You wake with a start. Immediately you realize two things: that you are a passenger on a fast moving train, and that you can't remember how you arrived here.
The train's interior is lined with brushed metal, the colour of nickel, giving you the impression of riding inside an empty soup can. A strip of fluorescent lights runs the length of the carriage down both sides of the center aisle. The windows are without blinds, and the armrests are the nonadjustable type.
The seat on which you are sitting is upholstered in maroon and black wool moquette. Its fibers scratch roughly against the palms of your hands as you try to get your bearings. At once you notice a dull throbbing in your left wrist. You press your fingers against your carpel bones and wince in pain. You remove your hand from the seat and rest it gingerly on top of the fabric of your black trousers.
The clatter of the train's wheels against the steel track disrupts your thoughts. You glance out the window beside you. Through what you estimate to be the grime of a thousand miles you notice a line of pine fences stretching on as far as your eyes can see. Nothing looks particularly familiar to you. The skyline is devoid of high-rises. All you can see is pailing after pailing of honey coloured timber.
Beside you, an elderly woman sleeps. Her thin arm brushes up against your own as the train sways and shudders along the curves of the track. The woman wears a tan coloured plastic raincoat, and black rubber boots. Her thin grey hair is cropped short, revealing heavily pierced ears. You notice that one of the holes is missing an earring, while the others are adorned with studs, rings, and bars in various styles. The woman is clearly dressed for inclemency, though the weather outside seems mild.
You appear to be the only two passengers seated in the carriage so you wonder why the woman has chosen to sit huddled so closely against you. Or perhaps it was you who chose to sit so close to her. You take stock of the elderly woman once again, searching her face for hints of familiarity. That's when you realize that you aren't even sure of who you are yourself.
You touch your face, wondering if you might be able to feel your way towards recollection. You glance around the carriage for a mirror, but of course there isn't one. Why would there be?
You wonder if you should search for a bathroom. You are fairly sure that even a train bathroom would have a mirror. You attempt to twist your body around as best you can without leaving your seatmate to topple sideways. Near the door connecting the adjoining carriage to your own you spy the inky block lettering of a bathroom sign. You wonder if you should try to wake the woman and find out if she recognizes you, or if you should simply try to extricate yourself from your conjointment and make your way to the bathroom.
[[Attempt to wake the woman]]
[[Make your way to the bathroom]]By the paperthin skin of the woman's face, and the liver spots on her hands, you guess her to be in her mid-eighties. Her grey cropped hair and liberally pierced ears suggest an independant spirit; yet her inelegant choice of raincoat and boots suggests a stuffy mind. Or at least, a mind that implies an intriguing degree of eccentricity.
You take hold of the woman's hand - her cold, bony fingers suddenly familiar to the touch. You have held this hand on many occasions. Turning her hand over to expose the tangle of blue veins at her wrist, you take the measure of her pulse. It is strong, her heart not overtaxed with the responsiblity of servicing excess flesh.
You are about to try the conventional method of waking a person up by shaking the woman's shoulder when your eyes catch sight of something small and shiny laying on her lap.
Peering more closely at the object, you find what you assume to be the woman's missing earrings: a set of gold studs in the shape of coiled ropes. Yes, that's right. You remember now. The woman had removed them in a fit of anger and thrown them to the ground. She had been unhappy with you; she had been unhappy with a lot of things. She had all but ripped the studs from her ears before slinging them across the grey linolium. You had spent a good two minutes trying to reclaim them from the recesses of the carriage floor. You knew she would want them back once she had cooled off, or been sedated, as had been the case in this instance. The earrings were of sentimental importance. You rememeber the day she recieved them, tied with a purple bow - a gift from a beloved grandchild (or, at least, from the grandchild's mother).
Perhaps it was best not to rouse the woman from her slumber after all. She had been so distressed before she went under. Why wake her now only to risk a repeat of her tantrum?
You decide, instead, to visit the bathroom in the hope of finding a mirror.
You wriggle out of your seat, leaving the woman to slump uneasily against the shared armrest. She is sure to have a sore neck whenever she wakes, but that's not your problem. At least not right now. The first thing you need to do is try to remember who you are and why you have woken up on this train without any memory of arriving here.
You maneouver yourself around the woman's legs, being careful not to stumble over her rubber boots which are practically blocking your exit. The soles of your shoes squeek against the shiny grey linolium of the train's center aisle. Glancing around the carriage you notice for the first time an electronic strip map affixed above your window. Its LED arrows indicate the route on which the train is making its journey.
Your curiosity sparked, you wonder if you should examine the map more closely in the hope of reminding yourself why you have chosen to taken this train journey.
[[Continue to the bathroom]]
[[Examine the map]]You reason that it is better to take stock of yourself before considering anyone else's identity.
You wriggle out of your seated position, leaving your seatmate to slump uneasily against the shared armrest in apparent slumber. She is sure to have a sore neck whenever she wakes, but that's not your problem. At least not right now. The first thing you need to do is try to remember who you are and why you have woken up on this train without any memory of arriving here.
You maneuver yourself around the woman's legs, being careful not to stumble over her rubber boots, which are practically blocking your exit. The soles of your shoes squeak against the shiny grey linoleum of the train's center aisle. Glancing around the carriage you notice for the first time an electronic strip map affixed above your window. Its LED arrows indicate the train's route.
Your curiosity sparked, you wonder if you should examine the map more closely in the hope of reminding yourself why you have taken this train journey.
[[Examine the map]]
[[Continue to the bathroom]]The map appears to be a new feature on this particular train because its black plastic faceplate is as shiny and as smooth as marble; a direct contrast to the brushed metal interior of the rest of the carriage.
You notice that the map shows a total route of seventeen stops. The station names are inscribed in thin white lettering. Many also boast a blue rectangular wheelchair symbol. The amber LED lights suggest that you are one third of the way through your journey. There are a further 11 or 12 stops along the route. That should give you plenty of time to recall who you are and why you have found yourself on the train. Somehow, from deep in the recesses of your mind, you know that this journey will take you to the end of the line. You are here for the duration. You and the elderly woman both. What happens when you reach the end will be up to you.
You cast your eyes back towards the left edge of the map, noting the name of your home station: Barksley. You have set off on many journeys from Barksley over the years. You recall the station's old-fashioned tearoom with its weakly brewed English Breakfast and airy white scones. You recall sharing a cream tea at the cafe with your grandmother like it was yesterday. Those had been the halcyon days. That had been before the diagnosis. Things were different now.
Deciding that you have plenty of time in which to explore the carriage, you set off towards the bathroom.
[[Continue to the bathroom]]You arrive at the bathroom door, but as you reach for the latch you are suddenly overtaken by a wave of uneasiness. You draw your hand back from the brushed metal handle as if recoiling from a hot element. You are struck by the feeling that this bathroom door looks familiar to you somehow, though you can't say why. All you know is that the prospect of opening the door makes you feel wary somehow.
At once you notice that the cubicle's lock reads 'occupied'. Strange. For some reason you had assumed that you and the elderly woman were the only two passengers on the carriage. But why would you assume that? You've only been awake for a few minutes, a not unreasonable time for a third passenger to be using the facilities. That being said, you are anxious to remind yourself of who you are, and you still figure the best way to jog your memory is by looking in the mirror.
You lift your right hand (your non-dominant hand, you realise) and rap your knuckles against the steel door.
Silence.
You are not entirely disappointed by the lack of response. As much as you wish to examine your reflection, you can't quite shake the unsettling feeling that this door evokes inside of you.
Resolving to put your apprehension on the backburner for the time being you knock again - this time with more fervency. Whoever has locked themselves inside the cubicle clearly has no interest in acknowledging your call. That's when you notice the shaft of light seeping through the crack where the door doesn't quite meet the frame. So the door isn't locked after all; it is only closed.
You push on the door with your right hand and, as you do, you are met with the unmistakable impression of death. Maybe that sense of unease you felt a few moments ago was actually gut instinct warning you not to enter the cubicle. Too late now.
Your brain fizzles with sudden, but uneven, recollection. A young woman, a syringe, an altercation. The wrist of your left hand twinges along with the patchy flashback before the memory dissipates.
You shake yourself free of the dizzying confusion as your gaze comes to rest upon the body. You recoil at the sight of the young woman slumped upon the toilet seat. She is dressed in what appears to be a set of jade green hospital scrubs. The scrubs fit loosely over her medium frame. You note that the toilet lid is closed, and yet the arrangement of the woman's body suggests that she may have died in this position. Perhaps she had been using the bathroom to apply her makeup, employing the toilet as a makeshift stool in front of the bathroom mirror.
The mirror. You can hardly think about looking at it now. Not when you are faced with the apparent dead body of a young woman.
Taking a deep, ragged breath, you allow your eyes to take measure of the situation before you. The deceased is a woman of about thirty-years-old and what is immediately apparent is that she has a fresh crimson laceration running down her left cheek. The woman - a nurse, you guess - was clearly alive when she received the flesh wound, as she appears to have traces of blood on the fingertips of her right hand. There is also a wad of bloodied toilet paper lying on the bathroom floor near the mirror. Perhaps she had ventured into the bathroom for the purpose of tending to her wound, you decide. Perhaps she even died from it, though you figure this to be a long shot. Unless whoever, or whatever, caused the injury had also simultaneously infused her with some sort of deadly poison. Aside from her scrubs, the nurse doesn't appear to be wearing any jewellery, or be in possession of a bag or a phone. She also appears to be without other obvious injury.
Fighting against every instinct in your body, you place two fingers against the woman's windpipe in the hope of locating a pulse. No such luck. Her skin is still warm to the touch, though her face is unnaturally pale. You figure her death must have occurred not more than two hours ago. How you know this, you aren't quite sure. It doesn't seem reasonable that you would go around touching dead bodies for a living. Then again, how would you know? You don't even remember who you are.
You glance around the cramped bathroom, its fittings running to the stainless steel end of the market. The cubicle is clearly subject to regular and thorough scouring, as suggested by its spotless yet well-worn linoleum floor. In fact, aside from the bloodied paper resting on the linoleum, the room appears entirely unblemished.
As much as you don't wish to tamper with what might very well be a crime scene, curiosity gets the better of you. Being careful not to touch the young woman any more than necessary, you take a step closer towards her and try to peer inside the hip pocket of her scrubs. Immediately you are glad that you did as your eyes catch sight of what appears to be a used syringe. The syringe from your earlier recollection, you determine.
That's when you finally decide to take a look in the mirror. Right away you are struck by the similarity of your attire to that of the dead nurse. You too appear to be dressed in a set of hospital scrubs, though yours are jet black and fit a lot tighter across your torso than hers. You also notice that, while the dead nurse's feet are clad in some sort of medically approved clog; you are wearing smart black trainers. The dead nurse is also somewhat smaller in stature to you. While she is slight and fair, you are dark and athletic. Perhaps you are the doctor to her nurse, you wonder? Perhaps that would explain why you were able to ascertain the nurse's time of death. However, what you haven't been able to do yet is determine the method.
[[Leave the bathroom]]You decide to return to the carriage. You realize that if you have found one dead body on the train, then perhaps you should check the elderly woman for signs of life also.
You shudder at the possibility that you may have been sitting arm to arm with a dead body, but you figure it is better to find out for certain than to let your imagination run free.
You step out of the bathroom cubicle and pull the plastic door closed behind you. You are not sure what to do about the dead nurse right now. Clearly you look like some sort of health professional, though right now you feel inclined to leave the nurse's body where it lies. For the time being the knowledge of the dead nurse will remain unreported.
You hesitantly walk back towards the elderly woman. By now she is almost completely slumped over into the seat that you vacated just a few minutes earlier. With every sway of the carriage, the woman's head knocks against the lip of the window. You watch as the skin on her now familiar face pendulates with every jolt of the train.
You are about to search through the pockets of her raincoat when the woman begins to stir. You watch with alarm as her eyelids flutter and her jaw sags open to reveal a mouthful of surprisingly good teeth. Well, why wouldn’t they be? Yours is a wealthy family and this woman is its head. At least she's alive, you reason.
At once she begins to moan. Her head jolts and falls with every shudder of the train. With all this movement you wonder if she might dislocate her neck. It would have been better if the two of you had never made this journey at all. It was never a good idea to leave the idyll of one's home unless it was absolutely necessary. And now look what had happened.
You crouch down and take hold of the woman's thin shoulders and drag her back into the upright position, wincing at the pain in your left wrist as you do so. Her eyelids flutter again and she moans like a wounded dog.
'Julian,' she slurs, her bottom lip drooping open as the word tumbles out.
'Julian?' you echo, trying to catch the woman's eyes as they continue to flutter open and closed at an alarming rate.
'Nurse Julian,' she says groggily before appearing to return to her unconscious state.
Nurse Julian. Was that your name? It seemed familiar somehow. Yet, something about the way the word sits inside your mouth seems…unwelcome. Unnerving even. It is almost as if you are loathed to say the word out loud in case…
In case of what?
That's when you realize that you haven't taken the time to search your scrubs for identification or clues as to your own name. You plunge your hands into the pockets of your pants and feel your fingers encircle a small plastic packet. Removing it from your pocket you are surprised to find yourself holding a Ziploc bag no larger than a playing card. Peering more closely at the bag you find that it contains a collection of red and white gelatin capsules. Well, why wouldn't you be carrying a bag of medication? You are dressed in scrubs, after all. You feel the clouds obscuring your thoughts start to clear. The reason the two of you were seated so closely together was because the woman had to be closely monitored. You had made it your business to supervise her, to medicate her, to see that she arrives at her destination with as little fuss as possible. 'That's what families do,' you remember her telling you. 'They see that everyone is properly taken care of.'
But why is she dressed in such an unconventional outfit? Shouldn't she be dressed in something more befitting the journey? No, you remind yourself, this woman is not the patient of a medical doctor or nurse. This is an entirely different situation. This is a case of an unstable mind, not of the body. You know all too well that even the most privileged of families has its fragile links. The ones who aren't wired in quite the same way as the others. And your family, you well know, is no exception.
You return the pills to the hip pocket of your scrubs and turn your attention back towards your charge. You take the seat opposite hers. Pinching the cuff of the woman's plastic raincoat between your thumb and forefinger you lift the fabric, revealing a brown leather restraint tethering her wrist to the armrest. That's right. You remember now. As unorthodox as it is to employ such an excessive method of restraint, it had been necessary, given the conditions and the severity of the woman's distress. It was the only way the two of you were going to survive the journey from your perfectly paradisiacal home to the bleak medical facility at the end of the line.
That's when you notice the dried blood lodged beneath the index and middle finger of the woman's right hand. A coagulation of dried blood and shreds of skin. This is the skin and blood that was gouged from the nurse's face. You had been right in your decision to medicate and restrain her. You had every reason to restrain the elderly woman. After such a violent altercation, what else could you do?
That's when you remember the portable medical kit stashed in the overhead luggage compartment. You stand up and spy the line of lockers running the length of the carriage, tucked away behind the handrail. You grasp at the handle of the compartment closest to you and watch as the hatch yawns open on its hinge mechanism. Inside the compartment you find a slate grey canvas messenger bag, big enough to cater to a weekend vacation and, beside it, an orange plastic folder. You remove the two items from the locker, being careful to engage your right hand with the task. The bag is instantly familiar to you. You are well acquainted with the bag and its contents. It has been part of your life for a long time. Seeing it again, even under these circumstances, fills you with a warm glow of gratification.
Dropping the folder and bag onto the empty seat nearest the window, you settle back into the seat opposite the elderly woman. Taking hold of the bag once again, you unfasten the metal buckles and flip open the front flap to reveal its contents.
You are not surprised to discover what appears to be the makings of a medical kit complete with a portable blood pressure monitor, a stethoscope, a selection of sanitizers, batteries, and a pair of dressing scissors. This all looks familiar to you. The bag is generous in size: well suited to an overnight, cross-country journey. What you are most pleased to see, though, is a black faux leather phone case tucked inside the interior pocket. You quickly unfasten the magnetic catch and flip open the cover, revealing a smart phone and a row of credit cards. You touch your finger to the phone's home button and watch as the screen illuminates bright white. You stare blankly at the passcode request prompt. You must know this. The number is right on the tip of your brain. Relying on muscle memory alone, you tap out what you guess to be the correct number. The display screen shudders its refusal to accept your code. Forgetting the phone for now you run your finger along the row of cards: credit cards, department store cards, and a loyalty card for a chain cafe. Your finger comes to a stop on a photo identification card. Removing it from the pocket you are surprised to find yourself holding a Firearms License. This seems suspicious to you. The affixed photo shows the nurse from the bathroom cubicle, her fair hair pulled back from her face into a neat ponytail. Her name is Amy Ann Julian with a date of birth confirming your guess that she is in her early-thirties. No wonder you weren't able to unlock the smart phone. It wasn't even yours. Also, if Amy Julian had managed to keep her proclivity for guns from you then it only proved to establish her as a highly enigmatic individual. It's a wonder your family entrusted her with the care of a loved one.
You are about to close the bag when your eye catches sight of something strange but familiar. You reach your hand into the bag and bring the white plastic object up into your field of vision. Immediately your hearing becomes muffled and a curtain of blackness descends across your vision. You feel yourself breaking into a sweat and your arms experience the sensation of being both thick and limp as you drop the plastic object and grasp at your scrubs in an effort to ventilate your body.
Within a moment the sensation has passed and you search your seat for the dropped object. Spying it next to the orange folder, you collect it up once more. Right away you realise that you are in possession of some sort of makeshift weapon. You know it to be handmade because of its crude construction. The weapon consists of three white plastic knives bound together at their handles with black insulation tape. This weapon also looks more than a little familiar to you.
Why had you found the object stashed in Nurse Julian's bag though? Was this the weapon that was used to kill Nurse Julian? No, you remember now. This is a tool, not a weapon. It was used for an entirely different purpose. It was used to achieve something more practical than violent.
Still, it might not hurt to examine Nurse Julian's body again anyway.
[[Examine Nurse Julian]]
[[Open the plastic folder]]You figure there's probably not a lot more the bathroom can tell you now that your memory is returning. Still, it wouldn't hurt to check Nurse Julian over one last time. Before you reach your destination, that is.
You slip back into the cubicle with a greater confidence than last time. Last time you hadn't even been certain of who you were, let alone what you might discover in the bathroom. This time you understand that the fate of these two women now rests solely in your hands. It is up to you to ensure that they both reach their destination without any further incidents. And, after all you have been through, you figure you can handle the task.
The first thing you do after entering the bathroom cubicle is to reach into the hip pocket of Nurse Julian's scrubs and remove the syringe. You were right the first time; it had been used. Nurse Julian should have left the syringe where it was, safely concealed in her medical kit. Clearly a privately paid salary wasn't enough of a reason for the ill-fated nurse to provide decent care to your family. Clearly she thought your family needed a firm hand, rather than faithful one. Well, she wouldn't be taking advantage of your family now, that's for certain. You place the syringe into your own hip pocket and take another look in the mirror.
You appear calm and in control. But, then again, why wouldn't you be? You are a competent, intelligent individual with your whole life ahead of you.
You feel a twinge of pain in your left wrist, reminding you of the incidents that occurred earlier in the journey. You remember now; you injured your wrist during the struggle. You remember the pain now in your carpal bones as you carefully lowered Nurse Julian's dying form down onto the lid of the toilet. It had happened moments before you had administered the second dose of sedative. The old woman had put up a fight. She had wrestled against those restraints. The restraints you had been forced to retrieve from Nurse Julian's medical kit. The situation needn't have become so chaotic. If she had only chosen to ride out the journey in silence, without making any trouble, then perhaps none of this would have happened.
There is nothing more you can glean from Nurse Julian's sorry state, so you return to the carriage and reclaim your seat opposite the elderly woman.
[[Check the elderly woman's pockets]]
[[Open the plastic folder]]You decide there's nothing else to do now but search your elderly relative's raincoat. You remember why she was wearing it now. It had been raining when you had left Woodland House. You too had been wearing a raincoat, though yours has long been discarded after it had served its purpose. The pockets had been handy for carrying the necessary impliments required for the journey. But now your job was done. The train would reach its destination soon, and then you must decide what you will do.
You plunge your hands into the pockets of the woman's raincoat.
Nothing. Her pockets are empty.
Recalling the bag of capsules hidden inside the hip pocket of your scrubs you reach your hand back inside and remove them. You tear open the seal (an action that has been carried out a great many times on this very bag) and examine the medication. You recognized it as being Xperdal. You'd know it anywhere. You are about to remove one of the capsules from the bag and inspect it more closely when your elderly relative begins to stir in her seat. You watch as her eyelids resume their fluttering movement until, all of a sudden, they snap open and she stares you straight in the face.
At first she seems startled, though you figure even the hardiest of individuals might react this way having found themselves unexpectedly riding a train across a non-descript landscape. But then her face contorts into what looks to be an expression of fear. Her bottom lip drops, revealing a row of small white teeth, and her eyes gape as her sparse, over plucked eyebrows lift and her forehead creases into a dozen wrinkles. You are not sure what to do. Perhaps it would be wise for you to administer another dose of the sedative using Nurse Julian's syringe.
Your elderly relative takes a sharp intake of breath and then proceeds to screech like a red fox. Instinct causes you to clamp your hand over her mouth, too quickly for you to remember the pain in your left wrist. You give off your own involuntary yelp and watch as the woman bucks and strains against her wrist restraints.
The wrist restraints.
You duck down, keeping your hand clamped tightly across your relative's mouth, and search beneath your seat. You spy the second set of restraints, tucked away neatly at your heels. You probably shouldn't leave them there but, then again, what will it matter now? When the powers that be arrive at this carriage they'll have more important things to worry about than gathering up lost property.
You decide to ignore the torn restraints and focus your attention on your elderly relative. She stares at you through wide eyes. It is possible that you can see the merest hint of a tear clawing its way onto the crow’s-feet at the edge of her eyes. It is not a tear of sadness though, you understand; it is the tear of decades of repressed anger and resentment. You recognize the human weakness in her emotion but you don't feel anything for it.
That's when you feel the train begin to slow down on its tracks. The time has come for you to decide how this will end.
[[Leave with the elderly woman]]
[[Leave on your own]]
[[Wait for the authorities]]You take up the orange plastic folder from the seat beside you. It is thick between your fingertips: the writing of a lifetime of affliction and control. You flip open the front cover revealing the first clear plastic sleeve, its filmy texture crinkled with age and wear. The top left corner has become untethered from its binding. This folder has had a lot of use. The printed note tucked inside the front sleeve boasts your family name, typed in broad, block lettering. It is a name that holds weight. Pity not all of your family members have been able to use it to their advantage the way you have.
You flip through the folder until you reach the final plastic sleeve near the back cover. The sleeve contains the latest log entry, written by Nurse Julian not three hours earlier. You read with familiarity:
'12th March.
Patient transport. Woodland House to Sunnyside Psychiatric Hospital.
Reason for transfer: pt. no longer fit to remain under family care, within the family estate known as 'Woodland House'. (See court report dated 29th November).
Instructions for transfer: pt. must be restrained at all times. Foam limb holders recommended. Routine monitoring and treatment to remain in place.
Medication: continue administering standard dose of oral antipsychotic (Xperdal) in capsule form (as per pt.’s requirements)
Personnel: Nurse Amy Ann Julian, RN - privately engaged to carry out duties related to the transfer of pt. to hospital facility.
Notes...'
Here you notice that the carefully typed notes have given way to the messy scrawl of Nurse Julian's pen.
'Notes: Client has insisted on accompanying pt. on journey. Has repeatedly requested that pt.’s restraints be loosened. Have advised client against this. Pt. prone to violent and unprovoked outbursts. Could be detrimental to client and/or pt. Have recommended intravenous sedation (Antevan). Refused.'
Here the notes end.
You close the folder and return it to the seat beside you. There was nothing there that you didn't already know. It was just a pity that Nurse Amy Julian felt compelled to write it all down. Clearly your family hadn't paid her enough to assure her discretion.
[[Check the elderly woman's pockets]]
[[Examine the nurse]]You figure there's probably not a lot more the bathroom can tell you now that your memory has almost fully returned. Still, it wouldn't hurt to check Nurse Julian over one last time. Before you reach your destination, that is.
You slip back into the cubicle with a greater confidence than last time. Last time you hadn't even been certain of who you were, let alone what you might discover in the bathroom. This time you understand that the fate of these two women now rests solely in your hands. It is up to you to ensure that they both reach their destination without any further incidents. And, after all you have been through, you figure you can handle the task.
The first thing you do after entering the bathroom cubicle is to reach into the hip pocket of Nurse Julian's scrubs and remove the syringe. You were right the first time; it had been used. Nurse Julian should have left the syringe where it was, safely concealed in her medical kit. Clearly a privately paid salary wasn't enough of a reason for the ill-fated nurse to provide decent care to your family. Clearly she thought your family needed a firm hand, rather than faithful one. Well, she wouldn't be taking advantage of your family now, that's for certain. You place the syringe into your own hip pocket and take another look in the mirror.
You appear calm and in control. But, then again, why wouldn't you be? You are a competent, intelligent individual with your whole life ahead of you.
You feel a twinge of pain in your left wrist, reminding you of the incidents that occurred earlier in the journey. You remember now; you injured your wrist during the struggle. You remember the pain now in your carpal bones as you carefully lowered Nurse Julian's dying form down onto the lid of the toilet. It had happened moments before you had administered the second dose of sedative. The old woman had put up a fight. She had wrestled against those restraints. The restraints you had been forced to retrieve from Nurse Julian's medical kit. The situation needn't have become so chaotic. If she had only chosen to ride out the journey in silence, without making any trouble, then perhaps none of this would have happened.
There is nothing more you can glean from Nurse Julian's sorry state, so you return to the carriage and reclaim your seat opposite the elderly woman.
[[Check the elderly woman's pockets]]'We have to leave now, Gran,' you tell the elderly woman. 'You need to stay quiet or else...well, I'm sure you know what will happen.'
You remove your hand from your elderly relative's mouth and watch as she pants in fear like a cat caught in the crosshairs of a rival's claws. It had been a shame to dose your grandmother up on what remained of the Antevan in Nurse Julian's syringe. You'd only decided to do it at the last minute, after you realized that you only had a few minutes before you yourself fell under the power of the sedation. Luckily for you, your grandmother hadn't possessed either the knowledge or skill of Nurse Julian when she had administered the sedative to you. She had managed to raid the Nurse's bag in search of the needle, but the administration of the Antevan had been a little too taxing for her bony arms to handle. There hadn't been occasion to locate a vein, so she had merely injected you in the left hip. A neophyte's mistake, but it had afforded you a good ten minutes of consciousness in order to complete your tasks.
But now wasn't the time to revel in such things. Now was the time for you to make your escape. For years you had existed quite contentedly on your family's estate, Woodland House. You had happily amused yourself with the daily torment of your grandmother and a string of privately remunerated nurses - all tasked with medicating and diminishing your mind until you had no choice but to strike out and send them on their way.
But you are free now, and you are taking your grandmother with you whether she likes it or not. Won't the courts be surprised when they hear news of your escape? They underestimated you (and it was to your advantage that they had). If your grandmother hadn't insisted on transporting you, on this train, from your home to Sunnyside then you may not have been so fortunate.
As it was, it had been the work of a few minutes tethering your grandmother's wrists to her armrests using the spare set of restraints stashed in Nurse Julian's medical kit. You had also made use of her extra set of scrubs, ditching your own clothes out the train window as you passed alongside the endless line of fences.
After that, you had removed Nurse Julian's body from the carriage to the bathroom. There she could bleed silently through her unconsciousness until death claimed her. The neck injury caused by the upward strike of your left-hand had undoubtedly fractured a bone and severed the carotid artery. This wasn't the first time you had employed such a move on one of your nurses.
Stashing your own, newly severed, restraints beneath your seat, you had been happy with your work. Why your grandmother had agreed to give you the bundle of plastic knives you had stashed in the breast pocket of your raincoat was beyond you. After all these years it seemed you could still manipulate human pity and misguided compassion to your own end.
The Xperdal you decide to keep as a souvineer. You never knew when a bag of antipsychotics might come in handy. If nothing else, perhaps your grandmother might require a few doses to keep her in check. It would only be fair, after all, she had spent the better part of your life force-feeding you the retched things.
After that, you had allowed the Antevan to take hold of your mind and body. You had eased yourself into the seat beside your swiftly fading grandmother, and enjoyed the sleep of the untroubled mind.
Now, though, it was time to make your escape.
THE ENDYou remove your hand from your elderly relative's mouth, luxuriating in her penetrating screech. It had been a shame to dose your grandmother up on what remained of the Antevan in Nurse Julian's syringe. You'd only decided to do it at the last minute, after you realized that you only had a few minutes before you yourself fell under the power of the sedation. Luckily for you, your grandmother hadn't possessed either the knowledge or skill of Nurse Julian when she had administered the sedative to you. She had managed to raid the Nurse's bag in search of the needle, but the administration of the Antevan had been a little too taxing for her bony arms to handle. There hadn't been occasion to locate a vein, so she had merely injected you in the left hip. A neophyte's mistake, but it had afforded you a good ten minutes of consciousness in order to complete your tasks.
But now wasn't the time to revel in such things. Now was the time for you to make your escape. For years you had existed quite contentedly on your family's estate, Woodland House. You had happily amused yourself with the daily torment of your grandmother and a string of privately remunerated nurses - all tasked with medicating and diminishing your mind until you had no choice but to strike out and send them on their way.
But you are free now. Won't the courts be surprised when they hear news of your escape? They underestimated you (and it was to your advantage that they had). If your grandmother hadn't insisted on transporting you, on this train, from your home to Sunnyside then you may not have been so fortunate.
As it was, it had been the work of a few minutes tethering your grandmother's wrists to her armrests using the spare set of restraints stashed in Nurse Julian's medical kit. You had also made use of her extra set of scrubs, ditching your own clothes out the train window as you passed alongside the endless line of fences.
After that, you had removed Nurse Julian's body from the carriage to the bathroom. There she could bleed silently through her unconsciousness until death claimed her. The neck injury caused by the upward strike of your left-hand had undoubtedly fractured a bone and severed the carotid artery. This wasn't the first time you had employed such a move on one of your nurses.
Stashing your own, newly severed, restraints beneath your seat, you had been happy with your work. Why your grandmother had agreed to give you the bundle of plastic knives you had stashed in the breast pocket of your raincoat was beyond you. After all these years it seemed you could still manipulate human pity and misguided compassion to your own end.
After that, you had allowed the Antevan to take hold of your mind and body. You had eased yourself into the seat beside your swiftly fading grandmother, and enjoyed the sleep of the untroubled mind.
Now, though, it was time to make your escape. The Xperdal you decide to keep as a souvineer. You never knew when a bag of antipsychotics might come in handy.
THE ENDYou decide to await your fate. It's far more fun this way. After all, you live for your own amusement, and today is just another meaningless distraction for you.
You hear the whop the carriage doors opening and closing. You twist around in your seat, as best you can without removing your hand from your elderly relative's mouth, and see a stocky man dressed in a royal blue uniform. You guess him to be in his mid-fifties. The brass buttons running down the front of his wool tunic strain against his vast stomach. His French military style cap is pulled low on his forehead, obscuring his eyes and shadowing his face. The man stalls for a moment at the door as if taking stock of the carriage...or perhaps merely taking stock of you, then he makes his way towards you with the tentative step of a farmer approaching a bothersome snake.
'What's happened here?' the man asks in a guttural tone of voice that betrays his concern for his own safety.
You gaze back at him, a smirk playing at your lips. You won't give him the satisfaction of solving the puzzle on his behalf. Solving the puzzle of what really happened on his carriage - to your grandmother, to Nurse Amy Julian, to you - is his job.
'What's happened here?' he asks again, this time in a more penetrating tone of voice. As he does so, he happens to glance down at the Ziploc bag in your hand. 'What is that?' he demands angrily, his hand snatching at the bag.
He should probably check the train's bathroom before taking exception to your regurgitated antipsychotics. He doesn't realise just how much of a mess you've made of this place.
'Remove your hand,' he commands, as his eyes finally come to fall on your grandmother's hysterical face.
You do as he says, luxuriating in her penetrating screech. It had been a shame to dose your grandmother up on what remained of the Antevan in Nurse Julian's syringe. You'd only decided to do it at the last minute, after you realized you only had a few minutes before you yourself fell under the power of the sedation. Luckily for you, your grandmother hadn't possessed either the knowledge or skill of Nurse Julian when she had administered the sedative to you. She had managed to raid the Nurse's bag in search of the needle, but the administration of the Antevan had been a little too taxing for her bony arms to handle. There hadn't been occasion to locate a vein, so she had merely injected you in the left hip. A neophyte's mistake, but it had afforded you a good ten minutes of consciousness in order to complete your tasks.
For years you had existed quite contentedly on your family's estate, Woodland House. You had happily amused yourself with the daily torment of your grandmother and a string of privately remunerated nurses - all tasked with medicating and diminishing your mind until you had no choice but to strike out and send them on their way.
If your grandmother hadn't insisted on transporting you, on this train, from your home to Sunnyside then you may not have been so fortunate.
As it was, it had been the work of a few minutes tethering your grandmother's wrists to her armrests using the spare set of restraints stashed in Nurse Julian's medical kit. You had also made use of her extra set of scrubs, ditching your own clothes out the train window as you passed along beside the endless line of fences.
After that, you had removed Nurse Julian's body from the carriage to the bathroom. There she could bleed silently through her unconsciousness until death claimed her. The neck injury caused by the upward strike of your left-hand had undoubtedly fractured a bone and severed the carotid artery. This wasn't the first time you had employed such a move on one of your nurses.
Stashing your own, newly severed, restraints beneath your seat, you had been happy with your work. Why your grandmother had agreed to give you the bundle of plastic knives you had stashed in the breast pocket of your raincoat was beyond you. After all these years it seemed you could still manipulate human pity and misguided compassion to your own end.
After that, you had allowed the Antevan to take hold of your mind and body. You had eased yourself into the seat beside your swiftly fading grandmother, and enjoyed the sleep of the untroubled mind.
Now, though, it was time to revel in your accomplishments. You have had such fun on your little jaunt accross the countryside. It is only a pity that you haven't found the time to do more. Still, you had the rest of your life ahead of you. Oh, what fun you planned to have.
THE END