The Pale King - IV
Thomas Baxley, 36, has been interred at Westknell for the
greater part of a decade. It took him half that to finally accept his place here
despite the fact all he suffered from was a case of Tourette’s. He knew he
wasn’t crazy like the others, he knew he wasn’t an invalid like the others and
he certainly wasn’t violent like the others. He just had a problem with his
ticks and had barely any control over his words. The authorities had taken him
in after a nasty bar brawl, where, and he mentioned his in his sentencing, no
one had died. But sadly, to his detriment his testimony was peppered lovingly
with curses and profanities that, he tried to assure the judge, he had no real
control over. This was no defence and he was sentenced to rehabilitation in
Westknell. Being a man who never once had been sent to jail or even detention
in school, was sure that his good behavior despite his syndrome would make
light work of his rehab and be out of Westknell in mere weeks of his six-month sentence.
To his demise however, a week before he was placed in the wards, the great Dr.
Dearing, who was very much set on actually
rehabilitating the patients, left the sanitarium due to a failed rehab. Since
then the sanitarium was more of a prison hospice then a rehabilitation center
as Thomas was informed in his trial. The staff had simply given up.
He
never thought in a million years that his Tourette’s, once seen as a humorous
personality trait to his friends yet a great frustration to his family, would
ever get him into such hot water as it did here. For all intents and purposes,
he was a civil man just with a very foul mouth and needn’t be taking up
precious space from some actual looney bin who would be better suited in his
cot in the blue ward. That was another thing that irked him initially but that
he came to accept over time. Thomas, being of sound mind and body, unlike most
of his counterparts, learned quickly the different wards and sections of the
sanitarium. He wasn’t allowed to roam them, but he was allowed to hear what
people said. He was placed in the blue ward which he came to find out was for
the mentally unstable. The men who talked to themselves or voices they had in
their head, men who thought they were napoleon one day, the king the next, and
a little dog the day after that, men who thought that every shadow would jump
out at them with barred teeth and steal their soul away. Men who were unfit to
live in society yet not dangerous enough to be locked in the red or yellow
wards. Men that were very much unlike Thomas.
After a
time, Thomas was seen as an anomaly by the staff but without the ability to be
discharged he was kept on in the sanitarium. His rehab would never be
completed, his sentence would never end, and he would never again see the
freedom of life beyond the fences outside. And that was okay for him. For truth
be told, he wasn’t in the best place before the bar fight that sent him to this
cold and white hell. He was in debt to his eyeballs, a drunken mess, and
without good work to sustain him. He was falling down a hole, deeper and
deeper. At least now in the confines of the wards he had food, and clothes, and
a bed to rest his head on every night. His company wasn’t much better inside
than out and at least now he knew he wouldn’t worry his mother, who stopped
visiting him after the first month. All in all, things were okay.
Until
the silent man arrived.
Thomas
had a way with the others being of less mental instability and could talk with
some on a wavelength the staff couldn’t understand. In that way he was very
useful, a sort of conduit between the patients with severe illness and the
staff who couldn’t tell which way was up when it came to mental weakness. Once
the staff realized they could use Thomas he became very important in the group
discussion groups and policing the wards as it were. He took to the job with
great fervor, feeling he finally found his place.
When
the silent man showed up it through his entire world into disarray. Men he had
breakthroughs with resorted to their former selves. Friends that he had made shied
away from him in the dark and whispered. It felt as if a screw had been turned
and everything had become just a little too tight. Like the ward had been
packed full by the addition of only one man, and the minds hold up in there had
no where to go but in circles, down a drain of insanity.
The
staff, at first, looked to Dr. Starcross for help but the man, not caring much
about helping the insane feel less so, dismissed it initially. He had seen so
many new patients come in and rile up the wards that he almost wished they
could close their doors to knew patients all together. Thomas however was upset
and intrigued at the same time. How could a man, with no sense of awareness for
the world have such a negative effect on the men around him.
Thomas
tried a few times to connect with the silent man, when in the common rooms, but
no connection had been made. Thomas saw around him the strain that was put on
the others and wondered why he wasn’t affected. It seemed Dr. Starcross
wondered the same thing.
The
doctor took Thomas aside and sat him down.
“Hello
Thomas, how are you feeling?”
“F-fine
doctor. Fuck.” Thomas said trying to stifle the swear. The doctor didn’t seem
to mind.
“I want
to ask you about the silent man.”
“You
mean the Pale King?” Thomas said.
“Yes, I
hate that name though. It causes such a damn stir.”
Thomas
clicked his teeth; one of his ticks.
“I know
what you mean. He causes such a panic sometimes. Good on you to notice he does
less harm if he is the first in the room. Its like he sends an aura around him
that pushes everything awry. Have you ever seen anything like that before?”
“No, I
haven’t. It seems he can communicate with the others. Have you noticed this?”
“No sir
I haven’t. I’ve been trying to have chat with him but nothing as of yet. How do
you say he communicates with them?”
“Well I
had a run in with one of our friends on yellow ward. He says that the king
speaks to him…in dreams.”
“In
fucking dreams?” Thomas said straight-faced.
The
doctor nodded.
“Well I
don’t know nothing about dreams but maybe he is speaking to them with his
mind?”
“Oh?
Like what a telepathy?”
“Huh?”
“Technical
term for mind reading or speaking.”
“Maybe.
I once heard of a lady who talked to the dead and such. She could also talk
directly to your mind if you were ripe for it. My guess is the ones in here,
weak as they are in the head, are as ripe as they get for that kind of thing.”
“Hmph,
I doubt that woman had any such power. Gypsy scum most likely.”
“Well
you’re not wrong there. She ended up thieving half my village before they put
her to death. Suspicions ran deep but anger ran deeper. But who’s to say that
silent man can’t talk with his mind. He sure as hell isn’t speaking with his
mouth.”
“You’re
sure you haven’t heard anything strange? Whispers in the dark or when you are
sleeping? Any weird dreams?”
“No.
Why not ask the others?”
“Because
they were already whacked in the head before. I can’t get a straight answer
either way. That’s why I wanted to ask you. You seem to have a way with them
that my staff doesn’t. I wondered if you noticed anything strange that you
could put together. Or many anything abnormal happening to you.”
“No
sir. Nothing. I’m just as confused as you are about this.”
“Well,
that’ll be all I suppose. You can leave. Just keep an ear and eye out for me
please.”
“Sure,
and doctor?”
“Yes?”
“I sure
hope this isn’t telepathy or whatever you call it.”
“And
why not?”
“Imagine
what a man like that could do in a place like this. It’ll be chaos.”
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