The Chafed Red Wrists of Fisher Poleman

I do the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Challenge from time to time. What follows is my assignment/story.

[Full disclosure: I had to look up historical fiction.]

Group 10
Genre: Historical Fiction
Location: A psychiatric hospital
Object: A ship in a bottle
1000 words

Synopsis: Fisher Poleman has spent two years in the Danvers State Hospital. Like the screaming in his head, his wants his treatments to stop.

The screaming got Fisher Poleman out of bed. He went to the window, slid his chafed red wrists through the bars and lifted. The New England air was crisp and he could smell the wet leaves returning to the soil. It reminded him of walking to school as a boy and the gray cat he once found. He remembered the way its whiskers tickled the back of his hands as he stopped its breathing.

To the east, the sun would soon pop up like a golden coin. To the west, he could make out the tower. The lights were on and he saw a horned figure standing in the window. Fisher rubbed his eyes and looked to the tower again. There was no figure and no light. Fisher sat down and stared at the palms of his hands. They were the bellies of spiders.

After today, there would be no more treatments.

The speaker crackled at his door.

“Mister Poleman, the orderlies will be up to receive you shortly.”

Fisher put on his uniform. It was still stiff and he was careful around his chest where the hair had been burned away from therapy. The uniform was white and resembled the gray staff uniform, except in the back where it said DANVERS, it said PATIENT.

Throughout his two-year stay at the facility, Fisher liked seeing the uniform on his fellow residents. He imagined them all as solitary figures quietly waiting for help. But he’d only been in a month when the Archduke Ferdinand and his wife were assassinated. Droves of young men his age started to show up soon after that. They joked and laughed and talked about how Danvers was like a wellness center and by the time they got out the war would be over. But to the staff and the doctors they spoke of visions and paranoia. For Fisher the visions were real, the paranoia at hand.

The knock at the door startled Fisher. He listened to the click clack of locks and the bolt sliding through the slats. The door opened. Two orderlies stood next to a wheel chair.

“Good morning, Mister Poleman. How are you feeling?”

“Spry,” said Fisher. “In fact-“

“You can tell Doctor Axelrod when you see him,” interrupted the other orderly motioning toward the chair.

Fisher turned and sat down. The wood groaned beneath him, the wicker stretched against his back.

“Your wrists, please” said the first orderly.

“Of course.”

Fisher placed his arms along the rests. Each orderly took a side and pulled the straps tight. Fisher winced slightly, but not that anyone could see.

As Fisher glided along the South corridor, he looked out the tall windows onto the great lawn. Patients sat on benches in the sunlight, and waited quietly. Staff hovered nearby. A flight a sparrows swooped and dove among the trees.

The elevator took them to the fifth floor of the tower. The first orderly knocked on the door, which opened immediately. Doctor Axelrod was a tall man with a barrel chest and a thick black beard.

“You’re four minutes late,” said Axelrod staring down the orderlies before tucking away his pocket watch. “Bring him in.”

Axelrod walked behind his desk and motioned the orderlies where to place Fisher. Behind Axelrod were shelves containing books, plaques and framed pictures of family. The top shelf held a large bottle with a ship inside. Axelrod looked himself squarely in the mirror across from him on the far wall and cracked his knuckles. He stole a quick look at his profile before taking his chair.

“And you can dispense with those,” he said waving his hands toward Fisher’s wrists.

Fisher rubbed his wrists and politely nodded at Axelrod who retuned the gesture.

“That will be all,” said Axelrod dismissing the orderlies.

“I know it’s been hard for you, Fisher,” continued Axelrod as the door closed, his hand firmly on the file in front of him. “Your family has paid a lot of money to keep you here. You’re not like those pacifist cowards.”

Fisher shook his head.

Axelrod pulled on his beard.

“Any visions lately?” he asked.

“No.”

“How about screaming? Do you still hear screaming?”

“No.”

Axelrod nodded, pulled his beard.

“I think another month of treatments,” he said. “And we’ll meet again, alright?”

Fisher was staring up at the top shelf.

“May I?”

Axelrod looked behind him.

“The ship? Sure. Just be careful.”

Axelrod stood so Fisher could reach up and take it down. It was heavier than he thought.

“Must be twenty-five pounds,” said Fisher.

“Got it in Crowhurst. Ever been there?”

“No.”

“It’s lovely.”

Fisher stared into the bottle.

“Well,” he said. “It’s exquisite.”

“Sometimes I can hear waves,” Axelrod chuckled.

Fisher started to put the bottle back on the shelf.

“I can never figure how they get the masts up inside,” he said. “It seems impossible.”

“They do that last. After it’s all built, they reach in and pull the masts up.”

“Oh, right,” said Fisher as he gently rocked the bottle back in its place. “I forgot.”

Fisher turned to see Axelrod staring at him in the mirror.

“You held that bottle right over my head. You could have crushed my skull like a grape, but not even a hesitation.”

Fisher shook his head.

The two men smiled at each other in the mirror. Axelrod put his hand on the back of Fisher’s neck. Fisher sheepishly put his hand on the back of Axelrod’s neck. They beamed at their reflections.

“Well,” said Axelrod, “I think we’ve had a breakth-“

Fisher’s other hand flew up into Axelrod’s throat. The sound of cartilage snapping and the sputtering of breath filled the room. Axelrod tried to pull Fisher’s hands away, but the spiders held fast. Fisher noticed the curious way Axelrod’s beard felt on the back of his hands. As Axelrod’s body went limp, Fisher looked into the mirror at the ship in the bottle with its full white masts. There was no more screaming, only waves.

How Dexter Should Have Ended

At the end of season 4.

But let's not be snarky.

I mean you can't spell finale without fail.

(Sorry. My bad.)

Damnit, you spend 8 seasons watching a show, you want a little something of a reward in the finale!

But it's like the writers took it to a kill room, hacked away at it with a spoon, and hoped it would just bleed out. Because there's no way Dexter abandons his child and the love of his life to sail into a hurricane and become a fucking lumberjack.

That would be amazingly awful, right?

See for yourself.

Let's let bygones be bygones. We're at the end of Season 8. The link above IS what happened, but here's what SHOULD have happened.

[Although let's understand that while Dexter was an anti-hero, he was more hero than anti. Ok? And we're not going have him narrating from the dead, as some showrunners have suggested. No need to get that deep and metaphysical, especially within the context of this season's train wreck. Masuka's long lost daughter says what?]

So let's pick it up as Saxon enters Deb's floor...

FADE IN:

Saxon looks up what room Deb's in.

Cut to Dexter walking into the hospital. Understanding the distraction at play, he rushes to Deb's floor.

Cut to Saxon opening the door to Deb's room. Deb sees him.

DEB: What the fuck, motherfucker?

SAXON: Your brother should have taken the deal. You're going to pay for his mistake.

DEB: Fuck you, asshole!

Saxon approaches her bed, he wields a knife, but Dexter opens the door.

DEXTER: Saxon!

Saxon turns around, quickly puts the knife to Deb's throat.

SAXON: I thought you were on an airplane with your girlfriend. And your son.

DEXTER: No, I decided I had one more thing to finish.

SAXON: I see. You know how this finishes, right?

Saxon presses the knife into Deb's throat, we see a drop of blood.

DEXTER: I do. With you dying. Right here, right now.

SAXON: How do you figure?

DEXTER: I'm a monster. And I remember where all the monsters are.

Dexter raises his hands. They are empty. Saxon is confused and stares at Dexter's empty hands. We see Deb's eyes following the hands as well, only she's looking at the shadow of the hands near the wall where there is an instrument tray. The shadow falls over the scissors. She grabs the scissors and stabs Saxon in the groin. He doubles over, but he's pulled the blade. Deb is bleeding. Dexter is wrestling Saxon for the knife. Fighting, wrestling, eventually the knife slides into Saxon. Saxon dies.

Dexter turns his attention to Deb. He quickly bandages her neck.

DEXTER: Ok, I think this will work. I'm not especially good at keeping blood in people.

DEB: Maybe you should learn.

Beat.

DEXTER: You need to hold this. Don't let go. If you let go, you'll die.

DEB: No shit. But I can let go of you, motherfucker. Go!

Dexter hits the alarm in Deb's room. He looks at Deb. Deb nods, waves. Dressed as an orderly, Dexter wheels Saxon's body through the chaos. Doctors pass him on their way to Deb's room. Dexter makes it outside, sheds the uniform, loads Saxon's body onto his boat, takes off to the storm.

We see Dexter on his boat finishing up the bagging of Saxon.

(Dexter calls Hannah, talks to Harrison. Same dialogue.)

Dexter tosses the phone into the ocean. He lifts Saxon and places him on the edge of his boat.

DEXTER (VO): All my life I never felt human, never thought I would know how to feel human. But now that I do, I just want it to stop. I am a monster.

Dexter throws Saxon off the boat.

DEXTER (VO): I destroy everyone I love. I can't let that happen to Hannah, to Harrison. I have to protect them from me, and who I am.

He sails off into the storm.

(And we keep going as they find Dexter's boat, the news, people reacting to Dexter's death, etc, but we cut out the part about Hannah seeing the news on her iPad (seriously?), and pick it up right after - as she talks to Harrison.

HANNAH: C'mon, Harrison. Let's go get some ice cream.

She walks off into the crowd with Harrison.

Cut to Hannah and Harrison (with melted ice cream on his clothes) as they walk into their house. It's modest, but airy and it's near water. We also see and hear neighborhood children playing.

HARRISON: When's Daddy going to get here?

HANNAH: I'm not sure, honey. Soon.

We hear a car pull up. We see the familiar outfit of Dexter getting out of the car, carrying a black bag, walking.

HARRISON: Daddy!

In walks Dexter. He's alive. He kisses Hannah, scoops up Harrison.

DEXTER: Hi buddy!

Dexter is wearing his kill clothes. There's blood on his sleeve. Hannah notices.

HANNAH: What happened?

Dexter looks at the blood, then up at Hannah.

DEXTER: Nothing, just a fender bender. Some guy hit a pedestrian. But he's going to make it. We got there right in time.

Dexter puts his bag down. His ID badge flops out. He's a paramedic in Mar Del Plata.

DEXTER VO: No matter who I am, blood will always be an attraction for me.

DEXTER: Come on, let's go outside. I saw Marco is back. He brought back some...

The voices trail off as they go outside. The camera stays inside, but watches Dexter's family.

DEXTER VO: Maybe it was Deb. Maybe it was Vogel. Maybe it was Saxon. But my dark passenger is gone. I feel free. I feel human.

FADE OUT.


Ok, I'm not saying it's perfect - it's a little puppies and rainbows - but I think it echoes a familiar sentiment.

African Black Soap

I'm an impulse buyer. I remember one time I was at a Borders waiting in line to buy a book - I know, crazy - and I saw something bright and shiny near the registers. It was a thimble. I grabbed it. It was attached to one of those tiny books, like three inches by three inches. It was a book on quilting. I bought it, gave it to a friend who quilts.

I remember another time at a record shop in LA there was a pyramid of mustards at check out. The guy's brother did something with Stadium Mustard out of Cleveland. "Yeah, I'll take these cds... and some mustard," I said. Turns out it's awesome mustard.

I use Dr Bronners's peppermint soap. It's something I discovered in college. The label is craziness, all about cleanliness and godliness in tiny letters written horizontal and vertical over every square inch of the bottle. I've tried the other 'flavors', but peppermint is my favorite. It makes me feel clean. Sometimes it stings - that's how I know it's working. My wife hates it. She doesn't like the way it smells and she thinks it's strong enough to remove paint from cars, tar from roads.

It probably is.

We just had a baby. During her pregnancy, my wife developed a superpower. She can smell things from three days away. For example, she'll point to the egg salad I'm eating and say, "You shouldn't eat that. It's spoiled."

"But I just made it 15 minutes ago."

"Throw it away. It's bad."

A few months ago I ventured into new soap territory. I figured it would make my wife happy. I got some Kiss My Face Mint and Citrus Bath Gel. Meh. It doesn't lather up. I can't tell if I'm using anything. I don't stink so I guess it's working. My wife seems pleased.

But I know what you're thinking. Why are you telling me any of this? Who the fuck cares about your condiment triumphs and shower needs?

Because a few weeks ago I got some Alaffia African Black Soap. It lathers up some. It's no Dr Bronner's, but it'll do. I got it specifically because it reminds me of my friend Ab. It was a focussed impulse buy.

I don't know if Ab's ever tried this soap or even heard of it. But after college he joined the Peace Corps and went to Africa. He became a teacher and was stateside for awhile, but he got married and his wife is a Foreign Service Officer. He and his family have lived all over the world and currently reside in Bangladesh, which is great. Bully for him.

But I miss him. Not all the time. I have a life. And I get busy. One of my best friends lives just a few blocks away. With work and family and everything else, I don't see him either. But we get together once a month or so. The friends who live around the country, we see each other once or twice a year. Is it enough? No. But that's how it is.

Ab is beyond a time zone, he's in another hemisphere of a different day. I can't call him or text him. And I don't email him because what am I going to email him?

This happened, that happened, I felt like this, and then I felt like that, and then he said she said that they said, can you believe it, oh I miss you so much.

We're dudes. We see each other when we see each other and one says, "Hey, how's it going?" And the other says, "Good. How're you doing?" And then the first one says, "Good." And we're all caught up. That's all we need.

Mostly.

I use the social media. I post short bursts of flotsam/jetsam of my life when I have the time; usually when I'm on the can taking care of business. Why? Because that's all I got. At the end of the day, I'm done. I don't even like to talk on the phone. I hang with my wife, take care of our kids, talk about our day, watch some tv, and try to get some sleep.

I like seeing my friends and family on the socmeds. I like wandering through their digital detritus. For a moment, I have a connection; a tiny glimpse and sense of time and place. It's nice. I like seeing their kids, their homes, their vacations. And I like reading something they thought was interesting, or listening to a song they like, or watching a video they thought was funny.

I mean, not all the time. Ain't nobody got time for that*.

Personally, I try to share funny, interesting, and semi-personal things on the fb. And I try to like and comment and be supportive. (And say happy bday to people because that's the very least I can do, right?) On twitter I post snark, politics, bizarrities, and self indulgent half-brilliance. I instagram 'iphoneography' as R. Von Sugarfoot. (I also keep private twitter and instagram accounts of my kids for close friends and family.) I pinterest - well, I don't really pinterest. And I tumblr my dad's FaceTime fiascos, although he's pretty much got it now.

And I blog shit like this because that's what I do.

Yes, facebook can be a weird place if you don't visit enough. I mean it's a game you can't win, you just play. And yes, I know it can be a bit of an estrogen drip if you don't beef up your feed. But I created a private group. It's just me and Ab and a few other guys. No fuss, no muss.

But it doesn't matter. You can lead a horse to water, right? C'est la vie, non?

Anyway, I think of Ab whenever I reach for the African Black Soap. I imagine him biking somewhere and seeing roadkill I might only see in a zoo. Maybe he's breathing in the black smoke of some third world vehicle that doesn't require emissions testing as he waits with his kids to cross a street. It could be that he's at a cafe trying to figure out which sandwich contains chicken.

Or he's in the backyard drinking a beer watching the Bears on pirate satellite with his expat friends from work, and he's wondering if I'm watching the Bears and did I make some wings and if I did they're probably hot as fuck.

SO, sure, this is mostly for Ab. But it's for all my friends I don't see enough. I miss you and love you and stuff... You know, whatever.


*

Breaking Bad - Ozymandias

Full disclosure: There are spoilers ahead!

So you should click away now if you're not caught up with Breaking Bad.

What? You're not watching it?

Seriously?

No, seriously?

It's probably the best tv show.

Ever.

Yes, I understand that's hard to quantify, but it's the only tv show that centers around a character arc. From that standpoint alone it's worth watching. But the writing and performances - everything - it's razor sharp. The storytelling, the pacing - the thing is flat out brilliant. Brilliantly brilliant. I can assure you that by the series end it will be regarded as one of the best shows ever if not the BEST SHOW ever.

Yes, Sopranos was great, so was Six Feet Under. The Wire. Homeland. Lost. Battlestar Galactica. Walking Dead. I know, I know. There have been a lot of great tv shows. But this thing.

I'm telling you, this thing.

You can Netflix it from the beginning. It'll take a weekend.

How? Because you'll devour it and forgo sleeping and eating.

And then, yes, you might have to On Demand or iTunes the current season, but if you want to catch the wave before it crashes the shore...

It's ok, I'll wait...


Ok, you good?


Are you sure?


Ok, um, let's see. How can I describe last night's episode? Ah, here it is. FUCKINGAWESOMETASTIC!

Every piston in the BB engine was firing max rocketboosters go! It was gut wrenching, heart ripping, and nerve shattering - blah blah blah. You can google the reviews.

Here's how I watched it:

--

Wait, why are we at the very beginning? Where's the hail of bullets from last week? Ah, now I get it. We're opening from where it all started; Walt's innocence, naïveté, the rehearsing of his lies...

Fade out, fade in.

Brilliant.

80 million dollars for Hank's life...

"You're the smartest guy I ever met, and you're too stupid to see he made up his mind 10 minutes ago."

Right, because Walt's whole thing is family.

"My name is ASAC Schrader, and you can go fuck yourself."

Because Hank has always been the hard granite to Walt's wet toast.

Bang.

Oh, shit just got real, yo...

"Found him."

Walt does the slow tiny nod; all crime lord and bitter.

But you loved Jesse, he was like a son.

Of course, I guess Jesse did make this all happen. Wait, no, Hank made this all happen. WAIT, no, Walt made this all happen...

Todd aka Meth Damon; so polite, so gentle, so stone cold and curiously calculating.

"Sorry about your loss."

HA!

“I watched Jane die. I was there. And I watched her die. I watched her overdose and choke to death. I could have saved her. But I didn’t.”

That's the last of the secrets, right? Everyone knows everything. That's that.

Synapse pop, mind blown: Walt dug Hank's grave...so fucking brilliant!

Marie. Oh, Marie. Leave Skyler alone. But damnit, if Walt is really in custody, then she's right.

Damn, every character is played and written to their fullest.

Except for maybe Walt Jr. At least he's not eating breakfast.

The scene with the phone on the counter next to the set of kitchen knives; brilliant. Skyler's totally gonna call 911. She has to. It's over. Nope. She's going for the knives. I guess she needs more immediate assistance...

Rolling on the floor... Someone is going to die here! No one needs to die here! No, no, no!

Phew, no one dies.

"What the hell is wrong with you? We're a family. We're a family."

It's all gone. Poor Walt.

Walt takes Holly because that's all he can control. Skyler chases after Walt in the street. The new dad in me... NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! FUCK NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

But then the call Walt makes near the fire station choking on his inner Heisenberg spewing half-truths and absolving Skyler - the brilliant performance of a brilliant performance. And Skyler knowing, understanding his gift.

This is such a fucking good show! Damn!

DAMN!

It's so fucking good!

Jesse is a meth slave, and Walt is heading to New Hampshire.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!

How is this going to end?

Fuck.

Why does Low Winter Sun do this, prolonging the previews to next week? Sigh... Well played, Low Winter Sun, but fuck you!

Ok, ok, will the next episode take place a year later? Or will it be the final episode? Gotta be the next one, right? Yes, has to be. Will Walt redeem himself? Will he exact revenge and save his family from the Nazis? Will he free Jesse? Does he go out all Scarface in a blaze of glory? Does he take the ricin cigarette himself? Does he offer it to Jack? Does Jesse kill Walt? What happens to Skyler, Walt Jr, and Holly? What about Marie? Todd?

So. Fucking. Good.

--

Anyway, that's how I watched it. And except for the season 4 finale of Dexter (for which I pretty much needed a support group), this was one of the best episodes of TV I've ever seen.

Masterful. Fucking masterful.



I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away

Pain in the Back

Currently I have a thing with my back. A pinched nerve, a slipped disk, a pulled muscle - I don't know. It hurts like a motherfucker. When I lie down, when I get up - it's like a knife stabbing me in the kidneys, and my hips swivel on a bed of jagged glass.

I'm on painkillers now, and mostly they're working.

I remember a few years ago when I went to see a doctor about my back, another doctor came in and asked what was the matter. The first doctor said to the second, "He came in today complaining of-"

"Hey," I interrupted. "I'm NOT complaining. I don't complain, ok? I deal with it. I don't complain."

It's like I was channeling Clint Eastwood from Gran Torino.

"Sorry, sir," said the first doctor. "It's just part of our jargon, it's how we understand a patient's chief complaint."

"Oh," I said. "Right."

Anyway, it's gotten to a point now where I have no problem complaining. I'm happy to give the details about waking up in the morning, sitting on the toilet for too long, playing with my daughter, and going to bed at night. I can go on about how I feel crooked and hunched, how I am acutely aware of my acute pain.

I've done physical therapy. I've gone to the chiropractor. Tomorrow I see a specialist. But all this is a long way round my elbow to get to my ass about a conversation I was having with my mom the other day.


Mom: It's good you're going to see someone.

Me: Yeah, I hope they can help. Of course, I can't help but wonder if this was 1813 or even 1913. If someone had a pinched nerve or something, would they just live with it?

Mom: Yes, I think so.

Me: But they'd probably die of consumption before it became something chronic, right?

Mom: Uh, probably.


My next stop will be acupuncture if nothing can be done. They've been doing that for thousands of years. Eventually Western medicine and Eastern medicine will meet somewhere in the middle, right? Weastern medicine?

But hey, I'm open to try anything; weird salves, elixirs, herbs... Maybe even a root.



I know pharmaceutical companies have a bad rep; they're evil and unethical, and now they're above the law somehow. But divorced of politics and money, I am a big fan of modern medicine and science in general.



Of course, left to my own devices on a desert island, I'm pretty much coming up with a spoon and a lean-to. And maybe a sharpened stick.