The room was harder to get to then the Hayes'; it was further into the building and the window was locked from the inside. He ended up having to climb into another room to get into the building, leaving the room, and picking the lock of the target room.
The room was sparse with cheap furniture; rickety, old, and molding. There were a few cheap folding chairs thrown about, one was bent in half and shoved into the corner. There was a yellow notepad on the table, spine bound in rubber bands.
He picked it up and stashed it in his back. Once he secured the bag to his back, he climbed out the window and shot a grappling hook for the roof. He used the rope to climb down the side of the building, pulling the grappler down once his feet hit the floor.
The city towered over him, staring down at him. The towers that scraped the sky and the coating of grime clinging to everything, growing a second skin. They seemed more like the asylum's distant cousins rather than its neighbors.
He knew what Violet thought about the asylum. Maybe that's why his dad talked about it. Maybe he would die too.
His phone beeped. He held it up to his ear. "Hello?"
"Hey, Neal." It was Joaquin. "Where are you?"
"I'm at the bus stop," he glanced around, was there a bus stop nearby? "I'll be home soon."
"Oh, a heads up. I got a text from Mark. Kyle's working overtime on the case."
Neal rolled his eyes. "No surprise there," he folded up his cape and pulled off his tunic. "Anything new?"
"Hey," Joaquin lightly chuckled. "Don't let him dump his crap on you, okay?" Neal nodded, even though his brother couldn't see it. "If he throws his crap at you, you throw it right back. Okay?"
He stifled a chuckle. "Yeah," Neal pulled a pair of sweats on. "Thanks. I really needed that."
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Kyle entered the apartment, shutting the door behind him and hanging his coat on the hook. "I'm home!"
"Dad," Neal looked up from his game controller. "Back so soon?"
"Yeah," the older man smiled, plopping down on the couch. "Crazy day. You wouldn't believe it." He saw the TV screen. "What are you playing?"
Neal dropped down next to him. "It's something I pulled from the pile," Neal picked up the case and waved it at him. It had a brunette girl wearing a blue dress and bloody apron, with a grinning skeletal cat sitting next to her.
Kyle remembered that game clearly. He and his daughter used to play it together, alternating between levels. It wasn't very often and they died a lot.
They never got to the final level. They would always restart and try to speed run through it.
He turned to Neal, "Wanna play?"
Neal glanced around the room before shrugging. "Okay," he picked up the controller. "Let's do this."
Neal was surprising good at the game. He liked the storyline: Alice went crazy after the death of her parents, and Wonderland was falling apart because of it.
He actually got to the Voracious Centipede in the Wonderland Woods before Kyle said it was time for bed. He saved his game and shut down the console.
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He waited until he was sure his dad was asleep. Once he was certain that no one was there, he pulled out the notepad and his flashlight.
It was like a high school science lab sheet, all scribbled in with blocky print. Some parts were scribbled out, others were circled and highlighted. There were charts and drawings of human brains with certain lobes painted red and green.
Photos were glued to a paper, some x-rays and MRI scans, paired up and labeled "before" and "after". There were opened and closed fractures, brain deterioration, and stitches inside and out.
Paperclipped to the cardboard back was a crumpled, handwritten letter. It was dated November 5, 1986, addressed to someone named Doctor John Cereus.
He flattened the letter, squinting at the blocky print.
He didn't know until after he read it: there was dried blood on the paper.
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Dear John,
About a year ago, you asked me to talk to the Superintendent to approve your experiments and your new "psychedelic" treatments. Ever since, I admit that I've been putting off your wish despite your persistence.
I think it's time for us to finally close this matter.
I cannot approve of your methods. From what I've seen, you haven't conducted any animals or human trials. There are no considerations for any possible side effects, especially in case of overdoses, and I cannot force this onto a sick patient in the best intention.
Psychedelic practices are derived from the consideration of the patients, not the scientists. If you wish to continue your career in psychiatry, you should remember to consider the wellbeing of your patients and of your own. As doctors, we have a responsibility to make sure that the people of this world have the best care and treatment we can provide.
You have real talent as a doctor and as a scientist, John. Your chosen field and career choice do not promise fame or fortune. Many people take our jobs in order to help individuals in this changing world.
Goodbye,
Dr. Hayes
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Kyle lied in bed, staring at the ceiling. He had been staring at the hole where the chandelier would have been.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breathe.
In, out, up, down; in, out, up, down; in, out, up, down.
In, out, up, down. In, out, up, down. In, out, up, down.
In. Out. Up. Down
In.
Out.
Up.
Down.
He opened his eyes.
"Kyle?" He turned to the side. A little girl with red hair and buck teeth was standing at the door, rubbing her nose on her sleeve.
He rolled over, propping himself up on his elbows. "Kid?" His voice was raspy from the disuse.
She lowered her gaze, scuffing the floor with her slippers.
He scrubbed at his face. His eyes were gritty and the saliva had formed a peeling crust on his cheek. He hoped that the lamp light wasn't bright enough for the girl to see. "So ..." he rubbed at the back of his head, keeping his eyes on the floor.
The girl just stared at him before making the first move. She kicked off her slippers and climbed onto the bed, stepping over his legs, and pulling up the covers.
She slid her legs down the bed, skidding down the mattress on her butt. She fluffed her bob of sticky red curls and stared at him expectantly.
He sighed, turning off the lamp. He felt something warm snuggle up to his side. He wrapped his arms around the mass, only to find it cold.
He gasped, stumbling back and falling out of the bed.
YOU ARE READING
Nighthawk Unchained: The Lost Bird
FanfictionKyle Richmond returns to the asylum after receiving a message from his dead daughter informing him that she is waiting there for him. A boy finds himself trapped with the ghosts from his family past and an old journal as the only way to unveil a ter...
