In Laymon's Terms

Michael Oliveri

DAM TEARFULLY EXAMINED the glossy photo of the slaughtered woman as it rested on the edge of the desk. The photo of his dear wife Ellen, the only woman to love him despite his multiple personalities.

“Please...why are you doing this to me?” he asked with a sob. He struggled to turn away, but the restraints held him firmly to the chair.

Doctor Locke peered through his steepled fingers at the simple brown book he habitually carried around. “How many personalities do you have, Mister Lewis? Do you remember?”

“Thirteen.” And he knew all of them intimately.

“You have fourteen, Mister Lewis.”

At least, for the past fifteen years he thought he knew all of them.

“Fourteen distinct personalities,” Locke said, picking up his book and tapping its edge on the desk. “Including Jude, who we need to talk to. Jude the killer. That’s why we’re showing you this picture.”

Adam cried heavily. He tried to suppress the memory of that day, coming to and finding himself bathed in blood, with an unfamiliar knife in one hand and gobbets of flesh in the other. Ellen lay on the floor at his feet...and in the kitchen sink...and on the counter...and on the table. The photo brought it all back.

“There is no Jude!” It had become a mantra for him. He said it over and over: in his lawyer’s interviews, in the initial psychiatric evaluations, even on the witness stand. But the police talked to Jude.

And recorded him.

They recorded his confession, complete with his savoring of every gruesome detail of his actions. It made the insanity plea an unshakeable defense, guaranteeing Adam an extended stay at St. Dymphna Psychiatric Hospital.

Locke sighed. He turned the cover of his book toward Adam. “Do you know what this is?” Adam shook his head and sniffled. “This is the American Psychiatric Association’s fourth edition of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, or simply the DSM IV. It’s the Bible of psychology, if you will. It tells me you have a problem, Mister Lewis. A serious problem your medications can no longer control. And that is why we have to talk to Jude.”

“There is no Jude,” Adam whispered. “There is no Jude...”

“Look at the picture, Mister Lewis!” Locke shouted, jabbing a finger angrily at the photo. “Look at it! Do you want this to happen again? Do you want to harm another innocent woman? You fed her fucking toes to the dog, for Christ’s sake!”

Adam threw his head back as the sudden shock took its toll on his mind, just as Locke hoped. Though his eyes were still moist and his face red, an entirely new expression unfurled on Adam Lewis’s face.

Jude grinned like a shark, his eyes narrow and cold. “Doctor Locke. So nice to see you again. How’s the orderly doing?”

“He’s fine but he’s tendered his resignation.”

“That’s too bad. I rather liked his voice. His scream was divine.”

Locke shrugged, refusing to play along. He would not allow himself to be manipulated again. “It happens. So tell me about yourself, Jude. What makes you tick?”

“I’m not exactly sure, Doc. That’s why I zipped Ellen open. To see what makes us all tick.”

“I see. Did you—”

“You got a smoke, Doc?”

“Mister Lewis doesn’t smoke.”

“That’s his problem.”

Locke drummed his fingers on his book. “Very well. I’ll trade you. One cigarette for five cooperative answers.”

Jude tilted his head, considering. “Okay, Doc. Deal.”

Locke pulled a pack of Marlboros from his center desk drawer. It struck him that he only ever offered a cigarette to Adam. Therefore, Jude must be aware of the other personalities’ experiences. Not uncommon in patients with multiple personality disorder, but interesting to note for the future. He leaned across the desk to place a cigarette between Jude’s lips and light it for him. “I’m sorry, but you understand we will not be able to release your arms. One of the orderlies will help you with the ashes.”

“Whatever you say, Doc.” He dragged hard on the cigarette.

“Now tell me, Jude. How long have you been aware of Mister Lewis’s other personalities?”

“Too fucking long, Doc.” Again, a long, hard drag. One of the two orderlies standing near the door walked over.

“You agreed to cooperate, Jude. How long?”

The orderly reached for the cigarette, and Jude turned his head sharply and thrust his chin forward. He puffed as he did so, and the flaring embers sizzled into the orderly’s palm. The orderly cried out and leapt away, while the other ran forward and stamped out the cigarette.

Locke jumped out of his seat. “Get him out of here! Now!”

Jude roared with laughter as they dragged him out of the room.

After several attempts at conversation, the surly orderly with the bandaged hand finally told Adam that St. Dymphna was the patron saint of the mentally afflicted. Hearing that, Adam sincerely doubted she would approve of the asylum’s deplorable conditions. Underfunded and understaffed, the place was overloaded with the products of an ever more unforgiving and uncaring society. The halls were dirty, much of the staff did little more than stand around and collect a paycheck, and patients were often forgotten for hours at a time.

He spent many sleepless nights staring at the ceiling. At times he was Adam, at others he was Steven or Dennis or Jack, or even the one whom Ellen had dubbed “the other Adam.” Regardless of who he was at the time, he always listened to the screams and wondered when he would be allowed out of this Godforsaken place.

Because of overcrowding, many of the patients were forced to share their rooms. Once Locke felt confident Jude would not surface in the middle of the night to wreak havoc upon a helpless roommate, an extra bed was put in Adam’s room.

Its occupant was a guy with long, oily hair and perpetual stubble. He had this creepy habit of staring at people through his bangs for long periods at a time. The orderlies always addressed him as Richard, but he frequently insisted on being called Dick. They refused to tell Adam what Richard had done to be locked up, but from snippets of conversation he gathered that Richard had not been very cooperative with his previous roommate.

The first night went smoothly, but in the middle of the second Adam awoke and heard a peculiar shuffling noise from the opposite bed. A shaft of hallway light slanted in through the door window to illuminate Richard’s bed, and Adam saw Richard’s hand moving swiftly back and forth beneath the bedsheets.

Adam winced and glanced toward the head of Richard’s bed. To his considerable surprise and discomfort he found Richard staring back at him, eyes wide as he licked his lips.

Adam—or Dennis? He suddenly couldn’t be sure—blinked beneath the hallway lights as he came to. His body rocked and shuddered on a Gurney being rushed down a corridor by an orderly and a nurse. They whipped around corners and dodged patients, and Locke jogged along behind them, his ever-present book bouncing in his hip pocket.

Adam groaned. The last thing he remembered was sitting in front of Locke’s desk, trying to shut the doctor out. Apparently Jude came forward again. This could not be a good thing.

“What’s happening?” Adam demanded. He tried to sit up, but straps across his chest, waist, and legs held him flat to the Gurney. More straps bound his wrists to side rails.

“Behavior like that will not be tolerated any longer!” Locke snapped. “You’ve got this coming!”

“What are you going to do?” he asked, growing more alarmed as they entered a room filled with a humming sound.

“We’re ready to go,” a nurse informed the doctor as they entered. She held a rubber headband with several wires running to it in her hand. The Gurney came to an abrupt halt, and the nurse stepped forward and wrapped the band around Adam’s head.

“What is this? What’s happening? Let me go!”

Locke grabbed Adam tightly by the jaw and flashed a penlight into his eyes. “Are you back with us, Mister Lewis?”

“Yes! Yes, it’s me!” he said urgently. “Please! It’s Adam!”

“Pity,” Locke said as he returned his penlight to his pocket. “I’m sorry, Mister Lewis. This is for your own good.” He nodded to the nurse, who stood in front of a small console.

“No, wait—”

A burst of high voltage surged through his skull, and his mind and body went numb.

He didn’t know who he was. They checked his vitals and reflexes, then sat him down on the threadbare couch in the rec room. With a total lack of understanding, he watched as Tom built a better mousetrap to ensnare Jerry, botched the plans, and fell victim to it himself.

A religious commercial followed. When he saw the pretty young woman displaying a nondescript brown book, a nervous tic tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Lunchtime came. The other patients milled about with their trays of dry chicken and mushy potatoes. He remained on the couch as the next set of cartoons started. A dumpy dog in a brown cape flexed tiny muscles.

“Never fear, Underdog is here!” echoed a fat woman as she took a seat beside Adam. The couch cushions gave way beneath her, tilting him sideways to lean into her shoulder. He barely noticed it, and she made no move to correct the situation.

Fifteen minutes into the program she froze, her fork halfway to her mouth. She looked at Adam, eyes wild, as if noticing him for the first time. “Are you watching my show?” she demanded. “Are you watching my show?”

A nurse and two orderlies came running, and had they been paying attention in the first place they would have taken Adam away from Alice to avoid trouble—she did this at least once a week. Before they could do anything about it, she dumped her plate on the floor and swung her tray like a club. The corner smacked into the bridge of Adam’s nose and he saw stars.

She managed to break the tray in half on the back of Adam’s head before the orderlies dragged her away. He passed out as the nurse tended to his broken nose.

Locke did not acknowledge the bandage on Adam’s nose or the dark purple bruises that surrounded his eyes. He flipped the DSM IV closed and clasped his hands over it.

“Good morning. Who am I speaking with this morning?” Locke asked. Adam pouted and did his best to avoid eye contact. “Ronnie,” he replied in a soft voice.

“We haven’t spoken in some time, Ronnie. It’s good to see you again.” Ronnie squirmed in his seat.

“How old are you, Ronnie?”

“Seven.”

Locke nodded, mostly to himself. Ronnie rarely surfaced, even in records by Adam’s previous doctors. He jotted a quick note on a Post-it, then pasted it onto the inside cover of his book.

“Ronnie, may I speak to Adam?”

Ronnie slowly shook his head.

“Why not?”

“Adam is angry with you. He doesn’t want to speak with you.”

“Why is Adam angry?”

“He hates it here. We all hate it here. We just want to go home.”

Locke sighed. “I’m sorry, Ronnie, but you can’t go home yet.”

Ronnie’s face crumpled, and he started to cry. “Why not? I don’t understand.”

“You’re still very ill, Ron—Mister Lewis. We have to be certain Jude will not harm anybody again.”

“Adam, he—he—” His breath came in hitches as he sobbed. “He says Jude is gone. That Jude won’t come around anymore.”

Locke shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mister Lewis. But we have to be sure. The book says you may still be very sick. Very dangerous. In our sessions with Jude, he’s failed to respond to various forms of behavior therapy. And now he’s...hiding, for lack of a better word. I’m afraid we can’t let you leave until Jude is rehabilitated.”

Ronnie cried harder. “No!” he shouted. “Stop it!”

“Stop what? What is it?” Locke asked. He leaned closer.

“It’s Jude. He’s laughing at you!”

A heavy weight came down on Adam’s back, startling him into wakefulness. He tried to push himself out of bed, but someone painfully twisted his arms behind his back. He cried out in pain, only to have his face shoved into his pillow to stifle him.

“Ssshhh...” The voice came harsh and hot in his ear. “The Dick is here...”

“What do you want?” Adam cried. “Get off me! Go back to your own fucking bed!”

Richard shoved his face back into the pillow, then used one hand to pin Adam’s wrists to the small of his back. Adam struggled and thrashed but could not break the hold.

“Fucking...yes, that is what the Dick wants.” Richard shifted his weight, and his free hand hooked into Adam’s waistband. A few quick tugs and his pants were down around his thighs. Adam shouted for help, but the pillow swallowed his pleas. Within seconds it became hard to breathe.

“Ssshh...” Richard said, attempting to soothe him. His saliva-moistened fingers explored the cleft in Adam’s rump. “Yes, so smooth...The Dick will be pleased.”

“No! Noooo!” Adam screamed.

He felt a tentative probing at his anus, followed by swift penetration. His flesh tore and warm blood trickled between his legs. Richard’s hips bounced against his ass, making rhythmic slapping noises and sickening squelches.

Adam tried not to throw up as his personalities cycled through his brain. Dennis screamed and shouted. Steven begged for it to stop. Jack cursed and threatened, but the few that made it past the pillow were lost amongst the constant screams of the other inmates.

Richard shuddered and groaned, and “the other Adam” surfaced just in time to feel Richard climax into him. This time he did throw up, and thankfully Richard climbed off him before he could drown in the soaked pillow.

Richard returned to his bed and laid on his back, mumbling “the Dick is pleased, yes, the Dick is pleased” over and over.

Ronnie curled into a fetal position and cried through the rest of the night.

Two weeks following the assault, they brought Adam to Locke’s office for another evaluation. He placed his inflatable donut on the chair and winced as he sat down. He popped a few stitches once already, and did not want to deal with it again.

To his surprise, the orderlies did not shackle him to the chair.

“How are you today, Mister Lewis?” Locke asked, drumming his fingers on the DSM IV.

Adam was calm but unfocused. He stared through Locke and through the walls at some indeterminate point a thousand yards away.

“Mister Lewis?” Locke paused to wave a hand in front of Adam’s face. “Who am I speaking with, Mister Lewis?”

Adam blinked and made eye contact. “We’ve been thinking.”

“We? Who’s we?”

“All of us. We’ve been thinking about what you said. About behavior therapy.”

“And exactly what have you been thinking about it?”

“Quite a bit, actually. This whole ordeal has been a real learning experience. Very enlightening, in fact.”

Locke nodded slowly. “That’s great, Mister Lewis. I’m glad to see we’re making progress toward your rehabilitation.”

“Progress? Ha! It’s much better than that.”

“Mister Lewis, surely you can’t believe we’ve already cured you of your ills! Therapy is a very long process. We have to be sure you’re healthy before we release you into functional society!”

He grinned, a hideous leer instantly recognizable to Locke. “Jude says it worked. We’ve been rehabilitated.”

“Is that so.”

“Oh yeah. And he told us exactly how to thank you for him.”

Adam leapt out of the chair and climbed across the desk. He snatched an envelope knife from a “The Doctor is In” mug full of pens and pencils and grabbed the DSM IV off the ink blotter. Locke loosed a hoarse, pitiful scream as Adam tackled him and jabbed the envelope knife into the corner of his eye. Wielding the DSM IV like a hammer, Adam drove the knife in to the handle before the orderlies could drag him away.