Katrina Van Houten
Bedroom to the Left
He has never been one to embrace that of what is generally considered normal. While spending time in the kitchen, next to the lit stove at grandma's house, he learned the names of countless books and their stories, and movies that project something beyond a kid’s field of vision.
While listening to his grandmother talk about a car that embodies the soul of its previous owner, a hotel that drives you crazy, and a teenage girl with psychological powers, his interest was far more than intrigued. That is where his writing was born, under that dark night’s sky in the bedroom far to the left. That is when he asked for a book that was more than pictures and large font. A book that would break apart chains in the mind and swirl down into the skull like an endless funnel bursting with ideas.
From there, he started with poetry, then short stories, and now a novel. Reading books of a favorite author, watching movies of extended genres, even if he didn’t think he would enjoy it. It spawned creations he’s held captive between what he always knew as normal.
However, with this adrenaline, there are choking hands that will stun progress. More times than enough he has woken up from night terrors. Ones that make his breathing halt and his heartbeat quicken. These topics and creatures that he loved to reimagine as his own in art and writing, are the same creatures and terrors he was never able to keep away from pulling him into insanity.
Breathing in musty air,
That no one dares to touch,
The same air that once left you with the happiness you desire,
Is now filled with the trace of stale laughter on your lips.
Feeling the sting in my eyes,
The needles of oxygen causing them to water,
Scraping at the backs of my nerves.
Seeking the intended emotion you serve others,
The stunning silence of their cries at the edge of your toes,
And wanting to sink into the feeling of relief like you once did.
He sits in his room on a chair of pushpins, hunched over a desk of fire while his wrist moves with the pen on yellowed paper. He mutters to himself, drawing out every scenario, every pro, every con. He sighs a bit, asking himself what to write next, but internally he wonders how many people think of him as a freak. He asks for feedback, handing the paper to his peers.
(Keep a patient smile)
(Keep a laugh track on hold)
(Keep it together)
And he finds himself back in that little room on the left in his grandmother’s cold house. The ticking of every clock in every room filling the void of quiet words.
(Don’t think)
(You’re okay)
That’s why I’m here.
I’ll show you the slashes through the bone,
I’ll recreate the same piece of art I admire so.
A mess of tangled limbs,
A series of intense and sporadic movement.
Through the empty windows,
your little house will burn in your chest,
Your once happy memories,
turn sour in your head,
The painfully sharp sting of heat,
The pins and needles becoming searing hot under the soft skin.
Painted walls of ash and smoke,
filling your lungs with tainted air.
You’ll watch it shatter and descend in the blistering flames,
Two stories collapse into one,
pitiful heap of cinder,
And all that’s left will be a sensitive hole through your pectoral muscle,
ripped apart at your edges with
A blade that cuts serrated skin.
But he still worries himself to death, falling captive to slumber only to embrace haunting nightmares, and wakes to self-induced paralysis. Even after that, he still insists on writing those hellish stories, reading those books lined with a bizarre intensity, watching those films of abnormality, and walks forward. But nobody notices because nobody reads him the way he reads himself.
Dead Man's Switch
You lie on the thin mattress. Your eyes darted around. You had grown accustomed to the hardness of it. All you really had was a thin sheet and an old pillow from the closet in the hallway. The room connected with a small bathroom, but you weren’t allowed anything more than soap and a toothbrush. There was a rack for clothes, too. They were all the same shade of gray and were far too loose on your frame.
You heard the door open and you closed your eyes. You heard him walk over, his steps quick and heavy. You felt him grab the ring on the front of your choker and drag you out of the room. Your eyes shot open, hands grasped at your throat. When he got to the main room where he would experiment and test, he pulled you in front of him and lifted you off of the ground. You struggled to catch your breath as your hands strained to break his grip.
Then he pulled your hair back, and turned you around. With your back against his chest and his hand around your throat, he held you there as you struggled in front of the mirror. You couldn’t help but avert your eyes. "Look at yourself," He growled in your ear.
You shut your eyes tight and spat, "Screw you."
You elbowed him in the gut once, then twice, and he dropped you. Fallen on your hands and knees, you sucked in as much air as you could manage, and turned to face him. He was already on his feet again, striding towards you.
"You bastard! You’re not going anywhere."
"You can't keep me here forever. I’m not some rat in a glass cage for you to observe. I’m a person!” You struggled with your words, but managed to get on your feet and stumble away from him. Your shoulders tensed and your left ring finger began to twitch.
“You’re a freak. Do you understand me?” He grabbed your arm, and you stomped on his foot with all of your strength. He cried out and you jerked away from him. Watching him closely, you backed up and felt around. Your fingers grazed a metal tray with surgical tools laid out on it, and you gripped it tightly. He came towards you again.
“The only reason why I’m a freak,” you snarled, “is because of your sick experiments!” You swung the tray with all of your force, striking him across the face.
You watched the doctor drop to the floor, blood falling from the jagged cut on his temple. Before you could see him get up again, you dropped the tray and ran out the door. The hallways had always been confusing, but you knew basic areas. Bathroom, surgical room, testing sites, your own room. You didn’t stop moving, trying to find somewhere to hide. There was a small sign that indicated a janitor’s closet, with the door slightly ajar, and you checked around to see if anyone was following.
You looked left, nothing.
You looked right, nothing.
You slipped in the room and carefully shut the door. The smell of bleach and soap was overwhelming, but you had no choice. You heard footsteps approach and pass, with muffled voices, too. Every noise made your heart race and you held your breath. When you backed up, you felt something hit the top of your head. Upon feeling around, you realize that it was the cord to a light, and you pull. It was dim, yes, but it worked. Looking around, you found a large metal dustpan. It felt heavy in your left hand, and your right hand stung as you tested it as a potential weapon.
Hearing footsteps again, you pulled the cord on the light to turn it off, and faced the door. This time, the person stopped in front of the door and twisted the knob. Ready to fight for your life, you silently watched as the door creaked open.
“I’m not letting you take me again,” you whispered, letting out whatever breath you were holding, and swung as hard as you possibly could. There was a loud, wet sound as you watched the doctor drop in front of your feet. The dustpan cut through his jugular and into his collar bone and sprayed a veil of blood over your face. You watched as the skin of his neck curled back into the split of tissue and veins.
As you stepped over his body, you dropped the dustpan and felt your hands shake. The blood continued to pool around his head and he stopped twitching at the tips of your toes. You didn’t want to stick around long enough to figure out what would happen if you were found with the body. You walked ahead, taking frequent glances behind you. The last of his blood was marking the concrete with each step, but at least your bare feet would be quieter and less likely to attract attention. A few rooms down the hall, a door opened, and you sprinted to clear the next corner. You felt a hand momentarily grasp your shoulder and, as well as you could guess, flee in the opposite direction.
You kept walking down the halls, adrenaline rushing through your veins. Then the alarm went off, and every door opened, doctors and patients swarming the area. You blended in with everyone, keeping low. A man next to you was shaking. “Where are you going?” You whispered to him. He looked down at you, cackling. His hands were fidgeting with his shirt, and he had a lazy eye.
“Black room.”
“The ‘black room’?”
“Yes yes yes, the black room,” he began to repeat himself and you doubted his words.
Another patient bumped into him, her hair going every which way, and he screamed at her, causing her to swipe at him as she snarled. The lights flickered and waves of cries and laughter broke out in between the muttering of the swarm. You looked away from the two, and a staircase came up on the left. You pushed through the crowd of people and walked towards it, almost making it to the first step before a hand met your shoulder, spinning you around.
“Where do you think you’re going?” A man in a bloodied white coat asked, holding a boy by his arm. The boy had a broken nose and a neck brace on, his mouth bleeding. The man’s empty eyes looked down at you, and before you could respond to him, he continued talking, shaking you in his firm grip.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you. You’re supposed to be—“
The boy behind him kicked the back of the man’s knees, and he fell to the floor. As the man lost his grip on you, you felt the boy pull you along.
You began to smile, and pushed ahead of him when you saw a sign pointing towards the exit. His hand jerked you back, and your expression went hostile.
“Let go of—”
“You can’t get out that way. I’ve tried.”
“You’re a liar.”
“I’ve tried,” he repeated, his voice louder, “You can’t get out unless you can bring back the dead.”
You stopped and pulled your hand from his grip. He began to mutter to himself about getting out and backed away from you, and walked in the opposite direction.
You were alone, the halls blurring as you watched the boys back grow smaller under the yellowed lights. You felt your feet move on their own as you stumbled to the staircase again. The next floor was empty, the crowd having moved along.
It didn’t take long to find the doctors body again a few halls down, seemingly untouched. His skin was grey and his eyes were still bloodshot and wide, and you felt yourself wondering what his skin felt like. You knelt down and reached for his collar, pulling apart the shirt button by button. His body was heavy in your hands as you flipped him to get the wrinkled sleeves off of his limp form. You fumbled with his belt when you flipped him again, and took the black pants he wore along with them.
His skin felt warm, and when you put on his shoes, you laughed in delight at the largeness of them. You thought you looked almost like a clown with shoes two sizes too big. The button up shirt, still partly red but starting to dry, hung mid thigh, and the pants fell to your ankles twice before you realized you needed the belt just to keep them around your waist. You ran your fingers through your tangled hair, smoothing it out.
Tucking in your shirt, you adjusted your posture and jogged down the steps, nearly tripping in the large shoes. You walked to the bathroom and washed your hands and face. This time, when you looked in the mirror, you felt joy.
His pockets contained his ID and wallet, and you took out the thin card when you walked to the exit. You slid the card in the slot, hearing a beep, and your heart began to race.
“Excuse me?”
You looked behind you, searching for the voice, but nobody was there until you turned around again and faced the door.
