Sorrel's Long Journey to Love Ch. 11

Driving down the highway as fast as he dared Fletcher knew the key to rescuing Sorrel certainly rested with Florence, but Florence was in danger too. To save one he had to save the other. He could do it, he knew he could. He had to do it.

Pulling into the lot in front of Florence's apartment complex, he got out of the car and raced to Florence's apartment. He climbed the three flights of concrete steps that took him to her front door, and knocked.

Florence lived in what most would have called garden apartments. There was an unheated outer hallway reached by ascending several flights of concrete steps, each with a metal edged run. He waited several seconds and knocked again. He tried the door, and to his surprise and as yet unrealized relief that it wasn't locked.

He opened the door and walked in, "Florence," He called, "Are you here?" There was no answer. He scouted around. It was a small, tidy little apartment. He'd been there before, but had never gone in. he walked around, found the kitchenette, the small bathroom, and what he thought was a nice walk in closet. No Florence. He walked down the short hallway to the end bedroom. This was a two bedroom apartment.

He roamed about the apartment a few moments. He noticed all over there were little porcelain pieces; tea cup and china sets. He saw all kinds of figurines, mostly glass ballerinas. There was a picture on the wall. It was a younger woman, a much younger woman dressed in a pretty dress. 'This was stupid,' he thought, but he gave the picture a closer look. It looked a lot like Florence, or how Florence might have looked years ago.

The more he looked around; the more junk, woman junk, he saw. He had no idea Florence was such a collector; a collector of such little things, tiny delicate little things, girlish, feminine things. Most of it looked cheap and old; things someone might have bought when they lacked the money to afford a more expensive version.

He realized there was a side to Florence he'd never seen, never even knew existed. Yeah, he guessed she had her dreams once too. It made him a little sad. He rechecked the picture. She was never very pretty, but there was a kind of charm there, an innocence, an inner beauty.

He wondered of she ever got lonely, wished maybe she'd done things differently, hadn't been so slavishly devoted to his indifferent and ungrateful brother.

Fletcher decided, after they got out of this, Florence would become a bigger part of his family. She'd certainly put in the time making them all rich, what would it hurt?

As he entered the far bedroom, the larger one, he saw her. She looked like she was asleep, "Florence?" There was no response.

He walked over and shook her gently, "Florence." Still no response; something was wrong. He raised his voice, "Florence, wake up!" Still no answer. That's when he smelled the cleaning fluid. He looked at her mouth. Something was wrong. Scouting around with his eyes he espied the funnel, the tube, and the bottle of cleanser.

"Holy shit," he shouted. He ran to the phone and dialed 911. He thought they're going to get tired of me, if this keeps up. He got a dispatcher, "Hello. I think I have an attempted suicide or maybe an attempted murder here." He gave them the address and went back to Florence.

What to do. What should he do? He knew instinctively this was no attempted suicide. Someone had set this up, and he knew who. What should he do? He checked her pulse, listened for a heartbeat. She sure wasn't dead. Sick maybe, but not dead, at least not yet.

He sat her up. She was still out of it. He knew he had to get her to throw up. Get the shit out of her stomach. He stuck his finger down her throat. He punched her in the stomach. He shook her at the shoulders. This wasn't working. He knew he'd get her in the shower. Maybe cold water would revive her. He half dragged, half carried her to the bathroom, and turned on the shower. He jumped in with her on his arm. He turned the tap on full blast, as cold it could get.

He heard the siren, and seconds later he heard the paramedics in the hall, "In here." He shouted, "We're in here."

They rushed inside and immediately saw what was going on.

One asked, "Suicide?"

Fletcher answered, "No I think somebody wanted to kill her but make it look like a suicide."

The other paramedic commented, "They may have."

They pushed him out of the bathroom, loaded her on a gurney, and went to work. He was amazed at their efficiency. He'd never thought about the work they did. He was grateful that there were people willing to do this kind of thing. He'd remember the next time a legislative bill was on the ballot about improving their working conditions he'd support it.

Fletcher asked, "Will she be all right?"

One had called the police. The other answered, "Will you get out of here?"

The first added, "But don't leave."

They got her in the ambulance and sped off toward the hospital. Meanwhile the police had arrived and he gave them all the information he could. He remarked about his earlier call to 911, and his earlier concern. Then he followed the ambulance to the hospital. On the way he called his house to talk to Mary.

Mary:

Byron had found Mary on the floor. It wasn't as bad as it might have been. She'd suffered something, maybe a pin stroke he thought, maybe a mild heart attack. Shit, he wasn't a doctor. He didn't know.

When Fletcher called, he told him he wasn't a doctor. She might have only hyper-ventilated. One thing was certain, she needed rest, and she needed a quiet stress free environment.

Fletcher listened to Byron and he felt trapped; quiet and stress free environment? Shit, that was certainly the one thing she wouldn't find where she lived now, not with them. But damn it, he needed her! Sorrel needed her! The damn kids needed her! He swore into the phone at Byron that once they got everything cleared up he'd send the both of them, Byron and Mary, on a long relaxed vacation

Byron thanked him for the offer, but not to worry. He told Fletcher he'd pitch in with the kids for a while, but they'd have to find somebody pretty soon.

Fletcher's world was imploding. No Sorrel, Florence near death, and Mary on her way to the hospital. He pleaded with Byron to hang on for the night, while he, Fletcher, stood watch over Florence. Florence had become the key. If she regained consciousness, if she recovered, he'd have something to go on. If she didn't, then, well, he'd cross that bridge when he came to it. No he couldn't think about that. Florence had to recover!

Sorrel:

The two agents and Sorrel in the black mini-van reached their destination. It was late; the sun had already gone down. For Sorrel that was a blessing. Had she seen the outside of the facility that was destined to be her home for the next several days, perhaps weeks, she would have most assuredly faltered.

The 'so called' hospital, was as disheartening a facility as one could ever imagine; virtually a domestic Guantanamo, an Alcatraz on land. It was a somewhat older building, 1970's vintage, made of concrete with plexi-glass windows that, thanks to acid rain, had long since glazed over. It sat atop of high hill, and looked more like a sarcophagus than a hospital. It had the look of a cold dead place, more prison than hospital.

Even more disquieting, it overlooked a massive old cemetery; a cemetery with large granite stone monuments, like something out of a Vincent Price movie or a Steven King novel. Yes the facility had windows, or at least things that passed for windows, but they were drab, plastic, sightless things, long and narrow, clearly sitting too high for people inside to see out of. They looked like eyeless apertures never intended to be used for vision; only to torment and torture those inside.

To call the place barren would have been a disservice to the meaning of the word; a huge concrete box, sightless windows, and holding court over a macabre graveyard. It was encircled by what must have been miles of concertina and other types of barbed wire knit through and over a cold bloodless looking page link fifteen foot high fence.

Inside the wired enclosure was layer upon layer of thick slabs of concrete stretching all the way back to the building's walls. There was no vegetation, no grass, no trees, no flowers, only cold lifeless cement.

Prior to reaching the long drive that led to the granite archway that served as an entrance the man in the back seat had blindfolded Sorrel. It was a blessing. The one thing she might have been able to discern would have been the broad, partly rusted, metallic sign that swung heavily, ominously, over the locked gated entrance. The sign read, 'Hadamar, Hospital for the Criminally Insane.' Even the name was intended to offend the sensibilities, terrify the well schooled, and weaken the staunchest heart, for Hadamar had been the very name used by the Nazi's for a mental facility in Germany; a place that at one time regularly euthanized its most needy patients.

A mental visualization that might have been best likened to Sorrel's new home would have been something akin to that written about by the Renaissance Italian author Dante Alighieri; "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here." Yes, for Sorrel, crossing the threshold into this facility might mean the loss of all hope.

The mini-van pulled to a side entrance. The agents got out. The woman went to the entrance and rang a bell. Within seconds, two other women, both clad in white medical attire, old fashioned nurses uniforms replete with broad white polyester skirts boasting large side pockets, open V-necked tops, and the trademark triangular cap. One pushed a wheelchair; the other carried a bag filled with what was to become Sorrel's hospital apparel.

The man who'd ridden in the back of the van with Sorrel reached in and pulled her from the vehicle. As she exited he twisted her arm so as to place her in an awkward and uncomfortable position; an incomplete half nelson that rendered her incapable of any meaningful resistance. Just as swiftly he took her other arm, and placed it in the same discomfiting position. His intent wasn't to hurt her, but rather to render her incapable of unmasking her face, as she still wore the black cloth blindfold. The discomfiture also served to remind her of the complete helplessness of her circumstances.

He slowly pushed her toward the waiting nurses.

Sorrel made another plea for understanding, "You're wrong about me. You've made a terrible mistake. I'm not supposed to be here. Please call Mr. Hanson's number again."

No one paid her the slightest attention. The female who'd driven the van spoke to the two 'would be' nurses, "You knew we were coming?"

The nurses only nodded. Though they were sure the woman about to come into their care certainly knew they were there, but it was understood all unnecessary conversation in front of Sorrel, the subject, was to be minimal. Hence, they deliberately remained silent. The less their 'patient' heard the greater her insecurity, and the greater her insecurity the more compliant she would become, the more compliant, the more susceptible she'd be to their darker plans.

Sorrel didn't know it yet, but all communication with any staff, and certainly with the outside world, was to remain, from that moment onward, nonexistent. Hers, for as long as she remained at Hadamar, was to be a world of absolute silence. It was intended that she would sleep walk through time and space. She was to be isolated, cut off, exiled from all but the most minimal stimuli, and what little interaction or stimulation she would get was intended only to humiliate, degrade, and further undermine her sense of self and her confidence. Sorrel was about to enter a long night of sensory and emotional deprivation.

The nurses and the doctors placed in charge of Sorrel weren't necessarily to blame for the evil they perpetrated on their charges. Though they were all kindred spirits in their shared, well concealed, sadism; their job, their objective, was to destroy not save people. Paid by private foundations that received their money, in turn, through other dark shadowy agencies secretly set up by their own government; these were professionals, if that was a word that could be applied to these types of medical people, whose personal and professional ambitions had been so distorted that what had been considered good was evil and what was evil had become good.

These were twisted men and women; each twisted by his or her own personal dark and nightmarish fantasies. Their government had found them, and had given them a home, a place where they could unleash their personal demons, nurture their perversions, be handsomely rewarded, and do it all in the name of a country whose fundamental mantra was anathema to their horrific deeds they perpetrated.

The man propelled her inside the door. Still blindfolded the two nurses unceremoniously stripped her of her clothing. All her street clothes, her last tangible contact with her past life, was removed and forever discarded. From that moment forward she was to be given a completely different identity. The woman Sorrel, lover of Fletcher, Mary's friend, mother of two, now five, would simply cease to exist.

The women, using a bottled solvent and cloth towels, wiped her down. They slipped her into a plain white cotton hospital gown, tied it in the back using the three string ties available, and sat her in the wheel chair.

While one held each of her arms, and then each leg in place, the other affixed her in the chair using black slightly elasticized Velcro straps; then a tight Velcro belt was wrapped around her waist. Once she was held in place they rolled her through the hospital corridors to a room that had been prepared for her.

The hospital was large, but not so large as to cause a sense of confusion or disequilibrium; at least not to any sighted normal person. Sorrel, however, fit neither of those categories. She was to remain sightless and treated in the most abnormal ways. Therefore, to help facilitate a sense of muddled perplexity she was taken on a more round about route. Her room was on the fifth floor. The nurses stopped at each floor and wheeled her up and down the halls on each separate tier.

By the time Sorrel reached her destination she had no idea how far she'd gone, what floor she might be on, or how many halls she'd traversed. It was all part of the plan, to cause as much disorientation, as much uncertainty as possible.

Still blindfolded, and still trapped in her wheelchair they reached her room. One nurse unlocked the door while the other waited at the wheelchair. The door was opened, and they wheeled her in.

The room was small, barren, and windowless. The walls were cinder block, all painted gray. It wasn't a cold room, but it gave the appearance of a cold unfriendly place. As they removed her blindfold Sorrel, for the first time, saw the place she would have to call home for the foreseeable future. It was a disheartening first glimpse.

The room's dimensions measured ten by eight feet. Stretching two thirds of the length, on the right side was the bed, such as it was. Term bed was a misnomer; it was more cot than bed; six feet long and just twenty-four inches wide. It hung suspended from the ceiling, perhaps a foot above the floor. Suspended above the bed itself was a second horizontal tier of equal width and length. Lying across the top of this upper tier was metal grate, a grate of narrow metal bars, each roughly three inches apart. This grate was attached to the top tier by six metal hinges.

The nurses undid her blindfold, and removed her hospital gown. The gown was considered an unsafe item, since its string ties might be used by the wearer to try to commit suicide. The nurses discarded the gown and produced the apparel Sorrel would be expected to wear from then on.

The outfit they produced was a one piece white cotton romper. While one nurse held Sorrel's arms the other helped her step in it. The item fit snugly up around her waist, over her breasts, and tightly around her neck. While one nurse held her in place the second nurse enclosed her in it by zipping it up the back. As the zipper reached the romper's top, at the back of the neck, Sorrel heard a loud snap. The hasp of the zipper locked tightly around her neck in the back.

The romper fit tightly, uncomfortably so, and the way it was fixed on with its sturdy zipper, she would be unable to take it off without help. There was no opening at the crotch; any attempt to find relief; the expulsion of bodily waste, would require the removal of the outfit.

The romper was long sleeved, presumably for protection against the cold. The cuffs were heavy, made of some harder, sturdier material. Each cuff was held in place by a heavy snap that required the use of two hands to snap it shut. Sorrel would be unable to free her arms from the sleeves without help.

Once she was dressed the nurses backed her on the bed, forcing her to lie back on her back. About thirty- six inches separated the base of the bed to the underside of the top tier that hung myopically, claustrophobically, above her head.

Safely on her back in the bed, one of the nurses lifted and drew a top sheet over her. It fit snugly, and, with the use of a set of two zippers, one on each side, they sealed her in the bed. In just moments she was safely entombed between the bottom and top sheets. One of the nurses took a thin coverlet, a blanket of sorts, and placed it atop the zippered sheet.

Then one of the nurses folded the metal grate that lay flat above the upper tier down and beside Sorrel so that it rested like a barred curtain between the bed's occupant and the rest of the room. This they fastened to the bottom of the bed, and attached it to two other metal grates, one at the head and another at the foot of the bed.

Sorrel was completely, thoroughly trapped in her tiny bed; first by the snugly fitted sheets and then by a metal cage. She gazed about the rest of the room. There was nothing else there, no bathroom facilities, no sink, not even a chair, just the floor and the bed, not even a window.

Sorrel spoke up, "I have to go to the bathroom."

The two nurses looked at each other. They looked back at Sorrel. One said, "Hold it till we come back."

Sorrel asked, "how long will that be?'

Neither nurse answered. They quietly left the room. From somewhere outside one turned out the single incandescent light that burned faintly from the ceiling in the center of the room. Sorrel heard a lock snap shut somewhere on the outside.

Locked in from the outside and caged and swaddled from within, Sorrel was left alone, in the dark, in a room in a hospital or someplace, she had no idea where. She wanted to cry, but thought better of it. She knew she was in trouble. She understood this had been the original plan; the plan Fletcher, Warren and Florence had concocted. She also knew, no matter how bad things seemed, no matter what terrible things the people at this awful place might do, she knew she wasn't alone. Somewhere on the outside people were already looking for her. Fletcher would be looking for her. She wasn't alone. Yes she was afraid, but she knew help would come, he would come.

Fletcher:

Fletcher stayed at the hospital long enough to be reasonably certain Florence was on the road to recovery. The doctors explained what they thought had happened. It was clear she hadn't tried suicide; somebody had stuffed a tube down her throat and flooded her stomach with cheap cough syrup and soap. It was an amatueristic job; the soap they used wouldn't have killed her, and there wasn't enough cough syrup to do any more than give her a good night's sleep and a headache later. They pumped her stomach, and put her in a room. She'd be out for a while, but they figured, by the next afternoon she'd be well enough to talk, and in another day well enough to go home.