"Retribution"

         The lab was pristine. Not due to a well-trained janitorial staff, but due to the compulsiveness of Dr. Scott. Dr. Scott was there now, conducting experiments while waiting for patients to arrive.

         Dr. Scott was a psychiatrist, as well as a scientist and a pioneer, in a sense. Mary Scott looked like the stereo-typical female of the early nineteen-sixties that put career before life. Black high heels, black pencil skirt, white blouse, white lab coat freshly bleached, two black pens in her pocket, shiny brown hair in a tight bun horn-rimmed glasses, and no make-up. Most people look at her and think, "She could be pretty if only she'd..."

         She didn't care about what people thought of her, as long as her patients got well. The only thing she did care about were her precious lab mice. Even then, only so long as they served their purpose. She had named all of them, as well as petted and spoiled them, and then performed cruel experiments on them. Not just the cheese at the end of the maze, but drugs that weren't yet fit for human consumption. Drugs that would cause the mice to shriek in agony, run in circles until they crashed into walls, or slowly shrivel up and die.

         She had just administered a new serum into her favourite mouse, Jerry, gave him a pat and a cuddle before placing him back into his cage. Then she heard the buzzer. She turned around to notice the red light above the door was flashing. Her first patient had arrived, ten minutes early. How annoying. Now she wouldn't be able to accurately record what would be the effects of the new serum.

         Dr. Scott walked to her office, hung her lab coat on the coat rack, pressed the buzzer on the desk, and situated herself on her chair, pad and pen in hand. Dr. Scott was ready, including her detached, trance-like glaze.

         Her first patient was Ellen Lockwood, an alcoholic. This wasn't the first time Dr. Scott had seen her. Ellen had been a patient for over a year. Yet, Dr. Scott would have sworn that she had never seen this Ellen Lockwood before. This one had brown, mousy hair, in a messy ponytail, wore a ragged calico dress, perspiring, and barefooted.

         The Ellen Lockwood she knew was a peroxide blonde, hair immaculately flipped, dressed in freshly pressed skirts and blouses, high heeled, and so much talcum powder that a bead of perspiration couldn't stand a chance.

         Dr. Scott didn't bat an eyelid.

         "Good morning Ellen. How did things go this week?"

         "Oh, just fine, ma'am. I didn't touch a drop once, I swear," Ellen said in a Southern drawl, far removed from the high society of Boston, supplanted in Los Angeles.

         Dr. Scott pretended not to notice.

         "What did you do?" she asked instead.

         "I weeded the vegetables in the garden, fed that critters that came 'round, went to a barn raisin' party."

         A barn raising party? Dr. Scott didn't realize anyone still had those. Must be a bizarre case of TD.

         "What did you do at the barn raising party?"

         "I helped at the refreshment table. All that water and punch. My, I'm thirsty. What I wouldn't give for a nice, long, cool drink. It's days like this that I'd go to a creek, sit on a log, letting my feet dangle in the rippling water, and drinking Granny's home-made hooch."

         It should have been sunbathing by the pool with martinis or scotch-on-the-rocks. Was this a manifestation of multiple-personality disorder. Dr. Scott wrote her notes feverishly.

         Dr. Scott reached over to a pitcher of water. She poured herself a glass of water, taking a small sip, all the while watching Ellen' reaction.

         Ellen was licking, no, smacking, her lips.

         Dr. Scott held up the pitcher, nodding towards it, silently asking Ellen if she'd like a drink. Ellen started to reach for it, caught herself, and greedily watched her doctor pour the liquid.

         When Dr. Scott held the glass to her, she snatched it, chugged it down, and tried to cool her neck with the non-existent condensation from the glass.

         "It's nice and cool. I like to imagine it's drinks I've never been able to afford. Has ice cubes, so scotch-on-the-rocks. A bit of lemon, a gin-and-tonic. I haven't figured out how to imagine a whiskey. Maybe if I had sludgy water, like from the creek, without the leaves and twigs. Or, maybe my granny's hooch. Yes, it's thick and oddly coloured. Of course, I don't know what any of those drinks taste like."

         "How do you expect to recover if you daydream about different forms of alcoholic beverages?" Dr. Scott asked.

         Ellen started laughing hysterically, "Recover? I'm not going to recover! I don't want to! My imaginings of the 'tainted' water is so real, it makes me yearn even more!"

         Ellen kept on laughing, a horrible, sickening laugh. It scared Dr. Scott so much, that at first she was paralyzed. Then all she could manage to do was to cover her ears and close her eyes.

         Still, Ellen's laughter kept getting louder and wilder. The doctor didn't know how much more she could take. Her ears were ringing. It finally reached a grand crescendo, and then...

         "...I suppose if my mother had really loved me, I never would have turned out this way."

         Ellen was gone. All was silent, except for the new patient in the chair. She was a middle-aged lady, with black hair styled in a low bun, wearing a navy blue business suit of the times. Her blouse had a couple of ruffles and a ruby brooch. She was nervously scratching her arm.

         "Who are you?" Dr. Scott asked.

         "Why, I'm Miss Frederickson, Dr. Scott. Your Wednesday, ten-thirty appointment."

         "How did you get in here?"

         "Your receptionist let me in, as usual."

         "I've never seen you before."

         "Please don't play games with me, Dr. Scott. It's cruel."

         "I'm not playing games! I swear I've never seen you before!" Dr. Scott yelled.

         "I'm all there in your notes. Look."

         She did look. It was a notebook dedicated to one patient. It had full details of their past conversations, too many to mention here. How the patient remembered all the cruel words her parents used to describe her. The guilt she felt when her parents died in a shipwreck, not because she missed them, but because she didn't. Her fist suicide attempt at fifteen. How she beat all the odds and had a successful business. yet, she still remained the timid, frighten girl, who could only comfort herself by scratching her arms until they were raw.

         The last written page was for that day. The last sentence read, "I suppose if my mother had really loved me, I never would have turned out this way."

         "I'm...I'm sorry," Dr. Scott stuttered. "I was up later than I should have been. I guess I slightly dozed off, and that caused me to be more than slightly confused. Please continue."

         Miss Frederickson droned on. Dr. Scott tried to listen and remain calm. She started tapping her pen against her pad, frustrated that she had no clue as to who this patient was. Then as Miss Frederickson started speaking faster, Dr. Scott started rocking back-and-forth, keeping pace with the sobbing voices.

         When the crying reached an agonizing shriek, Dr. Scott snapped her head up. She noticed the dried, bloody bandages on her patient's wrist. Instinctively, she looked at her own wrists. Until then, she had never so much as experienced a paper cut. Yet to her astonishment, there was blood on her right wrist. Unbeknownst to her, she had stopped tapping and started scratching herself. Her perfectly manicured, sharp nails had done their job.

         "It hurts! Everyday, every stinking breath hurts! Why does it hurt so much?" Miss Frederickson sobbed.

         Dr. Scott couldn't answer her. Even if she could fully comprehend the question, think of the answers taught at countless lectures, it was impossible for her to utter a sound.

         When she gave no response, Miss Frederickson slipped off her chair, crying, pounding her fists onto the floor. Her face turned a hideous bluish-purple tinge, like an unattended newborn. The sight was unbearable. Dr. Scott lowered her head, shutting her eyes as tight as could be.

         "What's wrong with you?"

         Dr. Scott looked up to see a lanky, black-haired, overly made-up, gum chewing teen-ager, whose face was uncomfortably close to her own.

         "You're crying!" the stranger said disdainfully.

         Mary Scott put a finger to her cheek and felt something wet. She tried to recollect the last time she had cried. She had no memories of ever shedding a tear.

         "What's the point of me seeing a head shrink? You're nuttier than me!"

         For the second time that day, Dr. Scott said something that she hadn't said in years, "I'm sorry."

         She looked at the paper in her hand. This time, it was blank. She had no information on this grumpy, mysterious person wandering around her office, sneering at every diploma hanging on the walls.

         Dr. Scott was suddenly terrified. Not of the person in front of her, but of what she stood for. Not knowing what's going on, absolutely no control over any situation, emotions she didn't realize she had, feeling like a mouse lost in a maze, praying to awaken from this terrible nightmare.

         The teen-ager started snapping her gum. It sounded as if she was snapping into a megaphone. Dr. Scott's nerves couldn't take it anymore.

         "STOP IT!" she screamed, startling the patient. "SIT DOWN."

         The young patient stared at the doctor for a moment, then slouched down into the chair, swinging her purse on the side. Dr. Scott took a few precious seconds to get herself under control.

         "Now, let's start from the beginning. What is your name?" she asked.

         "You got the record in front of you. No need to waste your time asking pointless questions."

         Dr. Scott wasn't going to waste her time looking for the record. She knew she didn't have it.

         "I'm afraid my receptionist was amiss in preparing my files before going on vacation," she lied. "Have you seen other psychiatrists?"

         "You mean, 'quakes", don't you? Yeah, I've seen them before. Juvenile court seems to think it knows what's best for me. Those phonies don't even know what's best for themselves, let alone all those 'hoodlum kids' they're to look after. Down with the whole system, I say."

         "Have you ever delved into the source of your anger?"

         "You bet I have!" she said, jumping up, pushing her face into Dr. Scott's face. "All I have received in my life is hatred, and that's all I know how to give!"

         "Please, sit down," Dr. Scott pleaded.

         All at once, she was filled with terror. What was in that purse? If it was a peashooter, she could handle that, but if it was a knife. The bead of perspiration trickled down her forehead, her pulse rising to a dangerously high rate.

         "Why don't you sit down, and we'll discuss this rationally, okay?"

         "No, let's have it out once and for all!" her patient yelled back.

         She then threw her purse on the floor, temporarily relieving Dr. Scott's fear.

         Then pushing her face even closer, she yelled, "I hate all that you stand for! The questions, the probing, the prodding, pretending to help, but making matters worse! You're self-righteous smugness! I hate you! I hate you! I HATE YOU!"

         She kept repeating, "I HATE YOU!", adding slaps in the face. Dr. Scott was in tears. For the first time, experiencing emotional pain, and the slaps feeling like a thousand needles.

         Stop it! Please, stop it! STOP!"

         Dr. Mary Scott was asleep, strapped to an upright gurney. With her were two distinguished looking men in business suits. One was silver-haired, and the other was a young man that looked as much like John Gage without being John Gage.

         At first appearances, you'd assume that they were colleagues of Dr. Scott, concerned about her nervous breakdown. They took out pens and pocket-sized notepads. They then proceeded to compare notes.

         "All the medications seem to have adverse effects," said the older gentleman.

         "I think the last time, it was the additional shots in the face that put her over the edge. She was holding out before that," replied the young, handsome one.

         "My findings disagree with you in that regard. She did try to keep calm, but the drug started to take effect before the additional shots."

         "Either way, it's definitely not safe to market; none of the drugs are."

         "I'm curious as to what would happen if we gave her all three drugs at once."

         "Wouldn't it be rather pointless? It's obvious that it would either make her a vegetable or kill her."

         The older distinguished man thought for a moment, before answering, "The first lesson at Science University taught that all theories must be proved, no matter sure you are of the outcome."

         "That's right. You shouldn't have had to remind me. I guess I was starting to feel sorry for this creature. I even gave her a name- Mable," said the young, handsome man. "We might as well get it over with. We're very fortunate our leaders found this planet with creatures that closely resemble us. How many lab humans do we have available for our disposal?"

         "Billions of them! We'll never run our of lab humans, plenty for our experiments!"

         With that, we leave Dr. Scott, as she learns what it's like to laugh, cry, and scream at the same time. She learns what it's like to be one of her rats.

         Retribution? I'll leave that for you to decide.