Young Writers Society

This is a novel I've been working on for months now, and am still nowhere near finishing. Thought it would be worth putting this up just to see what happens... ALL feedback welcome and appreciated.

THE NUTHOUSE- CHAPTER ONE

Stone Creek Treatment Centre for Special Cases, that’s what they called it. By ‘they’, I mean people in suits, business people, people with the power to buy and build and dream, people deluded by their own sense of self-importance. They were people me and my fellow patients could never relate to, so the snobby, jumped-up name they gave our home was something we could never respect. To us, the little people, Stone Creek Treatment Centre for Special Cases was, and would always be, the Nuthouse. It was our little rebellion.

The Nuthouse; thousands of square foot of metallic surfaces and over-purified air. But it was more than that. I’ve heard some say that it was the world’s last-ditch attempt at saving human life. Generally, if you wound up in a Nuthouse ward, you either left in a body bag or with your days numbered. Everyone always avoided using the word ‘hospice’ when talking about the Nuthouse, but the patient-survival rate was so low that they were one and the same, to me at least.

A hospital with a reputation for death. Lovely.

Not that I cared much when I was there. In those days I was Steve Heyman, Nuthouse veteran and super-survivor. I was born and raised in the hospital for reasons that were unknown to me at the time. Filled with childish curiosity and, of course, innocence, I often asked what those reasons were, for I rarely felt sick, but asking the wall would have been more useful. You see, everyone gave me the same answer: you’ll understand when you’re older. I wasn’t even given a whole hospital room; instead, my home was a bed at the far corner of a four-bed ward. The other beds were usually filled by people with serious illnesses, grey, depressing people with blank expressions and sad, solemn eyes. These people rarely spoke, and when they did, it was usually to ask for something rather then an attempt to make conversation. Because of this, the atmosphere in my ward was often stony and cold, so I spent days with my parents, Janet and Michael, roaming around the friendlier parts of the hospital: cafés and sandwich bars, newsagents and vending-machines. Of course, I realize now the terrible sadness behind these places: they were there not to make the patient’s lives better, but to hide visitors from what was beyond them. Sickness, death, depression, it was all at home in the Nuthouse. And that was the terrible sadness behind my own life; that it was spent in and around these things. Cheerful, eh?

If I have given you the impression that every patient to ever enter the Nuthouse was dreary and dull, I’m sorry, because this is completely untrue, and there were a good many exceptions. Georgio Capallio was one of them. An eighty-something year old ex-boxer from Italy, Georgio had spent most of his long life in ghettos and rough areas, yet the Georgio I remember was a bright, bouncy individual, full of jokes and Mediterranean energy. Georgio was the kind of person who considered every day he spent on Earth a good day. During his time in the Nuthouse, one of the nurses nicknamed him the Elder, because he was the oldest person ever to enter the ward (to give it a name, St. Katharine’s Ward for the Sick). It was a tribute to his personality that Georgio considered the name a great honour, and insisted good-naturedly that that was what everyone call him. He was that kind of person. But then it all went wrong.

I remember the day well. Georgio was called out the ward by one of the nurses, and brought to see the doctor, a smooth, irritating man named Dr. Prescott. If I remember Georgio right that day, he had been quiet and withdrawn, unusual for him; apparently, he was waiting for the result of some important check-up. Now, Georgio was never the type to raise his voice, but whatever Prescott said in that office changed him. He roared at the doctor, called him a ‘snobby pig’ (here-here, I remember thinking), and by the sound of things, landed the unfortunate doctor with a classic left-hook. For the next hour or so, there was silence.

When he reappeared in the ward, Georgio seemed to have aged several years. Of course, being in his eighties, he was never a spring chicken, but now there was something much older and more worried about his face, as if his years were finally catching up on him. I asked, cautiously, what the doctor had said to him. Georgio turned to me, the new-found age shining on his face more than ever, and grunted

‘Those medical fat-cats want me to have the last laugh.’

I shivered. To be given ‘the last laugh’ was Nuthouse-speak for when the hospital gave up on somebody and sent them to a beautiful, comfortable room where they were given their every want and need, and were allowed to die satisfied and peaceful. I don’t know what it is, but something about that idea has always seemed grotesque to me, not to mention hypocritical; it was like the hospital knew it had failed to save somebody, and tried to cover it up by making them enjoy their last hours of life. If there was one thing I made sure my parents knew I wanted it was this: I, Steve Heyman, would never be given the last laugh. It's a strange statement, but it's one I've never regretted

And so that was the end of Georgio Capallio. He was given three months to live, and spent that time living it up far away from the hospital, with his family. Then he returned like only he could, bringing his old vigour with him. For a long time we just sat in the ward, him telling jokes and stories he had picked up on his travels, and me listening. After that, it was time to say goodbye.

‘See ya in heaven Steve-o’ he said, in his cheerful Italian accent, ‘but then again, considering what a bad boy your Georgio has been, I probably won’t.’ We both laughed, and Georgio left the room with a spring in his step and a twinkle in his eye, preparing for the most exciting journey of all. I never saw him again.

That night however, screams erupted in my ears and I woke with a start. The noise died away just as soon as it had come, and it didn’t seem to even have a source. It did, however, leave a thought clearly in my mind, a thought I have never doubted to this day: Wherever he had been taken to die, Georgio Capallio never laughed.

I doubt, in fact, Georgio Capallio even smiled.

In the Nuthouse, every day was basically the same. The day started at seven O’ clock, when everyone who was able had a shower, got dressed and waited for breakfast. In St. Katherine's Ward, this was delivered by a loud, cheerful kitchen-worker named Lizzy who rattled around with her food trolley at the same time every morning. You could often hear her jokingly announce her self someway down the corridor:

‘Meals wheeled, potatoes peeled, complaints not even listened to!’ the sixty-something year-old would cry. Then you could sniff the air, which was filled with the smells of fried food and burnt toast, and prepare for a good meal.

Next, were my appointments with different doctors and specialists. These included physiotherapy with Mr Smith, an ex-army captain with iron-grey hair and a soldier’s toughened expression; general health with the aforementioned slimeball Prescott, and even psychotherapy with a psychologist named Mrs. Gillory. There were many more, too many to name, and they were all laid out on a timetable. These finished at six O clock when my parents arrived. Then, as I said, we would wander around the hospital in our happily naïve way, until eight o clock, the end of visiting time. After this, was the worst appointment of all; a visit to the hospital oratory for my daily discussion with the Nuthouse’s resident priest: Father Patrick Byrne.

The oratory was a small room with strange ambient lighting and a low, slanting, roof. Roughly twenty wooden chairs were lined up in front of the massive lectern, which was square in shape, and was surrounded by all kinds of things: candles and old books, wooden ornaments and odd bits of primitive pottery. There was a wide window on the room’s western wall, covered by a blind that was never lifted. There were so many questions that should have been asked about that place, but I wasn’t the one to ask them, mainly because the answer would be easily guessed at: ‘Don’t ask such silly questions, child!’

In short, the room was a creepy one. It should have been cosy and warm with a nice atmosphere, but it wasn’t. And I hold one thing directly responsible: the oratory’s inhabitant.

Father Byrne had a face like a rat and smelled strongly of sweat. But that wasn’t why I didn’t like him, although it certainly didn’t help. What scared me about the priest was his presence; the air around him seemed to tingle with an unnerving tension, silencing everything around it. He was an unpleasant man, and an even worse one to be around.

And that didn’t help our meetings. Every one started the exact same way, at the exact same time. I would knock on the huge wooden door three times (three being the Lord’s number, as the priest informed me), and wait for the summons inside. When it came, I pushed the door open, slowly and reverently, trying in vain to ignore the creaks and groans its hinges uttered constantly. Then I stepped inside, letting my eyes adjust to the weird half-light of the oratory, and after a second, Father Byrne’s plump form would appear out the gloom, a neutral expression on his face, a hollow coldness in his eyes.

‘Good evening, Steven’ he would say quietly, as if to himself.

‘Good evening, Father’ I would whisper. Around Father Byrne, you always whispered.

And so began an hour of boringly serious discussion about religion, philosophy, the virtues of right and wrong; that sort of thing. Those evenings were so deep and meaningful that, being my young, innocent self I learned nothing, which is ironic considering it was the only education I have ever received. All in all, I was glad when these ‘classes’ were over, when I could drag my exhausted self out of the oratory, through the quiet hospital , back to St. Katharine’s Ward, and into bed.

And then I’d get back up the next morning and do it all over again.

At least that’s how things were until, at the age of thirteen, I met Nikki.

I have been asked many times if I, to put it bluntly, fell in love with that girl. The question is only natural, I know, considering she was the first girl my age I had ever met, but let’s get one thing straight right here and now: no, I did not. I’m vaguely aware that she was good looking, although my experience as a judge is questionable; with her long brown hair, wide hazel eyes and good-natured face, her good-looks were obvious. But love, that’s a different matter. What you have to understand is that I was having a first contact with girls as a fairly bland and downtrodden human being, so I really couldn’t care how good-looking she was; if she was likeable, she was a friend, if not, she wasn’t. And that, as you’ll soon see, meant that love was out of the question.

But besides that, there’s a lot I have to thank her for. Nikki was rebellious and adventurous with a razor-sharp wit, traits that I gratefully picked up from her. You see, when you live in a hospital your whole life, you tend to lose the personality you may have had, but because of Nikki, I found mine before it was too late. Without it, the tale you are about to read might never have happened, and I would still be trapped in the Nuthouse, withering away, slowly but surely. And with that in mind, let me start the said tale.

Thank God, I hear you say.

Thank God indeed.