Chapter 1

I saw her this morning on TV looking much better than the last time I had seen her…last night in my dream.

She and I hunkered down, perfectly still in isle #7 where all the cereals and cookies lay wrecked-spewed out on to the floor -- a macabre morning breakfast spread on white squares of glossy tile soaked in blood.

She was half huddling, half squatting. Her backside had found its way wedged in to the bottom shelf between the Ceros and Captain Crunch. The noise…she was trying to push herself even deeper between the metal shelving, you know way back to the area where mice run free to eat and defecate when the noise occurred. The squeal of her sneaker (blood doesn’t offer the terrified much if any foot traction) was plainly heard by the young boy whose rifle had left little standing in the supermarket that afternoon.

As soon as she glimpsed him her feet flew in to a frantic frenzy, but there was no more shelving for this newest brand of cereal to occupy. The boy, Carlos was his name, leveled the rifle as he drew closer. That’s when I stepped over the body of an older woman and (best guess) her granddaughter who was both victims of Carlos’ madness moments before she and I found ourselves huddled together in isle #7.

No.

I said the word plainly since (call it a hunch) it needed to be spoken in neither a pleading or authoritative way.
Carlos’ attention shifted as did his rifle which really made me angry-damn angry he would be as inconsiderate as to point it at me -- after everything I had recently gone through…didn’t he know? Damn teenagers, they think they own the world.

Still he appropriately read the book by its cover, so to speak, since the end of the weapon drooped like a dick that lost its erection, all the way down until it again pointed at the old woman’s head. Go ahead, I thought, you can’t kill a person twice. Note to self, not being able to die more than once is a misnomer since I know for a fact you can be killed more than once. Twice, three times…possibly more if you’re really fucked.

“Is she with you?” The first words out of his mouth.
I stole a glance at little miss breakfast cereal whose face was being held in place by the callously cold hands of the Grim Reaper. Her eyes were red, swollen, raw and twitching in sync with the rapid heaving of her chest. I turned my attention to a torn open bag of sugar laying close by the old woman, for a moment I thought to give her a tablespoon of it in order to make what looked like the worse case of hiccups I’ve ever seen go away.

Yeah, what the hell I thought -- she’s with me.
Fuck me, it was my next thought because the rifle toting teenager complete with a more than pop ready zit on the bridge of his nose just walked on by the both of us. I recall actually popping my hand over my mouth since I nearly called him back wanting an explanation of why he left us to be.

Seconds later…perhaps minutes more, a voice hollered out…please don’t…followed by the brain squeezing noise of the rifle going off.

Guess I was wrong, you know about the availability of space on the bottom shelf thing? The rifle blast made her almost disappear.

It couldn’t be much longer now. I heard the wail of the sirens over the music still flowing merrily out of the ceiling speakers. I wondered what Neil Sedaka would say if he knew his song was playing while some teenage boy ruthlessly gunned down every person he found inside the supermarket on this particular dreary summer afternoon -- there was no laughter in the rain here.

She and I, we’re both famous -- did you know? In the end Ms. Cereal Box fared far better than I. You see, I ended up here in Piney Grove (the place better meant for the gun toting teenager if he hadn’t sucked on the end of the rifle and pulled the trigger) and she went on to become a famous movie star. Who would have fathomed such an outcome?

Some years ago, three of them to be exact, a couple days after her face graced the cover of People Magazine, she came to visit me. My fame had already begun to wean away since a violent episode left me in solitary confinement and out of harms way from probing reporters guised as researchers for the betterment of those in the throws of severe mental instability.

Dr. Schwartz, my psychoanalyst and mentor of well being, thought the visitation could benefit the lot of us. At that point in my mentally ill career I recall not caring much about anything other than wishing the housekeeping folks didn’t use bleach to mop the fucking floors. I really hate the smell of bleach...makes me want to puke.

At the time the rising star’s movements were being carefully tracked by the paparazzi. The vast network of government spy agencies pale in comparison to the uncovering power of these camera slinging warriors, case in point, they were on the hospital proper days before she arrived.

Mending the fence with the man who claims to have killed God was one headline I was shown by Dr. Schwartz.

How does that make you feel?

I didn’t know the fence was broken. I know, I know, could you blame me? What else was there to say?

I’m sure there were other 16 postscript pica headlines blasted above 10 postscript pica paragraphs in city and state run newspapers across the country, still during that session Schwartz’y elected only to show that particular one to me.

We…no, he spoke to it for some time. I may be labeled mentally unstable, a threat to myself and perhaps to others, still, I isn’t a simple man. I knew the direction he was pointing me towards.
Are there other fences in your life Richard?

Like a dog trying to be shoved in to a cage, I dropped down flat in front of it and made myself as heavy as I could. Nope this fluffy old dog wasn’t going to be ensnared. Only the one encompassing Piney Grove I told him.

OK, that’s a fair answer. But beside that particular fence are there any others that need mending?

Nope, not going in, I thought bricks, cinder blocks and lead, pressed my chin in to the ground and growled.

Why do you think she’s coming then?

That was a better question, I wagged my tail and relaxed just a bit incase this was a rouse.

Because she believes she needs to thank me for saving her life. I recall cutting off Schwartz’s next question as I continued on with previously undisclosed details of time and circumstance when my brain operated in a perfectly sane manner (or so I thought).

You see, Carlos and I shared a mutual acquaintance, the one (I dare not say his name for fear it will degrade the progress, if you want to call it that, made) who hosted a get together only days before Carlos opted to kill 17 people on a dreary Saturday afternoon in a Sunderland, Maryland Shop and Stop. Shit, I had sat directly across from Carlos during dinner while our mutual friend unveiled his master plan.

Carlos, much like I, wanted nothing to do with what transpired over dinner. The only problem was neither of us confided with one another afterwards, so much for social networking.

Is she with you? (Translation: Are you and her participating in the plan?)

It wasn’t until I sprinted over to find Carlos in the frozen food section of Isle #9 with the top section of his head flipped back over looking like a baseball cap put on backwards did I understand the little prick had no such desire to participate in the plan-he cut bait and ran.

Not really necessary to thank me, nope, I didn’t save her life -- the “one” had.

Schwartz’y reached over and tapped the stop button on the digital recorder before placing it back in to the breast pocket of his lab jacket. He purposefully looked at his watch long enough to attract my attention to what he was doing. He had heard enough and I assumed he saw this as backward progression in his goal of demystifying my insanity.

The day came as did she. They had closed down the cafeteria, which during non-meal times doubled as a make shift activities room while the real one was going through renovations. She had her own personal body guard as I did too. Not that I’m bragging but I had four. Four white jackets lined up in a row ready to react in tandem in case I did anything more than breathe. I was never, ever, a violent man, I’ll share a little secret; captivity in a nuthouse turns you in to a nut. Dr. Schwartz paced nervously nearby until he felt the time was right before sitting in to a plastic chair close by.

Richard, isn’t it wonderful that Ms. Johnson has come to visit?

I heard him but I didn’t provide an answer right away since Ms. Cereal Box eyes were staring at her own hands that were clasped tightly together. Her knuckles were white and the ends of her fingers were brilliant red. Embarrassed, ashamed, afraid, or full of sorrow of and for the man who saved her life (so she thought) who was seated before her in a white housecoat worn over light gray pajamas that were bespeckled with blue dots.

Richard?

I apologized for drifting, sat up taller in the chair and ran my hand through the scruff growing out of my head. Certainly my once shinning armor had become dulled and rusted. Shit if I was embarrassed.

Don’t ask me why I did it, much less where the thought came from but for whatever the reason was, or shall ever be, I leaned forward ever so carefully (least I incur the wrath of uncertainty from her body guard and the white coats) and gently blew on her hands. Her fingers relaxed, she looked up and did a fine job to put on a smile. Yes, she was a grand actress deserving of her latest Emmy award.

We spent the next five or so minutes shooting the proverbial shit. I asked about her recent movie and what it must be like to work with the likes of Brad Pitt. She told me I looked good and hope that very soon I would be getting out so we could grab a bite to eat. Like pros in a bullshitting contest we skirted the real reason she had come, well that until the time a plastic device buzzed on the hip of her body guard. It didn’t have anything to do with nothing she and I were involved in at the time still it somehow acted to remind Gerriha Leigh why she had gotten the nerve to come to visit me in the first place.

She asked Dr. Schwartz if it would be all right to go outside, maybe walk the grounds, get some fresh air as they talked. Schwartz’y is a very good man and a very astute physician. He, like I understood what she wanted to say would be much easier said in mobile manner as opposed to our current stationary face to face fashion.

Dr. Schwartz stood first, followed by her and then me. It was quite comical as the brood of white coats followed my every foot step. As we walked through the door leading out to a confined courtyard area I called Eden’s Cage Gerriha Leigh dismissed her bodyguard telling him she was perfectly safe and to remain inside the cafeteria free to enjoy the odor of the freshly mopped floors. Dr. Schwartz took a gamble and I’m glad he did. He ordered the white jackets to remain indoors as well. He thought did follow out but remained at a distance off to the side.

I followed Ms. Cereal Box and stopped several feet from where she now stood. Up against the fence looking out in to the much larger grassy area of Piney Grove Sanitarium offered to the so called non-violent membership.

On Saturday, July 15th of 2002, at approximately 1:30 PM, Gerriha Leigh had walked in to Shop and Stop to pick up some groceries. At 2:30 PM she walked out as the only person left alive. You see six months before that I had died when I was told that my wife was killed by a drunk driver while she out jogging. Her question was as simple as it was to the point.

Why I am alive?

I don’t know, I lied, instantly feeling bad enough to follow it up with something more meaningful for her to hold on to. Luck, I suppose.

She turned quickly, wrapped her arms around me and thanked me for saving her life.

She sobbed on my shoulder for a spell. My hands were still down along my sides and I kept them there. I thought about wrapping them around her waist but better judgment told me it might be perceived as an act of aggression by the wary eyes staring out from the cafeteria in to Eden’s Cage.

Please get better Richard, she finally told me between thin sips of air. I’d really like to get to know you better. I know Hope will like you too; it would be nice for the three of us to go out to lunch. She released my neck and patted around the lower portions and corner of her eyes with a tissue she had seemingly pulled out of thin air. Moments later she was gone.

I asked Dr. Schwartz if it was all right if I could remain outside, alone to reflect today’s encounter in solitude. He didn’t have a problem with it since he was likely thinking I needed some self-time to mend my own fence. But like I said before, the only fence I knew existed here at Piney Grove Sanitarium. No the real reason I wanted to stay outside was because I had a perfect view of the limousine parked out in the staff parking lot. I needed to see her one final time.