Monster Locked Within

Trigger warning-this story talks of violence, abuse and bad language.

“That woman deserves a cold, bitter inhumane death. What she did…,” a sob echoes in my room.

I can't recall how many times I have heard someone say that exact thing or something very similar. Monster. Evil. Satan. The devil. All of it has been thrust at me. And yet I sit, silent in this chair. The cold metal footrest digging into the back of my calf. Blood drips slowly to the ground every few minutes. Completely ignored by everyone who comes in to check on me.

They push and prod at my stomach. “Can you feel this?” they ask, as they dig deeper and deeper. A few times, I noticed one of the nurses, Nurse Ratched, is what I think of her as, smiling each time she pushes a little bit more. I can feel it. It hurts like hell, but I have learned to control it, my body will not flinch. No movement, no speaking. A state of complete numbness to the world. Although, internally, I feel it all. Every push, every scrape, every piece of my body that is slowly dying.

I notice movement outside my door. It is locked with two deadbolts. As if they plan on me getting up one day and running away. I can’t even move my finger to scratch that fucking unnerving itch on my nose, how the hell would I get up and run? I mean I could get up and run, but that would give me away, so I let the itch overtake me and ignore it. My eyes turn to face the door, hoping for anyone but Ratched.

Fuck. It’s worse than I thought. It’s Ratched and Queen Bee. She’s the main doctor that I see. She always comes in smiling at me with a sinister twisted stare. Her smile never reaches her eyes, and there is something peculiar about the way she looks at me. And talks to me. She comes in every few days, hoping I will answer her questions. This whole fucking place thinks I will someday just improve and give them everything they want. Believe me, I wish for nothing more than the day I get up and walk out of this damn place.

“Has she moved at all when you come in and check on her?” Queenie asks.

“Listen, I push on that bitch so hard she should be falling over in pain. Nothing. No reaction. It’s like her cold ass heart has turned the rest of her to stone finally,” Ratched replies, laughing at her own insane joke. Also, she is telling the truth. That bitch hurts me so much that I wish I could slither out of my skin and never return. Instead, I stay still and take the abuse.

Queenie comes to my side. I notice the light in her hand almost immediately. I follow it with my eyes, although she shakes her head and tsks, saying, “Still no frontal eye movement. Comatose. She continues to have no reaction to light, sound or touch.” I notice the recorder ticking on her phone. Of course, she is documenting her visit so she can go back to her office and update my file.

“Do you think she remembers what she did?” Ratched asks. This has become a routine with these two women. Come in uninvited. Interrupt my thoughtless moments. And try so hard to remind me of the Monster that they think that I am. Everyone has an opinion on my circumstance. The nurses, doctors, psychotherapists, police officers, investigators. All of them. They think they know me, know what I did. They think they understand even an ounce of my life, my world.

“Honestly, I'm unsure. She has days where I think I might see some reflection or recognition. And then, she is comatose. No acknowledgement of the world around her. I almost wish I could get a better read on her. Most of my patients are easy. They are either insane or not. No middle ground. She’s hard. I don’t want to make the wrong diagnosis. Part of me thinks she has had a nervous breakdown and lost all ability to understand,” Queenie says, placing that damn light in my eyeball again. Bitch, move that flashlight before I put it where the sun don’t shine, I think to myself. Laughing on the inside at my own insanity.

Truth is, if I weren’t here in this mental institute, I would most certainly take that little pen of hers and shove it up her nose until it reaches the thickest area of her brain. And then when I knew it was in there, I would twist it. Twist and twist until it was definitely soaking up some brain matter, and then slowly pull it right back down. Put it in her face and let her watch the blood drip. Yes, that is the old me. The fun one. The Monster. This me has to sit here comatose and pretend the world around me isn’t filled with shithole people who deserve all of the consequences that I may bestow on them.

You see, I like to think of myself as a healer. A warrior to those who cannot fight for themselves. Obviously, from what I have learned in this hellhole hospital, both Ratched and Queenie could have used someone like me to set them straight. Before they themselves became the monsters that they claim to help. Ratched who smiles and laughs the more pain she inflicts on a patient.

And Queenie, the Doctor who claims to want to help every patient that steps into this hospital, while simultaneously stealing drugs from her patients for her own personal use. I learned that on day two of being here. After she told Ratched that she would handle my medication from now on to make sure it was administered at precisely the right time. If she is stealing my very small dose of daily fentanyl, used of course to keep my body calm during this “very troubling time”, then how many others is she also using for her own addiction? The woman claims she is doing good here, but I think she is only here to pilfer drugs from unsuspecting psychos.

If only I could show my true colors again. Open my eyes and treat these women the way they deserve. But, if I do, I will never get out of this place. And my end goal is to leave and continue my fight on the outside.

Here is my plan-stay “comatose” for a bit longer. Enough that the hospital staff start letting their guard down some. And then, slowly, start to come back alive. Forgetting everything about my past life. Complete horror when they tell me what I have done. Play oblivious to it all. At one point, scream and cry. Throw things. Try to hurt myself for all of the pain I have caused. Maybe even wail, “Oh no, this is all my fault,” and vomit on the floor. Hope they label me as mentally insane and not able to go to trial. And then just wait out my time until I can walk out the front doors as a stable human who is free.

Different ending than my past life. Rachel McEverson was my old name. Just a small ten year old girl. Innocent and sweet. And then I met Robert McMillan, my moms’ boyfriend. The kindest, sweetest, gentlest soul she had ever met. He was a fixture in our home. Became one of my best friends. Until that night, she went to work and left me home alone.

I can still smell the burnt toast wafting in the air from dinner. And I can taste the gas in my throat from the root beer drink. And every morning, I still hear the creak of the door as he slowly walked into my room with a sneaky smile on his face. He smelled of old beer and maybe a bit of ash from a cigar he liked to hold between his teeth.

“Princess, your mama just called. She's going to be a bit longer at the hospital. Maybe I should come lay with you, make sure no monsters come again.” Such a gentle soul, always worried about me.

“Bobby, I think I just want to go to sleep now,” I said, as I rolled over and closed my eyes.

Bobby had other plans that day. I won’t get into the gory details of it all. Just that this was the moment the abuse started, and it would continue for four more years. Every night my Mama worked, Bobby found me. In the beginning, I would throw up. Then as time went on, I got thicker skin. Resisted the need to cry or scream. Bobby thought that meant I liked it. Little did he know, it was a coping mechanism. I was just waiting for the moment, I would seek my revenge. Making a plan in my head of how I would do it.

And then one day, when I was fourteen, I put a baseball bat under my bed. And I sat and waited for Bobby. I may have also snuck him a little sedative in his beer that night, thanks mom for always bringing some home from the hospital. So when he walked in, a little more sloppy and tipsy, I knew it was my chance. And so little Rachel, picked up the bat, and beat him over and over until the life left his eyes. Then I beat him a few more times.

And that night, I ran and never looked back. It was pretty easy. I changed my name, and created a new life. Found people willing to give me new ID numbers, a new history. Then I did this same thing five more times, helping people who could not help themself. Children being abused. Seniors who were taken advantage of. Anyone who needed help, I was there.

Until the last guy. His death may have gone too overboard. Obviously, I was caught. Put into jail, and then this mental institute. My face is all over the news. This will definitely be harder to get control over. It may take me some time. But I promise, I will walk out of here. And I will move on. And I will find more victims who need me. And I will go on, as the Monster I truly am.

I just need to stay hidden and quiet for a bit longer. That’s all. Just buy me some time.

Unless this bitch Ratched keeps smiling at me like she does.