Greenwich

something I wrote in 8th grade...transitioning to 9th grade.

Richard Gains loves his family. His wife, Beverly, is the best wife he could ever have hoped for. Henry, his son of three years is a wonderful mass of tireless energy and returns the affection bestowed upon him by both his mother and father. Richard Gains not only loves his family, he is also infatuated with them. Photographs plaster the walls of his cubicle at work, adding an almost obscene air to his workspace. From every corner the grinning faces of Beverly and Henry gaze at him, mouths stretched into hideous smiles full of jovial malice. One who fears clowns would be uneasy in Richie's cubicle. Words cannot express his love.

            Richard thinks often. He has spent night after night wondering why he has what he has, and what he did to deserve it. If there is a God why has he rewarded Mr. Richard P. Gains in such a way? What will God want in return? Most of his ponderings have a negative effect. One night not so long ago lying in bed with Bevery he voiced his fears. Beverly, giving a nervous little chuckle assured him that she and Henry loved him as much if not more than he loved them. That is all that matters in this life she told him. She could see by the look on his face that he thought she was lying.

            Richie hasn't been sleeping well. The reservoir of slumber is almost dry. What is real? How can we be sure that the things we know are true? These questions fester within the heart of this hopeless romantic.....      “I'm dreaming,” thinks Richard. “How strange it is to realize that you are asleep,” his rational mind states. He is going to the super-market with Henry on his little toddler leash that brings a smile to Bevy’s face every time she him wearing it. There’s Old Mrs. Wharton from down the street shuffling along grimly. Richard glances down at Henry and sees a frown cross his face tears well up in his too big cartoonish eyes and he begins to sob. “Quiet little bud, Daddy's here," croons Richard affectionately to no avail. He notices with unease that Mrs. Wharton has come to a stop in the center of the cracked sidewalk and looks into her wrinkled face. Realization strikes Rich like a mallet to the skull. It’s not the face of Mrs. Wharton he is looking into, the eyes that stare back into his burn with demonic intensity and the lines running down the face are deep slashes that expose the raw pink flesh beneath the think surface of skin.    “It’s just a dream,” his sanity coos, but somewhere in the deep fathoms of his heart he knows that it is not so. The thing before him is his wife. He recalls killing her and Henry and knows that he is in Hell. Fear claws at the edges of his mind with its fingers of latex rubber…clown hands. A scream bubbles up from inside him, but before it can burst forth, Beverly extends one of her mutilated hands and points at his fist that is clasping the baby leash. He glances down and what he sees destroys all possibility of rational thought. The leash has become entangled around Henry's neck and his face has turned a putrid shade of green. His cat- like eyes pierce his father's with accusation seeming to shout “YOU DID THIS TO ME!!! YOU B*****D! YOU KILLED YOUR ONLY SON!" Richard stumbles away throwing the leash handle to the pavement as Henry's black oxygen-deprived tongue lolls wolfishly from between his sausage-swollen lips. Henry chortles, tears of mirth creeping down his distended face and Beverly joins in laughing deeply, so unlike her usual ringing sound of happiness, that Richard knows that this CANNOT be his wife. Richie turns to sprint, but he can't move.... he feels grubby hands tighten on the nape of his neck, cold life-less fingers fondle his Adams apple with malicious eagerness, and a shriek rips from his throat like a snarling beast....... he falls........his eyes flutter open and he gasps, the sound bringing back his nightmare of Henry. Fear grabs his intestines and gives them a rough jerk as he attempts to leap up to check on his son. Richard doesn't move. His arms and legs are bound and he screams desperately "HELP I HAVE TO SAVE MY SON, HIS NAME IS HENRY PLEASE HELP ME!" A click and the screech of hinges as a door in the far wall swings open. A comforting voice whispers “Richard, Henry is all right. Everything is okay. Now why don't you go back to sleep?" A prick in his arm, the flash of a needle and Richard thinks Hey whoever this guy is, he's onto something. His body slackens and all fear leaves him as he drifts back into the sea of sleep.

            The door shuts lethargically and a reassuring click is heard as the bolt slams home. Fluorescent lights illuminate a long white hallway, lined with many doors, all the same as Richard's. A tall man, hair faded salt and pepper, clad in a coat of dingy off-white steps away from the door and settles a large key ring onto his brown leather belt. “Damn sonofabitch basket case," he mutters and walks morosely down the corridor.

 

            On a warm summer afternoon in the late August of 1987, Richard P. Gains (42) was committed to Greenwich Psychiatric hospital after claiming to have attacked and killed his wife and son. After a background check the police determined that Mr. Gains had never been married, and had no children. Dr. Harrelson of Greenwich stated for the record that Mr. Gains had been pronounced legally insane and was a danger to the public and himself. It is now believed that Mr. Gains is suffering from schizophrenia, having created his wife and child out of isolation from society.

            A cold wind whines through the gutters of Greenwich psychiatric ward, and Mr. Richard Gains sleeps quietly and peacefully and, more importantly, safely. The orderlies will talk, patients will come and go, and fall will go through the motions and become winter. It's just the way things are.     

 

Reviews

[Philosophile. (Maddy)]

That was AMAZING! Swear I love this like crazy! Such a twist, and nothing is how it seems to be. I didn't expect Richard's condition at all. Your descriptions are vivid and your language- amazing.