Red Flags and Long Nights

It was a brand new day and the sun was high, and I was fucking bored. I could feel myself dying with every passing second, which was strange because I don't fucking age. Sitting in the common rooms in a large tattered green chair that faced the empty, grey fireplace I drummed my fingers on my thigh to the rhythm of the same french song that never stopped playing. The same one that was playing a few days ago when I had gotten into my fist fight. It was my third day in St. Junes, and as of yet, I had found nothing that would make anyone doubt the inner workings of the place. However, the atmosphere among the staff seemed much too sterile. The patients seemed uneased and every so often I'd catch Sister Caroline pass by the the door in the mirror that had been bolted above the mantel piece. She never came in, only looked for a moment and then she would go back the way she came. Once every hour at almost the exact same time. Except that could be very normal, I don't really know, I guess I really should have figured out how mental hospital are supposed to work before I decided to get admitted in one.

Of course, I knew what was illegal and what was not. I had been alive through the rise and fall of inhumane medical treatments, and although I looked rather young and naive, I knew a lot of shit on a variety of things. I may not be the wisest man, but for a man that had been living with his dumbass twin brother for about 200 years and narcissistic spanish douchebag for a another portion of it, I would consider myself rather well-read. Because there is literally nothing else you can do when you've got two boys who don't know how to take care of themselves. Especially the spanish douchebag who came back to my bed every night telling me a new story on how he fucked shit up and he needed me to fix it. The same man who thinks that his whole life revolves around love, sex, good aesthetics, and cigarettes, even though half of those things continued to be his reckoning. Unfortunately, I was worried about him half the time. And part of me hoped he was alright.

Maybe I should have told him where I was going.

I frowned at the thought and looked back up at the mirror, watching the people behind me as they carried on their daily routine. The gray eyed woman entered the room casually and let her eyes shift over the room carefully until they settled on my reflection. I raised my hand to politely beckon her forward. She was curvy, like an hourglass but with more hip. She was still incredibly thin, though. In a manner that seemed more unhealthy then fit. Her long sleeved shirt hugged every protruding bone on her torso. It was much to small, and didn't seem to match the white shirt, sky blue pants uniform policy at all. It was dark red like a bruised apple, and was made of linen cloth that was much too warm for a heated room. Granted it was cold as hell outside, but on the inside, the heat of the room made it harder to breathe. Yet the dark cloth hung past her skinny wrists, hiding the most of her. She was bronze skinned, with dark circles under eyes, like scars from sleepless nights. Somehow, she had managed to tame her hair, making it sleeker and shinier, then the mess it was when I first met her, perhaps in an attempt to contrast herself from the mad ones around her. However, it still only looked as tame as you could get hair without a proper comb.

She grabbed the nearest looking comfortable chair to sit in and joined my solitude by the empty fireplace. The smile on my face felt weak, but she returned it, placing her hands on her lap and leaning forward expectantly.

"Hello," I said uneasily, "Thank you for the warning the other day. About the phonograph."

She smiled wider and relaxed in her seat, "You're very welcome, but I don't think it did any good. The record still dropped and the Berta alarm still sounded off." She sighed a chuckle, that was more empty breath then actual laughter. But her smile was so artificial and familiar and it tugged whatever strings laid in my heart and tightened them. I couldn't exactly pinpoint what was so obviously there at first. But then I started seeing them all, one by one: the way her lips curled over her teeth, her full lips, the way she smiled as if she was hiding a secret. It reminded me so much of someone I used to know. Her voice was different. Lower pitched, different accent. It was a really faint accent but it like she or maybe her parents might have come from India. Part of me wanted to ask, but another part of me knew I didn't want to start the "Where fo you hail from" conversation because the only answer I have to that question is Chicago and that wasn't even true. I've never even been to Chicago. This was a very bad idea.

"Where were you yesterday?" She asked.

"Nowhere in particular," I said calmly, swallowing down the knot in my throat and easing my breathing, looking back at the fire place and finding comfort in the emptiness that the darkness held. "I was taken in for some evaluating, they wanted to see if I would finally confess to the murder of those girls."

"Did you kill them?"

I whipped my head in her direction. "Of course not."

She looked at me cautiously, up and down and then into my eyes as if she could find anything within me, worthy of her trust.

"I believe you," She whispered, still staring into my eyes, still looking for something in each glance or blink. I wondered what she saw that led her to this conclusion. Was it something captivating? Was it something innocent?

"Why?" I asked.

"Because you don't look like a killer," she whispered. Sincerity rang though her voice, and I felt the corner of my mouth rise slowly as realization hit. This was a woman who I could trust. We hadn't even learned eachothers names, yet she stilled seemed to trust me and I knew she would never betray me. And with a few alluring words I could have her devoted to my every sound and movement that would leash her like a dog following an owners commandments. She would believe anything I said. She was nothing like the ghost from my past. That girl was only present in her smile. I felt relieved. And I felt powerful.

However, we still weren't at that point yet. The point of absolute loyalty and trust. She smiled up at me and trusted me, but that bond could soon wilt without proper care, and it could fall apart completely with words like triggers, cutting like knives. No, this was something that needed to build until it was too large to break down. I needed her to trust me. I was alone in this ordeal and I was going to need some help.

I coughed once to clear out the silence between the two of us. "What's your name?"

"Shanti," She said. "Before you ask, it's Indian. My parents were from India before they came from America."

"Aha! I did hear the hint of an accent," I smiled at her out of politeness, and also out of victory because of my recent internal battle on nationalities. Also I knew a lot about the immigration of people to America. Especially on Irish-Americans, for very obvious reasons. I could go on and on about it, actually. And I have a few notes I could add based on personal experience. I had a lengthy conversation about this with my brother one time, but he fell asleep. "When did your family move?"

"They moved before I was born actually," She said, flashing another smile in my direction. Perhaps she never stopped smiling? I'm afraid her smiles were just getting wider and wider. I nodded my head in interest as she gave me a brief summary of her family and her experiences growing up in America with it's bigotry and racism. I corresponded by sharing my knowledge on the Luce Cellar act of 1946, and how it changed immigration in America and...

"..the act was mainly written for Filipinos and Indians. It allowed 100 of each nationality to come into America and be nationalized, making them citizens. Of course, this act also allowed any others who were included in this document citizens as well! Prior to this act, only Indians with American, French, or English descent would be allowed naturalization. Cool right?"

Shanti's smile had lost some of it's luster but had regained its strength upon questioning. Thin-lipped, she nodded. "Very interesting."

"I know!," I exclaimed. "Personally, I find it all very interesting, although I don't really know a lot on the subject. I read a lot about it though, I while ago while I was writing an article on the racism in America. I submitted the article to several different news journals but they were all turned down. I realize now that its for the best. It was rather long. Especially the paragraphs I wrote on Hibernophobia, which I know more about than more other subjects relating to America. Of course, being Irish is no longer a real big problem in America. I mean there are still tons of stereotypes such as the one that all Irish men are alcoholics. But nothing like the stereotypes that all Irish had ape like faces or all practicing Pagans that circled around the 19th century. The Pagan part was only problem because back in the 1800s when I- ," I stopped myself. How insane would I seem if I told this woman I first came here in the 1800s? No, I needed her to know I wasn't crazy.

"When? When what?," She asked. She had shifted her body so that she was leaning back in her seat, and her elbow resting lazily on the sofas arm with her palm under her cheek. Her smile completely wiped from her face. I could tell she was bored and I was slightly heartbroken at the sight of it. There's just something about telling something your interested about to an uninterested party that made things a bit bleak.

"When Irish stereotypes flew like jagged knives, I guess I say, people thought that anyone that wasn't a Christian was considered immoral and any other Irish religion was immediately ridiculed" I said, finishing my rant. "I'm sorry, I can tell this is boring for you. I can ramble sometimes. Once I talked so long about a particular topic I was interested in that the person I was talking to fell asleep."

"Oh no it's fine," Shanti said, sitting back up. She licked her lips and looked into me with eyes full of innocence. Usually by now I feel like I would have understood why she was in this place, but I was still as clueless about her as I was the moment I met her. I mentally hit myself. I was getting absolutely nowhere.

"How do you know all this?," She asked me.

"I tend to read a lot."

"About what?"

"Everything, really," I answered. "I usually don't care. I just remember that I while ago I was interested in the history of immigration in America, because I've read less about that certain topic than I had read about men taking other peoples land and claiming it as there own. I know a lot about history of lot's of places. Britain. Ireland. America. I would love to learn more about the rest of the world, but I don't always read about History. Sometimes it science. I love science, honestly. I mainly read about science."

"You're very smart, I take it," She smirked. I shrugged. She raised her eyebrows at me. I shrugged harder.

"Where are you even from."

"Chicago." I said, leaning back and crossing my hand comfortably in front of my stomach. I made sure to place an emphasis on the "Ca" in Chicago, for an extra boost.

"What are you doing all the way down here?," She leaned back as well, mimicking my posture. I cleared my throat.

"Well, I had a girlfriend who's family lived down here and so we moved and all that, and then she left me, and I haven't really gone home yet," Oh man, I made that shit on the spot. Mental pat on the back.

Oh man, I'm so lame.

"I see. Why did she leave," I really wasn't expecting this question either. Ugh, okay.

"Well, she thought I was a sell out, apparently. Said I focused too much on a music career that was never going to happen. I smoked too many cigarettes and the smell of it bothered her. Drank to much, apparently. I don't think so. I had tons of migraines that she didn't know how to handle and a certain few mental problems, but nothing too bad. Nothing that would lead me to a mental hospital like this. And according to her, I just had a lot of problems I needed to work out."

"You don't really seem like the musical type," Of course I don't seem like the musical type, I literally just described August. God, what an asshole.

"I can sing pretty well," That part was true. August told me so. "And I can write lyrics." August told me that too.

"That's pretty cool."

"Yeah."

"Do you ever miss your family?" I thought about it. Noah was my only living kin, and he's was annoying. Annoying as all hell. And the last time I checked, the devil loved him. He was a grade A demon in her book, despite his idiotic moments. I only dampened his good marks.

"Yeah, I guess I do," I answered truthfully. Then I remembered where I was. "But, I guess no one really wants to see me now, huh....." She nodded understandingly and looked into the fireplace. I followed her gaze and we kept it there in silence for a minute.

"They say I killed my family. I don't think I did. I think they're wrong," My eyes lifted to her face, and I watched her closely. The muscles in her face settled and there was no trace of a the smile that had been so welcome on her face moments before. The whites in her eyes were glazed and her soft hair fell limp slightly over her face, hiding traces of her skin. There was no doubt that she was beautiful. But right now, her beauty was hard, and worn, like a darkness had befallen her spirit and cast it shadow on her body. Fingers can't count how many times I've seen this look. It was the look of any silent soldier, fighting their own battles. She pulled her sleeve further down her wrist and picked leg up and hugged it close to her chest. Perching her chin on her knee she looked at me and said, "That's why I don't think you did it. I see no reason to believe such an allegation from the hand that sedates us."

"Bite the hand that sedates us," I chuckled under my breath. "I like that. It's almost poetic."

"Please don't tell me you have extensive knowledge on poetry as well. That's too brainy," The sides of her lips rose playfully. I mimicked the expression.

"Well you're just going to have to deal with one of the biggest of nerds aren't you," I said. She smiled wider and gave a short laugh.

"I guess you and me are in the same boat," I laughed with her and agreed although it wasn't quite right. I've killed people before. We're not in the same boat. I have brutally murdered many people because it used to be my job. I just added my own colour to the mix. But now someone had taken my signature and has been slandering my work and spreading it across Americas southern regions like an untreated disease, and frankly, I have never been more offended. And I wanted whoever this person was hung from the stalactites in hells deepest darkest cave.

I laughed and smiled with Shanti, exercising casual manner. She was friendly, and she looked so innocent there, huddled in her seat. No..We were nothing alike. But I basked in the comfort of having someone who knew me as nothing more, than a normal guy.

We talked for an hour more, about whatever came up. For the most part, we talked about poetry, which was a subject we had different knowledge on, which made the conversation more of a learning experience. Unfortunately, I was interrupted after I had recalled a brief history of Oscar Wildes mother, Jane Wilde, and was in the middle of reciting what I remembered of The Lament of The Potato, when I felt the presence of a bulk figure behind my chair.

Shanti's eyes looked up at the figure in the same time that I felt it hand brush my shoulder, and before I could turn around, a man in his early thirties obstructed my view. He was lean, but fit. His hair was combed and gelled out of his face, creating a professional visual and his horn rimmed glasses magnified dark brown eyes. He wore a suit and tie and held a briefcase in one hand.

"I'm sorry if I am interrupting anything, but hello, Mr. Jonathan Ringo, is it?," I nodded my head and patted myself on the back once again for good fake name choice. It makes everyone look like an idiot.

"Oh it's really alright," I said, politely. Shanti laughed quietly.

"He was just telling me a beautiful poem about Potatoes," Her watery eyes sparkled up at the man beside me.

"It is a beautiful poem. It has depth."

"Well, I'm very sorry to interrupt, but if you don't mind, I would like a moment with Mr. Ringo," The horn-rimmed glasses man said to Shanti, and she looked at me kindly, and gave me a nod that said she would talk to me later. I returned it and she walked away towards the other end of the room, where she tried to join good old Karl, in an aggressive match of poker. The man took her place in the chair and sat with a posture straighter than an ironing board.

"Hello, Mr. Ringo. My name is Doctor Jacob Hall. You can call me Jacob, if you want. I'm your court appointed psychiatrist. Now, to start off today, I don't want to ask anything too in depth. On the usual hospital check up sort of thing, if that's alright with you."

"Sure thing, Jacob," I said as peppy as possible.

"Alright, then John-Is it alright if I call you John."

"You can literally call me Kitty and I wouldn't even care," I sassed. I don't know why, I just felt like it. He smiled shyly at me. So it's not like he was broken down by that witty one liner. Secretly though, I did sort of enjoy the nickname.

"Alright, well, I'm just going to call you John, ha," He pulled out a clipboard and a pen," Now I'm just going to ask a few simple questions. Thats all."

"Shoot."

"Alright, well. Question one," The questions were all very generic. I'm not going to repeat them all but they were all the sort of thing that you would her in at a doctors appointment. How are you feeling? Pretty good. Weight? 155 pounds. Height? 5'11. Blood type? I don't know. Can't remember the last time I checked. Have you been sexually active within the last few months? Um....Maybe.

"Should I just mark that down as a yes?," Jacob the Doctor said, staring intensely at his clipboard and paper.

"Probably not," I mumbled again. He looked at me over the clipboard.

"I'm just going to put yes. It's not like it's going to matter in the future anyway."

"Oh....Okay," I sort of decided I didn't like this man for some reason. I mean, I just don't really like Doctors. In fact I really hate doctors. I was here to find a murderer not receive doctor treatment.

"I'll be here everyday to check up on you, and starting tomorrow, we are going to start our sessions."

"Alright, doc," Doc Jacob smiled as he rose from his seat, put the clipboard and paper back in his suitcase, and closed it tight.

"Well, it was nice to meet you, John," He said, gripping the suitcase in one hand and holding the other towards me.

"You too," I rose from my seat as well to shake his hand. He smiled one last time and walked off. I watched him leave and wished that he wouldn't come back tomorrow.