THE ASYLUM CONFESSIONS

WHO AM I?

My name is Jack Steen. 

That name shouldn’t mean anything to you. But it does to others and that’s what counts. 

I’m a nobody, really. 

I’m not a writer. I’m not a storyteller. I’m not a goddamn thing.

I’m just a man who wipes the asses of that society couldn’t give two shits about. I give them their medicine, change their diapers, and provide something no one else has… 

An audience.

I work as a night nurse in the Asylum. 

Which one? Doesn’t matter – they’re all the same. After you read the stories, you should be able to figure it out, but apparently, I might get sued if I actually say the name, so I won’t.

You picked up this book because of the title, right? Deathbed Confessions of the Criminally Insane. That’s exactly what you’re about to read. 

That’s what I do. I take their deathbed confessions. The ones no one else has heard. The ones everyone wants to hear.

My patients tell me their stories, they confess their messed up lives because I do what no one else in this fucking asylum does.

I listen. 

I’ve worked here the longest out of anyone on my floor. I’ve got the scars, the stitches, the broken bones to prove it. I worked my way from the shittiest jobs here to the one I have now.

I used to think being a nurse was my calling. My passion. 

I thought I could make a difference, that what I did was important. 

I was stupid to think anything in life was worth this shit. 

I used to work in a hospital full of people who had lives and loved ones that cared about them. Most of my patients here have been discarded, forgotten about, left to spend their final days alone. 

I won’t tell you which hospital I work at. 

I won’t tell you the names of those dying.

But I won’t lie to you.

You’ll read exactly what I’m told. 

Instead of their real names, I’ll tell you the names I gave them. The names I whisper in their ear as they fall asleep. Sometimes they hate these names, but I don’t care. 

If you’re smart, if you can read between the lines, you’ll know who is telling the story.

I can’t say all the stories are one hundred percent true but like every tale ever told, there’s always a nugget of truth – but then, what the fuck do I know?

These sadistic bastards could be playing their final game with me by messing with my head and now, they could be playing with yours.

POPS.

I’m standing in the hallway as the elevator door opens. Two guards push a bed through the open doors and head toward me. 

Pops is lying there, holding on to a saline bag, surrounded by his few possessions. His eyes remain closed, but as he comes my way, I see there’s a smile on his face.

What’s he got to smile about? 

“Waiting for me, are you?” Pops’ gravely voice greets me as he opens one eye. 

“Took your time, old man.” The welcome is in my voice, and I know he hears it. 

“Got tired of waiting for you to come check on me. Figured it,” Pops stops as he struggles to catch his breath. His lungs aren’t doing too good, and I hear it plain as day. “Figured it was time I come to you instead.” 

I walk along beside him as the guards push him toward his room. Ike stands at the door, waiting. I take Pops’ hand and give it a soft shake.

“I made you a promise a few years ago, remember?” I say.

He opens one eye, then closes it. “Sure do.”

There’s an area in the back gardens where some inmates like to hang out and smoke. Sometimes I go down to join them. I’m not much of a smoker, but it’s more for the company and to get a feel for where people are at. 

I want most of my future patients to know who I am before they come to my floor.

A few years ago, I’d sat with Pops at the picnic table. He shared stories from his life before, telling tales I’m sure, of what a great guy he was. By the time we were alone, my break was almost up. Pops looked up at me when I stood and asked if I’d be joining him again next shift. I thought about it, I really did, but I knew the show he’d put on had been for my benefit. So I told him no. I told him the next time he saw me, he’d be coming to me, tired of living his lie and ready to tell the truth. He asked if that was a promise or a threat. I told him it was a promise.

A promise I’ve been sure to keep.

“Ike here is going to get you set up in your room and make sure you’re taken care of. I’ll be in to see you later.” I give the bed bars a slap before stepping away.

I’ve been going over Pops’ file, wanting to familiarize myself with his medical history as well as read the notes his guards and doctors wrote down. 

He’s quite the fellow. Friendly when he wants to be. Scary when he needs to be. Multiple times I’ve read casual warnings from guards to not turn your back to him when he’s in a mood, and you could always tell his mood by how quiet he became.

I guess a quiet Pops is a dangerous Pops. 

Before heading back downstairs, there’s a knock on the door. 

It’s one of the guards from Pops floor.

“Hey, Swiggy. It’s been a while,” I say. I’m in the middle of pouring two shots of Scotch into a glass. I figured Swiggy would come to join me.

“None for me. The missus and I are doing a dry month.” 

I set his glass to the side, down mine, and then lean against my desk.

“This is a shitty month to be going dry.” I can’t imagine doing that. 

“Yeah, well, she thinks I’m drinking too much and asked me to lay off it for a bit. I can’t say no to her, so here I am. Hey, I wanted to ask, where have you gotten to lately? Keep thinking I’ll see you downstairs during breaks, but you never come.” 

I point to the stack of boxes in the corner of my small office. “The Warden gave me a deadline to go through a bunch of files and clean them up. If I get them done before his deadline, there’s a bottle of top-shelf bourbon with my name on it.”

“Sweet. He doesn’t give away his bourbon too often. I hope you get it. Listen,” he pauses, glancing over his shoulder. “There’s something you need to know about Pops.” 

He’s got a look on his face, one I’m having a hard time reading, and I’ve known Swiggy a hell of a long time. 

“His daughter came to visit, first time since he came here.” 

This news doesn’t surprise me. Pops isn’t the first inmate to go without familial visitors. Some families find it too difficult to visit; some are ashamed, embarrassed, and prefer to walk different paths with the past behind them.

“How did this affect our new patient?” 

Swiggy lets out a long sigh. “That’s when his health went downhill.” 

I don’t like the sound of that.

“Do you know what happened between the two of them?” 

Swiggy shakes his head. “Figured you could use your magic and get it out of him.” 

Of course, he does. 

“When was she here?” 

“Two weeks ago.” 

It always surprises me what it takes for men to give up. Some decide on their own, some have it decided for them. I wonder which was it for Pops? Did something happen? Were things said that couldn’t be taken back? Something broke him, that’s for sure.

FARMER JOE.

There are some cases that fascinate the media. 

Farmer Joe is one of those cases. 

I’ve heard of the man but never spoke to him before. 

To be honest, the man disgusts me. 

He’s the type of man I’d prefer he met his end downstairs, rather than coming to my floor to breathe his last breath.  

I’ve never been interested in his story, and I’m still not sure I am now, but one of the guards from his floor swears the man has a secret he’s been dying to tell me. I guess he’s been bragging about this secret for the past few years, to the point where one of the guards contacted the local authorities where Farmer Brown lived and had them reopen his case.

They didn’t find any new victims, which isn’t much of a surprise.

Farmer Joe may remind you of a particular ‘other’ farmer from Canada, the one that tried to save prostitutes only to feed them to his pigs. Remember that guy? Farmer Joe isn’t him. This guy was before that Canadian psycho.

There have to be more farmers than you’d expect who get rid of their unmentionables to their farm animals. Pops was one of those men, and I’m sure there’s more out there. 

Makes you wonder if the pork you’re eating is safe, doesn’t it?