Solitary confinement
D.N In memoriam (1945-2018)
I am alone. Lights flicker overhead, pale, the way they do in horror movies, plunging the entire room—or rather, cell of a room—into an eerie greenish glow.
Fingers trembling, I reach for the brownish folder on a table beside my bed. I don't see a name there, just two words neatly typed on the cover:
Solitary Confinement.
What do they mean? Where am I? I can’t remember a thing. Patsy's birthday party. Frank howling bawdy songs. Hank eyeing Patsy's younger sister. Rob showing off his bloody muscles. Haze. Screams. Iron aftertaste in my mouth. Screams. Rob taking Sam in the yard. Screams. Haze. Head hurts. Bitterness in my breath. Head swirls.
Is this a mental hospital? A jail? Where am I?
The wall is cold to the touch. The window is barred. It must be night—I can’t see a thing.
My God, where am I? Who the hell am I?
Solitary Confinement.
God, I'm done for.
The latch clicks. Metal on metal. A heavy, rhythmic sound that slices right through the electrical hum of the lights. The door doesn't just open; it bleeds light into the room. A sterile, blinding white that tastes like salt.
A man steps into the greenish haze. He is tall. He wears a coat so white it looks like a fresh bandage. He doesn't speak at first. He just watches. His eyes are hidden behind glass that catches the flicker of the overhead bulbs.
"Oh, I see you're awake, Mr. Whyte," he says. The voice is smooth. Velvet over a blade. "Are you all right, Dennis?"
The name hits me like a physical blow. Dennis Whyte. Is that me? The name feels like a suit of clothes that doesn't fit.
"I remember... a yard," I whisper. My voice is a dry rattle. "Screams. Rob. Sam. The iron in my mouth."
The man steps closer. He reaches for the folder. His fingers are long and pale. "Those are just fragments. Broken glass in the dark. I'm here to help you sweep them up. I am Dr. Brauberg."
I look at his pocket. A row of silver clips. I feel a strange, sheepish twitch in my lip. "Brauberg? Like the pens?"
"Yes, you're right," he says. He leans into my space. He smiles, and his teeth gleam in the eerie light. "Exactly like a pen."
He doesn't smell like a doctor, that one. No antiseptic. No hospital starch. Instead, the air around him thickens with the heavy, cloying scent of high-end cigars and cheap brandy. And beneath that—the sharp, unmistakable smell of a man who’s just had sex. It’s raw. It’s filthy. It doesn't belong in this greenish glow.
"You ain't like no doctor I seen," I tell him, my conscience slipping away.
He stands up. His lab coat slides off his shoulders like in that Christian Bale movie about a killer. It hits the floor without a sound. He looks at me over his shoulder, and I see his white shirt fall to the floor too, vanishing out of sight into the green shadows.
His back ain't no lab rat back. It’s broad. Hard. It’s like he works out all the damned time. He ain't no doc, my brain shouts.
He turns to me. The greenish light clings to the muscle of his chest, making him look like a statue carved out of cold meat.
"How do you like me, Des?" he asks silkily. "Do you like men?"
"Ain't like that," I say, but my voice trips over itself.
He laughs it off. It’s a dry, dark sound. "From what I've heard, it's quite the opposite."
He smiles. It’s a terrifying, familiar smile. It’s like that dead guy’s—Gary something. The one with the shadows and the thirst.
"What do you mean?" My mouth runs dry. The iron taste is back, thick and heavy.
He smiles again, taking his glasses off. He moves slow, deliberate. I can see now he uses them just for glamming up. For the part. Without them, his eyes are different. Older. Hungrier.
"I mean the yard, Dennis," he says. He takes a step toward the bed. No shoes. His feet make no noise on the cold floor. "I mean the way you watched Rob. The way you didn't look away from Sam. I mean the bitterness in your breath right now."
He leans over me. The smell of cigars and brandy is a wall.
"You think this is a cell?" He mocks me with his gleaming teeth. "You’re the one who locked the door, Dennis. I’m just the one who stayed inside with you."
The lights flicker. Snap. Snap. Like his silver pen.
"Now," he whispers, his hand reaching for the brownish folder. "Shall we talk about why there’s no name on the cover? Or do you want to tell me whose blood made that iron taste in your mouth?"
His hand drop to his belt line. Throat lock up. Total panic, raw and hot, hit me right in the gut. Want to look away, but I'm glued to his hands. Bastard know it, too. Taking his sweet time, drawing it out to mess with my head. Denim hit the floor with a heavy thud.
Christ. He’s huge. A total heavyweight, and he dead-set on this. Skull feel like it's about to split wide open.
"How do you like it, Des?" he purr, hand moving down there, working slow.
"What’s going through that head of yours?"
Need him to quit. God, just make him quit. Psycho know exactly how to work the angles.
"This sick," I rasp out, trying to force some iron into my voice. "You going to burn for this."
He just laugh. A nasty, arrogant bark. "Let Him try. My house, my rules, Dennis. I know your type. I know exactly how to break men like you."
He step closer. No noise. Right up against the mattress. Towering over me. Waist right at eye level. Can't look away. God help me, try to shut my eyes, but can't. Won't move. Staring right at him. Bastard know it. See it. Beneath the sweat, the shaking... something sick inside me waking up. Damned devil, he be. Know my secret. Using it to rot me out.
"Look at it, Des," he whisper. Lean down. Breath stinking of cheap brandy. "This what you wanted in the yard. What you was watching."
Arms go dead. Just give up. Filthy, but body stop fighting. He get on top of me. Brutal. Hard. Violent. Just like the stuff in the folder. Body betray me. Answer him. Chasing the filth while my brain scream. Green light swallow everything.
Then, stop.
Off the bed. Cold air hit skin like ice.
Brauberg stand up. Ain't even panting. He no look at me. Not with anger, nothing. Face blank. Empty. Reach down, grab white shirt, slide arms in. Button it. Slow. Putting the doctor act back on.
Lie there shaking. Sweat turning freezing cold. Feel like vomiting. Disgust hit right in the gut. Thick. Sour.
Put glasses on. Clip silver pen. Grab lab coat, shake it, put it on. Like a guy finishing a shift. Walk to table. Pick up folder.
"Well," Brauberg say. Smooth. Cold as a knife. "I won't see you again."
Try to yell. Nothing. Choking on spit. Want to claw skin off.
Folder tap against his hand. Look down like I'm a bug. "But now, we finally have the name on the file."
Turn. Latch go click. Metal on metal. Door swing wide. Blinding white light. One last time.
Slam shut.
Thud.
Hum come back. Ugly green glow.
Alone.
Fog gone. Disgust burn through the blank parts. Everything come back. Clear. Sharp. Dam break.
Remember the yard now. Dark after Patsy's party. Frozen. Staring at Rob and Sam. Watching them do it. Desperate hunger inside. Couldn't move. Footsteps. Someone catch me. Someone see.
Panic straight to my head. Heavy wrench in hand. Hit them. Over and over. Smash the secret away. Yard door fly open. One of the girls run out. Face twisted. Screaming. Make her shut up. Hands around her neck. Squeeze the life out. Yard go quiet.
Didn't stop there. Horrible rush. Whole house a graveyard. Hidden, rotting bodies. Stench of decay everywhere. Police smashing doors. Flashing blue lights. That one surviving girl. Screaming. Crying in the corner.
Didn't scream. Just sat there. Among the dead. Frozen. Paralyzed. Didn't take me to jail. Brought me here.
Everything in that folder. Brauberg didn't need a confession. Sick little game. Just to make me remember.
Look at empty table. Know what’s happening in hallway. Brauberg walk away. Letters moving on folder. Ink scratching cardboard. Writing my real name. The final seal. Damnation.
Underneath the words Solitary Confinement, the lines fill themselves in.
NAME: Dennis Whyte
CASE TYPE: Multiple Homicide
DISPOSITION: Committed for Life
Lights flicker.
Snap.
Snap.
Solitary Confinement.
Shaking hands.
My face.
Who I am.
The monsters.
The dark.
Forever.
Done for.
Creepy stuff but awesome writing! 😈👍🏻🖤