A Life of Chains

The chair I sit on is cold, hard metal. One leg is slightly shorter than the rest. I rock back and forth. Clink. Clink. Clink. It’s comforting. A pattern to hold onto.

“Where were you last night between 11pm and 1am?”

The federal agent sits across from me, a long table between us. He is wearing a black suit and tie, and his hair is cropped short. Brown eyes stare into mine filled with suspicion. He thinks I did it. He’s not wrong.

“At home. Preparing for bed.” The room is too cold, yet I’m sweating. I continue to rock back and forth in this imperfect chair.

“Can anyone confirm this?”

Clink. Clink. Clink.

“No.”

“What was your relationship with the victim?”

Mmmmmm. The hum of the fluorescent lights above me is deafening.

“He was my counselor at Saint Andrews.” The fluorescent lights flicker. I need to get out of this room. Need to get out.

Clink. Clink. Clink.

“Your counselor. Ok.” He glances down at the file in his hands. “And you were released from Saint Andrews two months ago after three years seeking treatment for your OCD and depression. Is that correct?” The agent looks back up at me. His scrutinizing gaze cuts me in half, but I’m used to it. It’s no worse than the looks I’ve received everyday of my life.

The memories of Saint Andrews are still fresh in my mind. I wish they would go away. Three years in that torture chamber. Released only because the hospital’s patient capacity was reduced due to financial issues.

“Yes, that is correct.”

Clink. Clink. Clink.

I can’t be in this room any longer. Need to get out. Need to get out.

“Is it true that you were set to return to Saint Andrews soon due to recent reports of aggressive and threatening behavior towards the victim?”

Need to get out. Need to get out.

Mmmmmm.

Clink. Clink. Clink.

I can’t take it anymore.

“I need to use the restroom.”

The agent sighs and shakes his head slowly. “Fine. You have 3 minutes. An officer will escort you.”

I get up with one final Clink of the chair and walk out of the room accompanied by a uniformed officer. I enter the ladies room and go straight for the sink.

Ok. Ok. Calm down.

I turn on the faucet and splash water on my face and neck.

This room has fluorescent lights, too.

Can’t escape.

Can’t escape what I did.

I turn off the water and begin to dry my face with paper towels. I imagine that with each dab of the towel, the pain and the fear are wiped away. It doesn’t work, and I catch sight of myself in the mirror. Suddenly, I’m not in the police station’s bathroom anymore.

The dread of that night returns to my chest.

I’m standing in a red Victorian living room. The fireplace is lit, crackling at random intervals. I try to find a pattern in the sound to calm me but there is no order. No precision. No control.

“You understand why we need to bring you back to the hospital. Don’t you?”

Dr. Simmons sits in a large, cushioned chair in front of me. His legs are crossed, and he is wearing his standard uniform of a threaded sweater, tan slacks, and brown loafers.

I don’t respond to his question. I know the reasons for this sudden re-evaluation of my mental state. His attempt at a reassuring smile disgusts me.

“We can’t have you roaming the streets without help,” he says. His smile never leaves his face.

The fire continues with its unrelenting rejection of pattern. I grow increasingly uncomfortable. I can’t go back. I can’t let him take me back.

Dr. Simmons stands and crosses the room towards me. I flinch as he grabs my arms. He puts his mouth next to my ear. His hands holding me by a vice-like grip.

“Don’t you miss our private sessions?” He whispers.

I recoil. His breath smells like brandy and cigarette smoke. I keep my eyes lowered and fixed on a piece of thread coming undone from his sweater.

I struggle against his grip.

I won’t let him take me back there.

Dr. Simmons chuckles and releases me. He turns and walks towards a bar across the room.

Pouring himself a drink and keeping his back to me he says, “You know, it wasn’t very difficult to convince the court and the other doctors that your release was a mistake. I just had to tell them that you had been threatening and stalking me since you were released. They were all too happy to make an exception for you.”

I’m not surprised by this revelation. It is well within the abilities and willingness of this selfish and sadistic man.

The fire continues its sound.

Laughing at me.

It’s laughing at my pain.

My ‘private sessions’ with Dr. Simmons began a year into my treatment at St. Andrews. My original doctor had left the hospital on another job offer, and I was transferred to Dr. Simmons’ care. My treatment was going well with the previous doctor, and I was set to be released in just a few more months, but unfortunately, Simmons took a particular liking to me. I was too afraid to report it. I still am. I felt out of control and helpless in the affair, and these feelings have seeped into every aspect of my life. His assault worsened my disorders, leaving me to remain in the hospital for two years longer than was expected.

I was just released and now he wants to take me back there? He wants to use me. Imprison me. No, I can’t let that happen. I can’t. I won’t.

Simmons’ back is turned away from me as he sips his drink. He’s talking to me about something, but I don’t hear anything except for the infuriating cackle of the fire and the blood rushing in my ears.

I see a small bronze head statue sitting on the side table to my right.

“Don’t you miss our private sessions?”

The fire snaps.

Can’t let that happen. I won’t let him take me back there.

I blink and the bronze statue is in my hand.

I blink again, and I’m just a few feet from Simmons.

Suddenly, something warm is dripping down from the statue. I feel it on my hand.

It’s red.

It’s...blood.

I look down at the crime scene.

Dr. Simmons is laying there. Blood oozing onto the expensive red carpet.

What have I done?

I drop the statue, my hands shaking violently.

I killed him.

I…

Then it hits me.

I’m free.

I'm finally free.

“Time’s up! Let’s go!” The uniformed officer bangs on the bathroom door.

I shake my head as I return to the present.

That immediate feeling of freedom has long vanished.

I am no longer free.

I am chained to the past.

Just as I was before.

Just as I will always be.

I walk slowly out of the bathroom, counting the steps back to the cold room, the humming fluorescent lights, the metal chair.

I take my seat again in front of the agent, and I brace myself for what is to come.

Mmmmmm.

Clink. Clink. Clink.