BY DR. AGONSON
Withered vines in winter’s hold, shadows under snow; no roses now, just thorns and memories of the luscious red blooms—but no, not memory, not mere memory, nor wilted petals either. Blood on the snow, crimson and hot blood.
Am I dreaming? I feel so sick, dizzy, as I wander. Maybe it’s my blood. Am I dying? Am I dead? Is this all a dream? I take an unsure step, feel ice underfoot, sliding foot, and grasp the lattice. The thorns cut, but the pain is far, far away. Iron hinges sing somewhere in the graveyard while I stare wonderingly at the blood.
Hands are grabbing me. Strong, big grip. Voices, questions, but I can’t understand. The wardens’ breath rises into the sky, into the white, cloudy sky, where they disappear from sight and with them any meaning they hold, folding, melding into the white, empty sky. Unblemished white sky. No stains up there. No meaning. Clean. White.
The pallbearers take the body, but they go the wrong way. Out, out of the graveyard, they carry the pretty girl, our nurse, who’s changed her white apron for red.
Doctor kind. It is black here, dark. Doctor kind. Wet, damp, things unseen but heard. Piss. Shit. Bad smells. And the screams. They scream in hell, but doctor kind. Look at hand. Stinging hand. Wrapping hand.
“Red handed.”
They say that a lot around me. I am red handed. Doctor kind.
Alone again in the piss and shit. The shadows move. Time again is coming. Clanking, unlocking door. Words. New words. Short words. Angry words. Blows. Pain. All the demons screaming in hell. Cower. Curl up. Boots. Kicks. The demon in the shadows screaming words I do not know. I’m so tired.
Light. Bright light. Shouts, new shouts, clear shouts, and the demons all in chorus. Jabbering demons all around. Light in the darkness. The demon is pulled away. Doctor kind.
Spring, green grass, new flowers, red and blue and yellow. Colors. Blue sky. Green grass. Grey stones. Quiet. They are quiet here. Stone. Doctor shows me stone. Graveyard.
“Do you want to say goodbye?”
What does that mean?
“The sad thing is, he can’t understand. He wanted to see Miss Richards. I took him there. He was quiet, but distracted. Kept looking for her. I think he was disappointed.”
The doctor smiled at Andrews whose ashen faced nodded back.
“Yes,” said Andrews. “I suppose he can’t know those things. A sort of gift, a consolation for us mental invalids.”
“But you do understand,” said the doctor.
Andrews’ baggy and clouded eyes met the soft blue eyes of the doctor.
The doctor continued:
“I can’t help your friend, but he’ll be fine. He’ll be happy. We can help you.”
Andrews looked away.
“You were brave enough to tell us what you saw when you knew your friend was innocent. Be brave again, my friend. You’re worth saving too.”
Tale Told 