The Central Maine Sanatorium, originally The Chase Memorial Sanatorium, opened in 1910 as a hospital to treat tuberculosis patients. As the rate of tuberculosis cases rose, so did the need for treatment. Extending the intimate hospital setting, construction of wooden buildings took place in 1912 but were unfortunately lost in a fire one year later. The hospital quickly bounced back rebuilding with the addition of a surgical wing and children’s unit.

At the time, there were three Maine (pun not intended) treatment centers for patients with tuberculosis. Western Maine Sanatorium, Central Maine Sanatorium, and Northern Maine Sanatorium. In more southern regions of the state, patients who seemed to be responding to treatment and were more likely to be cured were admitted or transferred to Western Maine Sanatorium in Hebron, ME. Otherwise, they remained or were transferred to Central Maine Sanatorium in Fairfield, ME. In northern regions of the state patients with tuberculosis were admitted to the Northern Maine Sanatorium in Presque Isle, ME. The Central Maine Sanatorium closed in 1970 with a portion of its rooms remaining open as the Pleasant Hill Nursing Home eventually closing in 2001.

Consider helping me deliver more content: https://www.patreon.com/imarrowsj

(All photos below were taken by my good friend and talented photographer Tamara Gaal who has kindly allowed me to share them here with you all! Go give her a follow on Instagram: @tamaragaal. Thank you again, Tami, for joining my team and I on this paranormal hunt through this relic of Maine history.)

Front View

Hallway

Room 1

Chair

Device Thingy

Furnace Room

Grandma's House

I Died In Here

Observation Window Shattered

Porch

Ouji Board

© John Marrows All Rights Reserved

Within this blog post, I’ll be discussing the creation of the short story series All My Friends Are Freaks. The significance of each of the main characters; Ethan, Twitch, and Annie will be outlined alongside a drafted map of the behavioral health center with actual photos from inside the facility! Additionally, I’ll be responding to your questions from the All My Friends Are Freaks Q&A.

SPOILER ALERT: The information within this post may reveal important plot points within the series. If you haven’t read them yet, I’ll link all three parts below. As always, they’re FREE to read!

PART ONE: All My Friends Are Freaks

PART TWO: All My Friends Are Freaks: Part Two

PART THREE: All My Friends Are Freaks: Part Three

Let me share some initial thoughts before I get rambling about the infamous children’s unit veterans; Ethan, Twitch, and Annie. All My Friends Are Freaks has been a culmination of personal perseverance, reliving unfortunate traumas, and balancing the right mix of reality with fiction. I felt like I was there, every step the veterans take on and off the unit. Putting myself back in those hospital socks wasn’t something I was comfortable doing at times, but boy howdy did I enjoy fighting for these characters and I’m hoping you did as well. Again, just wanted to say thank you to those who sent in questions either in person, Instagram, Twitter, or wherever. Thank you to all my readers!

ETHAN

In the original first draft of All My Friends Are Freaks I wanted Ethan to seem like life on the children’s unit was just another day. Moving forward I found him to best to represent the struggle many of us have to fight to belong, even when our peers respect us for who we are. Our anxiety spikes when we’re put under the spotlight, unable to perform mundane tasks, such as Ethan buttering toast like in part one. Ethan is the friend who constantly tries to show you that he cares to the point where it annoys you. He’s the friend that needs a reminder that he’s doing great things and you appreciate his presence. The friend who almost always says he’s “fine” even with a black eye and a bruised abdomen.

TWITCH

Mason Gatto AKA Twitch is a twelve-year-old foster child living with photosensitive epilepsy. Twitch’s experiences and motivations closely relate to my own. This character was intended to mirror my own struggles and triumphs within the behavioral health care system. Part two took a ton of self-exploration and putting myself back into moments where I was most uncomfortable, very vulnerable, and extremely malleable. I’m sure many artists and writers go through this process and if you have, I value and appreciate your courage to do so. There’s not much more I’d like to say about Twitch, but if you have any further questions feel free to reach out here or on Twitter and Instagram: @iMarrowsJ.

ANNIE

The character basis for Annie, as mentioned in my twitter feed a while back, is closely resembled by a close friend I had in one of these facilities growing up. She’s headstrong to a point of stubbornness and will do anything for her friends. In reality, she was, much like many others who frequented these facilities, a self-injurer that was prone to cutting. After a particularly stressful evening at home, she coped by cutting and unfortunately sliced through a major artery in her wrist eventually passing from blood loss. If you’re unfamiliar with self-injury, specifically cutting, those who use this unhealthy coping mechanism are almost never trying to end their lives, the bleeding releases endorphins which helps the body deal with pain and stress. I do NOT condone this method of coping and recommend if you are cutting to seek assistance from a trusted friend and/or adult. Regrettably, around this age, I was unable to truly grasp the meaning of our friendship as we both were attempting to navigate our own challenges. Later in my teenage years, a few of the other “veterans” and I grasped the harsh reality of her untimely death and were able to grieve appropriately.

If you or someone you know is suffering and believe to be using self-harm as a coping mechanism Text CONNECT to 741741 to speak anonymously with a crisis counselor.

If you are feeling suicidal, please know that you are not alone. You can call the Trevor Lifeline at 1-866-488-7386, the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-TALK (8255), or the Suicide Crisis Line at 1-800-784-2433.

Behavioral Health Center

Although an actual facility, I believe keeping its name and location redacted is definitely called for. The images listed below are stills illustrating the portions of the children’s unit. More specifically, the day room, nurses’ station, and a few extra things I’ll be sure to point out.

The Unit

Nurses Station AMFAF FILTERED

Pointing out a few things mentioned in the series. The nurse’s station where Twitch and Annie swiped pens from with the surveillance feed where Annie and Ethan watched Twitch noggin clock that MHW in the nose in the quiet room.

Surveillance Feed AMFAF FILTERED

The infamous magnetic locked double doors on the far left.

Double Doors AMFAF FILTERED

And of course…the observation windows into the day room with the bolt locked door that leads outside.

Outside Door AMFAF FILTERED

Unit AMFAF FILTERED

From the entrance of the double doors, a front view of the nurse’s station.

Patient Charts AMFAF FILTERED

Pointing out the patients’ charts tucked behind the nurse’s station where Annie and Twitch read through Ethan’s chart in part three.

Reader Q&A

Why is it called ‘All My Friends Are Freaks’?

All My Friends Are Freaks is ultimately for those who not only don’t fit the ‘typical’ label of society but also tend to be cast out because of their differences. Whether that be from their abusive past, their mental illness, or just their will to persevere…to survive. I’ve found that within the walls of behavioral health centers, especially if there’s a children’s unit, you’ll find hurt, shamed, abused, broken people; but you’ll also find a unique collection of people who actually understand the pain you’re going through. They get it. If you’ve ever said “you wouldn’t understand” to anyone, truly believing that you’re alone in your struggle, All My Friends Are Freaks is for you. It’s for us.

Why short stories?

Working mostly in the seasonal employment industry, I understand that time is valuable. Especially your downtime. I wanted to give my audience the ability to have a “full” read experience within twenty minutes to a half-hour. Specifically, with the All My Friends Are Freaks series, breaking it into three parts made drafting the change of POV’s smoother than attempting to squeeze them all into one piece.

Will all your works be short stories?

No. In fact, I’ve been drafting my first horror novel for about a year now. (More on that later.) Also, I have plans to pitch plays I’ve written to alternative theater companies around the US.

Why does Twitch only cover one eye in part three?

Twitch has photosensitive epilepsy and there is a reflex for some that when introduced to a potential trigger (flashing lights, fireworks, lightning, etc.) they will cover their right eye averting their gaze. For most individuals that are photosensitive, they tend to avoid situations where these triggers are present altogether. However, each individual could have different triggers with varying intensity of seizures.

Wait…is Twitch dead?

You tell me.

Would you consider writing an extra part from an external perspective like an MHW or Dr. Shaundry?

Yes and no. If this ever reaches a larger audience that calls for this, I’d love to come back and write a “special edition” sort of post.

Would you like to see your series adapted to film or television?

Hell yeah! Honestly, I’d sell this to a media outlet in a heartbeat under the stipulation that I’d be working closely with the writers. Keeping the characters accurate and true would be a priority as they’re important to me…and also me. Ha-ha.

How much of this is a blend of your own experiences with fiction?

Fantastic question! I’d say most of the “experiences” up to Samuel attacking Ethan at the end of part two sum up the non-fiction aspect. Although, not as “storybook”, the small things are what really made part one and two connect with my life. I remember being that kid in and out of hospitals and the MHW’s remembering my face, what my triggers were, plus the things I could get away with and how to help those new admittances cope with being in unfamiliar, and often uncomfortable, territory.

And yes…the Salisbury Steak is really that nasty. Ha-ha.

Once again, I’m hoping you enjoyed reading this series as much as I enjoyed writing it. Thank you to all my readers!

© John Marrows All Rights Reserved

 

Be sure to check out part one if you haven’t already: All My Friends Are Freaks

Sunlight peaks through the ripped sheets acting as makeshift curtains in this distressing excuse of a mobile home. Crucifixes ironically line the walls with quotes of false hope like “God bless our home and all who enter”. Cigarette ash falls onto my head as my foster father reaches over me extinguishing another butt in a beer can on the coffee table. Sweeping the ash from my journal, I continue to write, scribbling through the obvious grumbles of hunger coming from my stomach. After a quick swig from his flask, he derisively snorts in my direction coughing up a loogie onto my notepad.

“Dinner is served,” he mocks, laughing himself into another coughing spell.

Grasping my skull for balance, he stands then stumbles towards the bathroom. Encasing the forest green ball of mucus, I close my journal listening to his stream hit the toilet bowl. My stomach rumbles once again. Curious if he has left any scraps on the table, I peruse hastily through the bottles, cans, and ashtrays uncovering a few forgotten chicken nuggets. Glancing towards the bathroom while his stream continues, I blow ash from my foraged treat. The toilet flushes as I begin to scarf more down chewing vigorously in anticipation of his return. With a painful swallow, I open my journal jotting down anything that comes to mind seeming busy. Making his way back down the hallway, behind my busy eyes I tremble, swiftly wiping the crumbs from my face. My foot taps anxiously, but I bury my head into what I’m writing.

Approaching me, he looms villainously, sporting a criminal smile. Belt already at hand, he takes a swing hitting the side of my leg. WHIP! Jumping to my feet, I make a break for the door. WHIP! Striking my back, I cry out in pain falling to the floor. Turning to him, I crawl backward shielding my face as he winds up for one more. WHIP! Breaking the skin on my arm, I hold it close to my chest. WHIP! With a backhanded return, he continues to lash until the fact sinks in that I’m an unwelcome guest. WHIP! Swiping the side of my head I fall defeated to the floor. A few moments pass, with some extra beatings to be sure.

“Oh look, the dogs pissing on the carpet again,” he leans over to shout in my face.

His breath reeks of brown liquor and stale cigarettes invading my senses like a toxic fume of discomfort and hatred. My vision gently fades as a light seemingly passes by my eyes. I can see him confidently stumble off dropping the belt by my side, whiskey bottle now at hand. Light passes by my eyes again, brighter than before.

“The convulsing has ceased,” a nurse sporadically states as others gather around me.

“We’re just passing four minutes,” another nurse says grabbing my wrist.

“Son, can you hear me?” he asks as I slowly open my eyes drained of all energy.

“Can you hear me?” he repeats.

Nodding my head, I realize I’ve moved to the floor. Groggily I turn my torso situating myself in my own puddle of piss.

“Do you know where you are?” he asks checking my awareness.

“The hospital,” I mutter flinching from the bright day room lights.

“What’s your name?” he continues.

“Twitch,” I confidently smirk back at them.

“Let’s get him up,” he states pulling me to my feet.

An MHW grabs my other arm as they drag me out of the day room. Picking my head up for a moment I can see Ethan standing by the doorway in tears. Placing me on an examination room table my head hits a pillow and I immediately want to fall asleep, but I can hear Annie screaming down the hall. The only reason I know it’s her is by how confidently she disses the MHW’s. No one compares to the amount of courage she holds within her heart. SLAM! The quiet room door shuts, silencing her cries. In attempts to sit up, my head feels full of concrete immediately touching back down on the pillow. Lowering the lights in the examination room, an MHW slides a chair in the doorway scrolling through their phone as my eyes gradually close.

The gossiping chatter of patients lining the halls of the unit wake me up. Sitting up slowly, I hold my head for moment regrouping my surroundings. Stepping out of the examination room, the remainder of the children’s unit is lined up to head out.

“Twitch!” Ethan excitedly shouts running over to me.

“Hey Ethan, you guys going to lunch?” I ask.

“Dude, it’s almost six o’clock. We’re going to dinner,” Ethan answers.

“What, no piss stains? Someone’s growing up,” he teasingly adds.

“Pretty sure I left it all over the day room floor,” I return.

We both share a laugh.

“Glad to see you’re doing alright. You scared the hell outta everyone,” Ethan states.

“Have you seen Annie?” I inquire after a quick look down the line.

“Not since this morning,” Ethan’s excitement fades.

“Dude, she thought you were dead. We both did,” he continues.

“We talked about this before, it happens all the time,” I try to explain.

“No Twitch, this time was different,” Ethan expresses making his way back in line.

“Eyes forward, silent mouths until we reach the cafeteria,” an MHW declares before waving his access card by the magnetic lock system.

A loud buzzing indicates the doors to the unit have been unlocked. Ethan waves as they make their way to the cafeteria. Dr. Shaundry slips through the open doors as the patients exit. Greeted by the nursing staff, Dr. Shaundry smiles and waves like a cocky pharmaceutical celebrity. The doors lock behind her.

“Mr. Gatto, glad you’re up and about. You’re just the person I wanted to speak to,” she starts.

“My name’s Twitch,” I reply.

“Right. Let’s talk in here, shall we?” she points towards the day room.

Head down, I follow her into the day room. Finding my usual seat, I pull my gown over my legs holding my knees close to my chest. Staring at the floor, even though it’s been scrubbed thoroughly, I can still make out my piss stain, faintly shining under the blinding fluorescents.

“Mason,” she starts.

“Twitch,” I sharply interrupt.

“Yes, Twitch. First, I wanted to commend you on being so mature this morning. The nursing staff mentioned to me that you exuded a bit of growth in cooperation prior to the…your…the emergency,” she continues seemingly suspect.

“With that said. The medication you received earlier today wasn’t intended…it didn’t agree with your system. Do you understand what I’m saying?” she questions in a conflicting tone.

I nod my head in agreement but remain silent and now a bit confused.

“Perfect. After careful consideration, I’ve decided to take you off SP1, and onto SP2. After a few days, we can explore the idea of letting you leave the unit, but for now we want to make sure you’re safe,” she finishes.

“We’ll talk again in a few days. Keep up the good work Mr. Gatto,” she states closing my chart.

“It’s Twitch,” I whisper to myself as Dr. Shaundry hastily exits the day room.

Dr. Shaundry checks her phone before making a stop at the nurse’s station. She seems upset speaking with the head RN. With their hands raised, they seem to be oblivious as to what Dr. Shaundry is upset about. Assertively pointing to my chart, Dr. Shaundry checks her phone once more, then exits the unit bumping the dinner cart on her way out.

Missing lunch, my stomach is prompt to remind me that it’s time to eat. The unfriendly aroma of the cafeteria’s poor interpretation of Salisbury steak lingers into the day room. Annie jokes that if you rinse the congealed gravy from the sides of that rubbery slab of the reconstituted meat product that it resembles the soles of our shoes they’ve conveniently confiscated upon admittance. I usually just smoosh it between two pieces of bread covering it in ketchup hoping to mask the stench. Approaching the steel shelved trolley, I begin to rummage around for a tray with a sizeable helping. One of the nurses turns to me with a false sense of pity.

“How are you feeling Mason?” she asks.

“My name’s Twitch and…alright, I guess,” I gently respond.

“Ah, well then…Twitch, thought you’d like to know that they brought you extra chocolate milk from the cafeteria,” she happily gestures towards a few extra cartons on another tray.

“Don’t they bring those when there’s a new admittance?” I question skeptically of her offering.

“Well, yes. You’re quite observant, aren’t you? Tell you what, you take the extra carton to the day room and it will be our little secret,” she states placing a carton on my tray.

“Sure, thank you,” I finish walking towards the day room puzzled.

“Ah ah ah, forgetting something?” she snidely asks.

“Pull the plastic from your tray here, you know the drill,” she continues pointing the trash can.

Uncovering the meat and potatoes, the rancid steam assaults my nostrils. Throwing the plastic away, the nurse sarcastically smirks as I turn away.

“Let us know if you need anything else, Mason,” she calls out as I enter the day room.

“It’s Twitch,” I say under my breath.

Digging in, I stick my plastic fork into the overcooked and under seasoned thin slice of meat. Using the edge of my spoon, I do my best to cut off a piece, but am unsuccessful. Placing my spoon aside, I lift the entire slab attempting to take a bite chewing forcefully through the tough lump like a vulture pulling the intestines from a rotting corpse of an elk.

“A little barbaric, don’t you think?” Annie mocks from the entrance of the day room.

I laugh a bit, grinning as I place my food back down. Taking her usual seat, Annie releases a deep sigh, then starts eating dinner. There’s an odd feeling between us that I can’t describe. I want to speak, but I feel she wants to say something first. A mutual misunderstanding. After a few bites, Annie just pushes her potatoes around her steak.

“I-“

“Look-“

We both start, interrupting each other. Our uncomfortable, yet calming stillness is accompanied by the steady rainfall outside.

“It’s not very good,” I start.

“Is it ever?” Annie shyly smiles back.

The silence returns as our awkward moment is spotlighted under the bright fluorescents.

“Did you see Ethan, yet?” Annie asks.

“Yeah, he’s alright, I think. Are…are you alright?” I ask.

“Am I alright?” Annie begins.

“You’re the one that almost died,” she returns.

“You spent a whole day in the quiet room,” I retort.

“Ethan thought you were fucking dead Twitch…and so did I,” Annie expresses.

“Look. I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened, alright? They gave me the medicine, then I had a seizure, and now everyone’s either kissing my ass or chewing me out. The nurse even gave me an extra chocolate milk because she thought it would make me feel better or something,” I vent.

“Wait, back up,” Annie says.

“I said I got TWO chocolate milks, you want some?” I offer.

“No, you idiot. What do you mean everyone’s kissing your ass?” Annie asks.

“Oh, well Dr. Shaundry came in right before dinner and took me off SP1 and said the medication didn’t agree with me or something,” I explain.

“Then, the nurses were all smiley and nice handing me an extra chocolate milk, it was weird,” I finish.

“They fucked up,” Annie says to herself.

“Yeah, they did. If there’s a new patient, they’re not getting any chocolate milk,” I boast polishing off the first carton.

“No, Twitch. They fucked up. Don’t you see? The medication they gave you is what caused your seizure. That’s why Dr. Shaundry took you off SP1, that’s why the nurses were being so nice to you, and that’s why you got a second chocolate milk,” Annie exclaims.

“They could’ve killed you,” she finishes.

“You’re thinking way too much into this,” I reply.

A sudden flash of lightning followed by a roaring boom of thunder adds to the torrential downpour outside. The unit doors buzz as a mental health worker enters with a new patient. The boy is audibly sobbing dragging a soaked knapsack behind him, his clothes are covered in mud and hair as greasy as it could be. Head down he follows the MHW into the evaluation room. Annie and I continue picking around our trays. After a few minutes, the boy emerges from the evaluation room with the same defeated look we all had after being felt up like we’re magically hiding weapons up our asses. The MHW holds his clothes and shoes directing him towards dinner trays and the day room. Shuffling slowly towards us he grabs a tray and makes his way in continuing to whimper. Annie and I look to each other, then back at the boy. He places the dinner tray in the seat next to him and pulls his knees to his chest.

“First time here?” I ask.

Looking up for a moment, a faint black eye shines back at us. Grasping my second carton of chocolate milk, I look to him again, then walk over to him offering it up.

“Hey, ummm…my name’s Twitch and that’s Annie,” I start.

There’s no response. Looking to Annie I shrug my shoulders.

“So, I think this was really for you, but they gave it to me because they almost killed me,” I continue.

The boy glances up with a concerned expression. Turning to Annie again, she covers her face with her palm.

“I’ll leave it on your tray. They like to take notes on things we do, so try to eat something. Doesn’t have to be much,” I say trying to be supportive.

“Anyway…if you need anything Annie and I have been here for a while and know quite a bit. Our friend Ethan as well,” I finish, taking my seat near Annie.

“Idiot, you scared the shit out of him,” Annie aggressively whispers to me.

“I did not. The last thing I wanted to do after the MHW’s probed me was eat,” I retort.

“My name’s Samuel,” the boy quietly states.

“Right. Like I said, I’m Twitch and this is Annie,” I repeat myself.

“How long do I have to stay here?” he asks wiping snot from his upper lip.

“Uhhh…well probably shorter than us,” I joke.

“Usually three to five days,” Annie jumps in slugging my shoulder.

“Your parents bring you here?” she adds.

Shaking his head, he begins to hold his knees tighter.

The unit door bursts open as the other kids arrive back on the unit rushing into the day room. Ethan sprints in moving my tray aside taking his usual seat.

“Dude! Did you guys get any of that banana cream pie? It was so good,” Ethan exclaims.

Samuel sits up promptly, staring at Ethan with intent in his glare.

“Hi. I’m Ethan, what’s your name?” Ethan extends in a welcoming tone.

Awaiting a response, we all sit awkwardly twiddling our thumbs hoping he might reply.

“Ethan, this is Samuel. He just got here while you guys were at dinner,” Annie affirms unable to look away from Samuels fixated gaze of Ethan.

“Well this sure has been fun,” I interject.

Collecting my scraps of food, Annie and I dump the trash from our plates outside the day room returning our trays to the steel trolley unit. An earsplitting shriek painfully echoes through the halls of the children’s unit. Pushed aside by a nurse, an MHW rushes closely behind into the day room. Through the observation windows, Annie and I observe Samuel pounce violently onto Ethan tackling him to the day room floor. Another MHW blocks the door as we watch Samuel viciously claw at Ethan, tearing into his gown just enough to break the skin on his chest. While the MHW’s attempt to rip Samuel from Ethan, Annie aims to barge her way through the blockheaded bodybuilder obstructing the entrance. Successfully restraining Samuel, Ethan hurriedly crawls backward to the far corner of the day room.

“Code green children’s unit. Code green children’s un-,” the nurse is cut off as lightning strikes nearby cutting off power to the hospital.

Annie shoves her way through hastily making her way to the back of the day room in aid of Ethan. The MHW at the door rushes to assist in wrangling Samuel who cackles wickedly, then willingly surrenders to the power of the MHW’s. Entering the day room, I pass by Samuel who’s sporting a conceited grin with a bit of Ethan’s blood dripping from his chin. He groans in agony as an MHW digs his knee deeper into his back. The fire alarm sounds before the antique backup generator can kick in. Shielding my eyes from the flashing lights, I continue towards the back of the room reaching blindly in front of me. Annie eventually grabs my hand pulling me behind a cluster of chairs as the alarm continues to piercingly wail. She’s screaming, but I can’t make out anything she’s saying. The lights are too overwhelming as I become dizzy. Squinting my eyes, I use one hand to visor my vision slowly raising it hoping to read her lips as she shouts.

“He’s gone,” Annie shouts.

“Ethan’s not here, we have to go,” she says attempting to pull me to my feet.

Unconfidently finding my footing, Annie directs us out of the day room. Afraid to open my eyes I can hear the cries of other patients as MHW’s cluelessly attempt to regain control of this maddening situation. Forcefully grabbing my shoulders, Annie shoves me forward into a closet closing the door behind us.

“Fuck, c’mon Annie that hurt,” I cry out.

“Shhh,” Annie whispers.

“We’ll be alright as long as no one finds us in here,” she continues.

“What do you mean Ethan was gone?” I ask with a low voice.

“He wasn’t there, Twitch. When they pulled Samuel off, he crawled to the back of the room, but he wasn’t there,” Annie quickly attempts to explain.

“You think he got out the day room back door? The power might have cut out the lock systems,” I inquire.

“No, no. Any door leading directly outside is bolt locked, he’d need a key. There’s no way Twitch, there’s no way!” Annie mutters frantically.

“Okay, okay. We’ll figure it out just try and calm down,” I add.

The alarm sound subsides, Annie and I cover our mouths as we hear MHW’s walking about the unit unable to gain control of the other patients. SLAM! Annie and I jump as the unit door bursts open without warning.

“All unit doors have malfunctioned, middle unit patients are attempting to escape,” an MHW shouts onto our unit.

“We need assistance immediately,” he continues.

“Two of us will stay here, the others will head to the middle unit,” another answers.

SLAM! They swiftly exit the unit as the doors crash behind them. We can make out a few pairs of boots from underneath the door. A thick pink substance runs from under my gown. Annie nudges me pointing to it, as I slowly sit up hastily wiping it before it leaks out onto the unit.

“The majority of the kids are back in the day room; how many are we missing?” the MHW’s converse directly outside the closet.

“I don’t know two…three?” the other answers.

“You search the right corridor rooms while I watch the day room. Then we’ll switch. No room goes unturned,” they split.

“Twitch, this is our only chance. We have to go now,” Annie insists almost pushing me out of the door.

“Go where?”

“We have to find Ethan while the unit doors are unlocked,” she persists.

“Fuck alright let’s go,” I muster the courage slowly opening the door.

Staying low Annie and I use the nurse’s station as a barricade. Glancing towards the quiet room, sounds of hissing and snarling echo towards us.

“You hear that?” I ask as Annie sneaks into the nurse’s station.

“Annie, no. C’mon let’s go,” I encourage.

Annie hands me a few pens, then we turn towards the unit doors. Glimpsing at the quiet room monitor on the counter, Samuel can be seen struggling. His limbs are contorted wildly as he gripes towards the wall. Annie and I stare at the screen in awe as we witness his bones bend and crack. Even without sound, it’s terrifying to witness. He stops. We turn to each other, then back to the screen. Samuel is gone.

“Go. Now!” Annie exclaims as we both sprint towards the unit double doors.

“You ready?” she turns to me.

“Let’s do it,” I whisper back.

With a quick look over our shoulders, Annie gently pushes the doors open just enough for us to squeeze through.

To be continued…

© John Marrows All Rights Reserved

Consider helping me deliver more content: https://www.patreon.com/imarrowsj

Built in 1892 by Montreal based Roman Catholic organization, Sisters of Providence, the St. Ignatius Hospital served eastern Washington until 1964 upon the opening of Whitman Community Hospital. The facility employed nurses and functioned as an assisted living home until 2000, then was officially shut down and abandoned in 2003. In recent years the hospital was opened for public tours after rumors of being haunted and was even featured in an episode of Paranormal Lockdown with Nick Groff. Unfortunately for us, the facility was on full lockdown, boarded windows and doors, and ‘No Trespassing’ signs posted around the building. The tours offered are sold out and there’s no contact information on the current groundskeepers listed on the website. Enter at your own risk.

Consider helping me deliver more content: https://www.patreon.com/imarrowsj

Outside

Typewriter

Debri

© John Marrows All Rights Reserved

11:10PM 10/08/2003

Reminiscing in a familiar fear, he crouches tightly against the corner of the dark room. Moonlight shines down from a small window on the ceiling above the towering, uncomfortably silent, cemented walls. Covering his ears, the voices of disappointed role models only grow louder. He screams beginning to wail his fists against the thick concrete wall until his knuckles bleed. Not out of insanity, but just in the hopes he can be heard. Within this tight space; a bed frame and urine stained mattress stand center stage lined with restraints awaiting his momentarily lapse of judgment. Grinding his teeth, flashbacks of drunken screaming from the other side of a dark broom closet veil this already cruel reality. The mental health workers arrive in drones dragging him off the floor slamming his already defeated torso upon the bed face down. One by one, each limb is restrained as he cries for anyone to help. Laughing, they advise him to calm down before the head RN makes her way onto the unit. His shrieks begin to fade into a defeated sobbing as he tires himself out wrestling against the restraints. The mental health workers make way as the head RN approaches wielding a syringe filled with a powerful sedative. Puncturing his skin, directly injecting his bloodstream, what feels like wet cement quickly starts flooding his body growing heavier like an unwelcome embrace. Within a few moments, his body lays tired and conquered while a few final tears roll down his face onto the mattress as his eyes begin to close. “Feel free to try again tomorrow.” A mental health worker mockingly utters as he begins to exit laughing under his breath. As the door shuts behind them a deafening silence covers the room like a thick fog on a humid Maine morning.

05:30AM 10/09/2003

The phlebotomist makes her way onto the children’s unit bright-eyed and cheery. Opening the door, she immediately turns the light on without warning waking the boy. Still groggy from the sedative, he can barely open his eyes to see who’s there. Releasing his restraints, she helps him sit up. Trying his best to regain consciousness she preps his testing materials. “Pick an arm for me buddy and hold it out.” He does so. “Now make a fist.” As she searches for a vein to puncture she recognizes the boy from a previous visit. “What brings you back to us so soon?” Attempting to hide his black eye and bloodied lip he turns away with a silent mouth and shamed face. With only a slight grin and grinding of his teeth, she digs the needle into his vein. The absolute presence of silence joins their awkward conversation, becoming quiet enough to hear the plasma exit his body into the vial. Pulling the needle out, she places a cotton ball over the pinhole wrapping tape over top. Helping him lay back down, she turns the light out as she exits with a gloomy demeanor.

06:46AM 10/09/2003

The sun begins to rise, shining through that tiny window above. Feeling the warmth of the rays, the boy begins to writhe like a worm under a magnifying glass. Still bleary, he lays in bed a while as the mental health workers begin making rounds of vitals to the other rooms. After he gathers the energy to sit up he holds one arm close to his chest. Examining the loosely secured bandage he gags at the sight of the blood-soaked cotton ball. Opening the door slowly, the assigned psychologist to his case enters with a blood pressure monitor and thermometer. Although a familiar face, the boy makes little to no effort to acknowledge the doctor’s company. Making his way over to his bed, the psychologist sits next to him in attempts to strike up a conversation while cleaning up his bandage. “You know, we’re here to help you. Trying to fight us just makes it more difficult.” The boy is silent, he turns away. “Those people…the ones that keep hurting you, they’re gone. You don’t have to be afraid anymore.” The boy smirks just a bit, laughing under his breath. Proceeding to take his vitals the psychologist explains the boy’s treatment plan. “With last nights outburst and your frequent flyer miles here, we’ll be keeping you on SP1 for the first few days until we think you’re safe to leave the unit.” (SP1, Special Precaution 1, the highest level of surveillance a patient can receive. You can’t even shit without someone watching you.) Expecting a reaction, the doctor pauses only to receive a villainous glare from the boy. “Ninety over fifty. Your body’s tired, be sure to eat your meals. They’ll be brought onto the unit. We’ll revisit your status at the end of the weekend, I hope to hear good things.” The psychologist says finishing up a few notes into the boy’s chart. Make your bed and head out to the day room, breakfast will be here soon.” The boy sighs irritably as he begins to tuck the paper-thin sheets neatly around the mattress.

07:20AM 10/09/2003

The boy shuffles aimlessly into the day room taking a seat next to a few other kids waiting eagerly for breakfast. Glancing around the room he soaks in the faces of others who’ve been hurt, it’s bittersweet for him to witness. Almost comforting to know he’s not alone but horrified at the same time. Beyond the usual cuts and bruises, burns and welts cover their bodies. Before the group lines up for breakfast, the morning group therapy session consists of a tedious questionnaire. Each child is handed a paper and a half eaten or broken crayon. Accustomed to the content, the boy quickly circles his usual answers.

 

On a scale of 1 to 10, how’s your mood this morning?

1             2             3             4             5             6             7             8             9             10

Do you have any pain? If so, where: _____________ On a scale of 1 to 10, how much does it hurt?

1             2             3             4             5             6             7             8             9             10

Within the last 24 hours have you had any homicidal or suicidal thoughts?

Yes         No

If yes, explain:

If you were to have thoughts of harming yourself or others, would you let someone know?

Yes         No

Are you hearing things or seeing things?

Yes         No

If yes, explain:

What’s your goal for today?

_____________________________________________________________________________

 

After everyone hands in their sheet, they begin to line up for breakfast. The boy stays seated in the day room knowing he’s unable to join them off the unit. As the others head off, nursing interns from the local university in Augusta step foot onto the unit. Ready to learn, their ignorant minds are complemented by wide smiles and hopeful cheer. After a quick briefing from the head RN, the interns start to make themselves comfortable around the unit. Seeing the boy sitting alone in the day room, one makes his way in to speak with him. “Hey bud, my name’s Adam, what’s yours?” The boy doesn’t respond. “Can I look at your morning questionnaire?” Without permission, the intern grabs the boy’s sheet evaluating the boy’s answers aloud. “Feeling like a three this morning, huh? I’d say I’m about a seven.” The boy turns to the intern with an ever so judgmental expression as he continues to read. “No pain, that’s good. No homicidal or suicidal thoughts, visual or audio hallucinations. You said you wouldn’t let anyone know if you felt like hurting yourself or others, why is that?” The boys’ hypercritical glare evolves into a defeated smile as he laughs a little to himself. “When you admit your pain, they try to help. Their help…it hurts.” Befuddled, the intern pauses attempting to calculate the boy’s response. Another intern enters the day room with a meal tray from the cafeteria placing it on the table. The boy hops up sliding his socks across the floor thankfully taking a seat in front of his breakfast. “Thank you.” He states his gratitude with a smile to the other intern as he unfolds the top of the milk carton. “You’re welcome.” She returns sitting across the table from him. Glancing awkwardly over at the other intern Adam, she’s somewhat impressed at how fast the boy devours the soggy waffles and bruised banana on the tray. “You like the food here?” She says in hopes of small talk. “Sometimes.” The boy replies after a final swig of his milk. “My name’s Evelyn, what’s yours?” Without responding the boy stands heading towards the day room door placing the trash from his tray in the bin walking out to the nurse’s station.

08:10AM 10/09/2003

A loud buzzing comes from the unit door as the rest of the kids arrive back on the unit. The head RN stands from her station and struts towards the medication window, the boy follows. Knowing that he’s trailing, the head RN speaks up. “Hope you’re doing well this morning.” She starts. Reaching the window, she unlocks the door and steps inside. As the shade rises, the kids line up for their punishment in form of prescription pills. The boy looks up gazing upon the head RN as she hands him a concoction of sedatives and anti-psychotics. With a small glass of water to wash it down the boy places the colorful mixture of capsules and tablets into his mouth. After a splash of water and a painful swallow, the boy looks once more to the head RN opening his mouth wide. “Lift your tongue.” She utters knowing he’s one to hide. He does so. “Good boy.” She says in a demeaning tone. Lowering his head in embarrassment, he shuffles back into the day room.

08:30AM 10/09/2003

With group therapy about to begin, everyone gathers in the day room as one of the therapists enters introducing the interns. “Before we get started on our goals, we have some special friends joining us this morning. Adam comes to us from the Auburn area and will be joining us for group therapy, Evelyn will be with the nurses this morning and she’s from the Winthrop area. Let’s be gracious hosts and offer our attention to them.” Urine begins to spill from the chair next to the boys as his neighbor begins to seize. Most of the other kids begin to scream in disgust or fear that it might happen to them. The boy sits patiently watching the room turn into complete chaos as mental health workers arrive like riot control officers grabbing the boy next to him and exiting swiftly like nothing had happened. “Alright, alright, everyone have a seat so we can start group now please.” The therapist declares attempting to bridge the gap between what just happened and the fact that Adam the intern looks petrified. The boy laughs to himself as the kids around him find their seats. Noticing his snickering, the therapist asks the boy to go grab a mop and bucket from one of the orderlies. “It’s not my fucking piss!” The boy shouts. Everyone stops, the room is silent. Mental health workers wait patiently right outside the day room door. “Can you please grab a mop and bucket to clean up our friend’s accident?” The therapist asks once more in a softer tone attempting to keep her patience. The boy stands, locking eyes with the therapist he begins to piss on the floor soaking his hospital gown. Adam the interns’ jaw is completely dropped as the mental workers approach the boy. He runs around the room grabbing anything he can to throw, screeching as he tosses crayons and bits of trash at them. As they finally get a hold of him, the boy bites down on one of their arms breaking the skin. As blood flows out from the man’s arm, he releases the grip he has on the boy. With a moment of freedom, the boy flees towards the door as a Code White is called over the intercom. Making his way to the massive unit double doors he wails on them aggressively in hopes that they’ll open. With a loud buzzing sound, the doors open, and he’s met by three larger mental health workers swooping him up instantly carrying him to the quiet room. One by one his limbs are restrained once again. A few final tears hit the mattress as the head RN punctures his skin with that syringe of prescription wet cement. His cries are silenced by the dense quiet room door closing. The head RN observes the boy tire himself out from a surveillance stream at the nurse’s station. An orderly enters the unit with a mop and bucket rolling into the day room where group therapy continued as scheduled.

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