The Slip

Chapter 2

2

THE PATIENT SAT IN A metal chair in the center of the holding room, his arms and legs strapped to their counterparts of the chair. He leaned forward against his restraints, head hanging, his chin length hair obscuring his face.

Susan sat five feet from him with her notebook and his file open in her lap. ...listed as a John Doe...picked up on the street after a 911 call for disorderly conduct...quickly diagnosed with some mental disorders leaning toward schizophrenia or multiple personality disorder...consequently admitted to the St. Catherine's mental health facility where he now remains for further evaluation...

Dr. Susan Reynolds specialized in dissociative identity disorder (DPD), more commonly referred to as multiple personality disorder. She maintained a selective private practice in Boston but her passion was in research. Susan taught an advanced course at Harvard Medical School, which allowed her funding for research. She also offered pro bono services to mental health facilities for challenging cases like this one which needed her special expertise.

Looking up from the file, Susan met the patient’s intense eyes, his head tilted just enough to look up at her through his oily hair.

“Hello, my name is Dr. Susan Reynolds. I'm here to help you.”

John Doe suddenly jerked forward against his restraints. His eyes remained locked with Susan’s as his body violently shook in an effort to break his restraints.

Just as abruptly, his body stilled and his snarl slid into an exaggerated grin. A string of viscous saliva leaked smoothly from his lower lip towards the concrete floor. In a steady boyish voice John Doe spoke, “Let's find out what's inside your eyeball. Do you have a scalpel? If I push a scalpel slowly, through the center of your eye will you be able to watch it slide in?”

Twenty years as a psychotherapist armed Susan with the experience to deal with most situations. While not an everyday occurrence, she was not unfamiliar with extreme behavior of this sort. However, she couldn’t help feeling threatened by the patient’s maniacal aggression, even though he was restrained and presented no real physical danger.

The sterile windowless room and its location three floors beneath an old stone building only added to the menacing atmosphere John Doe’s threats created. Perhaps the town’s tortured history had put her on edge subconsciously.

St Catherine’s was one of the older psychiatric facilities in Massachusetts, in Danvers about 45 minutes north of Boston. The town suffered from a well-known association with the witch trials in neighboring Salem even though most of Danvers was beautiful. With its history of agriculture there remained expanses of open wooded land vibrant in the fall as the leaves changed to bright oranges and reds. But large parts of the farming town had succumbed to heavy stone industrial and manufacturing buildings in the early 1900s. Built in the same period, St Catherine’s sat among the dated monoliths, one of the few not yet abandoned.

Susan never understood why these older isolation rooms were made to feel so hard and cold. Comprising concrete walls, floors and ceilings illuminated by harsh fluorescent lights, she couldn’t imagine a less welcoming space. The only items in the room besides her and the patient were the metal chair he sat in bolted to the floor and the metal chair she sat in not bolted to the floor. A solid iron door stood to the side with a small glass window obscured by a metal cover on the outside and an intercom type speaker on the inside with a pushbutton inset in the wall adjacent.

Maintaining her composure she tried to normalize the conversation, “Can you tell me your name?”

Losing the grin but not the drool stalactite, his voice became sultry as he said, “Why don’t you let me out of this chair, Dr. Susan Reynolds, and I’ll I whisper my name into your ear as I f**k you from behind like the b***h dog you are.”

Susan struggled to maintain her nerve behind the professional facade and changed tack. “Do you know why you are here? Do you remember being arrested?”

John Doe leaned forward with all his weight, pulling and straining against his chair and the bolts in the floor. The tendons in his arms and legs flexed under his skin. His body shook and sweat dripped from his hair.

Susan got up and turned her back to the patient as she forced herself to walk calmly to the wall communicator. Her experience was telling her the best course was to sedate, wait, and try again later. Her instincts were telling her to run like hell.

After her second step John Doe howled and screamed, snapping his mouth open and closed. Julia fought the urge to run. The closer she got to the microphone on the wall, the more he yelled and shook. With her finger on the attendant button, he suddenly went silent.

Susan paused and looked back. The patient leaned limply to the side, his eyes exhausted, sad and… scared?

In a completely different voice he pleaded, “Help, don’t leave. PLEASE.”

“It’s okay, you’re safe. I can help you,” Susan responded gently. Desperation had replaced his manic violence.

Susan saw a shadow pass behind his eyes as his body tensed, every muscle strained against his bonds once again. For a moment she thought he was somehow being electrocuted.

“f**k YOU! I’M IN CONTROL HERE!” he snarled.

Susan pushed the button and watched as two attendants entered the room with a needle.