Fractured Mind

The sun was setting behind him as he approached the underpass. Jackson Hughes was sweating profusely, although it was 54 degrees outside, and all he had on was a flannel, jeans and one shoe.

It had been a hell of a night, and it was a lot to try and process. The only reason Jackson wasn’t running now was because he felt as though his chest would explode. The wind picked up from behind and his head turned to find nothing but leaves crossing the road in the breeze.

Must have lost it in the back roads, he thought.

The young man searched his pants pocket for smokes, but found them in his flannel pocket without a lighter, “FUCK!” he yelled, chucking his cigarettes into the gutter. The sun was almost down when soft laughter on the opposite side of the underpass could be heard. Looking in that direction, Jackson froze. There was only darkness ahead, “Hello?” Silence followed as he proceeded through the tunnel, and then: “Hello, Jackson.” The voice sounded so distant, but so familiar.

Jackson froze again, debating whether or not to turn back the other way. It was minutes from being pitch black in the underpass, and home was just around the corner. It was either go through the passage, or go all the way back around, and there was no telling where that thing was.

Ultimately, moving forward seemed to be the lesser of two evils. “Who’s there!?” He yelled. There was no response. Heart racing as he advanced forward with caution. His eyes scanning the walls and ceiling of the underpass. That thing had been climbing on walls when the chase had first ensued. Jackson tried to remember when and where the chase started.

Could this even really be happening, he thought.

The night had been like a nightmare. There was no beginning, and there was no end. Darkness started to engulf the passage to the other side of the freeway, and panic started to take its toll. Jackson picked up the pace when he suddenly heard laughter in surround sound.

Seized by fear, Jackson sprinted for the end of the passage. As he ran, the tunnel filled with the laughter of a thousand demons.

Upon reaching the end of the tunnel, he didn’t stop to investigate the maniacal cackling or the eery calling of his name. He didn’t want to know if it was the same creature chasing him earlier or something different altogether. Jackson rounded the corner to his modest home, but as he approached, he noticed the door was cracked open and there was a trail of blood leading inside. The thought of entering was almost unbearable.

Hands shaking, heart racing and body covered in a cold sweat, he reached for the door and pushed it open with a loud scrape against the floor. Thoughts of the presence chasing him earlier entered his mind while reaching for the light switch, but it did not turn the lights on. Warm liquid dripped onto his hand from the ceiling.

Fear seized Jackson, but before he could back out of the doorway, something from behind him pushed him forward, deeper into the home, and the door slammed shut.

Yelling and going head first into a pool of warm viscous liquid in the hallway. The smell of something rotting overtook his nasal passages. SCRREEEEEEEECCCCHHHHH!!!! Jackson’s eyes darted in the direction of the kitchen, where he heard something being dragged across the cement floor. He couldn’t see anybody in the house when he yelled: “I know you’re there! Leave me alone!” There was a brief pause, then he heard a demonic voice: “Not until you finish what you started.” It was as if the creature’s voice came straight from the depths of darkness itself.

It took no form and spoke coolly, as if this was not the first or last time it had said similar words. Jackson threw himself against the wall of the hallway out of fear. His eyes fully adjusted to the dimly lit hall, when he saw the gruesome scene: two bodies were scattered on the floor in a multitude of pieces; blood was splattered on the ceiling, the floors, and the walls; a variety of knives was dispersed throughout the room.

Jackson stared into the kitchen from the hall as it impossibly grew darker and colder, as if someone or something had filled it. Entranced by the black hole in front of him, there were flashes of knives swinging, blood flying and images of a man and a woman begging and screaming. He felt as if hell was sucking him into its lake of fire, when a blinding light came through the front door.

“LAPD! Drop to the floor and put your hands on your head!”

Jackson looked back to the entrance and then back to where he thought the presence had been, but it had vanished. All that remained at the end of the hallway was the same small table and the same landline.

When Jackson didn’t comply, they tackled him to the ground. A ringing in his ears rose above the commotion of the police. The realization that his parents were brutally mutilated and murdered by his own hands dawned on him. He was the monster, or the monster was a part of him. He didn’t know which it was, and it didn’t matter anymore.

Jackson thought, How long had he blacked out? Had he been off of his medications this whole time?

The police continued yelling and screaming, but Jackson couldn’t hear anything. The laughter erupted from his throat uncontrollably as the police officers flooded the house. Jackson was roughly escorted to the patrol car and immediately taken to be booked for the night.

One hour later

Detective White was sleeping deeply when he jerked awaken from the sound of his work phone going off in the middle of the night. His wife protested with a groan before rolling over and going back to sleep.

“White.”

“Double homicide on East 18th and Arrow. Time to wake up, princess. Got your coffee here already.”

White laughed with one quick exhale, “Be there in fifteen.” He hung up and got ready to head out.

Pulling up to the crime scene, he noted six patrol cars controlling bystanders with caution tape, doughnuts, and coffee. A man in a standard issue uniform raised his coffee and greeted him, “Detective, good to see you again! If you need anything, let me know.”

White simply nodded in agreement, but his face indicated he had no clue who the man was. As he approached the scene, his partner, Blake Johnson, handed him a coffee.

“We have two murdered in the hallway. We took the culprit into custody about an hour ago now. He is a twenty-two year old, white male. The victims are Mr. and Mrs. Hughes, and the murderer is their own son.”

White looked at him solemnly, “Son of the year... Sounds like a pretty straightforward case, so why am I even here?”

“You will see when we get inside.”

Johnson handed him a mask with a pained smirk on his face. White paused briefly as he grabbed it and wear it over his mouth and nose. Finally, they entered the home.

They were greeted with a rancid smell, similar to that of the sewers. The bodies had been rotting for at least two days already. Maggots had overtaken crevices of the body that had never seen the light of day.

Johnson shuddered as he exhaled heavily and said, “Per the neighbors, Jackson Hughes, the guilty party, had been acting strange the last few days and they noticed that he had been the only one in or out of the home for a couple of days and decided to call us tonight.”

A quizzical look overtook White’s face, “People leave for weeks at a time, why call after such a short period of time?”

Johnson replied, “Well, apparently, young Mr. Hughes has a violent history involving some mental illness. We found his med bottles empty, and since he didn’t overdose, we are assuming he flushed them or ran out.”

One week later

Jackson was being escorted into the courthouse by a squad of police officers in an orange jumpsuit, with cuffs on his wrists and ankles. Life had been a daze for the last week.

Back on his regimen of Risperdal and Haldol, at high doses, Jackson was too numb to process life as he now knew it. His lawyer felt the need to review repeatedly the specifics of the case, as if his client didn’t realize why he was there.

Jackson couldn’t even remember when or why he had stopped taking his medications. The monster had just gotten a hold of him… again. Half conscious, he did his best to pay attention to the proceedings. More or less, his lawyer told him to plead mentally insane to be sent to a high security psychiatric ward for the next several years. Depending on how treatment went, there might have been a chance to enter a lower security ward.

The court showed the graphic images of his parents, or what was left of them, scattered through his home. The hacksaw and butcher knife he used, still crusted with their blood. Some present at the hearing left the courtroom in absolute horror. Before being sentenced, the judge asked: “Jackson Hughes, do you have anything you would like to say to the court?” Jackson looked up, and his lips parted slightly, but no words would escape. The drugs wouldn’t let him speak. He closed his mouth as silent tears fell.

One year later

“Mr. Hughes, I am very pleased with your progress over this past year. I think we have finally found the right balance for your medications. Is your mind feeling more clear on the lower dosages I have prescribed?”

The psychiatrist, Dr. Green, sat across from Jackson with the same all black suit that he wore every day. He was a tall and large man, built more like an NFL player than a doctor of any kind.

Jackson told him: “Yeah, I feel okay. Still feel like sleeping all the time, but I can finally process everything that…” he trailed off. Not quite able to bring himself to discuss the details of what happened. The nightmares were more than enough of a reminder. “That will be all for today, Mr. Hughes, we’ll meet again tomorrow at the same time.”

Jackson could hear some dissatisfaction in the Doctor’s voice, but paid it no mind. By now, it was about 8 pm and time for his night dose of medications.

Once he was escorted back to his cell, an orderly went to administer his drugs orally. She was old and tired looking, but she had a nice smile. The woman handed the medications to Jackson in a small paper cup with a second one full of water to chase them down. The orderly took the cups and left after Jackson had tipped their contents into his mouth.

Sick and tired of being sick and tired, Jackson went to his sink and spit out his medications. He stared into the mirror. Considering himself for a moment in the reflection. He no longer recognized his face. The drugs made his mind hazy and he hated it. A couple hours later, Jackson found sleep.

At midnight, Jackson’s eyes shot open to the sound of his cell room floor creaking. He sat up immediately, looking around to find nothing. Feeling drawn to walk to his metallic mirror, he got up and reached the sink. He looked around, not seeing anything that could have made the noise. He rinsed his face and drank some from the tap.

Finally, his eyes settled on his reflection. There was a glint in his eye that had returned. No more drugs. No more rules. He felt whole again, for the first time in over a year. Smiling at himself, he heard that distant, but familiar voice: “Hello Jackson!”