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Here it is, The Great Idea that I thought of. It's not as polished as I would have liked, and I expect there are innumerable flaws (no, I didn't get my sums wrong). But what gives, here goes.
******* ******* ******* *******
Sure, I’ve looked into the eyes of a madman before, it’s nothing special. That’s what you get for working in a psychiatric ward I suppose. Everything that’s thought of as strange or unusual in the outside world is just everyday life here. That’s partly why I enrolled as the night watchman, 25 years ago.
My name’s Ahmed, Ahmed Smith, my father changed the family name when we moved to Britain before I was born, and I’ve never had cause to replace it. Because of this bizarre fusion, and several other factors, including mild dyspraxia and my height of 6’7, I have always kept my distance from everyday society. I suppose I could be called ‘retiring’ or ‘reclusive’. At school I never did well, and was never liked, I never had any friends, and I've never had much desire for sexual contact with anyone. I expect I was considered a ‘freak’, an outcast. For me, this is the job of my dreams. I can pursue my own interests, such as reading, history and languages, and I have honed my English to the level of any professor. I could say that I was an intellectual, all because of my job. At the time, my profession was dictated by circumstance, my lack of money or any kind of degree meant that I had to take the job which no-one else wanted, which I loathed at first.
Here at the hospital I have an excellent friend, a patient by the name of John Roman. Before I go on, I must point out that he is utterly sane, but is kept here because of misguided consultants, and personal choice. I see us as two fellow ‘hermits’, shedding the normal constraints of life to better ourselves, it is a very pleasant idea in my mind.
It was John’s ward which I now occupied, relaying to him a book I’d recently completed reading, ‘Paradise Regained’ by John Milton. I had gone to some lengths to acquire the book from the local library, I asked them to order it, and although they complied, I am often slightly paranoid. They (the librarians) always seem to watch me out of the corner of their eyes, and exchange glances. I have taken to ordering books through the mail since one occasion, when I was accused of stealing a book, which I had placed in my bag and forgotten. This kind of stigma is common wherever I go, but I endure it, and retain a tactful silence. Sometimes, I am puzzled by the general public, they seem more insane than the people I work among.
John Roman certainly appears magisterial, lying happily on his bed glowing with knowledge, although he is unwisely thin, and has lost most of his hair. When I entered he waved across the ward to me with a piece of paper covered in writing, as he usually does. While not suffering from any real illness, John does have a slight obsession with lists, and whenever a new person enters his life he immediately composes a scribbled list of seemingly mundane and unconnected actions performed by that person, each action meriting a certain score. My total was 879.
I sat by his bed and discussed certain aspects of the book with him, as he examined the cover. Our conversations are somewhat one sided, as he barely speaks, although he seems to appreciate good literature, as all the books are removed within a week of their arrival at his bedside, evidently by the nurses once they are finished. Often he simply lies there, watching the world go by from his elevated philosophical standpoint.
Just as I was about to leave a new patient was escorted into the ward in a straitjacket, and John faithfully reached for his notepad and began scribbling ardently, while I examined this stranger. He was short, about 5’3, and had long white hair that grew down from his shrivelled scalp almost halfway down his back. He certainly appeared extremely bedraggled, and I could see a wild glint in his eye, I am sure. Despite this, he conversed normally with the nurse attending him, asking how long he’d be there for, engaging in tiresome banter about nonsensical subjects, as so many ‘normal’ people do. In due course the jacket was removed and he was settled into the ward.
In seconds, John’s list was finished, and he handed me a piece of ragged paper silently, upon which I could read his list, written in the watery grey ink that is provided for patients. It read:
Does not look around on enter (35)
Scratches nose with right hand (5)
Speaks about his life ˝ octave lower than normal voice (7)
States that he will be out in a month (56)
Is left handed (14)
Right eye larger than left (22)
Teeth appear to be sharpened (67)
Does not seem perturbed by fellow patients (32)
Comments on the plastic flowers (20)
At the bottom was written the number 297. I acknowledged this to John, and eventually left the ward to commence my night watch. I wandered along the quiet white corridors to the booth where I have sat each night for the last 25 years.
Dr Morson, the consultant, keeps a very traditional hospital, and very few colours are permitted, as they are indisputably the fuel of madness. I myself find the stark blankness of the corridors refreshing, it clears my head. In the same way, during a full moon all windows in the hospital are shuttered and locked, to keep the bringer of madness away.
As I entered the booth and folded into my old grey chair a thought struck me: Why not see the full moon? I couldn’t even remember what it looked like and that night I felt a strange yearning to see it. A negligible fact that I have not yet mentioned is that it was in fact my 50th birthday. I had no presents, apart from a small piece of paper which I now clutched, the list of the wild man from ward D.
I got to my feet once more and cautiously opened the shutter in front of me. Instantly eerie shadows were cast over the whole corridor, the criss-crossed patterns of the window bars eclipsed by the madly swaying silhouettes of the thorn bushes outside, projected huge and threatening on the walls and floor, it made me feel quite dazed until I witnessed the moon. It was gigantic, far larger than I have ever remembered, and glowed a wispy blue colour, brighter than the closest stars. It was beauty, in ways I have never thought of before. I tried to banish the disturbing image from my mind but couldn’t, even when I tried to return to my books.
I had never fallen asleep on a shift before, not even once, until that fateful night. I must have dozed off somehow, and when I awoke the windows were open once more, and the room was bathed in the tranquil light. Perhaps I hadn’t closed them properly, and perhaps they’d been opened by another. My fractured mind raced, but then I realised, I hadn’t closed them at all. It must have been close to sunrise. It was then that I heard the scream.
It resonated down the corridors like a solid force, a wild, savage scream, a scream that gnawed at the soul and blinded the senses, the sound of so many confused and conflicting emotions welling up into a tide of berserk fury and helplessness, the beast within us all. It was the sound of a madman. The sound came from Ward D, the ward that contained John. I ran, pounding through the hospital towards the ward where I was sure the sound had come from. The noise was horrifying, and my footfalls beat a random drumbeat tattoo over the endless scream that was ringing through my head. No-one else was awake, no doors were flying open, there were no other footsteps echoing down the empty corridors. I arrived at the ward breathless and sweating, the hospital is an utterly colossal building, and it had taken me minutes to arrive. As I drew closer the sound subsided, then stopped altogether. No-one had awoken.
When I entered the room was utterly black. I shone my torch onto all the beds. 1…2…3…4…5…6…7…8, not one patient was missing, nor had any of them awoken. I took a closer look at John, just to check. He appeared to be steadfastly asleep, but then…he could never have screamed like that. Then, as I was about to leave the ward I heard something, the dull scrape of a knife being drawn from a sheathe, almost right beside me, on my left, I turned, and, panicking, shone the torch in my right hand around once more, but nothing had changed.
Then, I noticed the stranger, still lying in bed, but with one half open, glinting with the same malice I thought, I knew, I saw earlier. Maybe this was why I had been given his list, John knew something, he always did, he was my friend, my comrade, I had to save him! This sinister outsider was a murderer, a delusional psychotic, a degenerated, insane creature bent on my friend’s demise. As I watched one of his hands seemed to stretch out of the bed towards...something, maybe John, my only friend, the one connection to humanity I had left.
It was then that I acted, just before dawn.
******* ******* ******* *******
Sure, I’ve looked into the eyes of a madman before, it’s nothing special. That’s what you get for working in a psychiatric ward I suppose. Everything that’s thought of as strange or unusual in the outside world is just everyday life here. That’s partly why I enrolled as the night watchman, 25 years ago.
My name’s Ahmed, Ahmed Smith, my father changed the family name when we moved to Britain before I was born, and I’ve never had cause to replace it. Because of this bizarre fusion, and several other factors, including mild dyspraxia and my height of 6’7, I have always kept my distance from everyday society. I suppose I could be called ‘retiring’ or ‘reclusive’. At school I never did well, and was never liked, I never had any friends, and I've never had much desire for sexual contact with anyone. I expect I was considered a ‘freak’, an outcast. For me, this is the job of my dreams. I can pursue my own interests, such as reading, history and languages, and I have honed my English to the level of any professor. I could say that I was an intellectual, all because of my job. At the time, my profession was dictated by circumstance, my lack of money or any kind of degree meant that I had to take the job which no-one else wanted, which I loathed at first.
Here at the hospital I have an excellent friend, a patient by the name of John Roman. Before I go on, I must point out that he is utterly sane, but is kept here because of misguided consultants, and personal choice. I see us as two fellow ‘hermits’, shedding the normal constraints of life to better ourselves, it is a very pleasant idea in my mind.
It was John’s ward which I now occupied, relaying to him a book I’d recently completed reading, ‘Paradise Regained’ by John Milton. I had gone to some lengths to acquire the book from the local library, I asked them to order it, and although they complied, I am often slightly paranoid. They (the librarians) always seem to watch me out of the corner of their eyes, and exchange glances. I have taken to ordering books through the mail since one occasion, when I was accused of stealing a book, which I had placed in my bag and forgotten. This kind of stigma is common wherever I go, but I endure it, and retain a tactful silence. Sometimes, I am puzzled by the general public, they seem more insane than the people I work among.
John Roman certainly appears magisterial, lying happily on his bed glowing with knowledge, although he is unwisely thin, and has lost most of his hair. When I entered he waved across the ward to me with a piece of paper covered in writing, as he usually does. While not suffering from any real illness, John does have a slight obsession with lists, and whenever a new person enters his life he immediately composes a scribbled list of seemingly mundane and unconnected actions performed by that person, each action meriting a certain score. My total was 879.
I sat by his bed and discussed certain aspects of the book with him, as he examined the cover. Our conversations are somewhat one sided, as he barely speaks, although he seems to appreciate good literature, as all the books are removed within a week of their arrival at his bedside, evidently by the nurses once they are finished. Often he simply lies there, watching the world go by from his elevated philosophical standpoint.
Just as I was about to leave a new patient was escorted into the ward in a straitjacket, and John faithfully reached for his notepad and began scribbling ardently, while I examined this stranger. He was short, about 5’3, and had long white hair that grew down from his shrivelled scalp almost halfway down his back. He certainly appeared extremely bedraggled, and I could see a wild glint in his eye, I am sure. Despite this, he conversed normally with the nurse attending him, asking how long he’d be there for, engaging in tiresome banter about nonsensical subjects, as so many ‘normal’ people do. In due course the jacket was removed and he was settled into the ward.
In seconds, John’s list was finished, and he handed me a piece of ragged paper silently, upon which I could read his list, written in the watery grey ink that is provided for patients. It read:
Does not look around on enter (35)
Scratches nose with right hand (5)
Speaks about his life ˝ octave lower than normal voice (7)
States that he will be out in a month (56)
Is left handed (14)
Right eye larger than left (22)
Teeth appear to be sharpened (67)
Does not seem perturbed by fellow patients (32)
Comments on the plastic flowers (20)
At the bottom was written the number 297. I acknowledged this to John, and eventually left the ward to commence my night watch. I wandered along the quiet white corridors to the booth where I have sat each night for the last 25 years.
Dr Morson, the consultant, keeps a very traditional hospital, and very few colours are permitted, as they are indisputably the fuel of madness. I myself find the stark blankness of the corridors refreshing, it clears my head. In the same way, during a full moon all windows in the hospital are shuttered and locked, to keep the bringer of madness away.
As I entered the booth and folded into my old grey chair a thought struck me: Why not see the full moon? I couldn’t even remember what it looked like and that night I felt a strange yearning to see it. A negligible fact that I have not yet mentioned is that it was in fact my 50th birthday. I had no presents, apart from a small piece of paper which I now clutched, the list of the wild man from ward D.
I got to my feet once more and cautiously opened the shutter in front of me. Instantly eerie shadows were cast over the whole corridor, the criss-crossed patterns of the window bars eclipsed by the madly swaying silhouettes of the thorn bushes outside, projected huge and threatening on the walls and floor, it made me feel quite dazed until I witnessed the moon. It was gigantic, far larger than I have ever remembered, and glowed a wispy blue colour, brighter than the closest stars. It was beauty, in ways I have never thought of before. I tried to banish the disturbing image from my mind but couldn’t, even when I tried to return to my books.
I had never fallen asleep on a shift before, not even once, until that fateful night. I must have dozed off somehow, and when I awoke the windows were open once more, and the room was bathed in the tranquil light. Perhaps I hadn’t closed them properly, and perhaps they’d been opened by another. My fractured mind raced, but then I realised, I hadn’t closed them at all. It must have been close to sunrise. It was then that I heard the scream.
It resonated down the corridors like a solid force, a wild, savage scream, a scream that gnawed at the soul and blinded the senses, the sound of so many confused and conflicting emotions welling up into a tide of berserk fury and helplessness, the beast within us all. It was the sound of a madman. The sound came from Ward D, the ward that contained John. I ran, pounding through the hospital towards the ward where I was sure the sound had come from. The noise was horrifying, and my footfalls beat a random drumbeat tattoo over the endless scream that was ringing through my head. No-one else was awake, no doors were flying open, there were no other footsteps echoing down the empty corridors. I arrived at the ward breathless and sweating, the hospital is an utterly colossal building, and it had taken me minutes to arrive. As I drew closer the sound subsided, then stopped altogether. No-one had awoken.
When I entered the room was utterly black. I shone my torch onto all the beds. 1…2…3…4…5…6…7…8, not one patient was missing, nor had any of them awoken. I took a closer look at John, just to check. He appeared to be steadfastly asleep, but then…he could never have screamed like that. Then, as I was about to leave the ward I heard something, the dull scrape of a knife being drawn from a sheathe, almost right beside me, on my left, I turned, and, panicking, shone the torch in my right hand around once more, but nothing had changed.
Then, I noticed the stranger, still lying in bed, but with one half open, glinting with the same malice I thought, I knew, I saw earlier. Maybe this was why I had been given his list, John knew something, he always did, he was my friend, my comrade, I had to save him! This sinister outsider was a murderer, a delusional psychotic, a degenerated, insane creature bent on my friend’s demise. As I watched one of his hands seemed to stretch out of the bed towards...something, maybe John, my only friend, the one connection to humanity I had left.
It was then that I acted, just before dawn.
Page:
If people read it...
Erm, don't give away the meanings before people read it....
First attempt at writing that kind of thing, it could have been worse. You were meant to think:
A) Ahmed has lost the plot, and he is the one holding the knife, the scream was in his head. He killed the new arrival (Marl), to re-affirm his friendship with John (who is actually mad) to himself, as he feels insecure.
B)Marl draws a knife and attacks Ahmed, due to the full moon and the disturbances.
C)Marl pulled a knife and attacked John, because he knows the kind of person that Marl is, unlike everyone else. Ahmed didn't hear a scream as such, but rather, he feels his friend's fear. (the list, maybe)
OK, there's a few more implausible options, but I'll leave it at that.
A) Ahmed has lost the plot, and he is the one holding the knife, the scream was in his head. He killed the new arrival (Marl), to re-affirm his friendship with John (who is actually mad) to himself, as he feels insecure.
B)Marl draws a knife and attacks Ahmed, due to the full moon and the disturbances.
C)Marl pulled a knife and attacked John, because he knows the kind of person that Marl is, unlike everyone else. Ahmed didn't hear a scream as such, but rather, he feels his friend's fear. (the list, maybe)
OK, there's a few more implausible options, but I'll leave it at that.
Here it is, The Great Idea that I thought of. It's not as polished as I would have liked, and I expect there are innumerable flaws (no, I didn't get my sums wrong). But what gives, here goes.
******* ******* ******* *******
Sure, I’ve looked into the eyes of a madman before, it’s nothing special. That’s what you get for working in a psychiatric ward I suppose. Everything that’s thought of as strange or unusual in the outside world is just everyday life here. That’s partly why I enrolled as the night watchman, 25 years ago.
My name’s Ahmed, Ahmed Smith, my father changed the family name when we moved to Britain before I was born, and I’ve never had cause to replace it. Because of this bizarre fusion, and several other factors, including mild dyspraxia and my height of 6’7, I have always kept my distance from everyday society. I suppose I could be called ‘retiring’ or ‘reclusive’. At school I never did well, and was never liked, I never had any friends, and I've never had much desire for sexual contact with anyone. I expect I was considered a ‘freak’, an outcast. For me, this is the job of my dreams. I can pursue my own interests, such as reading, history and languages, and I have honed my English to the level of any professor. I could say that I was an intellectual, all because of my job. At the time, my profession was dictated by circumstance, my lack of money or any kind of degree meant that I had to take the job which no-one else wanted, which I loathed at first.
Here at the hospital I have an excellent friend, a patient by the name of John Roman. Before I go on, I must point out that he is utterly sane, but is kept here because of misguided consultants, and personal choice. I see us as two fellow ‘hermits’, shedding the normal constraints of life to better ourselves, it is a very pleasant idea in my mind.
It was John’s ward which I now occupied, relaying to him a book I’d recently completed reading, ‘Paradise Regained’ by John Milton. I had gone to some lengths to acquire the book from the local library, I asked them to order it, and although they complied, I am often slightly paranoid. They (the librarians) always seem to watch me out of the corner of their eyes, and exchange glances. I have taken to ordering books through the mail since one occasion, when I was accused of stealing a book, which I had placed in my bag and forgotten. This kind of stigma is common wherever I go, but I endure it, and retain a tactful silence. Sometimes, I am puzzled by the general public, they seem more insane than the people I work among.
John Roman certainly appears magisterial, lying happily on his bed glowing with knowledge, although he is unwisely thin, and has lost most of his hair. When I entered he waved across the ward to me with a piece of paper covered in writing, as he usually does. While not suffering from any real illness, John does have a slight obsession with lists, and whenever a new person enters his life he immediately composes a scribbled list of seemingly mundane and unconnected actions performed by that person, each action meriting a certain score. My total was 879.
I sat by his bed and discussed certain aspects of the book with him, as he examined the cover. Our conversations are somewhat one sided, as he barely speaks, although he seems to appreciate good literature, as all the books are removed within a week of their arrival at his bedside, evidently by the nurses once they are finished. Often he simply lies there, watching the world go by from his elevated philosophical standpoint.
Just as I was about to leave a new patient was escorted into the ward in a straitjacket, and John faithfully reached for his notepad and began scribbling ardently, while I examined this stranger. He was short, about 5’3, and had long white hair that grew down from his shrivelled scalp almost halfway down his back. He certainly appeared extremely bedraggled, and I could see a wild glint in his eye, I am sure. Despite this, he conversed normally with the nurse attending him, asking how long he’d be there for, engaging in tiresome banter about nonsensical subjects, as so many ‘normal’ people do. In due course the jacket was removed and he was settled into the ward.
In seconds, John’s list was finished, and he handed me a piece of ragged paper silently, upon which I could read his list, written in the watery grey ink that is provided for patients. It read:
Does not look around on enter (35)
Scratches nose with right hand (5)
Speaks about his life ˝ octave lower than normal voice (7)
States that he will be out in a month (56)
Is left handed (14)
Right eye larger than left (22)
Teeth appear to be sharpened (67)
Does not seem perturbed by fellow patients (32)
Comments on the plastic flowers (20)
At the bottom was written the number 297. I acknowledged this to John, and eventually left the ward to commence my night watch. I wandered along the quiet white corridors to the booth where I have sat each night for the last 25 years.
Dr Morson, the consultant, keeps a very traditional hospital, and very few colours are permitted, as they are indisputably the fuel of madness. I myself find the stark blankness of the corridors refreshing, it clears my head. In the same way, during a full moon all windows in the hospital are shuttered and locked, to keep the bringer of madness away.
As I entered the booth and folded into my old grey chair a thought struck me: Why not see the full moon? I couldn’t even remember what it looked like and that night I felt a strange yearning to see it. A negligible fact that I have not yet mentioned is that it was in fact my 50th birthday. I had no presents, apart from a small piece of paper which I now clutched, the list of the wild man from ward D.
I got to my feet once more and cautiously opened the shutter in front of me. Instantly eerie shadows were cast over the whole corridor, the criss-crossed patterns of the window bars eclipsed by the madly swaying silhouettes of the thorn bushes outside, projected huge and threatening on the walls and floor, it made me feel quite dazed until I witnessed the moon. It was gigantic, far larger than I have ever remembered, and glowed a wispy blue colour, brighter than the closest stars. It was beauty, in ways I have never thought of before. I tried to banish the disturbing image from my mind but couldn’t, even when I tried to return to my books.
I had never fallen asleep on a shift before, not even once, until that fateful night. I must have dozed off somehow, and when I awoke the windows were open once more, and the room was bathed in the tranquil light. Perhaps I hadn’t closed them properly, and perhaps they’d been opened by another. My fractured mind raced, but then I realised, I hadn’t closed them at all. It must have been close to sunrise. It was then that I heard the scream.
It resonated down the corridors like a solid force, a wild, savage scream, a scream that gnawed at the soul and blinded the senses, the sound of so many confused and conflicting emotions welling up into a tide of berserk fury and helplessness, the beast within us all. It was the sound of a madman. The sound came from Ward D, the ward that contained John. I ran, pounding through the hospital towards the ward where I was sure the sound had come from. The noise was horrifying, and my footfalls beat a random drumbeat tattoo over the endless scream that was ringing through my head. No-one else was awake, no doors were flying open, there were no other footsteps echoing down the empty corridors. I arrived at the ward breathless and sweating, the hospital is an utterly colossal building, and it had taken me minutes to arrive. As I drew closer the sound subsided, then stopped altogether. No-one had awoken.
When I entered the room was utterly black. I shone my torch onto all the beds. 1…2…3…4…5…6…7…8, not one patient was missing, nor had any of them awoken. I took a closer look at John, just to check. He appeared to be steadfastly asleep, but then…he could never have screamed like that. Then, as I was about to leave the ward I heard something, the dull scrape of a knife being drawn from a sheathe, almost right beside me, on my left, I turned, and, panicking, shone the torch in my right hand around once more, but nothing had changed.
Then, I noticed the stranger, still lying in bed, but with one half open, glinting with the same malice I thought, I knew, I saw earlier. Maybe this was why I had been given his list, John knew something, he always did, he was my friend, my comrade, I had to save him! This sinister outsider was a murderer, a delusional psychotic, a degenerated, insane creature bent on my friend’s demise. As I watched one of his hands seemed to stretch out of the bed towards...something, maybe John, my only friend, the one connection to humanity I had left.
It was then that I acted, just before dawn.
******* ******* ******* *******
Sure, I’ve looked into the eyes of a madman before, it’s nothing special. That’s what you get for working in a psychiatric ward I suppose. Everything that’s thought of as strange or unusual in the outside world is just everyday life here. That’s partly why I enrolled as the night watchman, 25 years ago.
My name’s Ahmed, Ahmed Smith, my father changed the family name when we moved to Britain before I was born, and I’ve never had cause to replace it. Because of this bizarre fusion, and several other factors, including mild dyspraxia and my height of 6’7, I have always kept my distance from everyday society. I suppose I could be called ‘retiring’ or ‘reclusive’. At school I never did well, and was never liked, I never had any friends, and I've never had much desire for sexual contact with anyone. I expect I was considered a ‘freak’, an outcast. For me, this is the job of my dreams. I can pursue my own interests, such as reading, history and languages, and I have honed my English to the level of any professor. I could say that I was an intellectual, all because of my job. At the time, my profession was dictated by circumstance, my lack of money or any kind of degree meant that I had to take the job which no-one else wanted, which I loathed at first.
Here at the hospital I have an excellent friend, a patient by the name of John Roman. Before I go on, I must point out that he is utterly sane, but is kept here because of misguided consultants, and personal choice. I see us as two fellow ‘hermits’, shedding the normal constraints of life to better ourselves, it is a very pleasant idea in my mind.
It was John’s ward which I now occupied, relaying to him a book I’d recently completed reading, ‘Paradise Regained’ by John Milton. I had gone to some lengths to acquire the book from the local library, I asked them to order it, and although they complied, I am often slightly paranoid. They (the librarians) always seem to watch me out of the corner of their eyes, and exchange glances. I have taken to ordering books through the mail since one occasion, when I was accused of stealing a book, which I had placed in my bag and forgotten. This kind of stigma is common wherever I go, but I endure it, and retain a tactful silence. Sometimes, I am puzzled by the general public, they seem more insane than the people I work among.
John Roman certainly appears magisterial, lying happily on his bed glowing with knowledge, although he is unwisely thin, and has lost most of his hair. When I entered he waved across the ward to me with a piece of paper covered in writing, as he usually does. While not suffering from any real illness, John does have a slight obsession with lists, and whenever a new person enters his life he immediately composes a scribbled list of seemingly mundane and unconnected actions performed by that person, each action meriting a certain score. My total was 879.
I sat by his bed and discussed certain aspects of the book with him, as he examined the cover. Our conversations are somewhat one sided, as he barely speaks, although he seems to appreciate good literature, as all the books are removed within a week of their arrival at his bedside, evidently by the nurses once they are finished. Often he simply lies there, watching the world go by from his elevated philosophical standpoint.
Just as I was about to leave a new patient was escorted into the ward in a straitjacket, and John faithfully reached for his notepad and began scribbling ardently, while I examined this stranger. He was short, about 5’3, and had long white hair that grew down from his shrivelled scalp almost halfway down his back. He certainly appeared extremely bedraggled, and I could see a wild glint in his eye, I am sure. Despite this, he conversed normally with the nurse attending him, asking how long he’d be there for, engaging in tiresome banter about nonsensical subjects, as so many ‘normal’ people do. In due course the jacket was removed and he was settled into the ward.
In seconds, John’s list was finished, and he handed me a piece of ragged paper silently, upon which I could read his list, written in the watery grey ink that is provided for patients. It read:
Does not look around on enter (35)
Scratches nose with right hand (5)
Speaks about his life ˝ octave lower than normal voice (7)
States that he will be out in a month (56)
Is left handed (14)
Right eye larger than left (22)
Teeth appear to be sharpened (67)
Does not seem perturbed by fellow patients (32)
Comments on the plastic flowers (20)
At the bottom was written the number 297. I acknowledged this to John, and eventually left the ward to commence my night watch. I wandered along the quiet white corridors to the booth where I have sat each night for the last 25 years.
Dr Morson, the consultant, keeps a very traditional hospital, and very few colours are permitted, as they are indisputably the fuel of madness. I myself find the stark blankness of the corridors refreshing, it clears my head. In the same way, during a full moon all windows in the hospital are shuttered and locked, to keep the bringer of madness away.
As I entered the booth and folded into my old grey chair a thought struck me: Why not see the full moon? I couldn’t even remember what it looked like and that night I felt a strange yearning to see it. A negligible fact that I have not yet mentioned is that it was in fact my 50th birthday. I had no presents, apart from a small piece of paper which I now clutched, the list of the wild man from ward D.
I got to my feet once more and cautiously opened the shutter in front of me. Instantly eerie shadows were cast over the whole corridor, the criss-crossed patterns of the window bars eclipsed by the madly swaying silhouettes of the thorn bushes outside, projected huge and threatening on the walls and floor, it made me feel quite dazed until I witnessed the moon. It was gigantic, far larger than I have ever remembered, and glowed a wispy blue colour, brighter than the closest stars. It was beauty, in ways I have never thought of before. I tried to banish the disturbing image from my mind but couldn’t, even when I tried to return to my books.
I had never fallen asleep on a shift before, not even once, until that fateful night. I must have dozed off somehow, and when I awoke the windows were open once more, and the room was bathed in the tranquil light. Perhaps I hadn’t closed them properly, and perhaps they’d been opened by another. My fractured mind raced, but then I realised, I hadn’t closed them at all. It must have been close to sunrise. It was then that I heard the scream.
It resonated down the corridors like a solid force, a wild, savage scream, a scream that gnawed at the soul and blinded the senses, the sound of so many confused and conflicting emotions welling up into a tide of berserk fury and helplessness, the beast within us all. It was the sound of a madman. The sound came from Ward D, the ward that contained John. I ran, pounding through the hospital towards the ward where I was sure the sound had come from. The noise was horrifying, and my footfalls beat a random drumbeat tattoo over the endless scream that was ringing through my head. No-one else was awake, no doors were flying open, there were no other footsteps echoing down the empty corridors. I arrived at the ward breathless and sweating, the hospital is an utterly colossal building, and it had taken me minutes to arrive. As I drew closer the sound subsided, then stopped altogether. No-one had awoken.
When I entered the room was utterly black. I shone my torch onto all the beds. 1…2…3…4…5…6…7…8, not one patient was missing, nor had any of them awoken. I took a closer look at John, just to check. He appeared to be steadfastly asleep, but then…he could never have screamed like that. Then, as I was about to leave the ward I heard something, the dull scrape of a knife being drawn from a sheathe, almost right beside me, on my left, I turned, and, panicking, shone the torch in my right hand around once more, but nothing had changed.
Then, I noticed the stranger, still lying in bed, but with one half open, glinting with the same malice I thought, I knew, I saw earlier. Maybe this was why I had been given his list, John knew something, he always did, he was my friend, my comrade, I had to save him! This sinister outsider was a murderer, a delusional psychotic, a degenerated, insane creature bent on my friend’s demise. As I watched one of his hands seemed to stretch out of the bed towards...something, maybe John, my only friend, the one connection to humanity I had left.
It was then that I acted, just before dawn.
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