HOLDING ON FOR LIFE (part 1)

When the grim reaper calls, he doesn’t care who you’re with. Alone or together, Father Death is only here for one thing.

To drag you into the weeds.

All. By. Yourself.

— — — — —

The troops peer through the prison bars at the man sobbing in the corner. Curled into his legs, he rocks back and forth. He tries to stand, for the eighteenth time now, in an attempt to fight through the pain.

C-CRACK!

Only to be shot in the chest.

He stumbles back, falling onto his knees. He places both hands over his heart, watching the blood spill. It flows, like a fountain, or a broken water main. They say the human body has 1.3 gallons of blood inside. This feels more like a barrel.

The men loom on the opposite side of the cell, rifles at the ready. They watch the prisoner take his last breaths.

Except he doesn’t. The blood pours, but he hasn’t died.

WHAM!

A door from inside the building swings open. She walks carefully, methodically even, as her men lower their weapons and stand at attention. Make no mistake, she is a dictator and they are her minions. She knows exactly how to command, no matter how small and misleading she may look.

“Gentlemen,” she starts in a stern and prosperous voice. She glances through the metal bars and into the holding cell. She sees him withering on his knees. “Good work so far.”

Her men stand taller, prouder and more ominous by the second.

“Keep clipping away, you have my permission.”

She walks towards the cell when the prisoner stops shaking. In fact, blood no longer runs out his chest as he looks up with a glisten in his eyes. The bullet wound starts to disintegrate.

One of the soldiers watches this stunning progression. He lifts his gun; he marches forward. The hard expression on his face becomes worrisome as the bullet falls out of the prisoner.

The soldier lifts his rifle and loads… until she places a hand in front of the gun.

“You’re doing just fine,” she encourages her soldier. “Do not get rattled by these silly little healing powers.”

She smirks. She knows what’s happening.

“His subconscious likely picked this shit up after hanging around the video game guy. …That, or the drugs Max Kael gave him are working. Either way…”

She kneels down to get on the prisoner’s level. Their eyes meet.

“The idiot thinks I give him the ability to heal.”

She cackles. She finds it pathetic as she stands and pats her soldier firmly on the back. Yolk spills out his nozzle.

“Give him hell, boys.”

The tiny blonde girl makes her exit into the bright heavenly lights. Her voice trails behind.

“Don’t let up.”

The soldier’s chuckle amongst themselves, knowing wild times are ahead. One of them smiles, as yolk dribbles from the sides of his mouth, down onto his army uniform and the cement ground below.

Needless to say, they load another round, cock their barrels.

And fucking unload.

C-CRACK!

HOLDING ON FOR LIFE (Part 1) A true love story An honest friendship What a lovely day to be lonely

— — — — —

A white lab coat symbolizes professionalism, cleanliness and scientific validity. It is the standard uniform of all working mental health professionals in the confines of River Oaks Behavioral. Additionally, the visual unity, seeing all employees wear the same outfit, promotes stability, amidst an uneasy environment. An inmate cries bloodthirsty rage from ward #7. Relentless giggles echo through cell block #14. Even inside the staffroom lies tensions.

Dr. John Cusimano is a heavy set man, late 50s, with declining mobility. However, as duty calls, he tugs the lab coat across his torso to ensure he can fit inside. The doctor collects a stack of papers from the desk to his right and proceeds to place them onto his clipboard, as he quickly flips through the pages.

“Another full day,” he mumbles, realizing the co-workers around him are too preoccupied by going through their own tasks. Dr. Cusimano counts at least twenty client files and can only imagine how long it’s going to take him to finish the extensive evaluations.

He passes a mirror on route to the exit doors, yet he can’t help but look at his own reflection. Over the last ten years, John has watched his hairline recede. He’s definitely put on a few extra pounds. His own doctor tells him he needs to look after himself better.

Hard to do in this profession. He knows the job is working him down, piece-by-piece. Client-by-client.

Today will be no different.

“Dr. Cusimano,” the young woman says, diverting his attention, “we’ve had a change in development from the boy’s room.”

Tammy, a mental health nurse, has her finger on the pulse of ward #7, the unit where Dr. Cusimano sees most of his caseload. The doctor’s specialty is in the rather schizophrenic patients.

John nods and lowers his eyes, flipping through paperwork. He finds the appropriate residential file deep into his stack.

“I usually don’t see him until much later,” Dr. Cusimano isn’t questioning Tammy, rather stating the obvious. “It’s that bad?”

The worried expression on her face doesn’t change. She lowers her eyes in an attempt to say no more and allow Dr. Cusimano to see for himself. The boy has been in this unit for over six months, transferred from rural dispatch when they weren’t able to provide him help. “Overwhelmed”, River Oaks was told. “Too sick to be supported”, at least when it came to the local law enforcement. As the doctor flips through additional pages, initial intake notes from the boy’s profile include words such as “attacks”, “bites” and “screams”.

“No problem, Tammy,” the doctor replies to her silence. He opens the staff door and walks into the unit. “I’ll go have a look.”

Dr. Cusimano moves at a crawl speed. Granted, this gives him time to catch his breath and also peer through the boy’s most recent observation notes.

JONATHAN | CHRISTOPHER

Two names, two columns, two completely different observations.

Dr. Cusimano is halfway to the end of the ward. He flips through additional pages and remembers the patient entirely. Yes, while the boy shows signs of early schizophrenia, he is far too young to receive an actual diagnosis. Furthermore, Dr. Cusimano can rationalize the boy’s use of delusions, hallucinations and disorganized thought patterns. His mother died in front of his eyes. The boy was often subject to physical and emotional abuse his entire life before she passed.

And yet, as the good doctor continues to move to the end of the ward, he can’t help but feel there is a different mental health condition bubbling under the surface. However, much like schizophrenia, it is far too early to put a label on specifics.

Dissociative identity disorder is merely predictive at this stage.

The doctor reaches the end of the hall. He tries listening inside block 13. There are no screams, no cries of pain or agony. He wonders if the boy has calmed down.

He knocks lightly on the door, announcing himself and asks if it’s okay to enter. He looks inside the glass window above but doesn’t see the boy. His eyes are likely deceiving him, after all, he didn’t get a good night’s sleep.

Dr. Cusimano unlocks the unit and carefully steps inside. He scans the bed and the first three corners of the room.

Empty.

He walks further. He’s been in situations like this before and the black bulb on the roof reminds him he’s under surveillance.

“Christopher?” The doctor asks, “it’s okay to come out now, it’s just me. I heard you had a bad morning.”

More silence follows. This is not unusual. But after a moment of standing in the middle of the perceived to be empty room, a cackle of unstable laughter resonates from behind the entrance door. It slowly starts to swing shut, revealing the boy was sitting behind the door this whole time.

“Ah, there you are, Christopher,” Dr. Cusimano greets. “Is it Christopher today? Or am I saying hello to Jonathan?”

The boy has his head lowered and eyes on the floor. He rocks back and forth quickly, almost possessively. This is nothing out of the ordinary.

“It’s okay, if you don’t know who I am speaking to yet that’s not a problem,” the doctor reassures.

Another quick laugh. A randomized moan.

“Did you know…” the boy’s voice trails. “Did you know… did you know… did you know…”

Dr. Cusimano glances down at the notes Tammy put together this morning. There is no mention of the boy saying this statement over and over.

“Did you know… did you know… did you know…”

Dr. Cusimano continues to flip through pages. Maybe there’s something he missed.

“Did you know… did you know… did you know…”

The doctor can hear the boy’s voice traveling closer but he’s still drawn to his clipboard.

“Did you know… did you know… did you know…”

There doesn’t seem to be anything written about the boy laughing and being focused enough to say more than one word. There are, however, pages of documentation written about his aggression.

“DID YOU KNOW!”

Dr. Cusimano jumps back. The boy sits on the edge of the bed and screams right into his ear.

Startled, the good doctor stumbles backwards, barely able to catch his breath. He gives his head a shake. The boy is unarmed but he never should have let the kid get that close.

“Did I know what, Jonathan-Christopher?” The doctor inquires in a calm and quiet voice, attempting his tone will resonate with the Hall child and relax both of them.

The boy stops rocking. He sits on the bed, frozen in time. His face doesn’t move. His eyes don’t even blink. He’s void. A blank slate.

Until.

A slightly evil smirk crosses the right side of his face.

“Did you know…”

The smile gets wider.

“I did it.”

And wider still.

“I killed mommy.”

— — — — —

He sits by the window, aimlessly staring outside. The date and time are meaningless, the cycle of life unrecognizable. There is a void inside his heart, the definition of purpose dragged out from under him. His soul ripped to pieces in the process, leaving behind nothingness in its place.

Hope. It is an essential feeling for every human being. It is tied into action. Drive. Determination. When hope is lost, life is lost. The human spirit requires a sense of purpose. Now, however, day after day, night after night, it’s the same shit.

Misery.

Suicide? Yeah, it crossed his mind. Some of the darkest cases of hopelessness can often lead to these types of intrusive ideation. Nevertheless, the thought of ending his life is, at this point, simply just that. A thought.

He didn’t travel to Japan, he hasn’t been on PRIME television since January. Now, however, he is summoned to wrestle in Canada.

He thought of not going. Wins and losses are meaningless now. Literally nothing matters.

But then she told him he was wrestling an Egg Bandit.

“Hey, can I make you some coffee?” She asks unsurely. He hasn’t put anything in his system since the moment he got there, that was six hours ago. They’ve barely said a word to each other but she said he’s always welcome. She said they can sit in silence for hours on end, she doesn’t care.

She only wants to make sure he’s safe.

“No thank you, Dora,” he replies, eyes still locked on the window. He can see filth in the street. He can hear sirens buzzing across the distance. There’s always something, via sight or sound, that could make him feel insecure.

If he cared about his life anymore.

Dora, the girl with the kind eyes, sits down at the far end of the room. Jonathan-Christopher comes over twice a week and spends the entire morning, afternoon and evening, usually in the same spot. He walks in, says hello and rests by the windowsill. She will offer him coffee, tea, water, basically anything other than alcohol but he always declines. They may speak a few words, they may speak nothing at all. When the sun goes down, that’s when Jonathan-Christopher often thanks her and leaves.

She’d rather he stay. She has told him he can sleep on her couch. She’s even mentioned he can have her bed and she will sleep in the living room. The bottom line: she doesn’t want him traveling out there at night, her neighborhood is clearly not the safest.

But when she really thinks about it, she gets the feeling Jonathan-Christopher almost wants to walk into danger.

However this afternoon in particular, Hall seems more hopeless and distant than ever before.

“It’s okay not to be okay,” she reminds him. He doesn’t look over. “I’m here to talk whenever you need…”

She leans back in her chair, closes her eyes and tries to work through positive thoughts for the both of them.

— — — — —

Another solo flight back to Vegas, another unescorted entrance into the Hall penthouse suite and another night of going home to nobody.

“Welcome, welcome,” the confident voice says at the end of the bedroom window, a puff of cigarette smoke floating in thin air around the office chair.

Well, another night of going home to no one he wants to see. Jonathan-Christopher stands at the bedroom entrance, eyes glossed over, after a long week of doing absolutely nothing.

“You’ve stopped working out,” the voice at the back of the room adds, before a man appears in the desk chair. It’s another Jonathan-Christopher in the flesh, sporting a black blazer, sharp black dress pants and a pretty pink bowtie. His legs are crossed while a carefree cigarette dangles in his left hand.

“I’ve stopped everything,” the real Jonathan-Christopher replies, now skeptical of entering the room. “You know this, Jonathan. Why do you continue to haunt me?”

Jonathan stares back at JCH from the bedroom chair before taking another long drag of his deathstick.

“He’s haunting both of us,” says a whimper from the other side of the room. “He won’t go away.”

Sniffles and sobs echo from within the closet door, as Jonathan-Christopher Hall slowly walks by and depressingly opens the cabinet. There, Christopher sits in the far corner, tucked into the fetal position, rocking back and forth. He looks up with bloodshot eyes and drool running down his face.

“Pathetic, isn’t he?” Jonathan pipes up from the office chair. “You’ve been that fucking loser for fifteen years now.”

“He has not!” Christopher cries from the closet, working himself into mild hysterics. “He has love in his heart!”

“Oh shut the hell up,” Jonathan discredits in a stern and focused tone. “We’ve had enough of your dribble.”

Jonathan looks over at Jonathan-Christopher, locking eyes.

“Haven’t we, pal?” Jonathan grins, while the real JCH doesn’t respond. Instead, Jonathan-Christopher sulks and drops his shoulders. He slides his feet rather depressingly across the floor, moving to the mattress. This is where he will end up collapsing, in-between both Jonathan and Christopher, as they continue to bicker. Jonathan will take long, long, looooonnnngggg drags of his never-ending cigarette. It always remains the same size and the puff of smoke never makes it over to where JCH lays. Meanwhile, Christopher’s act of crying profusely will also show no quit. He will make weird squeaky noises, while providing the occasional clapback at Jonathan’s madness until the real Jonathan-Christopher falls asleep.

In the morning, Hall awakes to an empty room and carries out his day of nothingness. It’s only at night where these two creatures materialize and wreck mental havoc.

“No brother,” Jonathan says loudly in the direction of JCH. “Don’t go to bed now, we have so much to talk about!”

“No we don’t!” Booms Christopher from the floor. “We don’t want to do this anymore. All of it! It has to end!”

Jonathan-Christopher reaches his bed. In one very slow and unenthusiastic motion, he pulls out the covers and almost robotically slips inside.

“Ah c’mon, JC! Don’t you have something to say for yourself?” Jonathan snickers.

“His actions speak louder than words!” Christopher screams, right after crying. “Why can’t you understand!?”

Jonathan uncrosses his legs and leans forward, of course not before he takes another drag of father death.

“Are you going to Canada? You should wreck Tony! God has sent us a message, hasn’t he, dear JC? An Egg Bandit delivered on your doorstep and you didn’t even have to pray for it! None of this ‘can you hear me god, it’s me, Jonathan-Christo-blah-blah-blah that bullshit never worked.’ We have a gift. It’s your first chance to slowly get back at Cancer Jiles and Vickie for what they did to us-”

“NO!” Christopher interjects. “Vickie didn’t do anything! This is all Cancer’s fault!”

Jonathan-Christopher is trying so, so, so hard to make the voices go away. He’s pulled the covers over his entire body. He’s placing both index fingers into his ears.

“Spare me the lies,” Jonathan replies. “Spare them to me hard and fast. Five months ago we were saying ‘goodbye’ to Vickie. We literally walked away from her. Did you boys forget who played the footage of her cheating to the entire world?”

Jonathan doesn’t hear Christopher snap back this time.

“We did.” Jonathan laughs. “Actually you did, JC.”

Jonathan claps at the thought of it.

“But now you’re going to let cuckface over there undo our progress?” Jonathan motions his head towards Christopher in the closet, despite the fact JCH is under the covers and trying to rock himself to sleep. Christopher sticks his tongue out in reply. “It’s back and forth, back and forth with you, JC. You grow a pair; you chop them off. You grow a pair; you chop them off. You grow a pair-”

“WE GET IT!” Yells the man in the closet.

“I don’t think you do. I don’t think JCH does.”

Just go to sleep. Go to sleep. To sleep. Sleep. SLEEP!

The voices, the personalities, they continue nonetheless. While both of them are on opposite sides of the room, why is it that JCH CAN HEAR THEM INSIDE HIS BLOODY HEAD!?

Tears run down Hall’s face. Every damn night these two show up. They roll through the same issues, the same speeches. This is why he doesn’t spend a night on Dora’s couch. He doesn’t know if they’ll appear there, either.

Dora.

Dora is really nice to him.

Dora helps him out a lot.

Perhaps the only person in his corner.

Dora-

The covers are peeled right off Jonathan-Christopher. He looks up. He sees Jonathan standing there, hovering over, their eyes once again deadlocked.

JCH trembles with fright. Jonathan’s never removed himself from the bedroom chair before.

“Look at me.” Jonathan demands. “LOOK AT ME, you coward.”

JCH is frozen in fear.

“Do it,” he grins, his eyes are very hypnotizing. “Man up and DO IT.”

In the deep depths of Jonathan-Christopher’s mind, he’s shouting at Jonathan to go away.

“Send a message to the king and queen.”

Jonathan starts fading away.

“Kill their peasant.”

He’s gone but his voice gives one last command.

“And when you get nice and close, kill them, too.”

JCH sits up in a cold sweat, he’s totally soaked the blankets.

He peers into the closet. There’s no one in sight.

He looks across to the bedroom chair. The smoke has vanished.

He collapses on the mattress, staring up at the ceiling. His heart is pounding, his mind is racing.

*

He falls back into his subconscious, no longer in the bedroom. Instead, he’s in the holding cell, laying on the floor, as he looks up and squints, trying to focus his gaze past the metal bars ahead. He sees the henchmen standing there, the yolk crew, guns drawn and pointed in his direction.

He opens his arms, as if insinuating they can unload their bullets once again.

They fire. Oh they fire, alright. They fire every last dime in the chamber. It blows off his right arm, it completely disintegrates his jaw. His chest is so destroyed, there’s no longer a heart that beats inside.

And for the first time in months. Maybe perhaps years.

He feels alive.

His body starts to heal while the boys reload their weapons.

“I’m coming for you, baby,” Jonathan-Christopher mumbles under his breath. It starts next Friday.

“I will set you and I free.”