There once was a tall man, with long, black hair. He was being escorted down a hallway in between two armed guards. Not really a good thing under any circumstances. People in the hallway quickly stepped aside to let the intimidating trio pass, but only after they had seen the man in the middle. Not because he was ugly, or menacing, but as anyone who saw him would agree, his appearance was ...Unsettling. His eyes were a little too bright, his smile a little too wide, and his teeth just a little bit too sharp. Also, he was wearing a straightjacket.
As they made their way to their destination, the prisoner tried (and failed) to make conversation.
“Hey, guard guys! What are your names?” He asked innocently. When neither answered, he continued.
“Well, I didn’t see you at the trial, so I guess we’ve never met. My name’s Franky!” The guards shared a glance. They had had both been at the trial, and they both knew his name wasn’t Franky.
“Anyways, you guys seem nice, so I’m going to tell you something.” The guards started picking up their pace, neither wanting to be part of this conversation.
“I know where we are. This is Aaci, right?” The guard to his left looked at him, eyes wide.
How had he known that? He was unconscious when they brought him in! “Franky” chuckled at the guards face.
“I thought so. Listen, I shouldn’t be here. This is all a big mistake.” AACI, pronounced Ay See, stood for Allwoods Asylum for the Criminally Insane.
“Guys, really. This is all a gross misunderstanding. I’m not insane.” At that, both guards looked at him, scoffing.
“Ok, maybe I am insane, but not that kind. I can’t be cured! I don't have a tumor, or some sort of mental illness. I was born crazy.” Here, Franky started skipping, causing his escorts to grab his shoulders and wrench him back.
He giggled. “You know, guys, the only way for me to ever be “cured” is to kill me. I told everyone at the trial, and I’ll tell you now, death sentence is the way to go. Anything else is a danger to society.”
A passing nurse had stopped to stare, and Franky winked, causing her to start and hurry back to whatever she was doing. He turned back to the guards.
“So whaddya say, huh?” This time, the guard on the right looked at him.
“What do you mean?” The prisoner giggled again.
”What do I mean? Guard guy, I thought you were smarter than that. I mean, you could be my death sentence. One shot from your little toy there and Voila! I’m cured. You don’t have to guard anybody. No one needs to worry about me escaping. You could tell them that I was trying to kill you! Everybody wins!” The guards, now extremely uncomfortable, were practically sprinting down the hallway, dragging their charge with them.
Much to their relief, their destination was just around the corner. Sensing his captors change in mood, he started babbling earnestly.
“Seriously guys, think about it. If I’m dead, no one else has to get hurt! Everyone could sleep safe and sound, not worrying about the Hollywood Horror, or the Manhattan Murderer, and the media could stop trying to pin stupid nicknames on me! No one else would end up like that stupid judge!” The guards, who were trying to force Franky through a doorway, paused. The one on the left turned to the other.
“I thought the judge was fine.” The other looked at Franky.
“Yeah, what happened to the judge?” A huge grin split accross the prisoners face.
“Nothing, yet.” With that, they sent him tumbling into the room, which turned out to be a cell. Still on the floor, he put on his best puppy dog face.
“What, you’re just gonna leave me here all alone?” Despite being padded on one side, the steel door made a terrific sound when slammed.
“You forgot to take off my jacket!” He shouted at the door. When it didn’t answer, he stood up (not an easy feat), and examined his new home.
The room was a square, about 20 feet in either direction. It was covered in soft, white pads. Before doing anything else, Franky amused himself by falling on his face, getting up, and repeating the process. After recovering from the giggling fit that this incurred, he stood once more. He tried to wipe his long, black hair from his face, but he failed due to the straightjacket. He settled for rubbing his face on the soft walls until satisfied. Vision restored, he resumed his examination. In the far right corner was a small cot. It would have been fine for most people, but Franky was a tall guy. He shrugged.
It’ll have to do. On the wall opposite the door there was a small, barred window, but it was too high for him to reach, especially without the use of his arms.
But the thing that interested Franky the most was the camera in the top right corner of the room, and a small speaker next to it.
“Oooh! Hello? Can you hear me?” Franky was jumping up and down and attempting to wave his arms around. After a moment, the speaker crackled to life.
“Yes, I can hear you.” Said a male voice.
“Amazing! What’s your name?”
“I’ve been instructed not to give you my name.” Franky beamed.
“Of course not. I don’t want your name. You just have to tell me what it is!” There was a silence from the speaker, and Franky liked to assume that the man on the other side was laughing at his joke.
I’ll call him Intercom guy.
“So, Intercom guy, do you suppose you could send somebody to remove this jacket?”
“No. Today you are to remain in your constraints. Tomorrow Dr. Phelps will visit your cell, and he may or may not remove them.” The prisoner stared intently into the camera.
“Oooh, a doctor you say. What kind of doctor? A tooth doctor? An eye doctor? A foot doctor, perhaps? I get these nasty hangnails.”
So, Franky thought, I have to convince this Phelps guy to take this damned thing off. Fun. Intercom guy took little time in responding.
“Dr. Phelps is a psychiatrist.”
“Aha, a brain doctor!” Oh yeah, this’ll definitely be fun. “You know Intercom guy, I killed a brain doctor once.” Frankys grin changed now, from the carefree smile of a child, to the predatory sneer of a killer.
“Yeah, I found him thanks to rumors, see, that he was abusing his patients. As it turned out, the rumors were true.” A scary coldness came into Franky’s eyes, and all pretenses of a smile dropped. But then it returned full force.
“You wanna know what I did to him? I strapped him down on his own big, red, leather couch. Then I took an old letter opener and carved out the full name of every patient that he...he...” Franky’s voice choked to a stop. The memories were painful even now. After taking a moment to recollect himself, he continued, chuckling softly.
“I've always been a sucker for chemistry. I like chemicals, you know? I like the way they react, with flames , with skin, with each other. So anyways, I got me some Listerine. The real kind, not that sissy cinnamon stuff. I’m talkin about the kind that burns if you leave it on your skin for too long. I soaked him in it. I heard later that a lady reported screaming three blocks away. Three blocks. That’s like... Well, how long is a block, anyway?” Franky shrugged,
“It’s pretty damn far, I’ll tell you that!” Franky was pacing furiously around the room. Even talking about one of his kills always got him excited, and without the use of his arms to gesture wildly about, he had to compensate by practically flying around his cell.
“He was begging me to kill, him then. But oh no, our night wasn’t even close to over. Sure, he lost a little blood from the name carving, his skin was all red, and I bet it hurt like a bitch, but nothing life threatening. That’s when I brought out the forceps. Let me tell you, nothing messes with your mind like having pieces of your-”
“Please stop.”
Franky did, and looked up at the camera. He opened his mouth, then closed it. Huh.
“Of course. Sorry. I got a little carried away there.” He walked over to his cot and sat down, honestly confused. Of all the things he was expecting, Intercom guy asking nicely for him to stop was not one of them. Then he thought some more. What had he been expecting?
Nothing, I guess. I wasn’t really thinking about it.
Well of course not. You never really do.
Franky shrugged. I don’t have to. Things have always worked out. Not thinking has gotten me this far.
Another Franky spoke up.
Oh yeah, things have worked out just great. Where are you again? Look around asshole. You’re in a straightjacket, in a padded cell, in a fucking maximum security asylum!
Franky nodded. Fair enough. But I’ve made this far, and I’m still alive. Also, we’re getting off topic.
Yeah. Also on the list of dumb shit you’ve done today, why'd you stop?!
What?
Indeed. Why did you respond as you did to the man's request?
Huh. You know, I don’t know. I was..confused. Everything got all muddled. In fact, why would I even come over here? It felt like... Frankys face changed in an instant. It felt like it wasn’t me! He snarled. One more voice spoke up, this one smaller than the rest.
I’m sorry.
The already crowded mindspace exploded in a flurry of angry comments at the small voice.
Fuck off, you little shit. Nobody likes you.
You really shouldn’t be here.
Get. Out. Of. My. Head.
The angry tirade was interrupted then by a crackle from the intercom.
“Mr. Cordova, are you alright?”
Franky snapped out of his reverie with a small shake of his head. This isn’t over.
“Ah, yes. Thank you, Intercom guy. Also, my name is Franky.” There was a pause from the speaker.
“No, it isn-”
“I’d really prefer if you called me Franky.”
“...Ok. Well, Franky, do you need anything? You were shaking, and you looked like you were in pain.”
“I’m fine. Just remembering.” Well, I might as well try to be friendly, since that little punk started it for me.
“So listen, Intercom guy. Sorry about earlier. I know things like that are disturbing to some people. No hard feelings?” After a moment,
“No, it’s fine.” Franky grinned. Score one for friendship.
The two sat in silence, on on an uncomfortable cot, the other probably in front of a desk in the upper levels of the asylum. The former, however, didn’t really like inaction (or restraints, for that matter), so he glanced up at his window. Judging by the light, the day was hardly over.
“Intercom guy, you still there?”
“Yes.”
“What time is it?”
“2:30.” Damn. Boredom was something he was not suited for. Especially not without his hands.
“So, can I get something to eat?” Through the intercom was the sound of shuffling papers. He’s probably trying to find a menu.
“No. No one is supposed to enter your cell today.” Nevermind.
“Wait, can I even use the restroom?” Intercom guy sounded stumped.
“Huh. I guess not. Sorry.” Franky waved a hand (mentally).
“I’m a big boy. I can hold it. Things wouldn't have been pretty in this stupid jacket anyway.” Intercom guy snickered, before catching himself and switching off the mic.
And so, several hours passed, probably the most boring of Frankys generally thrilling life. Finally, as six o'clock rolled in, Franky had tired himself out by somersaulting around his cell (and getting sick in the process). He inch-wormed his way over to the cot, and jumped on it with a loud, theatrical yawn.
“Well, time for me to turn in. Good night, Intercom guy.”
“Umm, goodnight. Franky.” Hmmm, maybe since he’s opened up a little...
“What’s your name? I mean, if you get to watch me sleep...”
“I’ve been instructed not to give you my name.” Nope. The lanky prisoner chuckled, and after squinting at the light still pouring from his window, he drifted off to sleep.