VII

“Norfolk Regional Mortuary, case number 1-228-9J. Patient is recently deceased, nineteen years of age, Caucasian male. Patient was admitted two years prior to date of death to Norfolk Institute for Mental Health with strongly recurring symptoms of paranoia, seizures, and black-outs. Continual study and deliberation lead to a tentative diagnosis of advanced schizophrenia. Treatments continued according to medical standards, although several ‘experimental’ treatments were recommended and attempted.”

Two men stand in a cold room, one young, out of college, and already with that air of superiority that comes to people whoimagine the world owes them something. He had been speaking and had reached over to turn off the tape, running a hand through his hair while his friend put on drab green scrubs.

“Did you hear about this guy?”

The other man, a little older than the first pokes his head out of the cloth, his light hair tousled in a manner that would’ve been comical, were they anywhere else. Blinking, he slowly responds,

“No...they just stuck me down here earlier today. Garden variety mental patient, right?”

Superiority chuckles a little, and shrugs, “Well mostly, but his complaints, all his raving, it was very...focused. You see, he gibbered constantly about a phantom pursuant to whom he credited much of his psychosis. I worked with him a little, and it was always ‘The Man’ this and ‘that damn hat’ that.” He waved his hands about in a mock-fright, and grinned. Blondie smiles wanly and shakes his head. Seeing this, Superiority looks closely at his coworker, who had been fixedly staring into the eyes of the corpse, drawn, drawn...

“You look like you believe it or something! Come on! You heard what I read off the guys chart, ‘advanced schizophrenia’ it doesn’t get much more standard than that.”

“Yeah...Yeah.” He nods a little, “Garden variety.” Nervous laughter escapes his lungs, Blondie puts on his gloves. “Well...shall we continue? It’s about time to get our hands dirty.”

Superiority takes one more look at Blondie and turns the tape back on, drawing a deep breath, gathering the airs of professionalism and superiority back around him like a shroud.

“Patient was found to have abnormally low levels of glutamate receptors as well as an apparent malfunction with the dopamine levels in his frontal lobe. These have been called to have been the contributing factors to patient’s mental state and death. Aside from mental health, patient is in fairly prime physical condition, no signs of smoking or abusive behaviors on the exterior of the body. Although the patient has a broken ankle and bruised trachea, presumably from the fall the patient took as he ran from the institution he was admitted at. There are also traces of blood from the ear, indicating a sudden aneurysm, presumably in the brain, although further examination of the brain will be required. This was mostly likely caused by rising levels of stress on the mind and body from the patients escape and a possibly schizophrenic attack. Also to be noted is a three inch scar on the subject’s temple, patient’s medical history will have to be examined to determine if this has any relation to the cause of death. Time of death was approximated by the orderly, who discovered both the patient’s and a co-worker’s body in succession, to be 3:15 P.M.”

The tape is once more clicked off and the room is silent momentarily. Superiority takes a glance down at the young man, not much younger than himself, and sighs, not yet used to the burden of death and the knowledge of its intricacies.

“Like an over-inflated tire...Another one bites the dust.” He runs his fingers through his hair again and shakes it a little bit. “Would you mind prepping? I’m gonna take a breather, the air’s a little...” Superiority let the sentence hang in the air.

“Yeah, sure thing. I’m good to go.” Blondie offers a little smile and a manly pat on the shoulder for condolence, giving him that ‘you-get-used-to-it’ look, so familiar to veterans of any trade. Superiority was really tired of working on psychos, there was never any excitement to it, just a blown fuse or a bad connection that eventually brought the whole house down. As it goes, “for want of a nail...” Except, for this guy it was probably for want of more than a few crayons to his box. One thing he wouldn’t be wanting, however, was his stuff.

With a quick glance backwards to affirm the absence of observation, Superiority moseys to the table where the possessions of the deceased are laid out, for assistance in determining the various mundane details of the patients life which might have led to his demise. It mostly came to naught, as most of the people that came through here had little but trinkets. In any case, it was worth a shot. He rummages around, wallet, photos, class ring, now what’s this? His hands feel around the brim of one of the odd sorts of hats that people in gangster movies always wear. He puts it on, white, he likes it. He chances a look back, quickly, ready for a sharp reprimand, but Blondie is now wrist deep in the corpse’s chest, mumbling into the tape and weighing things. Superiority looks in the mirror to his left, shifting this way and that, grinning openly.

Something’s kind of off about the fit, though. He takes it off, running his fingers through the inside of the brim. A folded piece of index card falls to the metal table under him. Without knowing it, Superiority’s heartbeat is increasing and his breath is drawn. He picks it up. The police usually took stuff like this, notes, letters, newspaper clippings...odd they didn’t hound over something like this. Then again, the police were often more likely to pull over and question someone cruising five miles over the speed limit than ever actually getting to the heart of anything.

“Wonder what it says..” Superiority mumbles outloud.

“What’s that?” Click.

“Nothing I,” a quick pause to exercise creative liscence, “have a song stuck in my head is all.”

“Hope it’s good.” Click.

“We’ll find out...” but Blondie is already back in his work, searching for Atlantis or El Dorado or something that’ll make him famous. Curiosity and boredom work in tandem as Superiority opens the card. He’s breathing rather rapidly now, his eyes small and sharp. Scrawled in bold, full capital print are four words:

OLLY OLLY OXEN FREE

Cordially added, in what seems to be a painstaking script is the byline, “The Man in White” and a crude smiley face. The intern laughs, a dry, barking sound in the lifeless room. He quickly stops, realizing how out of breath and thirsty he is. His smile remains as he holds the index card between his fingers, rifling it. Still musing, he reflects on how absurd the depth and scale of false reality the human mind can create for itself until eventually its consumed by what itself concocted. A few unbalanced amino acids, jumbled connections, that’s all it takes. Heck, it could’ve been Mr. Superiority himself on the table. He shakes his head, now he’s just getting himself worked up, like telling ghost stories in a tent while the night presses on outside. Yet, this young man, not much more than a boy, believed in the darkness and maybe he did see

“That’s just crazy talk, nothing more, nothing less.” He affirmed aloud to deaf ears, as if stifling an outburst. “Nothing but the concoction of a mad hatter.”

“Oh, ah wouldn’t be so quick to jump to conclusions, ‘specially if ya don’t know where you’re gonna land. And by the way, I’m gonna be needin my hat returned, if ya will.”

The man in white smiled.

Hello dear faithful readers, I see that some of you have indeed made it to the conclusion of my little tale. This piece is very personal to me as it's the first piece of extended fiction I've ever written. As a result of which, it's very rough, probably full of plotholes and God knows what else, so please, do a little soul searching, and leave me a review. You never know what you'll turn up while you're in there.