The Litany of Harriet

The Litany of Harriet

In this story, you will find the following things:
• cabbage soup
• turquoise boots
• an insane asylum
• a rubber pencil
• vertigo
• a Librarian of Congress
• an irrational fear of animals
• a never-ending nightmare
• a man named Steven Mantup
• 8 bloody, predator dogs
• cinnamon coffee
• jealousy
• Babe Ruth
• and 5 cats

Part I: The Litany of Harriet

         Harriet Sullivan woke up with that miserable, gray feeling. And it fit the situation well—her emotions were not the only thing that were gray. The small, padded cell in which she lived in was also gray. Her eyes shifted into focus and she tried to move her arm but found out that she couldn’t—just as she hadn’t been able to do for the last 40 years.
         Suddenly feeling a surge of anger, she threw around her head and thrashed about, as best she could until a lock of hair fell in front of her face. She caught it with her tongue and chewed on it. She had done this so often that every strand of hair on her misshapen head was dry, frayed, and split, and in some places balding. In some ways, she looked like a wreck. She was. In other ways, she looked beautiful. She was that, too. She was so curiously fascinating. So terrifying and disturbing; but so delicately perfect and intriguing, you can’t look away. Her eyes darted around the room, just as it started to spin. The gray, cushy, sickeningly bland room began to tilt and whirl. Harriet felt like she was going to puke.          But she never did. Or, at least, if she did, her maintenance must’ve been doing an excellent job of cleaning it up.
         Her slow, pained groan quickly turned into a scream as a voice paraded out of the walls:
         “WORTHLESS, WORTHLESS, FAT, UGLY, USELESS!” The voices were loud and taunting. The room was twirling out of control and started to buzz loudly. The voices also got louder, so an excruciating volume, and Harriet screamed, running around the room, trying to flail but failing due to her straight-jacket. Throwing herself against the wall, she looked for a hard spot, somewhere in the room, to crack her head open on. Every time she did this, she never found one.
“HELP ME!!”
Her vocal chords felt like they were splitting.
“UGLY, WORTHLESS, FAT AND STUPID!”
The room started getting smaller, closing in on her,
“PLEASE, SOMEBODY!!!!! HELP ME!”
But no one came.
She couldn’t breathe.
She heard a rip.
She looked down.
She discovered her straight-jacket had been torn open.
Everything stopped.
She fell backwards.
Her ears rang.
Silence.
Silence.
Everyday for the past 40 years had been the same. In her padded cell, she had sat there, with nothing to do but talk to herself—well, until the room started spinning at exactly 12:34 every day. Everyday at 12:34, the same mental breakdown would happen. At exactly 12:41, it would stop.
Every 5 hours, at 8:00 am, 1:00 pm, and 6:00 pm, she was served cabbage soup from a small little slot. Someone would come in and feed it to her. At 9:00 pm, right before the room went dark, the same man gave her the same pill he had been giving her since she was 13. And then the room went dark, and she was forced to cry herself to sleep and then start all over again. And that was her life. Everyday. Hell. A living hell. And it all would end if she died.
Sometimes, she would talk to herself. She had not spoken to anyone but herself for 40 years. The conversations she had with herself were always some sort of variation of the last conversation she had with anyone else, when she was 13, just before she was taken away.
“Mommy?”
“Yes, dear?”
“When is daddy coming home?”
“I don’t know, dear. I don’t know, dear. I don’t know, dear. I don’t know, dear.”
And then she would repeat that last line until the one-sided conversation started up again:
“Mommy?”
“Daddy is dead. I killed him. He’s dead. Bloody. I took a gun. I blew his brains. Daddy’s dead. Dead, dear. He didn’t like you. No one liked you. He hated you. I killed him. I’ll kill you. I hate you. Daddy hates you. He’s dead. I hate you. You’re dead.”
And then the spinning would start.


Harriet looked down at the half-destroyed straight-jacket.
She looked at her arms.
She hadn’t moved them in 40 years, since she was 13.
The controlling tightness of the straight-jacket had permanently bent them out of shape. They were pale, damp, bone-death-skinny, and shriveled. Wrinkled. They were covered in soft, dark bruises and the skin looked like wet tissue, ready to tear at any moment. It made Harriet sick. She was revolted. Mortified. Disgusted. But they would do.
Sure, they were ugly, and maybe a little weak, but they would work for the task she had long thought out. She had spent her entire life planning this. And now...she could finally kill herself. Strangle herself. Choke, and die. Leave this hell. Free herself. She was free! Strangling herself, just like her straight-jacket had done to her arms! She could die, and relieve herself from this misery. This terrible prison. Yes!
And for the first time in 40 years, Harriet Sullivan laughed.


Part II: The Beginning

         She smelled the unmistakable, scent of wet dog, followed by the equally familiar and dreadful sound of claws on tile. And sure enough, when Harriet peeked out from behind her novel, she saw Peppermint’s cool blue eyes staring at her—and 12-year-old Harriet Sullivan screamed.

         An irrational fear of all animals was the first thing that made her parents a bit unnerved. But that was not what motivated her parents to call over a psychiatrist—it was the attempts at suicide at an extremely young age that really set her parents off.


Abby Sullivan sat at her desk, scribbling down names and phone numbers as a very unpleasant, loud voice squawked information through the telephone to her. A booming crash, followed by the sound of a small body tumbling might have alarmed any other family, but for Abby and Mike Sullivan it was completely normal. They had heard this—not once—but many times before, and knew exactly what to do. They calmly walked over to the shockingly quiet, 8-year-old Harriet Sullivan, plastered on a few Band-Aids, and continued working. Someone observing might have thought that they were a quite dysfunctional family—but they weren’t. Nope. They were just used to having a dysfunctional kid.
The first time she had knocked herself down the stairs was when she was 7; she had just had a fit, a screaming chaotic tantrum, and her parents carried her upstairs, sporting major cuts and bruises from their child’s flailing limbs. Her dad planted her on her messy bed spread, firmly placing her down and squeezing, making sure she stay put. Her parents gave a stern look, and walked back downstairs, to resume their work.
15 minutes later, a booming crash, followed by the sound of a small body tumbling down a flight of stairs was heard—and they immediately appeared at young Harriet’s side.
Abby was speechless.
“Honey...”
Abby stared into Harriet’s wide, infinite green eyes, watching them flick side to side in a disturbing fashion. Harriet was nervous to be face to face with her mom, Abby could tell that. That was pretty normal, right? A 7-year-old attempts suicide, and then finds that her mom caught her. Sure, Harriet was uncomfortable with her mother. But Abby could also sense something else. Fear. Not just nervousness. Genuine fear. Harriet was terrified of her mother.
“Mommy?” Harriet’s voice was small and trembling, like the highest note on a piano, out-of-tune: hard to hear, eerie, but beautiful.
“Dear...” There was a deep contrast between Harriet’s tiny voice and her dad’s bellow.
Harriet’s voice sparked again, this time cracking and shivering.
“Mommy, Daddy... I don’t want to live like you.”
And with that, they both hugged her, tears dripping down her mom’s face, like raindrops on a windshield. Harriet pushed back. She was confused. She just didn’t want to live. It was that simple. Why were they hugging her? She was entitled to her own opinion, was she not? They told her she could think her own thoughts, so why were they trying to convince her not to? She just wanted to die. And that was it.

2 years later, when Harriet turned 10, her family got a cat. Maybe that’s where it went wrong. It wasn’t a very nice cat. Nor was it pretty. It was brown and speckled with lighter brown blotches; as if it were caked in mud. It seemed to have irrepressible bad breath, and its eyes were just like
Harriet’s—except duller, faded, glassy, and not present—in a way that even gave Abby and Mike the shivers. Her name was Dusty, and she bit, scratched, and moaned at every chance she could. She was extremely repellent, and no one in the family liked her much. Except for Harriet. Harriet didn’t just “not like her much,” Harriet despised her. She was revolted by the cat. And what came with revolt was terror, and horror. So much hatred revolved around the 10-year-old and this cat. Fear. Hatred. Disgust. Dread. Unease. These were the words that unfortunately summarized Harriet Sullivan’s childhood. And unfortunately, like a bur, they latched on to her and she carried them with her, on to her adulthood.


Harriet’s 11th birthday gained her a bird. A very nice one, too. A beautiful, multicolored parrot, that only spoke when spoken to. Any child would have loved it. Except Harriet. From the moment it came home from the pet store, perched with its grotesque little claw-feet-things, tilting and cocking its head in its mocking little manners. When it came through the front door, in its bright orange and green cage, Harriet let out a quick, surprised yelp. It yelped after her, sending Harriet into tears. Normally, something this minor wouldn’t send Harriet into chaos this quickly, but with animals, any animal at all, it did. She would start crying, fall backwards on the floor, in the middle of the living room, and spread out in a star. That helped the Spinning that would start at these moments. The Spinning during her childhood was a bit different. Instead of taunting voices lowering her self-esteem, it was chirps and meows and barks and rattles and all the other animal noises put together, but on top of it all, was the sickeningly soothing voice of her mother, telling her to calm down. Replaying over and over. And after 10 minutes, it would stop.

And then came Peppermint. Peppermint was the sort of dog that would wobble and trot around you in circles until you looked down—and when you looked down, you would melt. It had those big, round eyes that were filled with a deep, glossy pool of blue, descending into the dog’s soul. In the middle, floating there in the center of Peppermint’s eyes were two black buttons. Peppermint’s eyes were stunning. And her fur was a smooth, golden, endless desert, with a few little curls. It was a dream dog. It was the dog that everyone wanted. Perfectly well-behaved, and beautiful.
But not to Harriet.
To Harriet, Peppermint was a nightmare.
A never-ending nightmare.

At this point in Harriet’s life, she had been seeing a therapist for 14 months. Harriet was 11 years and 11 months—almost 12. It seemed to Harriet that her parents were forcing her to like animals—every year, they would get her a new one. Didn’t they understand that animals were disgusting, inferior creatures? Animals were idiots. And so were her parents. Hell, everyone was an idiot. A senseless, bumbling, moron, spewing out crap for Harriet to take in. It seemed that everyone was so insane, out-of-control, and just all together mad, except Harriet. What was wrong with people?
What the hell was wrong with people?
Her parents got her another animal for her 12th birthday. Peppermint. Harriet didn’t realize Peppermint would be the worst experience of her life.

“Here you go, darling...” Abigal Sullivan smiled nervously. “I hope you’ll love it...”
Harriet giggled out of excitement, cueing her parents to smile sheepishly at each other.
Harriet grinned as she tore open her present. Thanking them in advance, she told them she loved them. That wasn’t entirely a lie. Sometimes, and this was hard to admit, she did love them. It was very odd. When the Spinning started, she hated everything, including herself, and after it ended, she was so grateful it was over, that she loved everything, and yet so cautious, in fear that it would start again.
The box fell open and her smile immediately fell. The cheerful corners of her mouth had been reversed, twisted into an ugly frown. What sat inside the box was a metal cage, lined with a dark orange-ish yellow. It was empty. But when Harriet looked up, her suspicions had been confirmed. A tiny, very small, Golden-Retriever puppy was on its back, cradled in her mother’s arms. Harriet’s mouth slowly opened, and she let out a deafening scream.


Harriet’s social life was relatively normal. At school, she was in a group of friends that called themselves “The Baconators,” as part of an inside joke involving Wendy’s. They did all the normal stuff kids do, talked about, boys, girls, clothes, fashion, anything that really came to their heads—except for 3 topics. These 3 topics included a). animals, b). moods, and c). brains. Harriet would not allow these subjects to be spoken of, and if they were, she would ostracize the girl that had spoken of them. But for the most part, school life was good. And Harriet’s favorite class was social studies.
Unfortunately, social studies walked hand-and-hand with science, which was Harriet’s least favorite subject—especially when they started learning a unit on mental science. Harriet absolutely hated talking about the mind; it scared her, confused her, and made her uncomfortable—probably because of the bad experiences with her therapist.

Harriet turned 13 on August 31, 1971. 18 days after her birthday, she was taken away to the West Seattle Psychiatric Hospital.


Peppermint was lounging at home, cleaning herself, on the brown, leather couch that squatted in the center of the Sullivan’s living room. She was interrupted by quick, quiet footsteps, coming from the hallway. Harriet appeared in the doorway, carrying a short, round, red-and-silver little object. Peppermint glared at Harriet, sending shivers crawling up Harriet’s spine. Her skin curled, and Peppermint turned away, revealing the back of her head. Harriet studied the back of Peppermint’s head—its smooth, roundness, coated in greasy orange hair that curled in irritating little wisps. It was small and sinister, a curved mess of fur. Peppermint turned back to look at Harriet, licking her nauseating, hair-covered lips with her slimy pink tongue. She yawned, exposing her sharp teeth and sending out a cloud of noxious bad breath. Harriet smiled to herself, imagining what was soon to come. Harriet took a step forward. She almost giggled, but stopped herself. She didn’t want to attract her parents. They were in the basement, folding laundry, so they probably couldn’t hear her, but still—Harriet wanted to be safe. Harriet took another step forward and the silence rang out between her and her repulsive dog, taunting them both. Harriet fingered the small, metal and plastic object as Peppermint’s eyes dropped to Harriet’s hand. Harriet instinctively looked down, too. Her hands were sweaty, making the object shine. She raised her arm, revealing the mysterious object. She pressed a small, rubber button, and a metal blade flipped out. Now, Harriet allowed herself to giggle. She waved the switchblade in the air for the monstrous dog to see, and swung down her arm.
A splatter of crimson. A sharp whine soon distinguished by the squishing sound of innards. Feet charging up the basement stairs. A demented laugh. Everything happened so quickly, yet it seemed to take place in slow-motion, so vivid. And the next thing Harriet knew, a man was giving her a pill.

Part III: The New Beginning
Now, after 40 years of suicide thoughts, now Harriet could finally wake up from this nightmare. She could kill herself and free herself.
Or not.
A twinge of hope sparked deep inside Harriet... and then soon floated to the surface of her mind, like a bubble underwater. She didn’t have to kill herself to be free. No. She could escape, and give life one more chance...
She could slip through the cabbage soup food slot—she was thin enough—and escape this prison! But what if she were just to do the easy task and escape the real prison—her life? Also, was it worth it? If she was caught in the act of trying to escape, she could ruin both of her chances of escaping. They would catch her, stop her, bring her back to her cell, and put a brand new straight-jacket on her. They would tighten it up, real nice and clean and cozy, and leave her there, forever.
So really, in the long run, was it worth it? Of course not. No. Nope. Escaping would be great, but there were much more disadvantages if she failed than the advantages if she succeeded. And another thing—how would she escape? The food slot was locked, and only was opened every 5 hours, and even when it opened, someone was standing there, serving food, and then someone would come in and feed it to her, from the door in the left corner. And that door wasn’t even an option—it could not have been opened from the inside, and even it could have been opened from the inside, it was locked, and heavy—so much, in fact, that it needed 2 people to push it open, anyway.
But maybe, just maybe, she could pretend her straight-jacket was still functional, tricking the prison staff, and quickly slip through the slot; if it was big enough to fit a tray with food, it was big enough for her to fit through. Yes—that was it.
She didn’t know what time it was at the moment; as there were no clocks or windows (the lights came from 2 florescent lights hidden at the top of the cell). So she waited. The Spinning had already occurred, so she had almost nothing to worry about, so she decided to reflect upon the world she was about to return to. She started to remember the blue sky, the green grass, the smell of autumn.
Yes... yes! She started getting excited, thinking about what she would do once free.
She was soon interrupted by the scraping, nails-on-chalkboard sound of metal on metal, a sound that Harriet, after 40 years, had grown accustomed to. Her heartbeat started beating quickly, racing, charging, jumping. The slot opened and the white tray carrying the white bowl with the dark, mucky, brown cabbage soup next to the white plastic eating utensils on the white napkin was pushed out in front of Harriet. Harriet liked routines, so she crinkled her nose at the sight and smell of her meal, just like she always did, and scooted back, on her butt. She stared at the door, opposite to where she sat and usually slept, waiting for the man to come in. She looked down at her arms. She had tied the ripped ends of her straight-jacket together, in a very simple knot that was extremely easy to undo, but was still very convincing.
The door swung open and the tall, brown-haired, sinister man strutted in, with legs like stalks of corn, and small, beady eyes, like those of a rabbit. He was middle-aged, but younger than 53-year-old Harriet. He was the same man who gave her the pill every night, and fed her. He came in and sat down, picking up the spoon and fork. Harriet could feel a beating inside of her chest. The man examined what was in front of him: the food tray, and a suspicious-looking Harriet. Harriet’s heart was springing up and down, like a diver on a diving board, about to jump. It was time for her to free herself. This was it. The man submerged the spoon into the revolting liquid, and dug up some crud. He looked up at Harriet, sympathetically. But he wasn’t really sympathetic. If was really sympathetic, he would have broken her out of this hell decades ago. Harriet could feel her heart, pounding through her mind, causing the room to tilt a little. She was surprised that the man hadn’t noticed the audible palpitation of her chest. This was the moment... here it came. Yes. Yes!! He raised his clean, gloved hand, and drove towards Harriet’s mouth. She got ready to take action. She opened her mouth wide... and...
And... Yes! She broke out of her straight-jacket and pushed him backwards. Pain jolted through Harriet’s body, surprising her, knocking her backward. The stumbled back and fell against the opposite wall. She pushed herself up and ran at the slot, dropped, and attempted to push through. She was there. She could see windows... and then...
and then...
and then...
The slot immediately was slammed shut, almost closing on Harriet’s fingers. Harriet heard the lock click, and her heart, instead of doing a graceful dive into happiness, did a belly flop. She was trapped. Once again. She failed. She was trapped. Trapped forever. Stuck. But there might still be a chance—the man was still in the room, and he would leave, and in doing so, he would open the door, so... there still was hope. Right? Right?
She looked up, over at the man. He was standing there, his mouth gaping open. She laughed at him and winked. A slow smile started to spread across his face, like a drop of water on a piece of cloth. But that soon vanished as he straightened up, shook his head, and reached down to his belt. He kept his eyes on Harriet as he unlatched his walkie-talkie, pressed a button, and told his boss the entire story. Harriet rubbed her aching arms. Sheesh. She hadn’t used them in so long, they needed to be exercised. They needed practice. She wasn’t used to pulling, pushing, or grabbing. Harriet turned her attention to the man again.
“...and yes, yeah, she’s staring at me right now... should I... you’ll send people right now? Awesome. Thanks. Bye.”
Harriet smirked and resumed rubbing her painful arms. She had to think fast, but pretend not to think at all. She still had a chance of getting out—whether it was tricking the man, slipping through the door when he wasn’t looking, or just plain fighting her way out was what she couldn’t tell. A break in the cushioned walls opened and 2 men and a woman strode in, one man carrying a brand new straight-jacket. Harriet gulped and pretended to be scared, even though she knew exactly what to do.
“We have a new constraining gown for you,” the woman informed her. Harriet stifled a laugh—a constraining gown? What the hell? Is that seriously what they were calling this? Harriet shook her head and twitched her eye, trying to convince the workers that she was really crazy, helpless, and oblivious, while really, they were the ones that belonged in here. “I’m Shirley, by the way.” Shirley, the formerly nameless woman beckoned for a man to hand her the jacket, and Harriet sunk back, ready to take action. The man who had called this team of bullies in gave Harriet a pitied look, and left. Shirley reached toward Harriet, and immediately Harriet sprung to life and swung her arms in a wave motion, hitting Shirley to the side. Harriet bolted at the door as the nasty woman regained her balance, and started to fling herself towards Harriet.
“STOP!!” Shirley screamed and flailed her arms in Harriet’s general direction. Harriet cackled, until she tripped over a small crumple on the pillowed floor. The men unleashed the tasers off of their belts and sprung towards Harriet, who was previously sprawled out on the floor, but now up and running again. She reached the door and swung herself out of the cell. The men reached the door, just as she slammed it. The two men pushed against the opposite end of the door, with Harriet pushing back, until she gained grip on the magnificent, enormous lock, and pulled it shut. She looked over beside the door, found the light switches, and shut them all off, leaving the staff in misery. They had walkie-talkies, so they could eventually escape, but for the time being, they would be fine. Harriet looked around her. She was in a large room with 2 doorways opposite to each other. She faced a huge wall of windows, leading to a garden outside. The floor was stone and cold on Harriet’s bare feet. It was exotic-seeming and bizarre, in comparison to her previous home. She cracked her neck around, and shook off the ripped-up straight-jacket. She shivered. It was chilly. Hard. Weird. New. This was a new beginning. And although Harriet was relieved to be out of prison, and excited, Harriet wasn’t so sure she would like it.
She heard a cough. She turned around, forgetting the only thing behind her was a large stone wall, with a metal door in the middle. She spun back around, this time scanning the room for someone. Her eyes landed on a man, who stared back. Their eyes met each other and connected. Harriet felt it. The man was goggling at her. His eyes bugged out and his mouth wide open. Harriet recognized his gaze. She recognized him—he was the feeding man. She had never looked at his face until earlier today. The tall man with small beady eyes, latex gloves, and plaid. Plaid. Weird. She smiled at him.
“H-hi,” he stuttered. “I... I was wondering if y-you... wanted to get coffee.”

Part IV: Life, Take 2

Harriet Sullivan took a moment to reflect on what just happened. She
a.) had just broken out of a mental institution
b.) had locked some staff members in a padded cell
c.) had started a relationship with a man 20 years younger than her
d.) just had some cinnamon coffee, and
e.) was now sitting in a small coffee shop with her date, Steven Mantup, a day after the breakout.

She was staying at Steven’s house for the time being, until she found her own place to stay. It would be hard: she had absolutely no education, which meant that she couldn’t work at a job, which meant she couldn’t get money, which meant she couldn’t afford anything, which meant she had to be homeless—unless she lived with Steven in his small apartment.
It was a bit weird—she had broken out of a mental asylum and immediately was attracted to a worker there, someone who had hand-fed her for the past 40 years. They were together, and Harriet, for the most part, was fine with that.
And Steven had gotten even better than Harriet originally thought. She continued to fall more and more in love with him—his eyes, his beautiful eyes, and that cute boyish smile that he wore whenever she was around. He had started writing children’s books, a hobby that Harriet found extremely attractive and special. She had helplessly fallen for him, the first man in her life.
And he loved her back. This actually was an issue that Harriet often found herself questioning. What did he see in her? She was an ugly, stressed, criminally-insane, 53-year-old woman who wasn’t capable of supporting herself. He, on the other hand, happened to be an incredibly innocent, very kind-hearted young man—and although you wouldn’t think so; but their contrast worked well and only the occasional small dispute occurred between them.
2 weeks later, Steven Mantup never came home.

Part V: The Mysterious Disappearance of Steven

Harriet tore the journal entries, work papers, and all the other miscellaneous documents or artifacts that had something—anything—to do with her boyfriend. She cared about him, she missed him, and she wanted nothing more to be back with him. Although they had gotten into numerous fights about Harriet’s abnormality, not to mention the fact that she was in trouble with the law, they still had loved each other, and so the loss of him shot through Harriet like a bazooka.
She had spent most of her time shopping with Steven—she forgot how much she liked shopping. And she liked shopping for boots, especially. She had bought a pair of turquoise boots just before he left, that she treasured. She called them her “Special Boots,” and when she wore them, they would deflect the Spinning. Actually, now that she thought about it, the Spinning hadn’t occurred since she escaped hell! The lack of it hadn’t really phased her—she was too caught up in Steven.
And now, tasting the cinnamon coffee, still on her tongue—a frequent drink for Harriet, as well as the last drink she had with Steven, who loved cinnamon coffee just as much as she did—the fact that the beloved partner wasn’t there really hit her.
She slowed the panicking, desperate search for Steven memorabilia and threw her head back, hopeless. She looked around the small room. She scanned the room, and the mess that she had made. Jesus, she was powerful. Hurricane Harriet had mercilessly swept through the room, launching everything in its path into destruction. One, scrawny little desk lamp sunk back into the corner of the room, painting the square room with orange, eerie light. Harriet flung her head to the side. She stared at the clock. 12:31 a.m. Goddammit. Was it that late already? She leaned back in her swivel chair and looked out at the dark hallway leading to the living room. Two short hallways intercepted this main hallway, one leading to the bedroom and one to the bathroom. Although somewhat small, Steven had a pretty nice apartment. She stood up in her pink, fluffy bathrobe. She looked almost as bad as she did in her cell, her hair a ratty mess, deep bags under her eyes, and a frown hanging on her face. She started across the room, into the hallway, but soon stopped. She heard a faint buzzing. She sauntered towards the living room—for it was half living room, half kitchen—and expected some kitchen appliance to be on, whether it was the microwave, the fridge, the dishwasher, the toaster, or the florescent lights being the source of this sound—but it wasn’t any of those. It was her. And she practically slapped herself in the face. No. NO. Please, no. It hadn’t happened for a long time. But now, yes, once again the room turned into the worst amusement park ride ever. She peeked at the clock on the microwave in fear. It spat out the dreaded 4 numbers in green, square writing—12:34.
“One, two, three, four.” Harriet said this out loud, just before falling to the floor. The Spinning really started now. The buzzing grew louder and louder, strumming, bouncing through Harriet’s head. And then the voices came. But they were different.
“HE’S GONE NOW! GONE NOW! NO MORE! DEAD! HA! DEAD! HA! GONE! NOT HERE! HA!” they chanted rhythmically.
Harriet’s wail turned into a shriek, a crazed screech.
Steven’s apartment’s walls turned white, and foam spreading over them. They puffed out, like someone blowing air through their cheeks. The rug-covered, fake-wood floors morphed into pillows... and Harriet found herself back in a padded cell. She looked down at her arms. They were bundled up in a tight, gray, snug suit.
A scratchy, excruciating, ear-piercing desperation noise escaped Harriet’s chapped lips. Basically, Harriet screamed.
Part VI: Attacking the Problem

Harriet kicked off from the floor and her legs started whirring around. She flailed desperately, trying to get herself to run, but she couldn’t. Her padded cell started tilting and gyrating endlessly. She closed her eyes, but it looked the same as when she opened them. Pulling herself up, she noticed 5 golden blobs on the opposite side of the room. Although the room was revolving, and everything was a blur, Harriet noticed these moving creatures. The room shook and suddenly, there were more of them. They started to advance on Harriet, although their heads were turned backwards. They intimidated Harriet, but she couldn’t figure out why—they were so questionably creepy and eerie. Their heads spun around and immediately, it struck Harriet like a silver hammer. The bright blue eyes. The silky fur. They were her old, dead, ratty dog. 8 despicable Peppermints, stalking towards Harriet, as if hunting for prey. Their eyes drilled holes in Harriet, and she started to bleed. Thick, dark red liquid poured out of her arms and she moaned. They swept closer, growling, as Harriet tried to cease the rapid flow of her blood. Buzzing filled up the room, and the padded cell was closing in, getting smaller, pushing the Peppermint gang closer. The pillows soaked up the puddle of blood underneath Harriet, which made the cushions grow bigger.
“GONE! DEAD! HE HATED YOU! HE LEFT YOU!”
Harriet could now feel the warm, putrid breath of her dogs and smell the metallic smell of the blood, and started to suffocate. The room was still spinning rapidly, but that was the least of her problems. She curled up into a helpless, defenseless little ball and started to cry.
Suddenly, everything stopped.
Her body went limp.
Her ears rang.
Silence.
Silence.

She looked up, expecting hell. No. It was Steven’s apartment. Her grin opened and turned into a chuckle. Ha! She was back! Peppermint was gone! She checked her arms for blood. Nope! She stumbled towards the office, still weak from her breakdown. She peered at the clock. 12:42. Ugh. The Spinning had started up again—every 12:34. Damn. At least she didn’t have it for another twelve hours, though.
She was getting ready for bed, brushing her yellow teeth, when she heard 4 quiet knocks on the door. It startled her; she hadn’t interacted with someone since 2 days ago, when Steven left. She froze, listening for more signs of potential interaction, and then tiptoed to the door, and put her ear to it. There was one last round of knocking, followed by silence, and then the pitter-patter of footsteps on carpet, walking away. No! Harriet couldn’t let this person leave without a conversation! Harriet swung open the door and burst through. She saw a woman press an elevator button across the hall.
“WAIT!” Harriet called out.
The woman froze and slowly turned to Harriet. She gave Harriet the “shush” sign and calmly walked over to her. It took a while; the hallway was long, and the woman was limping—although young and healthy, the woman’s legs were in terrible shape.
“Hello,” the woman said. She was beautiful, maybe 20 years old, Asian, and wearing a deep turquoise jacket, over a cute, chartreuse little shirt. Her pants were a spicy brown—almost like cinnamon, and she wore white boots. Her outfit almost entirely covered Harriet’s history—turquoise boots, cinnamon coffee, and white pillows. It made Harriet cringe, but smile, at the same time.
“Uh... hi,” Harriet grimaced at her own awkwardness. “You knocked on my door?”
The woman laughed.
“Yeah. I’m Carrie, by the way. Nice to meet you. I came to see you about your husband.”
“Boyfriend,” Harriet corrected her. “Also, nice to meet you too. I’m Harriet.”
“I know. I know. Anyway, you’ll get your husband back.”
“Boyfriend.”
“Right. Steven, right?”
“Ugh, yes. He left.” Hearing his name coming from someone else’s mouth was weird to Harriet.
“Right. Well, you didn’t lose him. We’ll get him back. Promise.”
Harriet gave Carrie a doubtful look, and then chuckled, condescendingly.
“He’s dead. Gone. I know he is. And if not, then he left me because I’m crazy.”
“Stop. C’mon. Be more positive.”
Silence.
Harriet’s eyes pushed out some tears, but her eyelids shoved them back in.
There was another silence that sliced through the moment and left a sharp pain in the air.
Carrie put a hand on Harriet’s shoulder.
“Don’t be miserable. Don’t wallow in your own misfortune. The key to happiness is about attacking the problem.” This very well might have been the single cheesiest moment Harriet had ever experienced. Harriet laughed and said, “Okay. We’ll get together tomorrow at... is 3:00 okay for you?”
“Sure.”
“Great.”
“See ya.”
And that was that.

Part VII: The Worst Day in Harriet Sullivan’s Life, Ever

The day Steven disappeared started as a completely normal one. Harriet woke up. She ate breakfast. She noticed her arms were looking better. She took a shower. She went to the 30-minute graphic design class she had been taking. She went home and displayed what she had just learned; she had gotten a job, designing websites—a real paying job.She went shopping. She tried on turquoise boots, and as she did so she realized it was 12:33. She ran into the changing rooms to hide herself, and waited for the spinning to start—but nothing happened. She looked down at her boots and thought to herself, “Maybe this is it!”. She bought the turquoise boots and named them the “Special Boots.” After her shopping spree, she went to get cinnamon coffee, and when she came home, Steven was gone.
Harriet burst through the apartment door, ready to announce the loss of Spinning and gain of turquoise boots. She didn’t 100% expect Steven to be home; he had work until 3:00, but sometimes he would come home early. She called to him, a smile plastered to her face. She took a sip from the cup of cinnamon coffee she had bought, and started towards the office. He was not there. She sighed, still cheerful, and decided to surf the web.

5 ½ hours later, he hadn’t come home. Harriet was beginning to worry about him and reached for her cell phone, deciding to call him. With each number she pressed, the more she knew what was about to happen. He wouldn’t respond. It rang once. There was a pause... and then another ring. It rang 4 more times before Harriet slammed the phone down and screamed. Where was he? She paced back and forth, surprised that the spinning had not started. And she spent the next hours of her night waiting.
But he never came home.

Part VIII: The Search Begins

“Uh... Carrie?” Harriet tapped a small woman with silky black hair, wearing a blue shirt, on the back. The woman spun around and examined Harriet. It was not Carrie.
“Yes?” the woman said, confused. “Do I... know you?”
Harriet was befuddled, and looked sideways at the woman.
“Oh... I thought... you looked... um, right. Well. Bye.” Harriet cursed at herself and resumed waiting in the cramped coffee shop that she was so familiar with. It reminded her of Steven. She took her seat in the corner of the coffee shop—by the window, on the cozy brown leather couch—this was where Steven and her always sat. After much fidgeting and impatience and sighing, Harriet abruptly stood up and strode over to the counter, where she bought another cinnamon coffee. As she did so, she thought to herself, “Why am I doing this? Cinnamon coffee is going to do nothing but make me more anxious,” but nonetheless, she bought the cinnamon coffee. She sat back down on the couch and glanced at her watch. 3:45. Great. Nice job, Carrie. 45 minutes late. Suddenly, as if on cue, the door swung open, the little bell jingled, and Carrie paraded in, blowing air on to her frozen hands. She looked up, scanned the room, and ordered a cinnamon coffee.
“My favorite.” Harriet appeared behind her. “Steven’s too.
Carrie’s startled expression turned into a smile.
“Hello to you too,” Carrie said.
“Hah! Uh, hi.” Harriet grinned. She was so glad to have a friend. She hadn’t had a real interaction with anyone for most of her life, and so she had forgotten how good a friend felt. “Come sit down with me.” Harriet added. She gestured towards the couch in the corner. They shuffled to the couch and settled in. Carrie immediately started.
“I have found something.” Carrie declared.
“Um... alright.”
“About Steven, that is.” Carrie explained.
“Oh! Okay,” Harriet was excited. She leaned in closer.
“When I was leaving your apartment the other day...” Carrie began, “...I found something. The corner of it was sticking out of the carpeting next to your door. Look. This.” Carrie picked up her chic, smooth leather purse, dug around for a while, and eventually produced a crumpled piece of notebook paper, smothered with scribbles and numbers and letters and splotches of coffee and whatnot. The piece of paper was in terrible condition, limp and ripped, with torn edges covered in ink hanging off of the soggy outline. The writing resembled a 2-year-old’s attempts at writing, re-done by a mental patient. It looked like a poem Harriet would’ve written, during the Spinning. This is what it said: 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 BABE RUTH

Harriet stared at the piece of paper. She looked up at Carrie, baffled. Carrie flung back a look that said “Yeah, I don’t get it either.” Harriet opened her mouth, as if to say something, but then closed it again.
“Who’s Babe Ruth?” Harriet asked. Carrie laughed and then, upon realization that Harriet had absolutely no education and honestly didn’t know, said, “Oh... right. Babe Ruth was a baseball player in the 1920s. He’s really famous. He played for the Red Sox.”
“Oh. Okay... but why is he on this piece of paper?” Harriet responded.
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out—was Steven a baseball fan?”
“Not particularly, maybe a little, I don’t know.” Harriet dug through memories of him, in her head, trying to remember if he liked baseball. She couldn’t think of a time when the subject really came up.
“Babe Ruth. What the hell?” Carrie was visibly frustrated.
“I’ll find out more information on him tonight—I just learned how to use Wikipedia.” Harriet was quite proud of herself on this matter. She hadn’t seen a computer in her life before Steven showed her one. She actually hadn’t seen a lot of things—the last time she was out, living in the world was in 1971—just before she was taken away to the mental institution.

Later that night, Harriet sat in front of the computer, determined and desperate to find out more about Babe Ruth.

Babe Ruth - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Babe_Ruth
George Herman Ruth, Jr. (February 6, 1995 – August 16. 1948), best known as “ Babe”
Ruth and nicknamed “the Bambino” and “the Sultan of Swat”, was an …
Early years - Major League career - Personal life - Legacy

Harriet clicked the first search result.

She skimmed through the entire article, looking for anything special—clues, hints, secret messages, anything. She read it through multiple times, before coming to the conclusion that Steven had done nothing. She pounded her head against the desk. She leaned back, stretching her arms and scooting her chair back. Hopeless.
She looked at the photo of Babe Ruth in the sidebar of Wikipedia. She studied that, too, until she finally decided that she would give up. It was then that something caught her eye. See, that always happens—just when you give up and declare yourself hopeless and miserable—that’s when you find something. She squinted at the bottom right corner of the picture. A minuscule “#6” was scratched there, in permanent marker. Someone had taken a Sharpie and numbered the photograph #6. She looked closer. Yes! Was that the clue?
This was it! Steven had led her to this page to find that! Right?

But why? What was the significance of a little tiny “#6” in the bottom corner of a photograph of a random famous baseball star? And who put it there? Steven couldn’t have done it. Could he have?
She clicked the photo. It took her to a page with information of the photo.
Full resolution‎ (2,623 × 3,456 pixels, file size: 5.2 MB, MIME type: image/jpeg)
Description
Babe Ruth, full-length portrait, standing, facing slightly right, in baseball uniform, holding baseball bat. Facsimile signature on image: "Yours truly "Babe" Ruth."
Date
23 July 1920, registered as part of a series of 8 photographs of Ruth under J242488–J242491 on the 3 August 1920[1]
Source
*
This image is available from the United States Library of Congress's Prints and Photographs division under the digital ID cph.3g07246.
This tag does not indicate the copyright status of the attached work. A normal copyright tag is still required. See Commons:Licensing for more information.
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Author
Irwin, La Broad, & Pudlin.
Other versions
Restored version of File:Babe Ruth unrestored.jpg. Rotated and cropped. Dirt and other artifacts removed. Selective unsharp mask. Levels adjusted and color balanced.



“23 July 1920, registered as part of a series of 8 photographs of Ruth under J242488–J242491 on the 3 August 1920.” Great. Steven didn’t write it. Thanks, Steven.
And just like that, all of Harriet’s hope flooded out of her body. She went limp, and fell asleep.