Blackout

CHAPTER ONE Five years today. That’s how long it’s been since the last time I had a blackout. I’m so proud of myself I could literally scream. To be fair, I’ve been here at Tampa Palms Psychiatric Hospital for five long years, taking medications and talking to a shrink four times a day, so there’s little chance of me having an episode. Still, the fact that I haven’t killed anyone in five years has me extremely happy, even while I’m locked up for an undetermined amount of time. Almost six years ago, I was charged with eight counts of aggravated first-degree murder after my fingerprints were found on the bat that killed my ex-boyfriend. They found my bloody fingerprints all around our apartment, too, along with other evidence that they matched to previously unsolved murders around my city. A knife with traces of the dried blood of Kerry Walsh, a woman found brutally stabbed in an alleyway downtown. Bullets of the same caliber of the round found in Saheed Asghar’s head. They even found an old spot of spit on a lazily discarded blouse that perfectly matched the DNA of Christopher Elliot, who was found with a broken neck outside an abandoned building in the industrial sector of the city just two days before I was arrested. Eventually, they had connected me in some way, however tenuously, to ten murders. However, two of the charges were dropped before trial because of the fact that the evidence connecting me to the killings was circumstantial at best. I entered a plea of not guilty by reason of insanity. My trial was one of the most watched local legal cases in my city. It was a sensational story: a young, beautiful (according to the news) female serial killer claiming that when she was angered, she lost consciousness and killed those who had upset her. Everyone thought I would be convicted and sentenced to death; no one believed my story, not even my attorney. But seven months after the start of the trial, after only two hours of deliberation, a jury handed down a verdict of not guilty by reason of insanity. My lawyer was an instant celebrity, as was I, because apparently it is very rare for an insanity defense to prevail in court. I gained an almost cult-y following of young and old admirers, both male and female, while my defense attorney, Bobby Williams, received so many new requests for legal representation that he had to expand his law firm. Bobby still visits me sometimes, and he has a huge picture of us in his office with the inscription, “Bobby Williams, Attorney responsible for the acquittal of Iris Kilpatrick.” The verdict didn’t get me off the hook by any means; I was sent to this hellhole because of my “insanity”, and I doubt I’ll ever get out. My psychiatrist, Dr. Betsy Dillinger, thinks that I have a slight possibility of being released somewhere down the line based on my pattern of good behavior since I’ve been here, but she always tells me to never get my hopes up because the chances of me getting out of here are so low. So I always try to make the best of it by keeping in mind that there are no more victims of my anger issues. I am the model patient because I hate the condition that has held me captive for so long, and I never want to be a killer ever again. The doctors and nurses here love me. I always take my prescriptions and participate in group therapy sessions, and I use my charming personality to encourage other patients to participate and to take their medicine, too. I have even gotten my bachelor’s degree in kinesiology from an online college; last year after I received the diploma in the mail, the whole floor threw a graduation ceremony for me. They consider me a leader here, and to be honest, I relish the responsibility. It is what truly keeps me sane even when it seems the pills don’t seem to work.     I’m sitting at a table in the cafeteria, playing around with my lumpy stew, when I feel someone approaching me. Rather than turn to greet them before they reach me, I simply say, “Have a seat.” “How’d you know it was me?” asks Dr. Dillinger. She comes into my peripheral vision and sits in the chair to my left, clutching her usual pink clipboard to her chest and her unusual tray of the same lumpy stew I’m eating. She usually never eats in the cafeteria here because, well, she doesn’t have to. So it’s kind of bizarre that she’s all of a sudden taken an interest in the food, especially when the main course is this disgusting concoction in front of me. “I could hear the click of those stilettos from a mile away, Betsy.” I giggle. “It’s the only sound from the outside world that still exists here, since you wear them every day.” “You’ve got jokes today, huh?” she asks teasingly, and she digs in to her stew with a plastic spoon. “Speaking of jokes, did you finally give up on a diet or something? Because I’ve never seen you eat the food here.” She smiles nervously as if there is something to hide. “Well, I wanted to join you at dinner for once,” she says slowly. “There’s actually something I wanted to discuss with you.” I gently drop my spoon. “What is it?” I ask warily. “Now, I don’t want you to get too excited, because nothing is concrete, and we still will have to go through a lot of hoops for anything to be certain. But…” “But what?” “I convinced a judge to take a look at your case to see if you have been rehabilitated enough to secure your release.” I can’t help what happens next. While I am a great patient and I am never nasty or rude by any means, I am not very free with affection or even casual touching or hugging. So it shocks Dr. Dillinger when I jump up out of my chair and fling my arms around her neck with a loud, excited shriek. A security guard begins to rush over to us, and I’m sure it’s because the position I’m hugging her in looks like I’m strangling her from behind, so I quickly release her and I sit back down in my chair. “How in the world did you pull that off?” I almost yell. Dr. Dillinger massages her neck a little bit before answering. “Well, it’s not a huge secret that you are one of the best patients we have ever had here. I can’t remember a time we’ve ever had a person, especially someone with your, er, background, be as great as you have been.” She sighs with a small smile on her lips. “It’s been five years since you’ve been confined here and you haven’t complained once, have never given the nurses any trouble, and you’ve helped so many people who have come here damaged and left stronger thanks to your encouragement.” She places her hand on mine. “I never told you this, but you have been specifically mentioned in exit forms as an inspiration to other patients upon their release. On top of all of that, you’ve gotten a degree while locked up here. So many accomplishments warrant at least a chance, so I took the liberty of asking the judge to consider releasing you. The director agreed and also signed off on the request. The judge is researching your case as we speak, and he promised to give it his undivided attention and give us a hearing as soon as possible.” I am in utter shock as I realize the possibilities. I could be free soon. I could go back into the world and be a productive member of society. Since I was found not guilty, I have no felonies on my record, so I could get a job, especially if I moved away from here, the city where my crimes are legendary. All of a sudden I’m daydreaming of what my life could be like, and the only thing that brings me back to the real world is my cheeks hurting from the big smile on my face. “Wow,” I say, “this is huge. Betsy, even if it doesn’t happen, you’re going all out for me, and I appreciate it more than I will ever be able to express.” Dr. Dillinger pats my hand softly, and replies, “If anyone ever deserved a chance at a new life, it would be you, Iris.”     My roommate, Clarisa Gordon, has been my best friend since I arrived here. She came a year before I did, but I don’t think she ever wants to leave. Every time they consider releasing her, she does something crazy and they put her on suicide watch for a few days before allowing her back on the wing with the rest of us. I have an idea of why she doesn’t want to leave. Clarisa has no family and no friends. She was a foster child all the way until she turned eighteen. When I was first getting to know her, she told me that every foster family she ever lived with had abused her in some way, so when she got sick of it, she told a school resource officer at her alternative school that she wanted to kill herself. The officer had her involuntarily committed for 72 hours and that was when she realized that being institutionalized was an easy way to get three hots and a cot without being in jail or being abused. After she was released, she went to another foster home, and got herself committed and released again. The cycle continued for a few years until she turned eighteen and was kicked out of her last foster parent’s house. She knew she had to do something drastic to be permanently admitted to a mental facility, so she overdosed on heroin and, in the process, ran around naked in broad daylight in front of a police cruiser. A judge sentenced her to a year in the crazy hospital. That was six years ago, and it seems as if she has purposely delayed her release because she doesn’t want to have to deal with the real world. Clarisa isn’t crazy, though. She’s smart in her own way, and incredibly resourceful. Having had a truly crappy childhood, she discovered that there were ways to be taken care of without being in jail. This place is jail to me, but she loves it. She has no responsibilities, is fed and clothed, has a comfortable bed to sleep on along with safe shelter, and no one beats on her. To her, that is enough to live a happy life.     Clarisa is braiding her long, mahogany hair in the mirror when I burst into our room. With a jump, she turns around with her hands in the air and says, “What in the world?” “Clarisa, you won’t believe this, girl!” “What, Iris?” “Betsy got a judge to consider releasing me!” Clarisa’s startled face falls into a frown. “What? You mean, you’re leaving?” “Well,” I say, “it’s not for sure, but if the judge believes what Betsy and Director Pugh wrote in the request, I just may be.” Her frown seems as if it is permanently etched on her face. She steps past me and drops on her bed with a sigh. I’m confused, because this is supposed to be happy news. “What’s wrong with you, Clarisa?” She looks up at me, tears about to brim over in her eyes. “I- Well, I don’t think you should leave, Iris.” Whatever I was expecting, it wasn’t that. I’m speechless for a moment, but I finally blurt out, “What do you mean, ‘don’t leave?’ Why in the hell would I stay here?” “Because, I thought we’d be here together, forever.” If I never worried about Clarisa’s mental state, I was concerned now. She was really talking crazy. Stay here? Forever? Clarisa was my best friend here, but I never intended this place to be my lifelong home, and she knew that. We’d had talks about what I would do if I left here. I would longingly describe my grandma’s homemade macaroni and cheese, fried chicken, and greens, as though my dead grandmother would rise from the grave and make me those dishes upon my release. I told her plenty of times that it was my goal to leave this place one day, get a job, and start a family. She entertained my thoughts, but now I wondered if she was just humoring me. Did she think I was so mentally messed up that I really would be here forever? I take a moment to collect myself and control the angry surges flaring up my body. No need for an episode, especially on my “five year sane” anniversary. “Clarisa, I’ve told you time and time again that I wanted to get out of here. I want to be back in the real world. I can’t live my life like you do, Clarisa, faking suicidal thoughts just to stay in this hellhole. I’m not going to stay here just to keep you company. If I can get out, I will get out.” “But Iris, think about it! You live here for free! No bills, hot food, no job, no worries. Besides the meds and the shrink sessions, this place is like a lifetime vacation! Why in the world would you want to leave?” I groan and stare into the eyes of the woman I used to think of as my best friend. “I thought you would be happy for me,” I said, “but I see you just want me to stoop to your level of contentment- and kick it with you here for the rest of my life- so you’ll feel like you have a friend. Unlike you, I’m trying to be a productive member of the world instead of faking my way through life for a free bed. I can’t believe you’d be so selfish to want me to stick around here, miserable, just so you won’t be alone. I wish you’d grow the hell up.” I almost wince as the pain of my words shoot across her face, but instead of showing any more emotion, I turn my back on her. “I’ll be asking Rita for a new room. Good luck, Clarisa.” And I leave the room as the first sob escapes her lips.     We have three round-the-clock nurses on each shift here, with two extra nurses on the day shift. The day nurses are Rita, Jamie, Mike, Brittany, and Charlie. The evening nurses are Joe, Robbie, and Coraline. The overnight nurses are Virginia, Phyllis, and Larnese. Rita is my favorite because she has never treated me like a crazy person. She told me soon after meeting me that she didn’t think I was necessarily crazy, but “most people don’t look crazy until they have an episode.” Rita had apparently watched my trial (along with the rest of the state) and when I was found not guilty by reason of insanity, she had actually been excited, because she knew I’d be sent to the mental facility she worked at. She had been looking forward to meeting me. I don’t know much about Rita. She’s an older Hispanic lady, short and stocky, with an accent so thick she used to have to write down what she was trying to say to me because I couldn’t understand her when she spoke. She says she doesn’t like to give patients personal information about herself, and given the fact that her patients are all psychos and junkies, I understand completely. She showed me a picture of her son once, though. She told me his name was Marc. He was about two years older than me, and he was some big shot banker downtown. She was proud of her son and she always would tell me of his new accomplishments, from when he graduated college shortly after I arrived here, to when he broke up with a woman Rita felt was a gold-digger right after I finished my degree. When he got promoted to a senior banker at the biggest bank downtown, she was so happy she told all of the patients in our group. I don’t know much about Rita, but I know she’s proud of her son. Rita likes to treat me as if she’s my mother. She took me under her wing from the moment I arrived here. When Dr. Dillinger diagnosed me with Anger Disorder and Intermittent Explosive Anger Disorder, which were the reasons for my blackouts, Rita was holding my hand. When I wanted to give up on my degree, she encouraged me. Rita has been more than a nurse to me. She has been even more than a friend. She has been somewhat of a mentor, and I never hesitate to tell her how much her encouragement means to me.     When I walk up to the nurse’s station the next morning, Rita is reading someone’s file. She looks up as I approach, and closes the file when she realizes that it’s me. In her heavy accent, she mutters, “Miss Kilpatrick, just the person I wanted to see. I was just reading your file. I see Dr. Dillinger sent your case to be considered for release.” “Good news travels fast, I see.” I reply. “Yes, and I hope more than anything that it all works out in your favor.” She smiles sweetly. I return the smile, and say, “Rita, I wanted to know if I could switch rooms.” “Why? What’s going on with Clarisa?” “Long story short, she’s not exactly supportive of the fact that I have a chance to get outta this place.” Rita sighs, and stands up from her chair. She grabs a clipboard from the desk and studies it for a minute before speaking. “Donna Rice just moved to the labor and delivery ward at the main campus last week. She was due to have her baby any day. Do you want to move into her room? You wouldn’t have a roommate until next week.” “Heck yeah! No roommate? Of course I want that room.” “Alright, you go ahead to room 12. I’ll get your things, so there’s no issue with Clarisa.” “Hey, don’t worry about it, I’ll get my stuff.” As I walk back to the room, I find myself hoping she’s there, but at the same time, I’m hoping she’s not, so I can spare myself the awkward conversation. The door is slightly ajar, which is strange since we are not supposed to have the door closed. I’m guessing she is just trying to bend the rules, since it’s not completely shut. I knock and slowly push it open. Clarisa is not in her bed. After all my things are packed in paper bags, I get a push cart from the game room and bring it back to put the bags in it. I am about to open the door to leave when I remember my toiletries that I forgot to retrieve from the bathroom. Leaving the cart with my bags near the door, I walk over to the bathroom and push the door open. There, on the floor, eyes closed and bleeding profusely out of her wrists… is Clarisa. “HELP!” I scream, grabbing a towel from on the toilet and wrapping it around her hands. At my touch, she moans, and her eyes flutter open. She looks so pale, and the scarlet puddles around her are so big that I can’t image how there is any blood left in her body. I kneel in the warm gore and yell for help again as I clutch her wrists tighter with the towel. My eyes dart around, looking for whatever she could have used to cut herself, and after a few seconds I see a razor blade on the floor behind the toilet. How in the world could she have gotten a razor blade? She never gets visitors, and our rooms are searched weekly. The running footsteps get louder coming down the hall. Soon, I hear room door banging open and the clang of the cart in front of the door falling over, and then there are multiple voices behind me, yelling, “What the hell happened?” Rita is suddenly kneeling in the blood on Clarisa’s other side. She curses in Spanish and says, “Iris, what happened?” “I don’t know!” I yell over all the loud, panicked voices. “I was packing my things and I didn’t see her in the room, and I was about to leave when I remembered my toothbrush and soap, so I came in here and found her like this!” I point to where the razor lies. “That’s what she used, that razor over there!” Another nurse, Jamie I think, picks up the razor with a gloved hand as Rita yells orders to the other nurses. “Brittany, call for an ambulance! Mike, get me some ice packs, a pillow, and a blanket. Charlie, take Iris out of here, and call Dr. Dillinger. Iris, give me her hands!” She has to pry Clarisa’s wrists from me because I am clutching them so tight with the towel, trying to stop the bleeding. I am in utter shock, looking into the pale face of the woman I wrote off yesterday. Did she do this because of the horrible things I said to her? Is this my fault? I feel a strong pair of arms lifting me up and leading me out of the room. The other patients from our wing stare in wide-eyed horror as I walk past covered with blood. I can’t even spare them a thought because my mind is so full of pain. I am the reason that Clarisa could die. She had bled so much before I had even found her. What if they can’t help her? What if she can’t be saved? Clarisa has pretended to be suicidal too many times for me to keep track. After the first ten times, I truly believed that she had never even really been suicidal, and in my mind, I couldn’t imagine her truly attempting to kill herself. All of a sudden, I’m in a brightly lit room sitting in front of a cherry wood desk. I can’t gather the thoughts in my brain enough to remember how I’ve gotten to Dr. Dillinger’s office. I didn’t see her pass me. Or maybe I did; I just couldn’t hear her or see her over the loud sounds and images in my head. I hear sirens from far away and I know they must be on their way here to save Clarisa. Please let them save Clarisa. Please.     What seems like hours later, Dr. Dillinger slowly walks into her office, her face looking ten years older. She collapses in her chair as if she is exhausted. I lean forward and ask quickly, “How is she?” “Clarisa lost a lot of blood, Iris. It isn’t looking good.” I break down, tears flowing down my face for the first time since this all began. “It’s all my fault!” I cry. “I told her yesterday that I might be leaving, and she wasn’t happy for me, so I said things… She did this because of what I said! I told her she was selfish… I told her she needed to grow up! Why did I say those things to her? It’s all my fault…” “Iris, calm down.” Dr. Dillinger says, rising from her chair and coming around to rub my back. “It isn’t your fault; you were only honest with her.” Can she tell that her words are not pacifying me at all? She continues, “Before she passed out, she told Rita that she couldn’t live without you here with her, and that you were her only friend. She didn’t mention anything you said to her, just that she didn’t want you to leave. It isn’t your fault. She just couldn’t let go of you.” “How is it not my fault, then? If I never told her about it all, she would be here right now, not seconds away from death!” “Because you can’t put your life on hold to keep her happy, Iris.” “What?” “She wanted you to stay here just so she had someone here with her that she knew. We all know that Clarisa says she has no family or friends outside of here. She’s grown quite attached to you; she’s known you longer than she has known anyone else in her life, since she moved so frequently during her childhood. Of course she would want you to stay; she doesn’t want to lose the only constant in her life. But you would have never stayed here just for her. And no one but her would have expected you to.” I don’t know what to say. Of course, Dr. Dillinger is right; I would have never stayed just to make her happy. I’m selfish in that way, as anyone would be. And I had already known that she didn’t want me to leave for that reason. Still, now I was not only traumatized, but angry. She had overreacted so much, especially since there was no guarantee that I was leaving. Dr. Dillinger speaks again, interrupting my thoughts. “Iris, do you know where she got the razor blade from?” “I don’t; I didn’t even know we could have razor blades here. I’ve never seen it in our room before.” “Hmmm.” She taps her fingers on the desk as she walks back around to her seat. “Well, as many times as she threatened suicide to be able to stay here, I never thought she’d actually do it.” “Yeah, I know.” I sigh. “Well, you don’t worry about it, Iris. I know you feel bad, but this isn’t your fault. Okay?” How she could expect me to not blame myself for this, I can’t figure out. But instead of arguing about it, I just nod my head and stand up to leave the room. “Your clothes were taken to your new room, and your old room is locked up for now, what with all that happened in there today,” says Dr. Dillinger. “You just continue being an excellent patient and person so we can get you outta here.” I nod again as I’m leaving the room, but I’m not feeling like an excellent person after all that has happened today.