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.

PREACHER.

Preacher, there’s something about him that sucks you in before you realize it. I mean, he’s an odd duck, truly believes in God and heaven, and one of his favorite things to do is talk about those beliefs, but he’s also a serial killer.

Yeah, take that in.

One of Preacher’s favorite things to do in life before he got caught was to be the officiant at weddings. He’s done quite a lot of them – I’ll have to ask for the exact number, but when he told me the first time I sat down to chat with him, I’d been shocked. 

He kept a book with the names of all those he married, like a guest book, but for himself. Somehow, they let him keep that book when they brought him in here. Personally, I think someone snuck it out of evidence for him. 

He claims to be a sucker for love. Claims there’s no greater power in the universe than love.

So how can someone who believes in God and love kill people? He claims it was all God-ordained. 

In my opinion, I think it had everything to do with his wife.

BETH.

Do you have grandparents?

I did. They died when I was in my teens, but I remember them. 

My grandfather was one grumpy son of a bitch. He liked his toast a particular color, his tea a specific strength, and don’t you dare interrupt him when his car shows were on the television.

My grandmother was the opposite. She was warm honey bread and fresh pasta, extra snuggles before bed, and made the best chocolate chip cookies I’ve ever tasted. 

I bet if my grandmother had ever stepped foot in this place, she’d have it looking like a fucking Motel Six by weeks end. She’d also be sorely disappointed in me for letting things get as bad as they are. 

There’d be curtains on every window, fresh clean sheets on every bed, small vase of flowers decorating the space and rather than the permanent lingering aroma of shit, the place would smell like fresh baked cookies.

Speaking of grandparents, let me introduce you to someone who, if you loved your grandparents, you would hate this person. 

Beth comes across as sweet and endearing, but she’s got a mean, conniving side to her, and there’s no way in hell I’d let her spend five minutes with my grandmother.