BECKY'S FRIEND

Some people stay locked up and stowed away from society, for their own good—the doctors say, the courts say—but Becky disagreed. She didn't see things that way at all. The only things she saw were white, the white walls of Saint Genevieve Sanitarium, the stark white sheets of her bed, and the blinding whiteness of her pajamas.

In all that whiteness, there wasn't much to keep her interest. All she had were her thoughts and her sister—Jenny.

The only problem with that was... Jenny was dead.

Alone in her white room, she listened to her sister prattle on about the plan. Becky’s eyes looked unfocused, out the periphery, to the window, where freedom lay, somewhere out past the woods surrounding the sanitarium, out past the town of Smyrna. She couldn’t get there in her current state; all she could do was sit on top of her bed, above the white sheets, and drool.

The only color in her world was her crow’s nest of Irish-red-hair. She couldn’t remember the last time she held a brush. They didn’t trust her with such things anymore, not after the fifteenth time she tried to escape. She used a brush to beat one of the guards.

It wasn’t her fault—he trapped her—she had to.

Tasers brought that escape to an end. And from then on, she was brushless and well medicated. She tended to behave, so they say, when she was on her meds; that’s why they kept her in a constant medically induced zombification, like the other patients. So, she drooled a lot.

Becky’s hands worked almost by themselves, twitching nervously, rubbing together. Her head swiveled to some unknown, unheard music.

“Becky, it's almost time. He's on his way right now.”

Becky looked around the empty room and almost let a smile slip, but she figured they might be watching. She didn’t want to get caught again.

“Oh, can't wait. How about you? Once we get out of here, New York, Baby! Yeah! We'll get pizza first, right? You promised me I could have pizza, Haven't had any in so long.”

She finally let the smile out as she looked past the bars on the window.

“I swear on grandma's knitting that we’re getting the biggest pizza we can find.”

She looked down at the tile floor and saw one of the mind-numbing pills, an orange horse pill, shaped like a football with weird hieroglyphics carved into one side. She looked at the door, moving only her eyes, allowing them just to drift.

Nobody was there. The view window into her room was empty — no stranger’s eyes.

She kicked the pill with her heel, making it vanish into the dark depths under her bed. She looked around for any others, but the floor was clean, so she sat there, drooled more, and swayed a bit, just for effect.

“I can hear him now. He's getting closer. Remember what to do?”

She nodded her drowsy head and blinked her heavy-lidded eyes. She looked ready to fall over.

“He's coming in with your lunch any minute. God, I hate that stuff; it’s like they’re trying to poison you. Who calls that food? Do you think it’s poison?”

Becky shrugged slightly, making it a part of her body swaying to unheard music, part of a neck twinge. She did that sometimes, twitched. Nobody would know the difference.

“It's Ken. The one that likes to grope you. So, you don't feel bad about doing what needs to be done.”

An evil smile crept across Becky’s face as the thoughts in her head darkened. She’d do it. He deserved it.

“You're doing great. If I didn't know, I'd be fooled. Just hope it's enough for these guys, or at least Ken. He's an idiot anyway.”

Jenny’s voice faded. The silence fell almost painfully into Becky’s ears, but in the distance, she heard them...

—Ken’s footsteps.

“You remember what to do, right?”

She growled, softly, to herself. The little sound never left her room. It could have been confused with the sound of her stomach complaining about how long ago breakfast was, and Jenny’s talk of pizza didn’t help.

“Okay. Okay. I just don't want anything to go wrong.”

A moment passed; the footsteps stopped outside the door.

JINGLE. JINGLE.

Keys at the door let her know that Ken was there. He came in with a tray: her lunch. She didn’t look up.

“Hey, Becky, time for dinner.” His goateed face smirked. It looked like he was choking on a squirrel he tried to eat.

She looked up at him—slowly.

Full-on drool slipped out of her mouth. Her eyes drooped. Ken laughed and held the tray higher as she reached for it. Her arms moved slow, sluggish, and weak.

“Come on, Becky. Come on. You can do it,” he said, keeping it out of her reach.

Becky’s hands dropped. She stared at the wall on the other side of the room.

“Aww, don't you want your dinner?” Ken said as he brought the tray just inches from her face so that she could smell it.

It was some amalgamation of turkey parts drowned in a watery gravy, some cooked-so-long-they-wrinkled peas, and what passed for mashed potatoes (fresh from flakes).

Her nose flared. It smelled like food, but she knew better.

She nodded her head anyway.

“Then you know what you have to do for it.” He pulled the tray away again.

She stood—slowly—like a background cast of a zombie flick. She straightened as much as she could while pretending to have mush for muscles and Jello for bones.

“That a girl.” He smiled.

She looked down at herself, at her stark white pajamas. She tugged at her button-up blouse.

“Come on. Don't want me to take it away, do you?”

He pretended to start for the door, but she stopped him by shaking her head and beginning to undo the buttons on her shirt, bottom first. She shook her head as she did.

“Yeah, you are hungry, ain't you?” He smiled again.

The squirrel on his face looked like it needed help. She froze halfway up the row of buttons. Her belly showed as she dropped her hands and stared into the nothing of one of the great white walls of her room.

Drool and more drool.

“What?” he asked, waving a meaty paw in front of her face. “What the hell you doing?” He lowered the tray to the bed and leaned in to look into her unfocused eyes.

“Ah, hell, I think you're broken more than usual.” He sighed and started to turn.

Becky blinked and rammed her forehead into Ken’s face, right into the bridge of his nose. Blood spurted out, and he fell to the floor, grabbing at his broken nose.

She kicked him in the groin for good measure, snatched his keys, and bolted from the room, slamming the door shut behind her. Through the view window, she watched him writhe, clutching his broken nose.

His squirrel was bloody—maybe she’d put it out of its misery.

She chuckled, turned on her heel, and disappeared.

***

Ken lay sprawled on the cold tile floor, clutching his broken nose, his breath hitching with every sharp inhale. Blood trickled down his lips, pooling in his throat, making him cough. His testicles throbbed in agony, sending waves of pain through his gut. Curled up in a fetal position, he whimpered—small, pathetic. He wasn’t used to being on the receiving end. No one had ever hit him before.

Except for one man. And that man was dead.

All through high school, Ken had thrown the punches. The school bully. The towering brute that loomed over the smaller, weaker kids. He dished out pain and humiliation without hesitation. When he showed up with a black eye or fresh bruises, no one asked questions. They already knew. And if anyone whispered about it behind his back, he made sure they learned the hard rule of the fist: you don’t talk about Ken’s business. Not twice, anyway.

But fighting at school only ever sent him back home—the one place he dreaded most.

Ken took his time getting there, dragging his feet, hiding in the woods, losing himself in the silence of not-thinking.

That emptiness was his only escape from the leather belt, from the backhanded slaps that sent him crashing into the glass dining table. That emptiness became his closest friend.

—especially after his mother left.

The old man claimed she ran off to the big city. Maybe she did. Maybe she walked to the highway, stuck out her thumb, and climbed into the first car that stopped for a halfway-decent pair of legs. Maybe she offered to fuck or suck her way out of town—anything to escape.

Or maybe she never left at all.

Rumors swirled that his father had dragged her to the asylum to cure her hysteria. That was why Ken started working there, searching every hollow-eyed patient’s face, looking for a trace of his mother. But he never found her.

She was gone, leaving Ken and his little brother alone with the monster.

It would’ve been easy to blame the drinking, easy to say his father turned cruel because of Mom’s disappearance. But Ken knew better. His father was just bad. He would’ve been a bastard even if she had stayed, even if he had never touched a drop of liquor.

Maybe it ran in the blood. Maybe it was genetic.

Ken always knew he was a monster too.

"You gonna let that bitch get the better of you?" The voice slithered through his head, unmistakable despite the grave it should have been rotting in.

“No, sir,” Ken muttered, spitting blood onto the tile.

"Then quit lying there like a pussy and go get her."

Ken knew his father was dead. He had made sure of it. Told everyone the old man had gone off to the city, looking for his wife. The townsfolk knew better, but no one gave enough of a damn to prove otherwise. They all turned a blind eye.

He had carved the bastard up himself, fed him piece by piece into the incinerator hidden in the asylum’s basement.

A lot of bodies disappeared down there.

Every time Ken saw thick, black smoke curling into the sky, he imagined his father’s ghost watching him, disapproving as ever. He always flipped it the bird.

"What are you waiting for? Christmas? Hate to break it to you, boy, but your ma made that up. There ain't no Sanny Claus. And that girl’s getting away. Do your job, or go home."

Ken’s fingers curled into fists. His breath steadied.

"I'm gonna get her," he said, dragging himself up, wiping the tears from his eyes.

"What was that?"

"I'm gonna get that bitch."

"‘Bout time you grew a pair. Now get your ass up and go find her."

Ken staggered to his feet, his vision swimming. Something under Becky’s bed caught his eye. He reached down and scooped up a handful of discolored pills, tossed carelessly into the corner.

He rolled the pills in his palm, watching the way they caught the dim fluorescent light. His fingers clenched around them, grinding them into his bloody palm.

His lip curled as he let out a sharp, humorless laugh, his broken nose flaring pain through his skull.

Smart girl. But not smart enough.

***

In the hallway, Becky’s feet flapped against the concrete floor. When she first arrived at the hospital, it had been covered in black-and-white linoleum tiles, but those tiles were old. Nurses complained about tripping over the ones that had come up along the edges. The hospital sprung for new flooring but could only do a section at a time. It was Becky’s turn.

She remembered switching rooms frequently before they finally settled her into her current one. The old tile had a pattern. When the meds messed with her mind, she saw pictures in them. But that was weeks ago—blurry, distant weeks.

Then they took the tiles away. They took all of them in her wing, swearing they’d put in new ones, but they hadn’t. The starkness of her room might have driven her insane, but luckily, her sister visited, bringing news from the outside world.

Becky sauntered down the hall, working out her stiff muscles. The doctors insisted on exercise, but the nurses were reluctant. She wasn’t sure why. So, she usually got none.

As she walked, other patients came to their doors, peering through their small windows. Some she recognized, some she didn’t. Many were young, kids from her school—kids everyone thought had run away to New York.

She knew why they were here. Their parents or grandparents had locked them away. Maybe they were caught whispering about leaving town, or a pregnancy had been discovered, or someone was gay. Maybe a girl had been labeled a slut—never the boys, just the girls. Boys were expected to sow their wild oats. Fathers even took their sons to the city for their first experience with prostitutes, to ensure they knew how to "take care" of a wife.

This place existed to make inconvenient people disappear—to teach them a lesson, to silence them with pills shoved down their throats like stuffing in a turkey.

She saw them in their little windows, their eyes pleading for freedom, but their bodies were too doped-up to move even if the doors were flung wide open. Prisoners inside their own skin.

But they could still make noise.

They did.

Some rocked back and forth, their heads smacking against the glass in a slow, rhythmic drumbeat.

Then they started chanting.

"Becky!" Over and over. "Becky!"

"You hear that?" her sister asked. "They’re cheering for you. You’ve given these poor slobs hope. You're a hero. They want you to escape."

Becky stopped and curtsied to her audience.

"Enjoy it while you can, but don’t stop too long," her sister said, suddenly agitated. "Ken’s going to call it in. We need to go. New York awaits us..."

Becky waved to her fans.

"...and pizza."

She stopped. The patients grew silent. The hall dimmed. A rattling sound echoed through the building, like an asthmatic breath growing louder and louder. Then the lights winked out. The building wheezed, phlegm caught in its throat.

"Becky, listen to me—don’t listen to the noise—listen to me. It can’t have you if you escape. You have to go now. Don’t let the darkness touch you. Please."

Light from the windows fell in columns, piercing the shadows. Becky watched as the darkness stretched out like hands reaching for her. She reached back and touched it.

She was surrounded by blackness, utterly alone. The emptiness weighed on her. It would be easy to lie down, to let the darkness take her. Now she understood why so many of her friends had taken their own lives.

She felt movement—things slithering, circling her. Unseen monsters with gnashing teeth. They wanted her.

"Think about it. It'll be like it used to be. Just us. The Teg sisters at it again. And that pizza’s waiting—but we have to go."

Jenny’s voice pulled her back.

A silhouette emerged from the darkness. Jenny. Older, taller, worried.

"They’re coming."

BLERR! BLERR! BLERR!

Sirens shrieked. Becky clapped her hands over her ears. She was back. The hospital. The real world.

The darkness fled. Fluorescents flickered on, banishing the shadows. Jenny was gone.

The patients screamed. They scratched at their faces. They banged their heads into the walls, trying to drown out the alarm with their own pain.

Becky ran. Fast enough to escape the noise, fast enough to find Jenny. She slammed into walls, rounded corners too quickly, stumbling through the maze of halls.

Then she found it...

—the balcony door.

She fumbled with the stolen keys. First key—no. Second—no. Third—yes!

Sunlight burst through as she stepped outside. Fresh air. Real air.

She turned to shut the door. Darkness recoiled from the light, hissing.

She locked it.

Below, the garden stretched out—autumnal and dying. The patients who wandered there were lifeless. Waiting. They knew they would wither, vanish into the basement incinerator, their ashes decorating Smyrna’s mantels.

Smoke curled from a lone working chimney, thick and greasy. The air smelled of roasted pig and burning hair. She gagged.

A door slammed open.

A flood of nurses in white spilled onto the balcony. One clutched a syringe behind his back. Thorazine. Again.

"Come on, Becky. Take it easy," one coaxed. "Don’t do anything you’ll regret. Come back inside. We’ll get you some chocolate pudding."

More nurses crept through the door behind her. Darkness pooled behind them. They weren’t in control. They were puppets. The shadow was the puppeteer.

"Come on, Becky. Just one story down." Jenny’s voice was distant, desperate. "There’s ivy you can climb. Hurry!"

Becky grabbed the vines. They cut into her palms, but she climbed.

Hands snatched at her from above. She dodged, twisted, kept going. Below, more hands—cold, unseen—brushed her fingers.

She gasped.

She fell.

The world blurred. She hit the ground hard. Pain shot through her head. Blood seeped between her fingers as she touched the growing lump.

The patients in the garden watched. Their hollow eyes filled with something new.

Hope.

A withered man on a stone bench whispered, "Where are you going, Becky? Stay with us."

His voice carried the weight of countless lost years, a whisper of forgotten souls bound to this place. His black eyes, deep and endless, shimmered with something that could have been sorrow—or hunger.

"Don't listen!" Jenny's voice was faint.

"Shut it!" the man snarled at the air. Then, to Becky, "Stay where it's safe. I can look after you here. Outside, you’ll be alone. Here, you’ll belong."

Becky ran.

"Becky! Becky! Becky!" The patients chanted louder, fiercer.

She reached the wall. Green forest beckoned beyond.

She climbed. The nurses below begged. One started climbing after her.

“Come down, please.” The nurse inched closer, reaching out—almost close enough to grab her foot. “You don’t want to worry your grandma again, do you? After your sister’s death, you’re all she has left.”

Becky stared down at him, her expression clouded with confusion.

“I know you miss her, but running away won’t bring her back.”

“No.” Becky’s voice quivered, dry and unfamiliar. Had it really been so long since she last spoke? Then, stronger this time: “You lie!”

The shout tore at her throat.

He reached for her again, but she lashed out, her foot connecting hard with his face. He tumbled backward, crashing into the huddle of nurses below. They parted just in time, letting him slam into the ground.

A sickening crack.

The man didn’t move. His eyes stared—wide, empty.

Becky’s breath hitched. A wave of nausea swelled in her gut. Tears burned hot down her cheeks.

The nurses didn’t acknowledge the broken body at their feet. Instead, they regrouped, lifting their heads as one, gazes locked onto her.

“Please, let us help you,” one of them called out. His voice shifted, warping—becoming deep and crackling, just like the voice of the old man in the garden. “We can make the pain go away. Come back inside.”

“Fuck ‘em, Becky. Let’s go get pizza,” Jenny’s voice whispered, coaxing.

But there was a problem.

No ivy covered the outside of the wall. In fact, every bit of vegetation within fifty feet had been ripped away, leaving only a barren strip of earth. A moat of nothingness surrounding the hospital—no, the prison.

Becky swung her legs over, heart pounding—she dropped.

The impact sent a shockwave of pain through her legs. Her right ankle twisted, something inside wrenching at a sickening angle. She crumpled, gasping.

Her ankle swelled instantly, blooming red and angry. She clenched her jaw, pressing her back against the wall for support. The dark green woods loomed ahead, smelling of damp earth and freedom.

It felt like sleep. If she could just reach the trees, she could rest. Maybe sleep forever.

“Come on, Becky. They're coming.” Jenny’s voice floated toward her—distant now, farther away than ever before. “I can’t make you do this. You have to do this on your own…”

Becky looked at her hands, raw and bleeding.

“—because you’re not real.” Her own voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. “You’re not here.”

“How could you say that?” Jenny’s voice trembled. “Of course, I’m real. As real as you or anybody.”

“No. You’re not.” The words hurt coming out. “You’re just in my head.”

“But I’m your sister.” Jenny’s voice hung in the air.

“She’s dead,” Becky said. “My sister’s dead.”

Silence.

Becky was alone.

A sob tore from her throat, but she forced herself forward, step by agonizing step. The trees called to her. Every inch closer felt like pulling away from Jenny, like leaving her behind.

Then—she froze.

Her body seized. Her muscles clenched violently as electricity ripped through her. She hit the ground hard, eyes rolling back.

Behind her, Ken—the nurse with the broken nose—stood over her, a taser gripped in his shaking hand. Blood crusted his uniform, smeared dark across his swollen face. His eyes were sunken, bruised, and furious. He smiled as his boot slammed into her side.

The taser clicked again, and her body jerked.

She groaned, but this time, she didn’t get back up.

That was attempt 25.

***

Becky lay in bed, pretending to sleep. It was hard to focus, hard to think. Her head throbbed where the stitches held her together. Gauze and tape bound her arms and legs, and new handcuff-bracelets adorned her wrists.

She heard someone leave but couldn’t tell who.

Squinting through one barely open eye, she caught a glimpse—two figures, one in a nurse’s white uniform, the other in a suit. The only people who ever wore suits here were doctors. No one else cared enough.

As the door shut, the nurse turned back. Through the narrow window, she recognized Ken. His face was swollen, skin mottled with bruises, his nose buried beneath a thick patch of bandages. He stared at her, searching for an excuse to step back inside. Becky held still, her half-lidded eye locked on him.

In the hall, the doctor tried to whisper, but the enclosed space carried his words.

“I don’t want anybody going in there for now. I finally got her calmed down.”

“Shit, doc. I didn’t do nothing, just tried to get her to eat.” Ken’s voice dripped with fake innocence.

“The sedative should keep her relaxed for now,” the doctor muttered, already walking away. His voice faded with every step. “The director has plans for her. He needs her calm and accepting. I don’t need you or any of the other nurses getting her riled up.”

“No problem.” Ken’s voice held forced humility.

The doctor’s parting words stopped him cold. “Any more mess-ups, and the director will want to talk to you himself.”

The words landed like a hammer. Ken’s crooked smile vanished. Even through the bruises, he paled. He glanced back at Becky. His eyes burned with hatred, but beneath it, fear smoldered. His face, however, remained neutral—like someone resigned to fate.

—the director.

Becky had never met him. She only knew the rumors—the invisible hand that ruled the hospital, the shadow behind every decision. No one saw him, but everyone feared him.

Once Ken was gone, silence swallowed the room. Stark white walls. No movement. No sound.

Becky opened her eyes fully and tugged at the cuffs. The metal held fast. Pain pulsed through her skull, tugging at her stitches.

“Told you to run, didn’t I?” Jenny’s voice was smug. “Still think I’m just in your head?”

Something moved past the view window. Becky froze.

“Still think I’m imaginary?”

A sound. Inside the room. Metal on metal. Becky turned her head, but the room was empty.

“We could be halfway to New York by now.”

Becky’s throat ached, her voice raw. “Sorry.”

“It’s you and me against the world,” Jenny said. “The Teg sisters against everybody.”

“Yeah.”

“So, we cool?”

Becky nodded, blinking away tears. She wiped them against the rough fabric of her sleeve. Her vision cleared, but the room remained empty. Whatever she’d seen before was gone.

“And if I get you out of here,” Jenny continued, “we go get that pizza? Rustique Pizzas, Jersey City? Aad next stop, New York.”

Becky lifted her cuffed wrists in response. She wasn’t going anywhere. So many dreams ended in handcuffs. This wasn’t the first time they thought she needed them. If she played nice long enough, they’d take them off. Maybe weeks. Maybe months. Then she could try again.

“It’s cool. I stole Ken’s keys.”

The jingle of metal again. Becky’s breath caught as she scanned the room.

Nothing. Then—keys landed on her chest.

—from nowhere.

“Now let’s get out of here before Nana shows up,” Jenny said. “Doctor called her. She’ll be here soon. We gotta go before then. God, I hate that old lady ever since she got me killed.”

Becky stared at the empty room and smiled.

That was number 26—the last time she’d ever see that place.

The day before it burned to the ground. With everyone inside.

***

In the hospital break room, Ken packed ice into napkins and pressed them against his swollen nose—and more against his crotch. He winced. Everything still hurt. The pain pills he’d stolen from the medicine locker hadn’t kicked in yet.

Even with the bandages cushioning his injuries, the cold seeped in. Maybe it would help with the swelling. A wet trickle ran down his nose. He cursed, rushed to the sink, and leaned over, watching fresh blood drip into the basin.

He pinched his nose with a free hand, hoping to stop the flow.

“Damn, son, that little piece of ass done broke it good, didn’t she?” Ken froze. His father’s voice rang through his aching head.

“Shut up and leave me alone,” Ken muttered, flipping a bloody middle finger at the empty room.

“Why? So you can stand around and whine like the little bitch you are?”

“I ain’t listening to you.”

“Sure sounds like you are.”

Ken clenched his jaw.

“How’d I raise such a pussy?”

“I said shut up!”

His voice echoed off the tile walls. Only then did he realize someone was standing in the doorway, watching. Another nurse.

“What you looking at?” Ken snapped.

“That Teg girl,” the nurse said, his face lost in shadow. “She’s escaped again. Director wants to see you. He’s down in the basement.”

Ken swallowed. “Shit.”

The nurse turned and disappeared down the hall, swallowed by the dimming evening light.

“Well, how about that?” his father’s voice whispered. “By the way… where’s your keys?”

Panic struck. Ken patted his belt. His keys were gone.

His stomach lurched. Blood dripped freely from his nose now, staining his pristine white uniform. Where had he last seen them?

Becky’s room.

Ignoring the pounding in his skull, he ran down the hall. The world swayed around him, his headache twisting the corridor into a shifting nightmare. Nausea threatened to take hold, but he pushed through.

The door to her room stood open. The bed was empty.

The handcuffs still hung from the rails, clamped around nothing.

That was impossible. He had locked the door. He had his keys when he walked away, following the doctor.

Where the hell did they go?

Ken kicked the bed frame, frustration boiling over. He had bigger problems. The director wanted to see him—the keys could wait.

The walk down was long.

Ken hated the basement. It wasn’t like he was scared—he didn’t believe in ghosts or monsters hiding in the dark—but the place felt wrong. Cold, even in the summer. And it always reminded him of where he hid the body.

He swallowed hard.

“Hello?” His voice cracked against the silence.

No reply. The hall was empty, lined with surplus machines and broken equipment no one cared enough to fix.

The basement lights flickered, faulty as ever. No one cared about those either. They blinked and sputtered, leaving patches of darkness that swallowed entire corners of the corridor.

A noise came from the incinerator room—Ken stiffened.

That was where they disposed of dead patients. Where he had disposed of his father.

“Hello?” he tried again, stepping inside.

Someone stood in the shadows.

The flickering light pulsed—almost like breathing.

“Mister Masterson.” The voice slithered through the dark, a sound like distant thunder mixed with dry leaves crackling underfoot. It sounded like a voice inside his head.

Ken’s breath hitched.

“We have work to do.”

The door slammed behind him. The lights went out.

And the entire hospital heard his screams.

The End