Journal entry #1
10/11/14
To be or not to be, that is the question. Me? I'll always be.
Like that? I'm a right poet, aren't I? Take notes on that, dear reader. And by reader, I mean me in the future, of course. No one else's eyes are allowed on my watch. This is my dumb journal, for my dumb thoughts, to be read by me and me alone. Thank you very much!
Anyway, hi. My name's Camille Lee Walker. Middle name stolen from my late father, I suppose. Well--late since last year. Yeah. My dad's dead. I hope I don't sound insensitive for wording it so casually, but I'm a big believer in moving forward and not dwelling on the past. Yes, of course I miss him lots, but me digging myself into the ground every day because of it won't bring him back. I consider myself a realist. View it how you wish.
I'm fifteen years old, and a freshman in high school. But don't let that fool you; I'm more mature than most of these juniors and seniors trodding around. Don't believe me? Just listen around at some of their tables during lunch, and I promise you'll sway my way.
I consider myself a laid-back, easy-going person. Not much bothers me, and like I said before, I pretty much go with the flow. I look forward to little things, and I don't like to dwell on the negatives. Oh--speaking of looking forward to things, there's actually a dance coming up at the neighboring school to mine, West Aspen, that my school's invited to. Apparently it's an annual tradition, this crossover dance with our school (Mount Massive High) and West Aspen, so I'm a bit psyched. Supposedly it's a pretty big deal, and hundreds of kids from both schools go every year.
Yeah, another thing--our school actually shares the same name as that loony house up the mountain, Mount Massive Asylum. They're both right near the Rockies, so I guess the name-givers just had similar ideas. However, I probably shouldn't be so rude when talking about it, as I was actually really close with someone who was a patient there not too long ago. Only a year ago, as a matter of fact.
That someone, of course, was my father. His name was Chris Lee Walker, and before you get the wrong idea, he wasn't always a hell-crazy psychopath. A hell-crazy psychopath as Murkoff classifies it, anyway. Before he was committed in 2011, he was actually one of the most respectable types of men in America: a soldier. He served in the army as a lieutenant a few years after I was born, and after that he went to Afghanistan for a couple more years before leaving the service in 2009. Honestly, I was elated to have such an awesome, badass dad to call mine, even though I hardly got to see him while he was away. He was just...hella awesome.
Then, in 2010, after he had spent some time in counseling for PTSD from the wars, he came back home, and later he was hired as head security officer of Mount Massive Asylum. He had told us he wanted to get back in the work force, and hell, head security guard at a tough-as-bones place like that is still pretty badass, if you ask me. I was happy for him, and besides, we live less than ten minutes away from the place; we were still able to see him every night after he came home from work. Everything, overall, was pretty good that year. For all of us.
Then 2011 hit. It was right at the start, too; in January, and I was only eleven. Dad hadn't come home for a few nights, but we didn't think much of it. We figured, he's a guard and all; they ask a lot of those guys and their time. But then, a day or so later, my mom received a letter in the mail from the Murkoff Corporation stating that '32-year-old Christopher L. Walker had unfortunately just been committed as one of the asylum's own patients'. I think both me and her read that letter five times each before we even began to process what it really meant, and she had to explain the word 'committed' to my little self, but I got it soon enough. To me it meant, 'Oh no, my dad is one of those crazy psycho guys now.'
Of course, my mom being my mom, didn't believe it for a second. She never liked Murkoff and the shady rumors spread about them, so she jumped to the conclusion that they were merely making this up as a way to keep him there indefinitely for their own nefarious purposes. I honestly didn't know what to think, but I ended up siding with her; I didn't want to believe that my father, a proud army veteran, had suddenly become a psychopath out of nowhere. So the next day, even though I had school, she drove the two of us right to the asylum's iron front doors first thing in the morning, demanding that we be let in. And we actually were.
The receptionist asked us why we were here, and my mom told her who she was, who I was, and that we demanded to see Chris Walker right now, no exceptions. A little extreme if you ask me, but that's just how she is. But the lady at the desk hadn't even looked intimidated by her. In fact, she actually looked a little unsettled at the name in question.
With a somewhat fearful look in her eyes, she told us that it probably wasn't in our best interest to see him right now. My mom obviously asked why, to which the lady quietly responded, "He's in quarantine with the most dangerous of inmates right now, ma'am. Few nights ago he snapped and murdered an employee, another patient, and decapitated the both of 'em. Did some horrible damage to himself, as well. For your safety and your daughter's, I strongly advise against paying him a visit until things calm down a bit."
Those words, verbatim as they are written in this journal, have not once left my head. Even back then, I knew exactly what each one meant. My mom and I were both speechless and had absolutely no words. However, a part of her still believed they were bullshitting her. So she demanded once more that we be allowed to see him, and the receptionist reluctantly agreed to take us there. By that point I wasn't sure whether to be a skeptic or a believer. However, when we got there and finally saw him in person, I had my answer.
No longer was I a skeptic.
Sitting on a wooden bench in an iron cell was a man that looked absolutely nothing like my father. My father had a full head of light brown hair; this man had none at all. My father had a perfectly normal-looking face; this man's looked like a lion had clawed it to shreds. He was wearing blood-stained clothes and had chains around his ankles. The shirt he wore had a label that read 'Walker'. This was my father.
My mom asked him what happened, but he gave no answer. She asked him why he would do this, but he gave no answer. She asked him why this all came on so suddenly, but he gave no answer. She asked him what the hell happened to his hair and his face, but he gave no answer. In fact, he didn't say a word at all until I spoke to him. All I said was "Dad," and his eyes, cloudy and grey after once being green, instantly fixed on me.
"Don't let it get you, Camille," he had muttered. His voice, which was once smooth, was now so raspy and hoarse it was almost inaudible. "I tried to contain it, but it's still here. You can't let it get you. Do you hear me? Not you, Camille. Anyone but you."
I had no idea what to make of this, and neither did my mom. I remember tears welling up in my eyes as I grasped at the bars keeping him locked in his cell. I cried out to him, telling him to come out, to come home. I wanted him to come back and look like himself again. I was scared. I had no idea what was going on.
That's when a guard pulled us aside forcefully and said to us, "I'm sorry, Mrs. Walker. But I cannot permit you or your daughter to visit Chris anymore. You weren't supposed to be here. It isn't safe."
And after that, we were forced to leave the asylum "for our own safety". Reluctantly we obeyed, and we drove home while I was terrified and in tears. I knew something really bad had happened to Dad, and I knew nothing would ever be the same after that day. And I was right.
I hardly ever saw him for those next two years leading up to his death. Mom frequently called to see if his condition was getting better, but every time she tried they told her his mental state was only regressing more and more. That he was still abrasive and violent, unhinged, and verbally nonsensical--their terms, not mine. In summary, we were never permitted to see him in person again. Through a video screen was the best we got until the day he died. September 18th, 2013. He was only 34. But with the rough path he had been going down, I wasn't entirely surprised.
Ah--that story ran long, didn't it? I guess I just have a really good memory, or a lot of bottled up thoughts I've been storing for a while. But I promise I'm done now; this entry's definitely had its fill. The next one, I promise, will not be as detailed and depressing. No dead dad talk on the next few pages; I swear to it.
So for now, goodbye, me. Cheers to whenever you decide to check up on this ol' novel again.
Sincerely, the daughter of a proud army veteran turned asylum inmate,
Camille Lee Walker.