The Asylum - 3

    She stood out there in the middle of the grounds, her frail body silhouetted by the vibrant colours of the morning sun. I silently watched her for a moment as she faced the sun, eyes closed, a small smile on her face (which was significant, because she never smiled at any other time, that I can recall. Watching her there, I felt as though I wasn't just wrangling a 'difficult' patient, I was witnessing something very important to her, even if I never came to understand why. As it happens, I never did. 

    I approached her slowly, keeping a generous distance between the two of us in case she was spooked again. Once I made sure that she knew I was there, I knew she'd resist going back inside. There was something about the sun that she needed-- maybe it was an anchor for her, you know? A fixed point where she could always find comfort, no matter where she was. Like I said, I had no idea why she was out there, but I knew it mattered to her, and she was going to fight like hell when I tried to get her back inside. 

    First, I had to see how lucid she was. Without moving or talking too loud, I tried talking to her. "Abigail?" No reply, despite her face wincing a little and her eyes darting to me for a half second when she heard her name. "Abigail, we have to go inside."

    "I don't want to." Her voice sounded deep and husky, in contrast to how small and vulnerable she was. "I want to stay here, in the sun."

    "Oh honey, you know that putting up a fight is going to land you in the shoe. Is that what you want?" I took a slow, careful step forward. "There are no windows there, you know. It's always dark."

    "I'm not leaving this spot."

    "Abby..."

    "No."

    What happened then was my fault, because I did it again. I touched her. Not in any aggressive way, mind-- I touched the back of her hand, lightly, a gesture of compassion that I don't regret at all, despite the fact that she scratched out my eye. That poor girl had been through so much that she deserved to feel the sun on her face, and I would have fought for her, lost eye or not -- but, she did what she did, because I did what I did, and there was no way around it. She was going to solitary.

    It happened so fast. The instant my fingers touched her skin, a primal noise came out of Abigail's throat, like the roar of some evil beast living just under the surface -- her hands with those wretched fingernails lashed out at me before I knew what happened. I felt a warm 'pop' as I felt my left eye rupture, and the blinding pain left me screaming on the grass. Almost instantly, a squad of orderlies tore across the lawn and piled on her. She didn't make a sound or move at all until they got close enough to touch her -- and I tried to holler at them to be careful, but I was a woman, and a nurse, so I wasn't surprised when I was ignored.

    They carted her away, and I never saw her again. I know she spent a brief time in solitary, but escaped shortly after with that awful monsters who murdered all those girls in the early 40s. You probably wouldn't remember, but he was a very bad man, and when the prison break happened and that godforsaken alarm went off, the entire Garden fell into chaos. Patients were screaming, laughing, climbing the walls. Even after I'd come back after the surgery, the place was a mess. I didn't say anything, because I didn't want to believe it, but I had a strong feeling that Abigail had something to do with the breakout, and the massacre. At least ten guards died on that day, and several of the staff were hospitalized with minor injuries -- could Abby have done that? I can't answer that. I don't want to think of her as a monster. 

    I never saw Abigail again, nor the animal that went with her. In fact, to this day no one's ever seen or heard from either of them again. I think about her now and then (every time I look in the mirror, actually), and I wonder if she's doing okay. 

    Wherever she is, I hope she found the sun.

[FIN]

----

© - Jackson Cambridge, 2015.

The Confession - 3

A week long vacation from work,

    (I told them that I was unwell - 

    The truth was too grisly to tell.)

"Yes, hello? Yes, I've gone berserk,

    And murdered someone as well.

    No, I just lost my marbles a spell, 

To be honest, the guy was a jerk."

I know how that lie would go over,

    So I made up a lie on the spot;

    I couldn't explain that we fought, 

Or the feelings taking me over.

    I tried to relax with some pot --

But no rabbit's foot or 4-clover

Made me less afraid to get caught.

I wanted to have a long shower, 

    But I couldn't get out of the coat --

    It tightened round my arms and throat,

My expression a horrified glower,

    I uttered a bleat, like a goat --

Till finally, I gave up my power, 

    And let my colleague steer the boat.

I drank until well past exhausted,

    Then sunk into my chair for a nap;

    My empty glass perched in my lap,

My will and resolve now accosted,

    I knew I was caught in a trap --

The jacket that I had adopted

    Made an offer I couldn't refuse. 

I awoke, my head throbbing, face ruddy,

    To find myself wandering the park;

   I must've sleepwalked in the dark

(My shoes were untied, and all muddy) --

The violence before me was stark:

I'd left someone gutted and bloody;

Torn her apart like a shark.

----

© - Jackson Cambridge, 2015.

Inferno in Oz - 1

Curled up in in a furry ball,

Tiny dog naps sleepily;

Suddenly, his ears perk up --

But what does Toto see?

Someone walking through the sand,

Familiar, but something's wrong...

Her steps are slow and purposeful,

Her eyes intense and strong.

Could it be her? Has she come home?

It's been so long since she's been here;

The urge to see her overwhelms,

But there's a twinge of fear. 

It's Dorothy, his nose affirms,

But different somehow, so enraged --

He feels her pain as if his own,

And now it's been uncaged.

Her boundless fury fills his mind

Black and slick, like toxic sludge;

Poisoning his loyalty

Until he shares her grudge.

If only he'd stayed by her side

They could have used the air balloon --

But dogs are made for chasing cats,

And the Wizard left too soon.

Worming through his little mind 

A fury never felt before;

He tilts his head, as if to bark,

But what comes out's a roar.

His body, fed by Dorothy's rage

Grows and swells in shape and size;

Strengthened by her mindless hate,

A fierce glow in his eyes. 

"Come to me, my special friend,

We need to leave this horrid place --

And if they will not let us go, 

Their world we shall erase."

He knows the sand is dangerous

For anyone to walk upon,

But Dorothy wears the Magic Belt;

For her, the curse is gone.

Frantically, he jolts awake,

Breaks into a panicked run,

Straight across the Quadlings' lands 

Lit by morning sun. 

His breath so heavy, steps so thick

Upon the ruddy ground,

Where once a terrier had been

There ran a hellish hound.

Waiting at the desert's edge,

He waits for Dorothy's return;

Whether they rule over Oz,

Or set it all to burn. 

----

- © Jackson Cambridge, 2015

'My Juliet' - Novel Teaser 1

  The poet sat quietly on the black leather couch, his caramel-coloured eyes distant and wistful, steeped in some sort of private despair. Across from him, sitting gracefully in a lavender plush chair, sat his new therapist; a slender, mousy woman with straight brown hair tied back in a sensible bun, pushing her glasses higher on her delicate nose and gnawing absently on the end of a ballpoint pen. Shifting in her chair, she thought a moment before speaking, as though treading carefully. "I can appreciate how hesitant you are, Mr.--"

    "Please," he replied without looking at her, his voice caressing her ear like velvet. "Call me Poet. I prefer that."

 Her face flushed with heat at the sound of his voice. "Very well... Poet. I understand your hesitation. I know this is cliché, but many people, mostly men, can often have a difficult time dealing with grief and loss. We don't need to talk about it if you'd rather not, but I have to wonder why you keep coming here if you don't want to open up." Her ice blue eyes pore over every inch of the man, memorizing every detail: his striking, chiseled features, underlined by the odd smirk of quiet amusement; his black silk shirt, top two buttons left lazily undone; his strong, well-groomed hands, fingers drumming to the song on the radio; the way his thick forearms would flex when he switched positions; even the way his chest would rise and fall with each breath. Get a grip, Nicole, she thought, suddenly aware of every wrinkle in the fabric of her clothes, every misplaced hair, chipped nail and uncovered blemish on her skin. Try to contain yourself -- he's a patient, for God's sake. You've seen male patients before.

    The poet's expression was stoic, neutral. "It's not that I don't want to talk about it, Doctor. Truthfully, I know I need to, but I've no clue where to begin. There's so much, and I suppose I'm afraid of missing a crucial detail."

    God, that voice. "Well, we've got the whole hour, so maybe start somewhere near the beginning, and I'll ask questions if something's unclear. Does that sound fair?" Her eyes narrowed, scrutinizing the tiny cues hidden in his reaction and noting the details in her head. Arms folded (guarded, nervous?), He doesn't make eye contact, but doesn't lack confidence or grace. Eloquent, educated (but not arrogant). Very meticulous about appearance, but seems relaxed.

    "As a matter of fact," the poet remarked, "I don't think that's fair at all. We need to define our terms -- you see, if I am to tell you of my past, I think it only suitable that I learn about yours. I may ask you a question or two about yourself as we sit here, if that's acceptable. Does that please you?" The last sentence was punctuated by a moment of sudden, intense eye contact.

    She sat hypnotized by that look for three agonizing seconds, her entire body trembling before she remembered he'd asked her something. "Yes! Yes, that would be fine -- though I assure you, my life is the opposite of excitement. I live alone, I spend most of my time reading, working, or playing with Dagwood."

His head cocked to one side, suddenly interested. "Dagwood… a dog?"

"Yes,” she replied. He's an old Great Dane. Are you a dog person, Poet?"

“I have a lot of respect for dogs,” he remarked. “Such unconditional love, and unwavering loyalty. We could learn a lot from them, don’t you think?” He turned slightly more toward her, his eyes gentle and kind. “Have you ever experienced a love like that, Doctor? A torrent of passion so intense and absolute that you would do anything for another person?”

Awestruck by his words, she lost her bearing again and found herself staring at him. Darting her eyes quickly down to her dark blue heels, she swept a wayward hair out of her eyes and muttered, “…no.”

    “A shame.” His eyes were distant again, his tone stoic and hollow. “If ever you are fortunate enough to experience a love like that, Doctor, I urge you to cherish it. The truest love is always wonderful, but tragically fleeting.” Taking a deep breath, he sunk back into the couch, lost in pensive silence. 

Nicole raised an eyebrow, scribbling on her notepad. A breakup? Now we’re getting somewhere. “Were you together long?”

“Over a year,” he replied. “Not a long time in the grand scheme, I suppose, but it was the most intense relationship –in fact, the only real relationship I’d ever had.”

“I find that difficult to believe,” she said. “You’re obviously educated, eloquent and well-mannered.” Never mind those topaz eyes, or the fact that the sound of your voice makes me weak in the knees, she thought, but didn’t say. “You seem pretty put together, which is more than I can say for a lot of people I talk to.”

“Thank you, Doctor. I appreciate that.” His sad eyes met hers again, sending another wave of electric heat through her again. “I wasn’t always, though. The person sitting on your couch is not the same man I was before… her.”

“Maybe that’s a good place to start, then. Would it be easier to talk about yourself first?” Like maybe your home address, how you take your coffee, or how tight the scarves are on my wrists when you tie me to the be—

“Very well,” the poet muttered, staring idly out the windows at the snow-buried November landscape, “but I assure you, it’s not pleasant, and most of it isn’t irrelevant now anyway. She’s gone.”

“Who is she?”

A solemn half-second’s silence hung in the air before he replied, with a deep, cleansing breath. “She was everything. She saved me; helped me escape from my own misery, and to become the man on your couch. I wouldn’t be who I am if it hadn’t been for her.”

“Tell me about that.” Here we go, she thought. Shifting in her chair again, her delicate feet slipped out of her shoes and she tucked her legs in, half-sitting in her chair. “Whenever you’re ready to begin.

----

- © Jackson Cambridge, 2015.

Inferno in Oz - Prologue, Pt. 2

PROLOGUE: THE WITCH-KILLER, PART TWO

Deep beneath the desert sand,

Within the Gnome King's halls of stone --

He threw her in a prison cell,

And left her there alone.

Uncounted years went slowly by

As she wept with lonely tears,

Trapped in jail all by herself

For more than 80 years. 

Bear in mind, for but a tic

That Dorothy, through Oz's power

Would never age, and never die --

A blessing long gone sour.

That much time in solitude

Wreaked havoc on her troubled mind;

Eventually, poor Dorothy

Left sanity behind.

The Gnome King, on his rocky throne,

The Magic Belt around his waist --

Kept Dorothy as his favourite prize,

And savoured victory's taste. 

He'd visit her near twice a day

To gloat about the girl's defeat;

Dorothy said not a word,

And stared down at her feet. 

One day, she'd taken enough.

She called the Gnome King to her cell,

Told him she was feeling sick

And to the floor she fell. 

When they came to Dorothy's aid,

She leapt to action, knocked them down,

Ran for King Gnome's royal hall, 

And hit him with his crown. 

Furious and most surprised,

The King of Gnomes, out for himself,

Fought hard 'gainst her fury, but

He lost the Magic Belt. 

She stood above him, put it on,

Felt its magic power surge,

And ordered all of gnomish kin

To serve him in her scourge.

And to the King, she whispered soft:

'You will lead the armies east, 

And once I've taken my revenge, 

On riches you shall feast."

Greedily, the King agreed

(The Belt would not allow his 'nay');

With twisted grin, her eyes on fire,

She sent the gnomes away. 

Once the sun had finally set,

And with the prison at her back,

She made her way on foot by night,

Her rage so cold and black. 

- © Jackson Cambridge, 2015.

The Asylum - 2

    Abigail wouldn't talk to anyone for the first week. I don't blame her, either. Anyone who looked at her for more than a few minutes could see she'd been through hell. She moved very slowly and deliberately, as though moving at all was a struggle, and her eyes, wild and huge, never seemed to blink, even though she didn't seem to be looking directly at anything. She made no sound, even when it was clear that it hurt to move, she barely ate, and she didn't let anyone touch her. Anytime anybody got close, she'd become a wild animal, biting and scratching until she was left alone.

    Like I said, I was fond of her, and I knew what would happen to her: it was 1943, after all. Nowadays, a shrink will talk to you about feelings and self-understanding, using medication as a last resort. Fifty years ago, schizophrenia was as big as AIDS is now, and no one knew anything about how to treat it other than shock therapies, insulin comas and scalpels. I had a feeling she wasn't insane -- horribly neglected and abused, but not insane. Just scared. I thought if she had enough time, she might come out on her own. But, doctors are doctors, and nurses are nurses, and at the end of the day my job was to do as I was told, and not talk out of turn, and that's just what I was going to do. My husband (God rest him) was off fighting the Nazis at the time, and I had two kids to look after, so I wasn't going to risk it just to be some kind of troublemaker. Times were tough enough already.

   Then again, I couldn't let the poor girl's brain get poked and prodded, or cranked full of chemicals and zapped until she wet herself, or screamed, or worse. There had to be a way to get through to her, and I had to do it before the orderlies put her in a straightjacket. 

    When I explained that to her, it didn't seem to register at first. She didn't move, or look up or do anything -- but she didn't get upset when I sat down next to her. She didn't react at all, as if she had no idea I was there, until I did something really stupid. 

    I touched her. 

    Just a light graze on the back of her hand, mind you, but it was enough that she scratched me so fast that I didn't even know what had happened until I saw the blood oozing down my arm. When I looked up at her in shocked surprise, her expression was unlike any I've ever seen; her breath was steady and calm, but her eyes, flashing a brilliant green, were the cunning, bestial eyes of a predator that would not hesitate to kill me if she wanted to. She didn't look angry, though -- she looked...

    I didn't touch her again. The next day, I sat in a chair across from her instead of beside her. I didn't tell the doctors what Abigail had done, because I didn't want her to be taken away for something I did wrong (touching a patient was a huge no-no for nurses), and when asked, I would tell people I cut my hand at home. I didn't mention it to Abigail either, and while it never happened again, I was always careful not to get too close.

    A couple of days later I went to check on her. It was still dark, and for all her strangeness, she slept perfectly through the night most of the time. It was as if the minute the sun went down, she went down with it -- so when I went to her room and found it empty, I didn't know what to do at first. Standard procedure was to lock down the asylum until the wayward soul was recovered, but no one liked it because the alarm was deafening, and it caused pandemonium with the patients. There were no rules in place for much -- the head Doctor (Byrne, I think his name was) insisted we sound the alarm whenever a patient wasn't accounted for, but the nurses and orderlies all agreed to avoid that bloody chaos whenever possible. If a patient was off where they shouldn't be, we all agreed to take up to an hour to locate them before we told Dr. Byrne, making as little commotion as possible.

    If it hadn't been for that unspoken agreement, I never would have paused beforehand to look around, and I wouldn't have seen Abigail standing barefoot in the grounds, standing perfectly still in the morning twilight, her face tilted up toward the sky. As I watched her out there, of course the other nurses came to rubberneck, asking me all kinds of questions, you know: what's she doing out there, how'd she get outside, that type of thing. They all knew Abigail was my favourite, and I guess they must have thought I had answers for them, but I really didn't know what to say.

    I had no more insight than the rest of them, because since scratching my hand, Abigail hadn't done anything at all other than gaze out whichever window was closest, as if longing for something that could only be found outside. I did know that having the whole nursing staff clustered in front of the window when the doctors came to do rounds, there'd be hell to pay.

    "Everybody go back to work," I muttered, not taking my eyes off the girl in the yard, "I'll go get her."

----

© - Jackson Cambridge, 2015.

The Confession - 2

Watching his slow expiration,

    His blood pooling on the cement,

    Beaten to fatal extent, 

My whole body seized by elation;

    Basking in his malcontent,

Deaf to his choking prostration, 

    I watched as the light in him went.

Once the poor guy's life was over,

    My rage and adrenalin sunk,

    I took one last kick at the punk, 

Unlocked the doors of my Nova, 

    And stuffed the dead guy in the trunk;

With no other details left over, 

    I suddenly wished I were drunk.

I had to get lost in a hurry,

    The gas pedal down to the floor;

    To my apartment I tore, 

Trying my best not to worry

    (I'd never killed someone before) --

My senses confusing and blurry, 

   Drowned out by vehicle's roar.

Finally reached my apartment,

    Against the closed door I was slumped;

    Thought of the guy I'd just bumped,

The smell was becoming abhorrent --

    Bloody hair matted and clumped --

The whole mess reeked like an armpit;

    The body would need to be dumped --

So I rolled it up tight in a carpet.

    

After what seemed like an hour,

    My energy shrunk to a mote,

    I swallowed the lump in my throat,

Undressed, and got in the shower --

Yet somehow neglected to note

    (Facial expression gone dour)

I was still wearing the coat.

- © Jackson Cambridge, 2015.

Faces

There are faces 

Faces in the ceiling 

The ceiling tiles

I can see them 

staring right back at me 

Waiting

Waiting for me to blink

So they can inch 

Just a 

Little

Closer

- © Jackson Cambridge, 2015.

Hellbreaker Teaser