Sanford wrote fluidly, through the errors and through the next word to come. He had to admit, in such a short span of time it was the best of his writing, and with that, it was the best writing he would ever do.
There was only one more sentence to write—his closing statement—to wrap up the twisted tale of his life, which had been condensed to seven pages. He couldn't help but think: What would my father say? A ghastly thought, but a fitting one nonetheless.
Sanford looked around the room from where he sat. He saw ceramic figurines on the shelves—a long-forgotten hobby. They were of dolphins, zebras and monkeys, unicorns, centaurs, and other mythological creatures. He pictured Lucy and Sadie going to yard sales and flea markets, finding the perfect not-so-perfect figure. There were paintings on the walls. Hotel art. Above a church painting was a cross, slightly askew on the wall. Sanford never knew Lucy to be the religious type. He thought of Jesus momentarily. How heavy it must've been, lugging that around on his back, heckled and taunted by an angry mob.
His attention fell back to Lucy, sprawled out and dead on the floor like a taxidermy rug. Sanford's fingerprints pointing out his guilt.
How heavy it must have been...
He started to write again.
When he finished his last goodbye on paper he put the pen down, got up from the couch, and grabbed his gun from the floor in the foyer. The steel was extra cold from the melting ice that gathered over it.
I must've dropped it dragging Lucy inside.
The living room floor was hard on his knees; he fell to them next to the lifeless Lucy. It was time to join her, and the rest of them. He hoped they'd have him. Maybe, if there was an afterlife, he'd see his mother and his little brother again, grown up but wearing the same Christmas pajamas he had worn all those years ago.
Who was he kidding? There was nothing good coming. If there was a place for him to go he figured the only person he'd see was his father, burning alongside him.
There was a picture of Sadie on the bookshelf, alongside Lucy's copy of Jane Eyre and a scented candle, which read Christmas Morning on it. He let his eyes linger on the photo, Sadie from first grade, a smile, all teeth. Sanford smiled despite himself, then exhaled deeply and evenly. He closed his eyes.
The barrel of the gun entered smoothly, as if his mouth were designed for it, fitting like a holster.
It wasn't so bad—having death in your mouth, in some ways it was comforting. The cold, black steel with its hollowed barrel was ready, willing, and able to end his nightmare with no more than a simple squeeze.
Thank Christ.
Air wheezed into his lungs as the last gasp he'd ever take.
"I mub yuh, Adie," he said, his words mumbled by the steel.
No more killing, no more struggle.
"Sanford, don't!" an unfamiliar voice shouted from in front of him. The jolt of surprise almost caused him to pull the trigger on instinct. He opened his eyes. Ahead of him was a man he'd seen before, but only in papers and on the nightly news. He was a plump man, with heavy bags under his eyes.
"Don't do it, son."
It was too late not to do it. He knew what he was. He shut his eyes again.
"Listen to me, what's happening here is not what you think," Frank said, his eyes were fixed on Lucy, then came back to Sanford, who thought he looked as tired as he was.
"Don't do this. There's things going on that you don't understand. And I believe you're innocent."
"Innocent?" Sanford shouted, pulling the gun out of his mouth. "Look what I've done!"
"I don't know what happened here. But I can tell you one thing, I can tell you about my instincts. They've gotten me through all kinds of tough times on the job, and when I've ignored them is when I paid the greatest price of all. My instincts are telling me now that you're being manipulated, son. Here, let me show you."
Frank reached into his trench coat slowly, like any sudden movements may cause the troubled man to shoot. Sanford tightened his grip on the gun, settling it against his head.
"Easy, Sanford, easy," Frank calmly said as he pulled the file out from his jacket. He held it out in front of him like some sort of peace offering. Sanford was deeply confused. The file looked thick.
Frank took a step forward with it.
"Stay there!" Sanford shouted.
"Okay, okay... I'll stay here, but it's imperative you see what's in here, because what's in here is about you, Sanford. It's about your time at Fairweather. Do you remember Fairweather?"
"Fairweather?"
The name left an aftertaste of dirty water in his mouth.
"Yes, Sanford, the Fairweather Mental Institution, in Portland, Maine."
Frank squatted down on his knees as slowly as his weight would allow. The file was opened to a certain page, two scrawny boys looked up, pale and malnourished. He slid the file over.
Once Sanford saw the photo, his grip on the gun loosened.
* * *
The Crows were the famous case of Fairweather. The main attraction: the sons of the Maine Maimer A doctor could make a name for himself in treating them, in curing them.
At first, they were kept together, mainly because Eric wouldn't move an inch unless his older brother did. Sanford was his security blanket. In the beginning that's how they saw it, but after a few months of one step forward with three steps back, they saw Sanford as a blockade to Eric's progression.
The day they were separated coincided with their first trial of electric shock therapy. Sanford could still feel it now as he looked at the picture of Eric and himself. He rubbed the side of his temple.
They were in their room, in their separate beds, the same way they would have done months earlier, in their home, reading each other's comics. This room wasn't home; it was far from it. There were no posters on the walls. It was hollow. Empty. There was nothing but white.
Sanford was talking to Eric; he was talking much more now, but Eric was yet to talk back.
"If you were the Incredible Hulk, do you think you could control it? You know, turning green, and becoming a monster? In the comic, Bruce Banner is always trying not to turn, but when he turns he saves the day. I think it would be better if he wanted to turn. Maybe when he turns into the monster, that's who he really is, you know, like on the inside? Kinda like Dad." He was rambling, and the look in Eric's eyes remained dormant and medicated.
The lock on the door turned with a loud clicking sound they'd grown to fear. The door pushed open, revealing new monsters draped in white, with needles in their hands instead of claws.
Dr. Clyde Kelley emerged from the lesser orderlies—the Dracula of the low-end vampires. He wore miniature spectacles that perfectly circled his eyes, making them not look like eyes at all. He was a short man. But his authority made him towering.
"Today's a special day, boys," he said wolfishly. "Today you go your separate ways."
Eric's look of vacancy became alive with worry, as if he finally realized where he was.
"We need to try something new. The problem with something new is that you can't have anything old holding you back. You see, that's what you are to each other; you're the past. And we're trying to look forward, so there can be no rearview mirror in sight."
Sanford remembered the way Eric looked at him then. He mouthed one word, no. Sanford could hear it, echoing loud through his skull and bouncing off his cranium, back and forth.
The bright fluorescent lights in the room buzzed with a hum that seemed to get louder and louder.
"We have different rooms for you on separate sides of the hospital, one you'll get very familiar with, and pretty soon the two of you will barely remember each other. Because today," Dr. Kelley pointed up to the light as it flickered again, "you meet Doctor Shock."
Kelley opened his palms towards the boys, the orderlies rushed in on them like vultures. Sanford fought back with what he could, which wasn't much. His body had turned frail from the trauma and an almost terminal lack of appetite. He swung wildly at the first orderly, who swatted his limp fist away. He felt a sharp prick in his ass; a wave of sedation settled over him in seconds.
Eric didn't fight. He couldn't. Terror lived in his eyes and embodied his whole being.
Sanford felt paralyzed but aware as he lay in bed. His listless eyes watched as they gathered Eric—his little brother, the last of his family—and carried him towards the door.
Their eyes connected for the last time. Sanford tried to scream, to plea, to bargain, to say anything to keep them together, but the chemical that coursed its way through his body wouldn't allow it.
Then came the only words Eric had spoken since that Christmas morning. He shouted gravelly but clearly to his older brother, his protector, his last of kin: "Don't let them! Stay with me! Stay with me! Stay with me!"
The needle went into Eric's flesh, his words trailed off. Sanford watched as Eric was hauled away, dragged into the abyss of white. He had a feeling about it then, a premonition: it would be the last time he'd see his little brother again.
* * *
"Turn the page, Sanford," Frank said as he moved his hand to the butt of his gun. Sanford was too immersed to notice. Even if he had, the desire to care would be minimal at best. He did as he was told and turned the page.
Dr. Clyde Kelley's signature marked the bottom, in large swooping letters.
Something inside of Sanford didn't want him to read it, it didn't want him to peer through the periscope above the murky waters of his mind.
But he had to.
Sanford Crow, the older of the two, has demonstrated a positive response to therapy.
Sanford read on as Dr. Kelley described how electric shock therapy is what unlocked his emotions. How afterwards he grieved, crying randomly throughout the day, and cried himself to sleep at night. Soon enough, Sanford had become the prototypical patient: taking his pills when given, talking through therapy, and building his social skills with the other children.
It hadn't taken long for him to get through the system. And when he finished with one he was on to the next. Until foster-care was the final system he'd entered.
He went on and found his brother's name.
Eric Crow has demonstrated the opposite attributes of his brother. Eric has regressed. He remains mute, and we fear he's suffering from psychosis.
Sanford's breath quickened as he read about Eric. How the last words he'd spoken were shouted at him as they got separated.
"Stay with me! Stay with me! Stay with me!" Sanford could still hear Eric's voice in his head, bouncing through an echo chamber.
He read how Eric had grown violent, how he'd lunge at nurses and doctors, all while remaining perfectly quiet.
One event, in particular, was unsettling.
Eric had been put in the general population, with the hope that being around other children his age would help progress his treatment. The children were at free play. Some were playing hide-and-seek, some were banging on the instruments, while the rest sat quietly and colored at the table in the center of the room.
They'd made a mistake by putting Eric in there with his restraints off. He listlessly stared at the other children around him, until he focused on one child drawing with a colored pencil. Something in him snapped and Eric sprinted at him. He'd grabbed the red pencil out of the boy's hand and held it up in a stabbing motion. Before he brought it down, the orderlies swarmed and tackled him. The needle went into his backside. Eric went to sleep.
"Jesus," Sanford whispered to himself.
It was in the last paragraph that Sanford seemed to grasp what Frank was getting at. He'd even circled it for Sanford to see. Kelley had let go of the professional doctor lingo; the fear in him bled through.
As his doctor, it is my concern that Eric may never be released. Tragedy was the trigger, but I believe insanity may just run in his family. I've never been afraid of a patient before, but this boy is different. Eric Crow is hopeless.
Sanford brought his head up from the file.
"I... I don't understand," he said, continuously thumbing through the massive file. "But he's... dead..."
Frank exhaled heavily.
"There was a fire in an old, abandoned warehouse. Eight bodies were found: five men, two women, and one child. One of the men was identified as your brother through his dental records. But that was the only thing identifiable. The burns were too severe, and the iris were noted to be hazel."
"But Eric had blue eyes," Sanford spoke in a whisper.
Frank nodded.
"It didn't settle right with me. I made some calls and spoke to one of the nurses, Evelyn Amato. Do you remember her?"
Her name brought it on immediately. She was the kind one, also with placid blue eyes, a kind face amongst a mass of menacing men.
"Fairweather Hospital was closed down just over fifteen years ago," Frank explained. "Allegations of experimental procedures, cruelty. You were discharged long before then, but Eric never was. They kept him there, locked up. After all of their tests, experiments, medicine and therapy failed on him, they essentially gave up, and left him in a padded cell alone; his only human contact was this Dr. Kelley. But what's not in that file in front of you is the fact that Eric escaped."
Sanford was silent and still, his eyes fixed on the detective.
Frank went on, "The hospital covered it up, you see? With all the allegations against them, Eric's escape would bury the place. This Dr. Kelley was found dead in his home soon after, blunt force trauma to the head, and no one ever caught who did it. Evelyn told me she knew it was Eric, because it had to be. But she didn't say anything; a feeling isn't evidence, and the hospital had its own interest in keeping her quiet. But I'm not sure we have that much more time here, Sanford."
Sanford could only remain still, struggling to comprehend. None of it made sense to him.
"But..." Sanford began to speak, laboring to find the words, "then, where is he?"
The floorboard in the hallway creaked. Frank had heard it first and drew his weapon.
A shot rang out, shattering the silence of Christmas morning.
Frank's gun hit the floor. Sanford watched him as he grabbed his stomach with both hands. He crashed onto his knees with a deep grunt, then fell to the ground in a curled up ball. Frank was always told a gut shot was the worst. Goddamn, they were right.
Sanford was frozen, lost in himself.
Behind him, footsteps became louder. A figure appeared amid the glow of Christmas lights, tall, with a face carved from stone. It's cheeks were sunken into its face, along with its eyes. His thin chest protruded jaggedly, skeletal.
"Hello, older brother. How's it going?" Eric said with a severe lisp and smiled, revealing a mouth half full of teeth. Strings of saliva hung like spiderwebs when he spoke. With what seemed like inhuman speed Eric grabbed Sanford's gun and tucked it into the back of his waist.
"You didn't think I would actually let you shoot yourself, did you? We have a lot of catching up to do!"
Eric made his way to a dying Frank.
"Well done, detective," he said, raising the gun to Frank's head, and almost absentmindedly pulling the trigger.
"Well done, indeed."