The Pale King - II

Part 1

James McMahon wheeled his patient into the common room just after dinner. The room was quiet and dark as the sun was fading. James had been an orderly at Westknell for the past five years and he was charged with caring for the hardest patients in the common wards. So, when the silent man came in he was tasked in his full care. James had a way with his patients, a sense and commonality with them that the others didn’t share. When Dr. Starcross came to him asking for him to take on the white level, dubbed by the other patients as the Pale King, he was more than willing.

                James leaned over and whispered to the man sitting in his wheelchair.

                “You awright there my liege?” James chuckled and wiped the man’s mouth. He looked up and glanced out the east windows that overlooked the old cemetery. A year ago, it was deemed full owing to the Spanish Flu outbreak after the war and closed from having new plots dug for it. James didn’t know why they would build a sanitarium next to a cemetery unless it was used as the final resting place for their lost cases. He rubbed his eyes stifling memories and peered out the window to the shadowed tombstones below. The wind blew and he thought he saw a man standing among the stones, or just the shadow of a man.

                He heard bells tolling in the distance and he was brought back, fifteen years ago. He was standing in a cemetery not unlike Westknell. A casket was being lowered. A small, short casket. He didn’t cry as it was lowered. He simply held his mother’s hand tighter as she whimpered.

                A stir in the room brought James back to the present. He rubbed his eyes again. The shadow man was gone from the tombstones.

                “I need more sleep.” He whispered turning back to see more of the patients shuffle in.

                Months ago, after things had clamed down from the Pale King’s initial entrance, the staff had learned that if he was wheeled in before the others then no uproar would be had from the others. It was as if he was invisible to the others in that way. None of the patients paid the quiet wheelchair bound man any heed as he sat against the back wall staring into nothingness. James was happy for that fact. Despite the fact he had to do literally everything from spoon feeding, and sponge bathing the man to wiping his ass, he was happy that the silent man was indeed silent. He felt himself start to miss his last patient however.

                When James joined the sanitarium out of medical school, fighting tooth and nail to get through that place, he was happy to take on any job. He just wanted to find a way to help the worst of the worst.

                “They need extra help you know?” James said to the staff supervisor of the sanitarium during his interview process. “They need a special hand and a level of patience that not everyone has. The level of patience I have for them.”

                After that interview he was placed in the black level ward to help care for the worst of the infirm and insane Westknell would see. His patient before the Pale King was a young boy from Leeds that had been brought down by his parents and left never to see him again. He had a brain fever and other maladies that made him next to impossible to care for. He was handed over to James almost immediately by the other black level orderlies and they two became very close. James took to him quickly treating him almost like a little brother. Sadly, three months into the boy’s stay he succumbed to his illnesses and was carted off to the open cemetery on the other side of town.

                He was starting to miss that little boy but he kept the emotions hidden. He had to keep a straight face on for the others. Despite the face he was good at his job, taking care of the infirm and the invalid, he was fighting a losing battle. Most if not all of the men staying in these walls, in the standard light blue clothes, were sent here to live out their final days away from society. No matter what James did he could not cure them but he could make their final days comfortable. He was glad at that fact at least. He would hate for himself to suffer through his final days when they come. He hoped that someone would be as gracious to him as he had been to those sitting, mumbling and drooling around him.

                He crossed himself and kissed his cross and thanked god for his opportunity to help those who couldn’t help themselves not to suffer.

                The large clock on the wall chirped 8 o’clock and the orderlies started to shuffle their quarries out of the large common room. As was routine James waited till the last man was gone before stirring the Pale King from his perch. With the door swinging closed behind a man with very severe Tourette’s the room once became silent. James took a moment to pull a chair up to the silent man and look him in the face. He had been doing this the past few weeks to try and sus out some sort of reaction to him. He wasn’t a miracle worker by any means but doing that little extra to connect with them, those he cared for, had made some of his patients easier to understand and to work with.

                “Your highness,” James always addressed the Pale King like royalty, less as a joke and more out of respect from the man’s condition, “how are you feeling today eh? Got any word for your humble servants?” James looked deep into the man’s hollow eyes. No light seemed to shine in the black pools. James shook his head and blinked.

Wait! James thought. Did his eye just twitch? James looked back deeper into the man’s eyes. An itch started in the back of his throat and he coughed.

“Obey.”

James coughed again.

“What?” James looked at the silent man. “Did you just speak? King, hello?”

“I said hey, James.” Mark, an orderly, came into the room.

“Oh, it was you. Shit, I thought this one spoke.” James stood and gestured towards the silent man.

                “You need more sleep. Look your shift is over I’ll bring him to bed if you want.”

                “No it’s fine I’ve got it.” James waved Mark off and wheeled the silent man away to his room. The black level ward was quieting down as the nightly doses of sleep aid were administered to the patients. Most would never get any sleep without it. James brought the silent man to his room, undressed, and placed him in bed. Before he turned out the light and locked the door, even though he thought locking the door was useless for such an invalid, he looked once again at the silent man’s face and leaned in close.

                “Are you locked in there?” he whispered looking over the man’s face.

                “Yes.”

                There it was again! James stepped back and felt a cold chill run over his skin. Then he noticed it. The silent man was staring at him. His cold black eyes were locked on him. James backed out of the room and locked the door, keys in one hand his crucifix in the other.

                “I’m just seeing things. I’m just tired. It’s nothing. He’s so far gone, there’s no way he said anything. His mouth didn’t move. I was looking right at him. And his eyes…just a trick of the light.” James mused as he rushed out of the ward to punch out. He needed sleep or a shot of whiskey.

                “Or both.” He said to himself letting the door swing closed to the ward. The lights turning off in the hall as the lock engaged.

Next →