angsty, and have been used in many other pieces of writing before.
I do however like the description of the relationship which makes me feel sorry for the Amanda character without ever getting to know her, which is always a triumph because you are revealing her to us through the eyes of someone obviously bias.
All in all I very much enjoyed this piece of writing.
Yours sincerely
Christian Greenwood
I found this piece to be very captivating, the character as real as someone breathing on the back of your neck. Details are awesome, pulls you right in and ties you to the plot, especially when the escape attempt is under way. Larry sticking his finger in Trent’s ear. Can’t wait for chapter 3!
This was very interesting. The character is vividly drawn up and as you read, you feel his pain. More importantly, you empathize with him, which is a great goal to have achieved. I wish I could have read chapter one to have a better feel for the story, but what I did read was intelligent, well-articulated, and original. I also liked the humor. Especially the ending.
The mood is dark but necessarily so given the theme and I found myself in each new room with you. I liked the detachment you had when you brought forth the characters Trent interacted with. I would have liked to know more about Trent’s physicality…did his body diminish over the time frame described in the chapter? Did Trent ever had “graffiti” on him at the hospital?
I loved the statement that “Even the insane have a sense of play.” It’s odd but that is what needs to be pointed out, with many examples, before mentally ill people can shed the stigma that they are different from people who currently have appropriate control over their life. I think with more examples like this, you separate the people from the hospital from the reason’s that brought them their. The examples will normalize them rather than exacerbate the stigmas that come with emotional breakdowns.
I think your story would flow better if the quoted statements were rearranged: I.e. You have Larry saying “Hi Trent!” in the middle of a paragraph of Trent’s internal processing. It’s just space on a page and I would use it to separate the two characters. For me, it clears things up and I find room to add a brief line that brings out what I want the reader to gain from my characters conversation.
I think it is a powerful theme. It’s a story that needs a voice…good luck.
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