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.

KAREN.

The floor is a madhouse, and because of that, I was called to come in early for my shift.

It’s not often things are a shitshow on the death ward, but when they are, it’s a duck-and-cover type situation if you want to make it through the night.

Turns out, a fight downstairs broke out, and now my floor is being used as overflow. 

We’ve got everything from broken bones to pierced lungs and worse. One patient had his intestines ripped out with a pair of forks. Talk about ouch.

The guards standing outside the rooms look just as bad. Bruised, bloodied…it was like all hell broke loose while I was watching Supernatural reruns at home. 

“What the fuck, man?” Ike opens the employee-only door and surveys the chaos in the hallway. “It’s not a full moon or anything, right?”

He walks by a secured patient lying on a cot in the hallway. “What the fuck is going on?”

“Keep repeating that, but it won’t help.” I dump out the thick sludge left over in the coffee pot. Ain’t no way I’m drinking that shit. I unlock a drawer in my office and pull out my secret stash of coffee. I have to keep it in the locked drawer, or the day shift will drink it all. Listen, if they want to drink the shit that comes in our weekly supply run, fine by me, but I’ve done my time drinking that nasty crap, and it’s not worth it anymore.

“You should get the Warden to start ordering that stuff in,” Ike says, nodding toward my can of grounds.

“Why? So then everyone can drink it? They’re not that special. Besides, I like having something of my own, you know? Management can budget cut all they want, but they’ll never come for my coffee.” 

I realize I’m being nice and giving the day shift a treat with my java, but hey, every once in a while, I can play the good guy.

“Seriously, what the fuck happened? How long has this lockdown been going?” 

I finish making the coffee and turn, leaning against the counter, arms crossed. “A few hours now. We’ve got a full floor, every bed taken.” 

“Figured that, with the dude out in the hall. So, it’s all hands on deck for the whole shift?” 

I snort. “Fuck that. Day shift leaves as normal. I called a few reserves to come in. Knock them all out, and we’ll be fine.”

There’s a mixture of relief and disbelief on Ike’s face. If I had to guess, the relief was because the day shift wasn’t staying, but the disbelief was about my comment that we’ll be fine on our own.

Come on, where’s the faith?

“Seriously, man, we’ve handled worse. They won’t all be staying either.” Of this, I’m one hundred percent certain. I don’t care what those fuckers on the lower floors think, I don’t appreciate being their discard plan. Just because they got themselves into this mess doesn’t mean I need to be involved.

Ike plops his ass down in a chair and leans back. “Damn straight, we’ve handled worse. I just don’t like it. I requested the night shift for a reason, and it had everything to do with not having to deal with this shit, you know?” 

“Suck it up, buttercup. I’ve never known someone to complain so much as you.” 

He gives me the finger. I give it back, and then we drink our coffee. We should be out on the floor, but we’ll be dealing with this shit all night, so why rush it.

“Hoy, hoy, hoy! It’s coming, fellas…it’s a comin’…” A loud, jeckel-type yell, fills the air.

Shit. That ain’t good. It’s old man Ellis, I can tell from the voice.

Ike and I both rush forward, then stop.

Old man Ellis is on a bed against the wall. His arms are secured to the rails. He’s wearing a hospital gown that barely covers him, and his pasty ass is free and clear of any covers, and it’s pointed toward the wall. 

“Hoy, hoy, hoy, here it….ugh.” The man grunts and spews out shit from his ass. 

I’m not making this shit up. An explosion of crap is everywhere – the wall, half the bed, his ass…and it smells like a sink pit in the middle of a garbage dump.

I slowly back away until I’m out of eyesight. 

Ike isn’t fast enough.

He gets called into action by the day nurse who yells at him to take care of it.

While I continue to drink my coffee and look over files of those on the floor, I hear Ike grumbling as he deals with the mess old man Ellis made. He’s not getting his hands dirty, he’s getting the minions to do that, but he has to stand there, breathe in the stench, while I’m sitting back here at my desk, trying not so hard to smother my snickers.

Sometimes it’s good to be high on the ladder.

CLINTON.

Color. It’s a simple concept that we take for granted. 

Apparently, there are over one million shades of colors, and we’re the assholes who take that for granted – or so I’ve been told.

We see the crystal blue lake and think nothing of how vibrant the colors are, we just know that it’s a nice blue. The grass we walk on, we can tell if it’s dry or not just by the color we see. 

When women ask if a color looks good on them, they really want to know if the shades flatters their skin tone (again, so I’ve been told). 

More men than women are color blind. I know, I know, it’s a deficiency that affects all, but it’s like one in twelve men are color blind, whereas one in two hundred women are. 

It’s usually genetic but can be a medical thing, but for this patient, he was born that way.

In fact, he’s one of the rare cases who can’t see color at all. 

He’s got a condition called achromatopsia, and all he sees are shades of grey. 

Personally, I couldn’t imagine only seeing grey. Sure, I like black, the majority of my closet consists of black t-shirts, hoodies, and sweaters, but I like to toss in the occasional red in the mix, you know?

I’m not a Neanderthal where I don’t appreciate color, but until I met Clint, I never really thought about it much.

Yes, I’m that asshole who takes it for granted. 

Don’t you?

Here’s the thing about Clint. Occasionally he can see one specific color. 

I say occasionally because it’s situationally dependent.

As you read his confession, you’ll understand what I mean.

Another thing about Clint: he’s actually a good guy. If I’d met him down at the bar, I’d have no problem chatting with him. In fact, I’d have no problem spending a Sunday down at the local fishpond with him. 

If you were to meet him, you’d take one look at the tat sleeves on his arms and instinctively step back, but then you’d look him in the eyes and realize he’s not too bad. Until you stare too long in his eyes and realize he’s on the edge of wanting to plunge a knife into you just to see you bleed.

Like I said – I’d have no problem chatting with him or fishing together down at the pond – but you can be damn sure I always keep him in my line of sight.