Day 305 - Perfectly Executed. - Chapter 4 (1228 Words)

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PERFECTLY EXECUTED

By Wayne Webb

CHAPTER 4

Samuel Reid was changing with every session, becoming more and more vague about his past and the events that led to his incarceration. More than once he claimed to not know where he was or how he got there, appearing genuinely distressed and emotionally distraught, as if it were someone else entirely in the room when in these new ‘states’.

The interviewer worked around them at first, but after a couple of sessions it became clear that the interviews themselves were triggering the changes in Samuel, he was closing up subconsciously or consciously it made no difference, the sessions were becoming exercises in frustration and misinformation, quite clearly.

There were nuggets of truth mixed up in them and there were details that made no earthly sense, which did not fit any of the delusional patterns that he had displayed so far. The institute that monitored his imprisonment and treatment decided to remove the access from the researcher that was causing the change. It was generally seen as bad for his mental health and would create more of a decline than it would provide any helpful insight into the pathology of his madness.

The author, the one hired surreptitiously by Dr Thompson came himself to replace the research assistant that was the common factor in each of the encounters that drew this new madness.

“Mr Reid?” John Hoskins was a suited and bespectacled man, thinning hair and an academic look, a pipe and elbow patched jacket would have completed the look if he had been trying at all.

“That’s my father.” Samuel said instinctively, it was one of those things that he got from his Dad, when he was still alive. His father had said it about his grandfather, and Samuel started picking that up when adulthood claimed him and the honorific “Mr.” came his way.

“But not you?” John noted, one raised eyebrow.

Samuel Reid stiffened and straightened in his chair, disliking the new visitor whoever he was.  He said nothing in response.

“My father was never Mr Hoskins, he was …” John stumbled a little over the next part of his sentence. “. Doctor Hoskins, never, ever call him Mister.” He looked down at the table and blushed slightly, and cleared his throat.

Samuel looked at the same spot that John had been staring at as if somehow that spot held some power, or a key to understanding the new person in the room.

“What would you prefer to be called?” John asked finally cutting into the silence.

“You can call me Doctor Reid.” Samuel smirked a little bit, thinking to unbalance the man across from him.

“Doctor? Really?” John tried not to scoff or look too hurt, he was unsure which reaction was more honest and which was affected.

“I earned my title, unlike some.” Samuel was feeling confident and strong, and he looked up at the barred windows, drew strength from them. They were there to keep him in, keep him from the weak and the unready. He was the thing that people needed to be protected from, the unwavering and undeniable.

“Ok, Doctor Reid.” John tapped his pen on his pad, and twirled it in his fingers, and saw that Samuel was looking at it askew, tracking it carefully with sideways glances and trying to not look like he was. “Tell me more about your father?”

“Pfft? No wonder your dad was ashamed of you? Could you be any more clumsy and obvious? Why don’t you just ask if I fucked my mother?” Samuel rolled his eyes, but kept track of where that pen was going.

“Did you?” Came the incredulous question.

“What?”

“Did you? Did you fuck your mother? I mean that would be fascinating right?” John leaned a long way forward and held the pen loosely in his grip, waving it lightly in the space between the two men, holding it up to make his point, a smile playing across his lips.

Samuel leapt forwards and swiped at the pen, snatching it boldly in his tow manacled hands, the chains that held him within range of the desk snapping him back, but not before he held the pen and tried to stab his guest.

John was waiting for such a move though and as soon as he saw Samuel shift his position he moved backwards and out of range, leaving just enough arm extended to have the pen just in reach for the inmate bent on getting it.

The pen flew from his grasp and he snatched his hand back as Samuel flipped it around and lunged forward at him, stabbing downwards which such force and anger that the pen shattered on the hard surface of the table. Splinters flew in all directions and Samuel strained at his bonds like the proverbial mad dog on a leash.

John watched calmly on the surface, but inside a little nervous at how good the manacles were, and if the anchor they were attached to was strong enough as well. His heart beat rapidly but his gaze was unblinkingly fixed on the man intent on doing him violence, looking for any clue and any sign that his was madness or design in the rage.

Samuel howled his impotence at being bested and outguessed so quickly, all the elation he had from having the apparent upper hand to now being manipulated and lead into this trap, turned to blind fury and he still had a white-knuckled grip on the sharp shards of the pen.

Seeing his intended victim out of reach, seeing the smile on his lips, the cool calm exterior enraging him even further, Samuel turned the pen on himself and jabbed upwards into his neck. The jagged edges tore into the soft fleshy skin and blood erupted from the wound, he had not cut the jugular but he bit deep and wide enough to cause severe bleeding in seconds.

The whole time he kept his eyes fixated on the man across the desk. He saw them widen in shock, which made him happy and in control. Then he saw them narrow and shrewdly assessing his actions in the same breath, making no move other that the initial shock of the eyes.

Orderlies sprinted into the room, shouting and waving as they moved to restrain, contain and maintain, as per their training. They bound Samuels arms and injected him with a sedative, jabbing it into the harder flesh of his upper arm, a gentle intrusion compared to the violence done to the man’s neck by his own hands.

“Suicide is a sin! God will see you rot in hell for this!”

The words came harsh and rasping from one of the three men wrangling the insane Mr Reid to the floor and binding the wound.

John was trying to figure out which of the three to report for this outrageous statement to the mentally unbalanced Samuel Reid, but the look of unbridled anguish that flooded Samuel’s eyes stopped him in his tracks.

Did he really believe that his rash actions were going to damn his soul? The sedative was kicking in and his flailing arms kept pumping, trying to get at his neck, to affect his wound in some way.

Was he trying to save himself?

John Hoskins made quick notations on his note pad with the spare pen he had in his pants pocket.