MADMAN'S HAVEN

13

Wednesday, December 25t

(🎶 The Son Of Mary - Harry Belafonte)

Christmas Eve was finally here.

The atmosphere in the assembly room was happy and yielding with mood. The patients were gathered around the painting table, franticly colored Christmas card after Christmas card with colorful crayons, longing to send them home to their families.

Even if many of the cards wouldn't even be opened, I could still spot the hope inside the sparkling eyes of every young and old creature around me. Hoping that maybe this year their family would respond, maybe this year they would allow them for furlough and let them celebrate Christmas at home.

Many of them would get disappointed and sad by the blowoff. But they didn't know that yet.

The ones that were not seated around the table, either sat by the windows and desperately stared out the window with the hope of witnessing the first snowflake. Others sat patiently in the armchairs around the room and waited for their Christmas furlough to begin.

The gramophone carefully spun the vinyl as the voice of Harry Belafonte encompassed the room. The sweet, calm music brought even more feeling to the Christmas spirit.

It was a good start of day, with calmness and excitement spread around the room. It made me happy to see the otherwise introverted and socially horrified people around me, all caught up in their holiday bubble.

I felt settled, under control. The moment made me feel normal.

I was above all of these people. Smarter, clearer, healthier, I was nothing like them. More like the complete opposite.

I was here for their treatment. To help, cure, medicate and manipulate. My presence was their lifeline. Without me, they would be dead. Some of them from suicide, and some of them from mental prevail, dead on the inside, no soul left to live for. Only a peel left of flesh and bone, nothing more existing than that.

My highly confidential thoughts about myself got interrupted as a voice reached my ears.

Grace Jackson's earlier appearance of happiness and excitement was now exchanged into something a lot more awestruck and noticeable.

"I'm afraid of that man, nurse Frazier,"

She looked like she had seen a ghost, and her voice made her sound like a small child.

I carefully looked at her with calmness.

"What man, Grace?" I asked her friendly, trying to convince her only with the tone in my voice that there was nothing to be afraid of.

The young girl carefully looked over her shoulder and stopped her eyes just behind the two of us.

"Him," She whispered. I could almost hear the harrowing fright in her quiet voice.

I turned my head around to see the person she was referring to. What man was she talking about?

My eyes searched over the area behind me, and as they spotted a young, timid man sitting all by himself in one of the armchairs a distance away from me, I knew that it was the right one.

Even if he was sitting so peacefully still, his appearance was enough to emerge danger. I didn't even notice his attendance, which had me a bit disappointed with the inadvertence.

I closed my eyes for a second, tried to remain stable in front of Grace to keep convincing her that there was nothing to be afraid of.

The lump in my stomach was heavy, but I was stronger. I looked at the young girl and smiled.

"You don't have to be afraid of him, Grace. There's nothing he can do to you. You are safe here, okay?"

My determined voice of profession made her smile with comfort.

"Okay," A small whisper of answer seemed to be enough for her since she didn't say anything else. She just picked up her crayon again, and continued to paint on her chaotic and colorful Christmas card.

I was relieved from the conversation. Happy that I didn't have to continue the explanation of why the young girl didn't have to be afraid of the actual dangerous and monstrous man just a couple of feet away from us.

It felt disturbing to lie, but it was a part of my job sometimes. Of course, he was a man to be afraid of, and I couldn't come to understand why he was allowed into the assembly room at all. After the murder of Joseph, he was isolated from all social gatherings. He did not have permission to attend the gathering room, not even in handcuffs or in full supervision of the security guardsmen.

But there he sat, like from out of nowhere, like nothing ever happened. Without handcuffs, without any insistent guardsman beside him. So peaceful and calm, with his eyes struck into the book held by his pale, masculine hands. Just like before, before everything happened and before I knew anything about that intriguing and manipulative man.

I bit my nail out of inconvenience. I didn't want to look back to stare at him, it would be too obvious since he was seated behind my back. I couldn't even look at him stealthily, he would notice it right away.

I was afraid of his rage, he wanted nothing to do with me, and I knew that such a small thing as a stare could make him go insane if he was in the wrong mental state. But it was so hard not to look.

The abstinence for the rush became even stronger when he was so near. Just like I could smell an addictive drug.

I took a deep breath, prayed for his deep distraction from the interesting book, and hoped that he wouldn't notice me.

I turned my head just to look over my shoulder, so careful not to bring any attention to my movement.

The glorious creature remained still with his eyes focused on the thick book. I was relieved again. He didn't catch me.

I took my time, and inspected his features which I was so familiar with. But I couldn't get enough.

His eyelashes landed perfectly on his cheeks as he blinked between the white pages, and his lips slightly moved as he read every word in silence.

Anyone could tell that he was attached. Because in the way he sat there all by himself, without distraction or instinctive eye movements, the interest in his reading really came through.

One part of me felt even more dragged to him because of his literary side. Somehow it was so attractive that he read books and had knowledge of literature. It made him more real, more sensitive and more, human.

But this time it wasn't the cover of Lolita that was embraced by his hands. Now it was a new one, and this one was just as bothering.

The letters of Julian Symons name and his intriguing title 'The Colour of Murder' was now placed in Brandon's hands, and the choice of book once again made me shiver.

There was just something so disturbing about a psychopath reading about another psychopath. It didn't feel right, because it was too intrusive and realistic.

I knew that Brandon probably could relate in an intimate way with the narrator of the story, and that fact made me sick since I was very aware of the famous work of literature he was now holding so tight in his hands.