These Halls Are Never Empty

“Dude, what the fuck. Fifth floor messes every morning right after Seth leaves and right before I get here. Does that guy hate me?” Tom said to Dmetri after finishing his day, chocolate pudding and mashed potatoes from the floor and walls of the fifth floor still pissing him off.

“Huh?”

“I get here at seven. And I swear, right as I get in, my beeper goes off! Jesus. There is something going on there.”

Dmetri rolled his eyes. “You need to be a patient there. Paranoid much?”

“I’m telling you, Dmetri–”

“Listen to yourself! They don’t hold vendettas. They lack the capacity. Now, I will ask Seth to keep an eye on the people there when he works tonight for you, but I doubt anything will happen.”

“I have a plan.”

“Oh I’m just dying to hear this.”

“I’ll be in at six forty-five tomorrow, and I’ll see what happens. Catch ‘em in the act, you know?”

“You do that. And have fun with your waste of time.”

True to his word, Tom got in early and relieved Seth of his duties. He went up to the fifth floor and hid behind the corner of the wall where the two halls met, waiting. Sure enough, at six fifty-five, the slow creak of the hinges indicated a door opening.

Tom gently poked his head around the corner and saw the culprit. A tall, skeletal being around his age with scraggly black hair and an odd, silver and black right hand tiptoed out of his room with a clear plastic bowl filled with tomato soup in his bony hands. Tom rounded the corner and spoke as the person started tilting the bowl.

“So you’re the one who hates me.”

The bowl clattered to the floor as the person jolted. He whipped around and faced Tom for a split second, then ran back into his room. Tom quickly followed after him.

As soon as he was in the room, Tom cut off the boy’s every attempt to get away. Sensing failure, he backed into the corner and tried melting into it. His face was a mixture of fear and apology as Tom walked over to him and caged him with his arms.

“Seriously, man, why do you always make a mess for me? I haven’t done anything wrong to deserve this from you!”

The boy looked around helplessly, then brought his forearms over his face and slid to the floor. His knees bent up as if he was an armadillo, curling up to form a ball of protection.

Tom felt a pang of guilt. He realized that this was a mental patient, and his intensity must have terrified him. Hell, the guy could have just been doing what he thought was right and Tom was practically yelling at him. He knelt down in front of him.

“I’m sorry if I freaked you out or whatever. I just hate cleaning up a pointless mess over and over. Always at seven, I get told what I need to clean on this floor. It’s irritating, you know?”

Suddenly, the boy’s head shot up, his eyes wide. He jumped up and fluidly, like a dancer, made his way around Tom. He ran into his bathroom and came back out with a towel in his hands. He ran into the hall and quickly mopped up the spilled soup as if his very existence depended on it. Grabbing the plastic bowl, he ran back into the room as the elevator at the end of the hall pinged.

Though Tom was unsure what the entire fuss was about, he found the way that the boy moved to be interesting. His bare feet made no noise on the floor, like he wasn’t even touching the ground, and he body looked flexible, as if he could twist in all sorts of odd angles to get through a laser alarm system or something. Tom was mildly transfixed.

The boy shoved both the towel and the bowl into the bathroom, then ran over to Tom. He pulled him by the arm to the bathroom as footsteps came down the hall. The boy shoved Tom in the bathroom and pressed a finger to his lips, his eyes begging. Tom, shocked, merely nodded. The boy turned around, pressed down the lever on the toilet, making it flush, and walked out of the bathroom. He closed the door just as a nurse walked in.

“Well, good morning, Mr. Early Bird!”

The boy, like always, remained silent.

“Well, it’s time for your questions.”

The boy turned around and went to a small cupboard. He knelt in front of it and rummaged around in it for a moment before pulling out a small red box.

A Speak ‘n Spell.

Tom felt like bursting out in his own rendition of R. Kelly’s ‘Trapped in the Closet’ but chose not to upon better judgement. He grabbed a glass cup that sat on the sink and pressed it against the door to hear better.

“Okay, dearie, what is your name?”

Tom heard silence, then…

“Bill.”

A harsh, mechanical voice spoke. Tom was shocked. The voice wasn’t human, which was something he hadn't expected.

“Good. What year is it?”

“2007.”

“Very nice. What do you like to do?”

“Draw.”

“What is my name?”

“Nurse Millie.”

“How many chromosomal pairs do humans have?”

“Twenty-three.”

Tom was dumbfounded. By the questions the nurse gave him following the chromosome one and the answers the boy was giving back, it was very clear that the boy was not one of the normal nuts on this floor. He seemed, well, intelligent. Tom didn’t even know how many chromosomal pairs humans had, he hadn't paid enough attention in biology for that. So, with that new piece of information to chew on, Tom wondered why he was here in the first place.

“Four cubed?”

“Sixty-four.”

Tom was baffled. None of this made sense.

“Okay, dearie. You’re done. Door open or closed?”

“Closed, please.”

Tom was still confused as hell. It was if… it was if the boy had been put there carelessly, without thought.

The nurse walked out and closed the door silently behind her. The boy tossed the red box on the bed and wrenched the bathroom door open. Tom, unprepared, let out a noise of surprise and fell to the floor, the cup flying from his hand and skittering across to the wall. What he had assumed was glass was actually plastic. The boy grabbed hold of his forearm and elbow and gingerly helped Tom to his feet.

“Thanks,” Tom said, dusting off his pants. “So your name is Bill?”

The boy gave him a small nod.

“I’m Tom.”

Bill gently tapped his temple.

“You know that already, okay. Well – wow. They don’t cut your nails or anything?”

Bill looked at his nails. The edges were jagged and scraggly and looked like they could claw out eyes. He shrugged.

“Um, okay… why is your hand dark?”

In all truth, it was just Bill’s fingers and part of his palm that were stained black and grey, but it was easier to say hand for Tom’s general laziness. Bill walked over to his bedside and pulled out a box labeled ‘charcoal sticks’ from his nightstand.

“Ah, you said you draw. Do you like these more than pencils?”

Bill mimicked slitting his wrists, then shook his head.

“Oh, not allowed sharp things, got it.” Tom clacked his tongue. “So, why don’t you talk?”

Bill looked down. Tom noticed how rigid Bill was, like he was always scared that something would happen to him and he was ready to run.

Bill slowly raised his hands and touched his neck. Tom bit his lip.

“You have laryngitis.”

Bill shook his head and tapped his throat again.

“You are suffering from strep throat.”

Bill grabbed Tom’s hand and put it on his throat. He opened his mouth and let out a breath, but no sound came out.

“Oh! Oh, you just generally can’t speak.”

Bill nodded.

“Why?”

Bill walked over to his bed and grabbed the Speak ‘n Spell. His response took less then fifteen seconds to type out, his skill at typing into the plastic toy perfected.

“Self-induced developmental dysphasia.”

Tom had no idea what dysphasia was but took a guess that it meant Bill was mute. “So, you made yourself speechless?”

A nod.

“Why?”

A shrug.

“You just… made yourself stop talking one day?”

Another nod.

“Weird.”

Bill’s shoulders hunched. His body seemed to curl tight and reduce, shrinking in on itself. Tom realized that he must have inadvertently hurt Bill’s feelings.

“No, no, I didn’t mean you were weird, I just meant the circumstances!”

Bill curled tighter even. His tendons were nearly ripping through his skin.

“I just meant that it was odd that you can no longer speak. You’d think you’d have been able to speak again once you wanted to.”

Bill kept his pose. Tom, seeing no other way out, but knew it was the right thing to do, gingerly placed a hand on Bill’s shoulder. He flinched but did not do move.

“I’m sorry.”

As if he had said a magic word, Bill uncurled himself and gave a small smile to Tom. It almost didn’t constitute as a smile.

Tom smiled back and sat on the bed. Bill still stood, and it was at this time that Tom noticed an odd thing on Bill’s left wrist and hand. It looked like a clear straw taped to his arm.

“Bill, what is that?” Tom asked curiously, pointing to the straw-looking thing. Bill gave his left wrist a quick inspection and responded.

“A peripherally inserted central catheter.”

“A… what?”

“It’s for an IV. If I don’t eat.”

“Do you ever not eat?”

“Yes.”

Tom found that a little strange. “Why?”

Bill shrugged. “Eating is an interruption sometimes. So I don’t.”

“I guess that makes sense. It’s kind of… odd looking though.”

“I’m used to it.”

Tom nodded, then looked at Bill. He was more than a little shocked to see Bill staring at him like Tom was screaming obscenities at him.

Tom looked around nervously, then cleared his throat. “Won’t you sit?” he asked, gesturing to Bill, then letting his hands fall to his lap.

Bill, completely unknown to gestures like these, took it entirely the wrong way. He walked noiselessly over to Tom and, with no shame, sat facing Tom on his lap, thinking that’s what Tom meant when he had hit his legs.

Tom tensed up. “Whoa, I didn’t mean on me. I meant like next to me!”

Bill still didn’t look ashamed. He slid fluidly, like always, off of Tom’s lap, sitting cross-legged next to Tom.

Tom stared at the floor, his tongue playing with his lip ring. Bill sat at near perfect attention, though his gaze was intense, frightened, insightful. Tom stopped playing with the metal in his skin and looked at Bill. “Why are you staring at me like that?”

Bill blushed just enough to color his pallid cheekbones and typed into his surrogate voice. “I have acute paranoia.”

“I’m no reason to be paranoid.”

“You are a criminal.”

Bill’s thought cut Tom deep. Had he not been trying to change? Was that all he was ever going to be: a criminal?

“I didn’t know you thought so little of me without knowing me. If I freak you out because I’m no good, then I hope you enjoyed this time with me. It’s the last you’ll ever get.”

Tom got off the bed and advanced to the door. Bill tried to stop him, tried to explain himself, but he could only type so fast and he couldn’t have spoken if he wanted to. As Tom walked away with angry tears brimming over his eyes, Bill fell to his knees, staring at his curled hands that were so like claws.

Stupid dysphasia, he thought. Stupid paranoia and stupid whatever else is wrong with me!