Dark Screams, Volume 1 by Brian James Freeman Read Free Book Online Page A

criminally loony. And you, of course. Dr. Albert L. Hilliard, the alleged lunatic’s adviser, confidant, and wannabe bosom pal.
    “It’s my considered opinion that writing a daily log would be excellent therapy for you, Edward.” Oh, really? Why? “It will allow you to order your thoughts, relieve tensions and aggressions, hopefully allow you to take the vital step of accepting responsibility for your actions.” Bullshit. But there’s no arguing with you, is there? If I don’t do as I’m told I’ll never be marked “cured” and permitted to leave this hellhole. You’ve made that abundantly clear in our thrice-weekly mono-a-shrink sessions.
    I wish I could make you understand that I don’t need therapy, this or any other kind. I wish I could tell you the truth about the magic eyes—
    No.
    Scratch that, erase it, forget it. I’m not going to tell you because you wouldn’t believe me, you’d only think I’m crazier than you already do. So don’t bother to ask me to explain, I won’t answer if you do.
    You
are
going to read these pages, aren’t you, Doctor?
    Oh, I know you told me you wouldn’t, that my “jottings” as you call them would remain completely private. But we both know that’s not true. No locks on the drawers in my little bolted-to-the-floor desk or anywhere else in this cell of mine so there’s nothing to stop you from coming in while I’m in the dining hall or recreation room or outdoors under guard and sneaking a look at these pages any time you feel like it.
    Well, it won’t do you any good. I am not going to accept responsibility for a crime I didn’t commit in writing any more than I have verbally. No, sir, no, sir. I don’t care what the law says, I don’t care what society says, I am not a murderer and I’m as sane as you are. A good decent tormented but oh-so-sane man who deserves better than better than—
    Oh, the hell with it. I’m tired. I don’t want to write any more of this crap. I think I’ll take a nap now.
    November 9—Evening
    Nurse Ratchet just brought me daily dose #2 of my zombie cocktail.
    Calming meds, he calls them, a silly damn euphemism. I call them what they are, antipsychotic drugs, and I hate the way they make me feel most of the time. Dull-witted, listless, no appetite for food. Like an animated corpse would feel if it had any feelings at all. Do you have any idea how much I despise being treated like a dangerous psychopath, Dr. Hilliard? Well, I suppose you do. You’re the one who prescribes the zombie cocktails, which means you’re afraid I might run amok if I’m not under constant medical control.
    But asylum inmates have no free will, no say in what we’re fed. When I first came here I tried various ways to avoid taking the drugs as I’m sure you know but none of them worked. Nurse Ratchet knows all the tricks. Now he dissolves the capsules in a paper cup of water and watches to make sure I swallow every drop. I threw the cup at him two or three times but all he did was mix another cocktail and threaten to put me in restraints unless I cooperated. He’s a bully. You too, Doc, only you’re much more subtle.
    Of course I know Ratchet isn’t his real name and he’s a male intern/guard, not a nurse. I’m not stupid. I call him Nurse Ratchet because even though he doesn’t let on I know it annoys him. Good. He annoys me, too, always so vigilant, always treating me with thinly veiled disdain. Screw him.
    Screw you, too, Dr. Hilliard.
    It felt good writing that. I think I’ll make myself feel even better.
    Screw you and the Cadillac you rode in on.
    November 11—Afternoon
    I must say I almost enjoyed our session in your office this morning. Usually I find them boring and repetitive and they leave me bitterly frustrated. As if you didn’t know. But not today.
    Did you realize I was watching you as covertly as you always watch me? Probably you did. You don’t miss much I’ll give you that. Except that is for the big issues such as my