“The Patient in Room 377”
A Short Michael Jackson Horror Story By:
MJsLoveSlave
Boylan Mental Sanitarium
Waverly Hills, California
I was eleven years old when I made up my mind to become a doctor. When I was little, I could remember sitting on the couch with my parents and watching reruns of medical-based dramas such as “ER” and “Mash”, and being enthralled with the fast paced, high-action of emergency situations.
In my mind, I truly believed that I would grow up and go on to be an emergency room physician, spending out most of my adult years patching up bullet and stab wounds and reattaching severed limbs, sweat pouring from my brow as I rushed and ran ragged to save lives.
But when I was fifteen years old, just four short years after making my declaration, a tragedy in my family changed the field in which I wanted to work.
At that time, my father, who had spent more than thirty years, slicing out a living, working as a crane operator for a local construction company, was abruptly let go when the company suddenly went bankrupt. (It was years before we found out that the owner of the company had had a terrible gambling addiction and had basically bet--and lost--his company in a simple game of poker.)
My father, who had been the primary breadwinner in our home was now out of work and at fifty-five years old, was too old to be hired for anything other than to be a flashlight toting security guard at the local mall.
Unbeknownst to my mother and myself, that while my father put on a happy and cheerful front to us at home, when he was at work, he was a different person. His coworkers had described him as an angry, distant and loathsome man--a man my mother and I knew nothing about. My mother and I refused to believe it. Not her husband, not my father. Not the man who sat and made his baked potatoes dance with forks while he sang blues tunes just to make us laugh. Not the man who always hugged us and kissed us and told us how much he loved us on a daily basis.
Not Daddy.
Then one day, my father left for work and never came home.
My father leapt to his death from a bridge spanning a nearby river.
He had drowned himself. If it weren’t for the fisherman who had found his body tangled in his trout net, my mother and I may never have been able to give him a proper burial.
A long time later, my mother found a secret journal that my father had started a few weeks before he was fired.
And in it, was a stranger.
From the day he’d lost his job, my father’s mind had been eroding and deteriorating and his writing frequently ran to thoughts and methods of suicide, from hanging, to taking cyanide tablets and eventually, to the idea of drowning. He had felt he couldn’t come to my mother or me with his concerns, that we could consider him weak and less than a man, and it was eating him alive to have no outlet, no ears on which to air his fears and woes.
And it killed me inside that he felt his only out was with lungs full of water and algae.
At the moment I came across the last passage of the journal, I made up my mind. I no longer wanted to be an emergency room doctor. I was going to be a counselor to the people who felt alone, and had no one. And hopefully save lives.
Now, a full ten years later, I was working at Boylan Mental Sanitarium, a round the clock facility that catered to nearly five hundred at risk men, women and children who were in danger of hurting themselves.
I fancied myself as having a pretty good success rate. Over the last three years I had been at Boylan, I had worked with no less than a hundred people personally and only lost two of them.
And walking into work on that particular, sunny Thursday afternoon, I had my head held high, secure in the assumption that I had seen it all.
Women wanting to kill themselves because their “lovers” had left them for another woman (or in some cases another man); men wanting to off themselves because they thought they were the second coming of Jesus and had to do it to save humanity. Young girls killing themselves slowly, with starvation, in an attempt to attain the “perfect” body, and little boys coming off of drug fueled hazes wanting to end it all simply to stop the pain of their bodies detoxing.
Yes, I had truly seen it all.
Then I was handed the case of Mr. Jackson.
“Dr. Laroche! Dr. Laroche!”
I had barely gotten through the automatic sliding doors of the front lobby, when a young orderly, just barely out of her teens, came running towards me, a file folder clutched in her hands.
“Yes…Amanda?” I replied, stopping at the large wall of cubbyholes that served as the mail drop for all the workers in the sanitarium.
“Dr. Laroche, Dr. Pelham insisted I give this case to you. He refuses to take it. In fact, no one wants to take it. I’ve been all over the hospital trying to pass this on to someone--no one wants it ma’am!” The girl was staring at me, her eyes large and frantic.
“No one wants it--is the man threatening to harm others? Has he been properly restrained?” I questioned, taking the file from the girl, who heaved a huge sigh of relief.
We had a very strict set of protocols that we were supposed to follow if a patient was being absolutely belligerent and not only being a danger to themselves, but others.
“No, Dr. Laroche. From what I heard, he hasn’t even made a peep of noise since they brought him in last night.”
“Let’s see…Name: Michael Jackson. Age: Fifty. Race: Black. Allergies to Medications: Penicillin. Reason for being admitted to Boylan--”
I paused and blinked my eyes a few times to make absolutely certain I was reading the writing in the chart correctly.
“Amanda…is what’s written here absolutely the reason why this Mr. Jackson had been admitted here?” I demanded, slamming the file closed.
Amanda appeared frightened,
“Yes ma’am. That’s what Dr. Pelham said that man told him--”
“Well you go page Benny, eh, Dr. Pelham, right now! I have a bone to pick with that man myself!”
“Yes Dr. Laroche!” Amanda ran and immediately began calling for Dr. Pelham over the loudspeaker.
A few minutes later, Dr Benny Pelham, a large, rotund man with a permanently red face and three tufts of white hair clinging to his crimson scalp made his entrance.
I didn’t even give him a change to say hello before I blurted out sharply,
“ A werewolf? You sent me a case where a man was trying to kill himself because he thinks he’s a werewolf? Benny, honestly, it’s too late to try to pull an April Fool’s joke on me, and shame on you for coercing Amanda in on the gag!” I scolded him as I threw the obviously phony case file into his large and jiggling chest.
Dr. Pelham, in his pristine white lab coat, took on the look of a shocked polar bear as he made a grab to catch the file before it spilled to the floor.
“Brielle, you think I am joking?” He growled, becoming even redder, and was shaking the file at me. “Do you honestly believe that I would try to pass on a case if I thought I could handle it myself? I can’t. But you--you, Brielle, have the best success rate of any doctor in the hospital! One hundred patients in three years and only two casualties. I’ve had eight up and die on me in the last three years! This man is so strange, so odd, so…so….” The large man’s entire body shook as he searched his mind for the right word.
“He’s so unique, I couldn’t trust him to anyone but you.”
“Stop your lying, Bubble Butt.” I accused, shoving fists into the pockets on my coat. “ Amanda already told me you tried to pawn this off on no less than a dozen other doctors.” I revealed and Amanda was given a glare so harsh, she dropped down and out of sight behind the front circulation desk.
“Trying to appeal to my vanity won’t help you! Now if you’ll excuse me, Benny, I have to go clock in.” I spoke curtly, brushing past Dr. Pelham and going towards the time clock and hunting my time card.
“I still have eight other patients to look after, and Miss Cartwright in room 511 keeps trying to use her own hair to strangle herself. I have a full plate.”
Finding my card and punching it, I turned to find Dr. Pelham still in my face.
“Brielle, I’m begging you, please take a look at this man. If I can’t help him and can’t find someone who will, this man has no other place to go, damn it! He will hurt himself! Now please, I’ll go tend to your hair-hanger and even that guy who keeps trying to slash his wrists with the plastic sporks, if you’d just look into this man’s case. Talk to him. If you still don’t want him, I’ll do my best to help him. But please!” A beefy hand wrapped around my arm and for the first time, I noticed just how distraught and pleading Dr. Pelham’s eyes were.
He really was desperate for me to at least look at this case.
And I relented.
“Alright, Benny! Alright! I’ll look at Mr. Jackson. What room is he in?” I still wasn’t quite sure I wanted this case, but there it was, in my hands. And I would have to handle him with a delicate hand just like all my other oddball cases, like the man who tried to kill himself by licking electrical outlets.
“He’s just been transferred to room 377. I’ll take you to him…” Before I could object, I was being yanked towards the elevators.
Pulling away from him as we stepped inside the rectangular box that carried us to the third floor, I offered him nothing but a cold shoulder and evil eye.
As we came out onto the third floor and began navigating the winding corridors, I was all business.
“What method was Mr. Jackson using to go about killing himself?” I wondered thoughtfully, peeking at the file on him again, not truly believing the cause.
“His brother, who had him committed, said he found him in his garage, trying to drink a can of antifreeze. He said his brother was covered in blood and he still has no idea where the blood came from.”
Dr. Pelham was somber as we came to the closed door of Room 377.
“Antifreeze. Been a while since I had someone using that.” I nodded and motioned for a male orderly to open the door for us.
Dr. Pelham started to enter the room with me and I put a hand out.
“My case now, Benny. I’ll take it from here.” I assured him and entered the room.
“You be careful!” Dr, Pelham called after me. “Strangest of the strange, believe me!”
Room 377 was much like all the other rooms at Boylan, white with quilted and padded walls and entirely bare save for a bare mattress in a metal frame (most patients couldn’t even be trusted with a down pillow) and an unadorned window on the opposite wall.
I spotted Mr. Jackson on the other side of the room, crouched in the corner, his knees drawn to his chest, head lowered with a long mass of shiny black curls tumbling down. He was barefoot and clad in the standard issue grey pajamas that all the patients, male or female, wore.
“Mr. Jackson?” I spoke softly, so I wouldn’t startle him and drive him to act out.
The man on the floor remained still for a long while and finally, finally, he lifted his head.
I was momentarily taken aback by just how attractive the man appeared.
He had clear, pale, milky skin, a face with lovely and sharp features and bright, expressive dark eyes, under finely tweezed black brows. He appeared much younger than his stated fifty years old.
Under any other circumstances, I might have asked him out to dinner and a movie.
The expression I found in his eyes weren’t of fright like most of the people I encountered, who appeared like caged animals within their cells.
His expression was different. If I was correct, it appeared there was remorse in his eyes. A quiet sadness.
“Are you the lady that’s supposed to help me?” His voice was very high-pitched for a man and he seemed timid as he continued to stare up at me.
“Yes, my name is Dr. Brielle Laroche. I’m here to help you. May I call you Michael?” I ventured a few steps closer to him.
“I don’t mind.” He sighed softly, then added coldly, “I don’t belong here.”
“Oh, but you do, Michael.” I objected in a tone so sweet, you’d have sworn I was agreeing with him. I had learned from experience it was best to act like I was a friend to a patient rather than a foe.
“You tried to harm yourself by drinking antifreeze. That’s not normal behavior. And this claim about being a werewolf--”
I was cut off by Mr. Jackson declaring with hot conviction.
“I am a werewolf! No one believes me! I tried to tell my brother, Jermaine, and he didn’t’ believe me. He sent me to this…to this prison! And that doctor, that big fat man, washed his hands of me before he even saw me. I heard him through the door. I heard him asking God why he was given a case like mine. No one believes me. And now you’re here. Another skeptic.” Eyes running up and down me with distaste, he laughed bitterly, and lowered his head once more.
Alright, so the man thought he was a werewolf. I had everything to lose in writing him off and humiliating him any further. The sanitarium was already packed with people who’d been written off left and right,
No, if I was going to make headway with this man, I had to make him believe that I believed and was on board with his cockamamie tale.
Turning on all the charm I had in my body, I kept my voice so sweet I nearly contracted diabetes,
“I’m not like Dr. Pelham, Michael. I’m not a skeptic. That’s why I have your case…I do believe you are a werewolf. That’s why I’m here.” god I was lying through my pearly whites, but if it benefited this man, I’d pretend I thought moon was made of cheese and inhabited by little green men.
In order to help a patient, I had to learn what led them to their breaking point, what had caused them to snap and want to end their own life.
I was about to go to work on Mr. Jackson.
“Now, I want to understand you, Michael. How did you come to be a werewolf…is that why you want to harm yourself?”
Was I really having this conversation?
In front of me, Michael shook his head, tresses bouncing, and I inched closer to him.
“My being a werewolf--it’s only a part of the problem…” He paused and stared up at me, as if to study me.
“What are you, French?” Mr. Jackson asked suddenly.
“Half. My father’s French and my mother’s Russian and Romanian.”
There was no need to tell him my father had offed himself so long ago.
“Ah, Romanian…” Mr. Jackson stretched his legs out and rubbed at his clefted chin thoughtfully. “Have you, by any chance, ever been to Romania, Dr, Laroche?”
“No.” I smiled at him and patted his thin knee. “Never crossed my mind to go there--”
“Well, I have been there, and I wish every waking second I had never gone!” Mr. Jackson’s voice was now deeper, beckoning, and it was clear he felt comfortable in sharing his story with me.
“You see, I am a great traveler. Since I was a teenager, I’ve loved traveling to distant countries and learning their customs and cultures. Last summer, I had the opportunity to go and visit some Romanian villages. And that was the sort of thing I liked, seeing the country folks, untouched by modern society. I took a lovely little cabin at an inn on a beautiful mountain top, in a very small village, called Gorlak. I adored the view of the surrounding area, all pretty and green with little goats here and there, and would often leave the windows open to enjoy the cool breezes and fresh air. I tended to leave the window open for the breeze at night to help me sleep. And that was the start of the problem.” Michael groaned and put a hand to his forehead. “The woman who ran the inn, Oksana, kept begging me to close the window at night, claiming that something called a ‘reshnik’ might get me. I had no idea what a reshnik was I had never heard of such a thing and assumed that she meant I might catch a cold from the cool air. I‘m not fluent in Romanian by any means,”
“Yes…” I was nodding, trying to figure where this story was going.
“One morning, I awoke with the worst pain in my left arm. At first I thought I was having a heart attack, but when I looked carefully, I saw that I had a bite mark on my arm--like a dog had bitten me.” Michael stopped and pushed up the sleeve of his top, revealing a set of scars on his thin forearm that did indeed resemble a canine bite mark. I could make out at least seven tooth indentations that had healed over, leaving dark pink touches to his pale skin.
“I was bleeding a little and ran to Oksana to make her help me. She immediately kicked me out, throwing my things into the mud, screaming “Reshnik! Reshnik!” at the top of her lungs.
I tried going to several other homes for help, as I was still bleeding, and no one even answered their doors. No one wanted to help me.
“I eventually stopped bleeding, and came on home to California. I saw a doctor and he said it looked like I had been bitten by a dog, but that I would be alright. I was given a series of rabies shots and sent on my way. ”
I leapt back as Mr. Jackson rose to his feet, standing a few inches over me.
“And I was fine, for nearly a month. That all changed with the first full moon after my bite.” He was running his hands through his hair, hands trembling.
“I woke up in the middle of the night, with a hard, raging craving for red meat.”
“You’re a grown man, that’s normal.” I tried to ease the rapidly tensing situation with a chuckle. Mr. Jackson didn’t laugh and gazed on me with a look of aggravation.
“ It’s not normal. I’ve been a vegetarian for over twenty years. I don’t even like beef broth in my vegetable soup. But I found myself driving to an 24-hour grocery store and buying a pack of steaks. I didn’t even make it home. Right there, in the parking lot in my car, I tore the package open and ate the steaks. Raw, uncooked, and bloody. Licked the blood from my own fingertips. I ate five raw steaks and was happy as a clam.
The next morning I was sick to my stomach from the meat. I didn’t know where the craving had come from, but as soon as I ate the steaks, the feeling left me. And it continued like that for the next six months, Dr. Laroche. Every full moon, I’d eat a bellyful of raw meat. Then came the fateful night this past February. Things changed.” Mr. Jackson turned his back to me and was gazing out of the small window. “I began craving strange things. Stranger than the meat. At home I have a pet snake and once a week I’d feed him a mouse. And one night I found myself wanting to eat the mouse. Me. I was looking at the small mouse in my hand like it was a hamburger with all the trimmings.”
He confided, voice quavering.
“And did you eat the mouse, Michael?” I inquired and instantly regretted it.
The man whirled around, aghast, skin grey in disbelief.
“Hell no! I didn’t eat the mouse! What do you think I am, some animal with no self control? I walked into this building, not crawled in on all fours! I do have some self control you know--see, I knew you wouldn’t understand!”
He shouted and behind us, the door cracked and an orderly put his head in, surely checking to make sure I wasn’t being attacked.
I quickly waved him away and placed my hands on Mr. Jackson’s shoulders. It was against protocol to really physically touch patients, but this man seemed so disturbed, I figured a kind touch wouldn’t hurt.
“I want to understand, Michael. Make me understand.” I encouraged him and was patting at his back.
Mr. Jackson appeared to calm a bit and trust me again.
“I’m getting to it. I began searching online and trying research this crazy behavior of mine, these odd cravings. I always remembered that woman yelling “Reshnik” at me and looked it up on a word translation site. I almost fainted when I saw what it meant. It’s an old Slavic word that does mean “werewolf”. it seemed completely ridiculous to me--I don’t even really believe in things like this myself. Then I began reading into the folklore, the stories about werewolves. And the more I read, the more it seemed like I had this…this disease.” The man was trembling beneath my hands.
Michael Jackson truly believed he was this mythical beast. Oh, I had an extremely long road of therapy ahead of me in helping this man.
“It’s not like how it appears in the movies, a man growing a coat of fur and a long snout and claws. That’s just Hollywood imagery. In truth all I have are cravings. I haven’t changed physically at all. Every month, just at the full of the moon, I go meat crazy. The rest of the time, I’m a vegetarian and could care less about red meat--”
This man was talking in circles and I still had many patients to see on my shift. I had to hurry him along.
“What drove you to want to kill yourself? I see the idea with being a werewolf and being bitten, but it’s not telling me what I really need to know.” I announced, a sharpness creeping into my tone as I was starting to get fed up.
I was ignored, but got my answer soon enough.
“I was visiting my brother, Jermaine--the same steel-headed so and so that had me committed--and we happened to see the weather report. It said that in two days there would be a lunar eclipse.” He turned to me suddenly, staring plainly as if this bit of information was to have awaken a revelation in me.
I stared back just as plainly and it became clear of my ignorance to whatever it was he was implying.
“Ah, how would I expect you to know what a lunar eclipse means to a werewolf. You’re just a doctor.” He simpered, wrapping his arms around himself, if though he had a chill.
“I’ll tell you what a lunar eclipse means to a werewolf--it means death.”
A long slim finger wagged at me. “You see, any werewolf exposed to a lunar eclipse, even the tiniest bit of exposure, he will die a violent death. I’m not completely sure what happens, if we go up in flames like vampires before the sun or what-- al I know is me and my brethren caught in the eclipse will suffer greatly. And I didn’t want that. That’s how I ended up in Jermaine’s garage, chug-a-lugging that green goo.” Mr. Jackson turned and brushed past me and dropped down on his bed.
“It was sweet, but made me so sick, that I began vomiting, over and over, until blood gushed from my mouth. And then I blacked out. I was already out when my brother found me and rushed me to the hospital. They pumped my stomach and while the stuff was still coming out of me, my brother signed the papers and put me away in here. And here I am. I didn’t want to die in a violent way. You see Dr. Laroche…” He held his hand out to me, and I took it, not sure what force had driven me to it.
“I am not afraid to die; I know there’s something for me on the other side. It’s just the way to go. I don’t want to hurt. I have a very low threshold of pain, and I just wanted to be painless. I know I’m going to die, tonight. The eclipse is tonight” He was somber and looking like a small child.
I didn’t usually play into my patients eccentricities, but there was something in Mr. Jackson’s eyes that moved me to say,
“You have to be hidden from the eclipse, tonight. If I could find a shade or something to block that window--” I indicated his tiny hole in the wall,
“--then you would survive the eclipse and we can work on some therapy for you.”
Mr. Jackson hung his head woefully,
“I don’t want to survive the eclipse, Dr. Laroche. You see, I’m terrified of these cravings. Sure it started with steaks and wanting a mouse, but what about the future, what lies down the line for me? Will I one day want human flesh? Will I one day crave that? And what if I give in? It would be hell on earth for me if I was going around, murdering innocents. I couldn’t stand it. I want to remove myself from the situation before it comes to that. You must understand, I’m trying to help mankind. I’m no longer a man, not really. I’m…I’m something else, Dr. Laroche. Something different.”
I was almost convinced this man was a werewolf, he was so soft and gentle in his ways. I actually felt pangs of guilt for laughing about him earlier.
“Dr. Laroche…” tearing my eyes from Mr. Jackson, I saw that Amanda, the orderly had poked her head in the room. “Dr, Pelham needs you. Miss Cartwright has bitten him several times and he needs your okay to administer a sedative to calm her” She alerted me.
I waved a hasty hand at her. “Give me a few moments, I’m with a patient here, dang!”
“Yes ma’am!” Amanda leaned back and closed the door.
“Will you excuse me, Michael?” I started to leave, when I saw tears falling down his cheeks.
“Why are you crying?” I dropped to my knee before him and grasped one of his large hands in mine.
Sniffling, I got a choked reply,
“You were the first person to listen to me. My brother wouldn’t listen to me, and neither did Dr. Pelham. I, I thank you so much for listening to me, Dr. Laroche.”
Before I could stop him, Mr. Jackson leaned and pecked my mouth gently.
I recoiled in horror. I could have easily been fired and lost my practicing license if I was founds engaging in such an act with a person entrusted to my care.
“Forgive me, Doctor.” Mr. Jackson’s cheeks tinged pink with embarrassment. “I lost myself. I was so overcome with emotion, at finally having an ear to my troubles and not being tossed away. I apologize, but I do thank you so much.”
He was squeezing my hand appreciatively, and I did feel as though I had accomplished a breakthrough with Mr. Jackson, and that was the first step to a full recovery and going back out into mainstream society.
“It was nice to meet you, Mr. Jackson. I have to go see my other patients, but I will be back to check on you in the morning. And you will be fine.” I assured him, and Mr. Jackson’s hand went limp in my hand.
“I won’t be here in the morning.”
Was the last thing he said to me, as I slipped from the room.
* * *
I worked overtime that night, as a crisis with another one of my patients (we solved Miss Cartwright’s want to hang herself, right away by shaving her head bald of any hair to keep her from trying to strangle herself with it). This other particular patient had managed to loosen a screw from his metal bed and used the pointed end to gouge jagged holes in his wrists to try to bleed to death.
He’d managed to stay coherent despite bleeding profusely and it had taken all night to talk him from his anxiety drenched high to where he could be taken and have his wrists stitched closed.
I was tired, and drained, and would have loved to have driven home and dove into bed, but something compelled me, drew me back up to the third floor to check on Mr. Jackson.
I wanted to see that he had made it through the night and tell him “I told you so.”
I never got to.
As I stepped off the elevator in the early morning hours, I became acutely aware of a man shrieking at the top of his lungs.
“…I trusted you! I trusted you! You big bastard! I should kill you!”
I flew into defense mode, thinking that some how one of the patients had escaped their cell and was threatening somebody.
Running through the halls, I came upon a wild scene.
There was a man I had never seen before, being restrained by two large orderlies and was screaming and reaching at Dr. Pelham, who was standing just out of the man’s reach.
“You son of a bitch! You told me my brother would be safe! You told me you’d help him! I’m gonna break your damn neck! My brother! My little brother! Michael! Michael! I’m sorry Michael! Michael!”
Michael? Oh no… No!
The man sagged to the floor, breaking down and weeping, hands mashed to his rough and leathery face.
I was in a daze as I got over to Dr. Pelham.
It couldn’t be true, it couldn’t be. It just couldn’t be.
“Benny…Benny…” I swallowed hard as I grabbed onto his arm.
“Is that Jermaine Jackson?” I barely heard myself my voice was so weak.
“Yeah,” Dr. Pelham, voice cracking, turned to me, his own eyes watery.
“I’m sorry Brielle…I’m really sorry.”
“You mean Michael is…he’s…” I put a hand to my chest as it began heaving.
Behind us, the door to Room 377 opened and I had to hold on to the wall as my knees became weak.
Two medics came by, pushing a sheet covered gurney between them.
At the sight of the gurney, Jermaine was inconsolable.
“Michael! My brother! NOOOO! What am I going to tell our mother? How can I tell her that Michael is…is….Oh God!” He screamed and breaking from the orderlies laid himself against the sheet covered remains of his sibling.
“I’m sorry. Forgive me! I love you! I thought I was doing the right thing, Michael! Please forgive me!” he dropped to the floor again and as the medics continued on, I noticed something that would haunt me every time I closed my eyes.
As Jermaine had jostled his brother, one of his hands had fallen from under the sheet and dangled.
At least what was left of his hand. All I saw was bloodied, bruised and torn flesh, a few bones peeking through.
Reaching a hand to Dr. Pelham and holding on my throat with the other, I wheezed,
“Benny, what the hell happened to that man? What happened? He was fine when I left him and…did you see his hand? No one does that to themselves!”
“I don’t know! Nobody knows what happened. Around midnight last night, I got paged and one of the orderlies said that Mr. Jackson had begun shouting and raising a ruckus, carrying on, hollering for help. They thought he was just coming to terms with being in Boylan. Eventually the noise died down….but I didn’t know that the man had himself died.”
Benny slapped a hand to his forehead.
“How did he die? How did he manage to kill himself? There was nothing in that room to harm him!” I was still trying to be objective, vainly pushing the thought of the Reshnik Curse out of my head.
“That’s what no one can grasp.” Dr. Pelham grasped my arm in his hand and was leading me to Mr. Jackson’s room. “I hate to show you this, but you have to see.”
Pulling me along with him and pushing the door open, I felt my eyes swelling first in disbelief and then blurring over with hot tears of my own.
The room.
My God that room looked as though a napalm bomb had gone off in there.
All over, the padding had been ripped and torn off the walls, the bed all the way across the room and over turned.
Blood was everywhere. So much blood. Streaking the walls, spattering the ceiling, even pooled on the floor.
“We don’t know what the hell happened. It’s like the man himself exploded and everything flew everywhere. We just don’t know. The only thing we do know is that man didn’t have any weapons on himself or hidden in here to do this. And I saw that man, it looked like he went into a knife fight, without a knife. He was gashed all over. It was something out a slasher film. Four orderlies threw up when they saw him. It was the most horrific thing I’ve ever seen in my life. What did that man tell you? Did he give you any clue about what he could have done I‘m so sorry I gave this to you!“
My colleague was pulling at what was left of his hair in anguish.
It was completely obvious that in what ever agony he’d been feeling, Michael Jackson had not only ripped his room, but himself to ribbons.
Patting his shoulder I shook my head and cried harder.
“You wouldn’t understand, Benny. You just wouldn’t understand. That‘s what he told me. This is something that‘s different, and bigger than us.”
That was the last thing I remembered before collapsing in grief.
When I came to a few hours later, I immediately requested for a transfer to another facility. Any facility.
Dr. Pelham followed suit and also left the hospital.
I just wanted to get as far away from Boylan Sanitarium and hopefully never encounter another patient like the patient in room 377 ever again.
At least that’s what I pray for every day.
It was never explained what truly killed Mr. Jackson, but I will believe that it was the Curse of the Reshnik.
ALTERNATE ENDING FOR THOSE WHO DON’T LIKE MICHAEL HURT:
I worked overtime that night, as a crisis with another one of my patients (we solved Miss Cartwright’s want to hang herself, right away by shaving her head bald of any hair to keep her from trying to strangle herself with it). This other particular patient had managed to loosen a screw from his metal bed and used the pointed end to gouge jagged holes in his wrists to try to bleed to death.
He’d managed to stay coherent despite bleeding profusely and it had taken all night to talk him from his anxiety drenched high to where he could be taken and have his wrists stitched closed.
I was tired, and drained, and would have loved to have driven home and dove into bed, but something compelled me, drew me back up to the third floor to check on Mr. Jackson.
I found Mr. Jackson, in the wee hours of the morning, asleep on his cot of bed, stretched out under thin standard issue blanket.
He appeared so peaceful lying there, the first strains of morning sunlight coming through the one window of his room.
Everything about the poor man appeared normal, except for the fact that his clothing was stuck to him-- Mr. Jackson was drenched in sweat.
I figured it was probably from his own anxiety and worry of a fairytale death that was not to be.
But he was none the less alive, his chest going up and falling with each breath he took.
Placing a hand on his smooth forehead, I leaned and whispered into his ear.
“You’re fine; I told you so.”
Shifting in his sleep, one of Mr. Jackson’s hands fell from beneath the blanket and as I stared at it, I found my eyes widening in awe and horror.
His hand was badly bruised and bloodied, the nails completely knocked back.
Stunned and wondering how he’d hurt himself, I turned to call for an orderly.
And that was when I saw it.
The padding on the inside of the door was torn and ripped to shreds as if it had been gashed by a wild animal.
At the sight of the blood stained door, I stood, squared my shoulders and walked out of the room.
And I kept walking.
I never returned to the sanitarium or the patient in room 377.
