Excerpt from . . .

Spirit Asylum
by Justin Holley

Introduction – March 1958

Clara Berg stared at the baby blue paint peeling and flaking off the walls of her hospital room—if you could even call it a room.  It was more like the last quasi livable section of an outdated facility that was experiencing its last gasp of life. 

Like me… how fitting. 

Clara knew all too well that the day she breathed her last so would go this hellhole.  Housekeeping had given up and been sent home a month ago.  No one bothered to clean up the dusty blue piles of paint that had collected along the edge of the walls.  No one bothered to clean much of anything, including her.  She had almost had to beg for a bowl of water to wash herself.  Tired of staring at the light blue piles that had become a microcosm of her ever shortening existence, Clara wheeled herself to the barred windows.  They hadn’t started out barred, but after her previous roommate had flung herself from them, the administration had thought it prudent.  Her vision was starting to fail her, but Clara still managed to stare through the barred glass down through the white pines to the lake.  Clara thought it strange that she couldn't get enough of the view now that she knew the inevitable was approaching rapidly. 

Why didn’t I notice all this before - the simple things?

The disease had crept up on her like a thief.  It crept painfully slow at first, just a productive cough that Clara had shrugged off as a small bout with allergies.  She had always gotten allergies in June, so who was to say that they couldn’t carry over into July?  Clara replayed in her mind the day she knew allergies weren’t what plagued her:

“Clara, are you okay?” Mary Beth asked. 

Clara dropped to one knee in discomfort, having just finished up with a spell of coughing.

The children continued to play, racing wildly about and almost tripping over Clara’s outstretched leg. 

“I’m fine, just a bad case of allergies is all,” Clara responded hoarsely through her hand that was still clasped too tightly over her mouth.

“You have allergies in July?” Mary Beth asked doubtfully.

Without answering, Clara pulled her hand away from her mouth and both women gasped.  The appendage was stained crimson with blood.  Shaken, Clara tried to stand and almost fell over as Mary Beth caught her and helped her to her feet.

“Max!” Mary Beth yelled frantically.

The children, their play interrupted by Beth’s frenetic concern, crowded around to see what was wrong. 

Krissy asked, “Mommy, why do you have blood on your mouth?” 

Clara quickly wiped her lips with her blouse sleeve, staining the white cashmere cuff.  The blood, not entirely removed from her lips, smeared across her teeth and right cheek.

Mary Beth helped Clara to a lawn chair and sat her down gently. 

Max came strutting gruffly around the corner of the house, but remarked amicably, “What, is it time for Krissy to open birthday presents already?  Harold and I have barely cracked our first beer.” 

When Max saw Clara, his smile faded into a mask of concern and fear.  “Honey, what’s wrong?” 

Clara held a bloody, shaking hand up to his face in lieu of a verbal response.

Briefly, Max was confused, but then noticed the blood also smeared on her lips and blouse cuff.  He immediately deduced the truth.  “We need to get you to the doc… I knew that cough was bad news from the start!”  Max yelled—not raising his voice out of anger, but fear—the fear that something was seriously wrong with the love of his life.

After making sure that Mary Beth and Harold could watch the kids, Max helped Clara to the Edsel.

Max held Clara’s elbow tenderly as he helped her walk up the concrete steps to the hospital.  Dr. Clairmont met them at the door showing more immediate concern than Max had expected. 

I’m glad calling ahead has its advantages, Max thought. 

Deep down Max knew.  The doctor was wearing a dust mask over his face and it was meant to preserve the man's immediate health.

“What’s up with the mask doc?” Max asked wryly. 

Clara, desperately trying for levity, smiled as she recalled a character in Krissy’s new book saying something like that. 

Maybe it was, “what’s up doc”, she thought.

The cute thoughts soon faded.

The doctor replied, “Just a precaution I can assure you” as he smiled through the mask.  A derisive smile, it seemed to Max.

The doctor gave a quick, frenetic wave to his nurse.  She anxiously donned a mask and disappeared into a back room with such haste that the action bordered on hysteria, her foot catching the door frame making her stumble. 

The doctor cringed at her lack of self-control.  Clairmont had always disliked her lack of discipline.  More like an actor from a B movie than a damn nurse.  He turned around slowly, reluctantly turning his attention back to Clara and Max, knowing an explanation was in order.   

Max was growing irritated.  “Did you want us scared?  Well, mission accomplished!  I suggest you start talking!” 

The doctor took a deep breath and proceeded with an explanation that neither of the Bergs were prepared to hear.

Tuberculosis Clara thought absently, still in shock. 

She could vaguely hear Max overreacting next to her, but her mind was too busy to comprehend.  The X-ray machine clicked as it took snapshots of her insides. 

Tuberculosis is what other people get… dirty people. 

Clara had been vaguely aware of the disease and its reign of terror, but it had seemed worlds away.  The thought of her or her family being even remotely involved never crossed her mind.  The thought of the Saint Julia Asylum made her shudder.  She knew full well that those who went there under the pretense of treatment never came back. 

Despite the medical advances in other parts of the country, Saint Julia had the distinct reputation of failure, as if a sinister black cloud hung over the facility like the cloud was the hunter and Saint Julia's patients the carrion. 

Clara knew very well that the black cloud was corruption and that corruption was fueled by greed.  Research pays better than curing the sick, Clara thought—over and over, as if she were in a trance. 

The doctor continued, “We’ll know for sure in just a few minutes when I get the lung X-rays back.” 

Removing a plastic cartridge from a cavity in the x-ray machine, the doctor handed a roll of film to his nurse who had crept back from her hole.  As she more than willingly disappeared into the back room once more, the nurse held the canister away from her like it contained the plague.  Dr. Clairmont shot her a sour look for her efforts.  A look the nurse never turned back to see.

Clara knew why the nurse was afraid.  She knows the truth.  Clara shook uncontrollably now, fear overwhelming her.

The doctor had tried to convince Max that it was prudent for him to also wear a mask for his own safety.  With a resounding “Fuck no!” Max had declined, refusing to believe the preliminary diagnosis. 

This can’t be happening to my family.

The nurse tentatively re-entered the room with a large manila envelope.  She crept with a paranoid diligence, as if she could actually see the disease floating about like confetti.  She excused herself rapidly.

The doctor took the photos out and hung them on the lit glass and studied them.  His eyebrows bunched, causing the wrinkles on his large forehead to deepen.  With a pronounced sigh, the doctor switched off the lights that illuminated the X-ray pictures and turned to Clara and Max. 

The look in his eyes scared Clara to her bones and she stepped behind Max as if this might somehow soften the blow of the message that the doctor was about to deliver.

Dr. Clairmont was used to this reaction and dreaded what had now become a regular occurrence.  Dr. Clairmont knew well, by now, what he had been instructed to say and he would toe the line even if it didn’t ring true—even to him.  “Clara, as we suspected you indeed have contracted Tuberculosis.”  He saw the looks of despair deepen and he hesitantly continued, “Now, let’s not panic. I have seen several people who have been cured recently because of some new breakthroughs that have been developed.  Heck, a few weeks up at Saint Julia and you will probably be ready to go home.”

With the mention of Saint Julia, Clara squeezed Max’s bicep. 

Max retorted bitterly, “We can take care of her right at home Doc.  There is no way she’s going up there.  No way! You and I both know what happens next!”

The doctor replied with soft determination, “I’m sorry”.

He abruptly left the room with smock flapping behind him.  Anywhere was better than in a room with the walking dead.

Max had to restrain himself from chasing after someone he considered to be very arrogant.  Max confused arrogance with resignation and protocol.

Max comforted Clara by holding her gently.  He stroked her hair.  "Everything's going to be okay honey.  We'll beat this disease together." 

Max looked about the room and saw the window.  He moved Clara forward with the intent of helping her through it.  "I'm taking you home right now Clara, despite Doctor Clairmont's fucking protocol!" 

Normally, Max's cursing would have brought a reprimand from Clara, but not this day.  She allowed Max to lead her to the open window.  She could feel the cool breeze of freedom as it tingled her face. 

Max parted the curtain and was in the act of guiding Clara through the window, when the door behind them burst open.  Three police officers barged into the office, knowingly.  Max realized that they had been called before the Bergs had even arrived at the hospital to curtail the very thing in which he was attempting. 

Max pushed Clara behind him and with a palm extended said, “now let’s just calm down officers.  I’m going to take my wife home to rest and that’s all there is to this.”

The first officer replied gently, “I’m sorry sir; you need to come with us so that the doctor can do what needs to be done.”

Max exploded, “I’m not going any damn place without my Clara!  Is that clear sirs?  You can go tell your corrupt boss that I said that too!”

The officers glanced at each other.  The citizens were becoming too educated for their tastes.

Max noticed their nervous reaction and spoke grimly.  "Yeah, that's right.  I'm on to you bastards!  You have no cure… only suffering and death.  All Saint Julia offers is experimentation disguised as treatment!  Take her over my dead body.”

The officer nodded to one of the others as if this were just fine with him.  The other officer silently circled in behind and tore Max from Clara’s arms as the first officer kept him occupied. 

Clara shrieked as if being murdered.

Max yelled, “leave your hands off her you son-of-a-bitches!”  He moved toward the officer with menace, his intent clear. 

The other two officers grabbed Max by the arms as he flailed at the first.  Clara slumped to the floor.

The first officer tried to calm him, “please sir; there is no sense in upsetting the other patients… your wife will come home soon enough.” 

Max struggled on.  "No one ever comes back you assholes!  Not ever!" 

The other patients scattered as the officers burst from the back room with a screaming, thrashing Max between them. The patients hoped fervently that the officers were strong enough to contain the madman.

 Max screamed, first to Clara and then at the officers as if it would do some good.  "Don't worry Clara… I'll save you honey!  I won't let them take you!  Leave her alone you bully!  I'll take you up to Saint Julia… let them experiment on you… you fuckers!" 

It took both men to escort a struggling Max outside.  On the way they passed three men in white.  Knowing them for who they were, Max’s rage was rekindled.  “Don’t you take her damn it… don’t you dare!” 

The “men in white” was how they were referred to.  So entrenched in popular culture had the depiction become, that ghost stories had been crafted to scare kids around the camp fire.  No one wanted the “men in white” to come because everyone knew; they took you to your death.  Now those children’s stories had become the Bergs’ nightmare. 

With a strength fueled by adrenaline, Max wrenched one arm free from bondage.  The surprised officer fell forward and Max used the momentum to bring his knee up and into the officer's nose.  Max felt bone and cartilage give way.  Blood erupted as if a human heart had exploded like a grenade.  The officer dropped to the pavement in agony, hands over his nose.  Max whirled on the second officer, who walked backward slowly.  Max interpreted the maneuver as being spawned by fear and he grinned fiendishly.  Then he saw the officer's eyes dart somewhere behind him.  Too late Max realized that he had been baited.  The Billy club from the third officer came down behind his left ear.  Max fell to the ground, not unconscious, but close.

After restraining Max with handcuffs as a precaution, the officers stuffed him into the back of the squad car.  The cuffs bit into his wrists and left bruises, but Max was too subdued to feel the sensation which manifested itself only as a slight prickle.  It was nothing compared to his emotional pain as he watched Clara be hauled out of the facility on a stretcher between "the men in white".  He struggled momentarily, but as fatigue and resignation pressed on him, he realized his struggle was futile. 

I'm just wasting my time.  God help me… help Clara… please. 

He slumped in his seat and watched, tears streaking his cheeks, as his wife was placed in an ambulance by the men in white.  Her eyes were wild as she looked for Max—the man who had always taken care of her.  All he could do was close his tear filled eyes.  Helpless. 

A man should never have to witness such a thing. 

Max’s heart was breaking.  He had never felt so vulnerable in all his life.  He vowed that Clara would return home to her family.  It was a vow he had no power to keep.

The first few days of Clara’s incarceration were hopeful.  The staff had been friendly enough upon her arrival, even her nurse.  "Hi there Mrs. Berg, please make yourself at home.  This is your home now after all." 

Clara winced.  "This is not my home, but I do intend to go back there shortly."

The nurse smiled politely.  "Of course Mrs. Berg, of course… just as soon as you are all better.  The first week always tells us a lot about a person."

"What about the first week?"  Clara asked hesitantly.

Again, the nurse smiled. 

Clara thought she spotted a twinge of sarcasm in it, but let it go. 

The nurse said, "Come now Mrs. Berg.  Let's not talk about such things.  I would like you to meet your roommate."

A young girl—hair black as slate—glided into the room merrily.  "Hi… my name is Charlotte.  Are you to be my new roommate?"  Red swirls danced about the whites of the little girl's eyes, depicting the onset of disease.

Clara stared briefly, but then caught herself.  She didn't want to appear rude.  "Yes, I am your new roommate—at least briefly—and my name is Clara."

"Hi Clara, I have been here a week already… all alone."

Clara tried to subdue, what she considered to be, the young girl's apprehensions.  "I am sure your parents have been up to visit you regularly.  Soon you'll go home."

The girl smiled shyly.  "They stopped coming now.  The doctors made them… they said I had no hope.  I'm going to die."

Clara looked sternly at the nurse and then back to Charlotte.  "Is that what your parents told you?  What a horrible thing to say to such a pretty young girl.  You'll be just fine I'm sure."

The nurse jumped in, sensing the conversation was taking a direction in which was not prudent to go.  "Of course she will.  You'll see your mommy very soon honey."

Clara thought the nurses words rang hollow, but gave no indication of her feelings.

Charlotte said, "We're the last you know."

"The last of what honey?"  Clara asked.

"The last of the experiments," charlotte answered somberly.

The nurse, putting an arm around Charlotte, guided her from the room.  "Now Charlotte, that's enough of this wild talk.  Let's get you to bed."  She looked at Clara with a knowing grin.  "You know how kids are." 

Clara watched them exit.  The last of what?

Despite her resounding beginnings, Clara finally came to understand just what havoc a week could administer on her lungs.  After the first few days, everyone knew that Clara would die there.  As Clara weakened, every day then started out with the bitterness that threatened to overwhelm her.  It ended only after suicidal thoughts, that Clara didn’t even have the energy to carry out, finally allowed her to sleep. 

Soon I will sleep forever. 

The thought was slowly becoming less cliché.  Max and the rest of Clara’s family had quit visiting days ago when the last bit of optimism for recovery had been exhausted.  Quarantine had a way of taking its toll on the family and without recovery even being a remote option no one had wanted to watch her die. 

Who could blame them?  

Part of Clara knew it was best for the children to just keep them away—to let them get used to life without her, but the small part of her, that part that was still alive, ached for them.  The ache for the little things was the worst: little Krissy’s affectionate hugs, Mathew’s excited story telling about the last frog he had caught, and even the peculiar way that Max walked around in his boxers first thing in the morning.  The memories made her smile momentarily until reality again reared its head.

There hadn’t been much communication as Clara had stared at Max across the Plexiglas divider for the last time.  He had not brought the children this very last time.  The silence and mournful look in his eyes told her that her family would not return again.  The conversation had been mercifully brief.

Max wept silently.  Then, "I'm sorry Clara, I'm such a fool."

Clara knew something was wrong, but—despite her anxiety—offered encouragement to her man, as she always had.  "You are no fool Max Berg.  You have done all that there is to be done.  You didn't invent this horrid disease."

Max stared past Clara, emotionless save for his quiet tears.  "I should never have let them take you."

Clara shook her head solemnly.  "No Max that was never an option.  They saw to that… they were going to have me no matter what."

Max frowned insipidly.  "I hate this dirty little town with its dirty little secrets.  Fuck them!  I'm going to take the kids and leave this hellhole!"     

Am I really that far gone? Clara thought.  Far enough gone for Max to speak of leaving?

As if Max had read her mind, he spoke quietly.  "I'm sorry Clara.  I can't bring the kids any longer.  They… I can't stand to see you like this anymore.  I… I'm so sorry."

Clara, her breathe coming in gulps, nodded.  "I'm dieing Max… its okay.  I can't even be a wife to you through this damn glass."

Max frowned as his tears flowed freely.  "You have always been more than enough wife for me Clara Berg.  You always shall be… if only in my dreams."

Clara let out a small sob.  "Remember me as I was then… that is how I want to be remembered, not like this."

Clara's eyes filled with tears as she watched Max walk away.  She knew that he was only a shell of what he once was.  Clara realized that it was not just her that the disease was taking its toll on.  She knew that Max had justified these last actions to himself days ago.

Now she sat alone at her window—mirror in hand with barely the strength to sit up.  Pride only, kept her upright.  After she was taken back to her room, Clara had asked to see a mirror.  Reluctantly, and only after stern words from Clara, had the nurse agreed to bring her one.   The first image that she had seen of herself in weeks caused Clara to flinch as she looked on at the white ghost before her.  Clara closed her eyes, kept them shut for a few long seconds, and then opened them slowly hoping that the mirage was gone. 

It was not. 

Had she known what a monster she had become she would have never put her family through the misery of seeing her this way.  This is definitely not how she wanted to be remembered.  She wrote a final note to Max apologizing. 

She continued to stare at the figure in the mirror that she barely recognized: the ghost white pallor in stark contrast to the blood red lips and receding gums.  The red veins that blurred the whites of her eyes seemed to be alive as they shifted around her fading blue irises.  Clara didn’t recognize the person she saw and the shock caused her to hack on the mucus collecting in her lungs.  The force propelled crimson droplets of spittle and plastered them to the mirror in a macabre design.  Clara studied the design like it was a work of art as she reached for her tissue and wiped the blood from her lips. 

Not much longer now, she thought turning from the depressing image of death.  I may as well be dead already.       

Clara sat idly in her wheel chair, waiting for death to take her, when Charlotte walked into the room.  Clara had not seen Charlotte for days and was surprised to see her walking.  The last time that Clara had seen Charlotte, a full day ago, she had been bed ridden.  "Hi there honey, what are you doing up and about?  Are you feeling better?"  Clara's words came out with a croak, the blood beginning to clog her vocal cords.

  Charlotte did not answer, nor did she even turn to acknowledge Clara.  Charlotte walked to the barred windows and looked out upon the lake.

Clara wondered about the bars.  She hadn't noticed them yesterday.

As if to clarify, Charlotte grabbed the bars with both of her little hands as if she just might try and yank the bars away.  Still she remained silent.

Clara wondered if the little girl had gone deaf.  She said, more loudly this time, "Charlotte, are you okay honey?"

Charlotte turned toward Clara in a methodical shuffle, finally making eye contact.   

Clara thought that she looked morbidly pale and noticed that Charlotte's eyes were the color of coal.  Something has to be wrong.

Otherwise ignoring Clara, charlotte walked from the room.

Clara sat in her chair silently, until the nurse brought her dinner—a tasty bottle of Ensure.  Clara asked, "Why was Charlotte walking about today?"

The nurse looked at her quizzically.  She stayed quiet so long that it made Clara uncomfortable.  Finally, "I'm sorry Clara, that's impossible.  Didn't you hear?"

Clara was confused.  "Hear what?

The nurse stammered, "That's why the bars are there… because of the broken glass."

Clara began to choke with fear.  "What are you trying to say?  I said I just saw Charlotte."

The nurse turned white.  "That… that's just not possible Clara.  Charlotte died yesterday morning.  She flung herself from the window while you were at lab.  That's why I brought you to a different room yesterday."

Clara was stricken.  "Why didn't you tell me?"

The nurse recoiled.  "I didn't want you to know you were the last… the last patient.  I'm so sorry Clara."

Clara stared at the barred window, incredulous.

The nurse snuck from the room.  No one wanted to see a ghost.  She would go to seek Fred the janitor for her comfort.  She gave no regard for Clara's well being at all.

Clara, knowing better than to count on the nurse for comfort, closed her eyes out of fatigue, the shock and disease leaving her wanting.  She dreamed vividly.

Clara looked on in morbid fascination as Charlotte breathed her last.  She saw the chest deflate never to rise again.  The little dark haired girl’s eyes pierced into hers and widened in terror as the realization set in that no more air would be coming to supply oxygen.  Clara could not break the eye contact as she watched the life slip away from them, knowing that she was not far behind.  In her panic and last throes of life, Charlotte blindly got up and ran—smashing through the large plate glass windows and falling.  Clara found herself wondering if Charlotte had been alive when she hit the ground.  Clara was not even surprised by her lack of attachment.  It was like watching a stranger die.

Clara awoke with a start.  The dream… it was so real. 

She tried to sit up straight in her chair, but it was becoming increasingly more difficult as her vitality waned.  Her breath came in rasps.  In the last few days, Clara had plenty of time to think about how this life was fragile and all that mattered was what happened next.  Her intent was not to be cold about Charlotte’s passing, just resigned to her own fate and a bit jealous that Charlotte’s suffering was now over.  Death no longer scared her. It was inevitable and only hours away. Clara felt less air enter her lungs with each passing minute.  Clara in fact welcomed the end, but the implications that this apparition smacked of made her question what lie beyond this mortal coil. 

There must be life after, but what kind? 

Father Jones had offered her some assurances, but how did this fit in?  With no hope of recovery, Clara had already been given her last rights.  The friendly little priest and his son saw no point in returning, a point that Clara thought quite unprofessional, but then—as with the rest of the corrupt, greedy town—she expected no less.   

Clara pulled her blanket up around her shoulders thinking that the administration had finally turned off the heat as well. 

Damn it’s cold. 

Clara shivered involuntarily as icy tentacles caressed her arms.  The deepening fall season lent itself to the need for more and more oil burning.  Clara figured that they would not bother to heat a 100 bed facility for one dieing patient.  Then the furnace roared to life proving her theory false, yet the chill remained.  Goose bumps formed on Clara’s neck and shoulders as she sensed a presence to her blind side.  Slowly she wheeled her chair to the right.  At first Clara thought that the evening shadows were playing tricks.  The shadows danced eerily and she almost convinced herself that it was nothing, but then Charlotte, at least it looked like Charlotte, came into full view (as if a sheer curtain had been lifted).  She stared at Clara with those coal black eyes and this time Clara knew the truth of the matter.  The apparition faded in and out, pulsing as if with an electric current; at one moment solid and the next sheer.  The shock made Clara choke on the mucus that was increasing in her lungs.  Panicking, Clara reached for the bell that might summon help, lost her balance, and plummeted to the cold tile floor.

The last time that she had rung it, when Clara had actually needed something outside of her scheduled activities, she had had to wait for the sounds of love making to subside before anyone came. 

Not love making at all actually… but like two animals screaming. 

Clara ironically thought about sex quite often.  She tried to keep the memory of Max’s caresses alive in her mind.  Clara had even tried touching herself, fantasizing about what it would be like when she could touch her own husband again.  As the inevitable became apparent, however, her sexual desire had gone dormant and she recalled that the dirty sounds of the fierce carnage from the ward office had actually nauseated her.  Even when the nurse had come, it had obviously been an inconvenience—like a mother coming to a child’s bed in her bath robe. 

As Clara lay sprawled on the floor, dazed, waiting for help that wouldn’t be coming, Charlotte glided to the freshly barred windows as she had before.  With one last anguished look at Clara that seemed to say “you are next”, the apparition disappeared.

Clara could only lay there, helpless.  The air into her lungs came less and less.

Where is the damn nurse? Clara thought, panicking. 

Then the realization had hit her—no one was coming this time, not at all.  Icy prickles nibbled at her skin as Clara finally came to understand that her death was but moments away.  The pain in her chest was unbearable, as if her lungs were coming alive and about to burst forth like slimy tentacles.  With her last bit of energy, she reached desperately for the pad of paper and pen on her bed table.  With great effort, Clara pulled them to her and quickly read over the last message to Max that she had written earlier.  She sincerely hoped the unreliable staff would have the decency to deliver it.

My Dearest Max,

                        I am sorry for what I have put you and the kids through.

You are a saint for having visited as much as you have.  This will be our last correspondence… please know that I love you.  Please tell the kids that I love them.  It is okay to move on. Give the kids a good life.  I mean that sincerely Max.

Love, Clara

Exhausted, Clara slumped to the floor.  The vertigo caused by lack of oxygen overwhelmed her.  As she faded, the pain began to subside. 

Strange, Clara thought.  Is this what dieing feels like? 

Clara started to see bright lights dance about her periphery and then the blackness started creeping in from the outer edges of her vision. 

I am actually witnessing the last seconds of my existence, Clara thought. 

She struggled for every last second she could.  Her lungs heaved as they desperately tried to suck in air—they failed, akin to a fish flopping on shore as its mouth groped for life.  Clara saw the light blue walls, the tiled floor piled with blue flakes, and then just as the light was but a pin point she saw something else flash fiercely before her eyes. 

“Oh my God,” Clara managed to gurgle through drowning lungs, with her last bit of air left available.

With her last seconds of life, Clara grabbed the pen and scrawled on the note pad what she had just seen.  Finished, the pen dropped from Clara’s hand as her head fell with a dull thud back to the cold, tile floor.  The pin point of light went out and Clara exhaled her last.

Eventually responding to the bell and hardly even reacting when she found Clara on the floor, the nurse walked back out of the room and called for the coroner and then the hospital administrator.  The last patient had finally expired and it was time for her to find a new job.  She would miss screwing Frank the janitor and getting paid for it, but she figured nothing lasted forever. 

The coroner, upon his arrival, unceremoniously rolled Clara onto the gurney and his two interns carried her out, blood pouring from Clara’s open mouth and splattering on to the floor.  The wind caused by the stirring of Clara’s corpse sent two pieces of paper skittering towards the heat duct.  The first—Clara’s death scribbles—found a hole in the grating and fell down through the duct work.  The other stuck to a bar.  The coroner walked up to it and picked it up. 

Just another last love note like all the others… you would think people would be more inspired during their last moments. 

He crumpled up the note to Max and threw it into the waste bucket on his way to catch up with his staff. This was to thankfully be his last trip to this God forsaken asylum and that was fine by him.

A few days later, the administrator made one last sweep of the facility, checking every room and making sure nothing of value had been left unmoved.  He was disappointed; one never had enough after all.  Satisfied that all was as it should be, he locked the front door and walked to his car.  Had he looked up, he would have seen a woman staring down at him through black eyes.  He did not.  The woman looked on as the administrators car drove out of sight.  Then she too slowly disappeared into the shadows—she could wait.          

Close Window