The door to the examination room was painted a pale green color. The paint was chipping and the door knob seemed to be made of crystal. An unlikely prospect.
Hank Mioz stared blankly down the long hallway illuminated by an indigo industrial glow. Shuffling his feet one after another in quick succession he began to move towards the door. The drumming of the air conditioner encompassed everything around him, resonating through the walls, the floor boards, and his aging spine. He walked with a subtle limp, his back never perfectly straight, his posture more bent than upright. His gait was sheepish, although he didn't mean it to be. His jeans were faded, and his shirt was far too small for him. The sleeves barely covered his elbows, and inevitably constricted his bulging, flabby arms. Ever since he had left the core, his muscles, along with his domineering mindset, had helplessly faded away. He, much like the paint on the examination room door, would never be restored to his former glory.Hank extended a rough, calloused hand and turned the knob. He felt its smooth, polished surface. It was glass, not crystal.
As he entered, a wave of cool air hit him, stinging his eyes and ears. The unmistakable scent of iodine hung in the air. The nurse greeted him with a smile as plastic as the chair she sat on. Hank mustered a grimace of paralleled sincerity. The nurse abandoned her friendly charade.
"Hello, Mr. Mioz." She said, unenthusiastically. "We've been expecting you. Please, have a seat over there." The nurse pointed to a crude plastic chair in the corner of the room. Hank nodded in response as he slowly walked over to the chair and sat. After fidgeting restlessly for a moment, Hank glanced up at the nurse.
"Where is my son? Will he be here soon?"
"Yes, hun. Doctor Mulrose will bring him in shortly. Would you like a magazine to read?"
"No, I'm fine."
Hank rubbed his hands together nervously. Sweat slowly ran down the side of his face. He hadn't seen his son in fifteen years. Fifteen long, harrowing years. A lot had happened since his last visit to the Brandy Asylum. Even still, he could vividly remember the day of his son's admittance. He could remember walking him up the front steps, past the receptionist's desk, and into a fluorescent examination room, much like the one in which he sat. He could remember the furious, yet empty look on his son's face as he watched him being carted away in tight, leather restraints. He could remember the screams, the tears, the painful regret. And yet, he couldn’t recall the last words his son had spoken to him. He could picture his face, his lips mouthing rapidly, his expression contorted. God, how he wished he could remember.
"Excuse me, sir? Dr. Mulrose says you can wait in the examination room. He’ll be bringing your son in there to meet you."
"Ok, that’s fine. Thank you." Hank stood and walked across the room to the examination room door. He opened it and walked in. Closing the door behind him, he strolled over to a chipped wooden chair in the corner. He sat.
After several excruciating minutes, the door swung open. In walked a young man with red, curly hair and broad, intimidating shoulders. Hank assumed that he was Dr. Mulrose. Mulrose pushed a grey hospital gurney carrying a man dressed in an all white patients’ one-piece, the regulation garb for the mentally insane. Mulrose held a clip board under one arm and what seemed to be a bottle of pills beneath the other. A brief silence ensued. Mulrose was the first to break it.
"Hello, Mr. Mioz. A pleasure to see you again." Hank stared at his son. Not once did he look at Mulrose. Not once. Several long moments passed.
"Excuse me, Mr. Mioz. Did you not hear me? I said that it was a pleasure to see you again."
Hank ignored the doctor’s words, his eyes fixed on his son’s face. Staring. Just staring, searching for something that wasn’t there. Finally, Hank spoke.
"This isn’t my son." Hank whispered softly, dangerously.
"What do you mean this isn’t your son? Ryan Mioz, admitted January 4, 1976, age 27, blood-ty-" Hank suddenly stood, and in a cold, piercing voice, cut off Mulrose.
"I said, this isn’t my god damn son! Where is my son! Let me see my boy!" Tears began to well in the corners of Hank’s eyes. His arms hung at his sides, his fists began to clench.
"Mr. Mioz, I can assure you, this is your son. Ryan, say hello to your father." Mulrose stepped back, allowing Ryan to speak. Ryan remained emotionless. His eyes were shut. His face was cold. He seemed to be unconscious.
"Go ahead, Ryan, say hello. It’s been awhile, haven’t you missed him?"
Hank took a step forward.
"God dammit, doctor, this isn’t my son! Get my son in here, now!" Tears began to roll down Hank’s face. Snot began to dribble from his nose. He shot a hateful, bitter look at the man in the doorway. He was a stranger.
"Did you hear me? I said now, doctor! This man is not my son! He is not my son!"
Dr. Mulrose sighed heavily. Taking off his spectacles, he sat down on an old, yellowed desk that sat in the corner. He pulled a black, checkered pipe from his front pocket and twirled it in his left hand. Sympathetically, he looked down at his mahogany loafers, and then back up at Hank.
"Mr. Mioz, this is your son. I know it has been a long time but please, believe me. I urge you from the bottom of my heart, as a father and as a clinical professional, to accept him as he is. Granted, he has changed a bit, but I assure you it’s for the better."
Hank took another step towards Mulrose. He had lost all control, his fists shook with frustration, his knuckles turned a ghostly white. This man was not his son, he had not raised this man. His eyes were dead, his mind was rotted, his expression was cold, unfamiliar. Hank glared at Mulrose. He was reaching his breaking point.
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"My son has bright red hair! You’re telling me his god damn hair color’s changed?" Mulrose suddenly turned pale, mirroring Hank’s bloodless knuckles. He dropped his checkered pipe on the floor, spilling tobacco everywhere. He sat like a statue, his eyes boring into the yellow file cabinet that stood across the room. Hank took another step forward.
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"How, doctor!? He isn’t my son! Check on your fucking clipboard, I’m sure it’s there!" Mulrose glanced down at his clipboard. His eyes scanned the yellow identification papers. After several moments, he looked up.
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"Mr. Mioz, I don’t know what to tell you. This is your son, I know it is." Hank finally lost it. Saliva flew from his frothing lips. Suddenly, in one swift motion, Hank swiveled and grabbed the chair he had been sitting on, flinging it in Mulrose’s direction. The chair smashed into the brick wall above Mulrose’s head, snapping both of the back legs off. Hank began to advance on Mulrose, who had retreated to the yellow, metal file cabinet across the room.
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"Mr. Mioz, please, calm yourself! You don’t know what you’re doing!" Hank ignored him and hobbled on. Several feet from him, Hank stepped on Mulrose’s checkered pipe, and slid several feet backwards. Completely caught off guard, Hank tumbled to the ground with a hard, dull thud. On the way down, his temple smashed into the filing cabinet, knocking him hopelessly unconscious. Mulrose, frightened, stood slowly. He crept over to Hank, who lay in a crumpled, bloody mess, and cautiously knelt down beside him. Hank’s left leg was bent forwards, it seemed to have shattered. Mulrose, with shaking hands, reached for Hank’s left pant leg to assess the damage. As he rolled back Hank’s torn blue jeans, he found himself staring down at a cold, solid prosthetic leg, that was now broken just above the ankle. Just above the ankle sat a brown, leather holster. He unbuttoned it, and peeled it open. He found himself staring down at an old, dusty colt 45. Ryan remained still. Mulrose sighed with relief, and pulled a syringe from his pocket. He tilted Hank’s head to the side, and injected the needle into his neck. He stood, and then walked towards the man on the stretcher.
"Looks like we won’t be needing you after all, Harrison." Mulrose pulled out a larger, syringe and stuck the man with it. His foot twitched as he let out a soft, distant whimper.
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"How many times have I told you, boy, keep that damn dog out of the house!" Hank stood uneasily on his front porch wielding a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels. He wore a ripped flannel shirt and a pair of stained carpenter’s pants. Paint littered the front, and there was a large tear near the crotch. The pants were baggy. They were meant for a man twice his size.
An underweight mutt scampered out the door. Hank kicked out at it, narrowly missing the dog’s head. Hank plucked the cigar he had been smoking from his mouth and twirled it around his fingers.
"Come here, Rosie!" Ryan yelled. There was a hint of urgency in his voice. Although he was used to his father’s drunken tantrums, his most recent episodes had been increasingly violent.
"Come here!" Ryan repeated. The dog ran to Ryan, who was standing a few yards from the house. Bruises littered her back. Open, bright red sores were scattered across her forehead, each one about the size of a cigar butt. Ryan looked down at her sympathetically, lovingly. He knew what had made those sores. Who had done this to his dog. He stared at his father, who was now fidgeting with his left shoe, trying to get it to fit correctly. He felt a sudden surge of frustration and anger. Of passionate, yet confusing regret.
"Why do you always gotta do that? Huh? Why do you always gotta be such as ass?"
Hank glared at Ryan. Taking a swig of Jack, he began to drunkenly make his way down the front steps.
"Why are you such a fucking coward, huh? Picking on a little pup like that? You’re nothing but a coward, you know that? I fucking hate you!" Hank stopped abruptly. His head shot forward, his neck erect. His face, which was a dark shade of red, began to turn a deep violet. The veins in his neck began to bulge dangerously.
"What’d you say to me, boy?" Hank paused for a moment, waiting for Ryan to respond, daring him to. There was no response.
"What’d you say to me, boy? What the fuck’d you say to me?" Hank tucked the bottle into his back pocket and rolled up his flannel sleeves. Ryan took a few steps backward. He knew he had made a mistake.
"Did you just call me a fucking coward?" Hank was down the steps now and advancing across the front lawn. Ryan continued to slowly walk backwards, quickly now.
"Let me tell you something, boy. I ain’t no fucking coward. You hear me? Do you know how many little gook pricks I’ve killed? Do you know how many times I’ve taken another man’s life! Do you!?" Hank trailed off in drunken exasperation. He began to pick up speed. Ryan quickened his pace, still walking backwards.
"You ungrateful, little piece of horse shit! You’ve done it this time!" Hank bellowed, furiously. Something in the air had changed, something crucial. This time was different, Ryan knew it was. He was in danger. Real danger.
Hank suddenly burst into a labored sprint, gunning straight for Ryan. Ryan, in a state of panic, whirled around and began to run in the opposite direction. The moment he did, his foot snagged on a large, ash-colored root sticking up from a small tuft of bright green crab grass. In a shroud of dust, Ryan’s legs collapsed beneath him, sending him into a wild somersault, his arms flailing helplessly. He collided with the earth, face first, his teeth viciously ripping into his tongue. Ryan lay there for a moment, breathing. He swirled the blood around in his mouth. It tasted like copper. A few droplets ran down his chin. Wiping his eyes, Ryan rolled over. He stared at the sun with burning, teary eyes. Carefully, he craned his neck, trying to catch a glimpse of his father. Hank was several feet from him now. He had stopped running, there was no need to. The chase was over.
"You little piece of shit," Hank muttered as he stood beside Ryan. Ryan looked up, shielding his eyes from the sun with a dusty, bleeding hand. His father was holding something. It was moving.
In one hand, Hank held Rosie by the scruff of her neck, her legs kicking helplessly. Ryan couldn’t make out what Hank was holding in the other. He craned his neck a bit more, sitting up on his elbow. A small twig carved into the open scrapes on his wrist. What he saw horrified him. His legs began to quiver, his fingers began to quake.
"No..."
Ryan could make out the faint silhouette of a pistol. Hank grinned savagely, boasting a set of yellowed, corrosive teeth. He waved a dull colt 45 in front of Ryan’s eyes.
The gun was far past its prime. There were three dents on the barrel, one in the center and two near the very end. The handle was stained brown with tobacco, and there was a large paint stain on the trigger. Ryan knew it well. How many times had he sat on his father’s knee and listened to his war stories, cradling the weapon in his hands, curiously exploring its every bump and crevice? He knew it so well, and yet, he was never fully aware of its destructive power. Not once had he acknowledged its deadly nature. Not once, until now.
"How many times have I told you to keep this god damn dog outside?" Hank yelled at his son, incoherently. There was a sickening pause.
"How many god damn times?" Ryan remained still. Again, a few moments passed. To Ryan’s surprise, Hank placed the gun on the ground, out of Ryan’s reach. Smiling, in one swift motion, Hank yanked the cigar from between his teeth and jabbed it into Rosie’s eye. She began to thrash furiously, letting out one continuous, ear-splitting yelp. Hank held on, digging the cigar further and further. Ryan lay in horror, watching him brutally torture Rosie. When Hank was satisfied, he flicked what was left of the cigar at Ryan and bent down to pick up the gun. He glared down at Ryan.
"How many god damn times?!" Hank repeated, ferociously.
Slowly, he brought the gun to Rosie’s head. Ryan lay in a crumpled mess. He began to sob silently. He couldn’t speak. Dark red blood oozed from his lips, pain shot through his body. Hank rested the barrel on Rosie’s nose. He spat out of the corner of his mouth. Saliva dribbled down his chin.
"Well, looks like we won’ have to worry about her no more, will we?" Hank grumbled with a grin. Ryan reached out an open hand in protest. It was hard for him to keep his eyes open. His world was going red. It was going to hell.
Hank shook the dog viciously and laughed. Rosie yelped, her legs flailing in all directions. He raised the colt 45 to her temple. The gun gleamed angelically in the sunlight. Despite its age, it looked beautiful set against the bright, Arizona sky. Hank spat again. After taking a moment to appreciate the large, yellow puddle on the ground beneath his feet, he squeezed the trigger with a drunken chuckle. A deafening blast, a hazy red spray, an intense burning sensation. Rosie had gone limp. Hank threw her to the ground with a devilish grin. She lay lifeless, drenched in the afternoon sunshine. Ryan’s head fell backwards, thumping against the hot, dusty earth.
Sobbing silently, Ryan let his eyes flutter shut.
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Hank Mioz awoke with a start. His head was swimming. He felt a cool, refreshing liquid dribbling down the side of his face. In his mindless haze, he welcomed it with groggy enthusiasm. Its gentle touch was refreshing, even though he knew it wasn’t sweat. He had no idea what had happened, nor did he know where he was. He tried to open his eyes, only to realize that he had never closed them. The room in which he lay was pitch black, and the subtle stench of iodine had been replaced by something a bit more relaxing. It reminded him of his home in Arizona, of the harvest. Of his his family. Of his son.
And then it hit him. Ryan. Hank tried to sit up, but found that he was strapped to a solid, metal bed by leather restraints. He tried to lift his neck, but found that his head was tied down as well. Every muscle in his body strained in futile defiance. He tried to scream, but couldn't. He had been gagged with some sort of medicinal rag. It was soaked in a foul smelling liquid. He was certain that it wasn’t water.
Hours passed. Hank slipped in and out of consciousness. Reality blended seamlessly with fevered dream as his body seized back and forth in strained rebellion. He had fallen victim to the perpetual, blinding darkness. It was unbearable. His mind whirred, searching for some sort of explanation, for an answer. His eyes scanned the emptiness for a sign, for relief. He found nothing.
Mulrose sat in the room next door sipping a steaming mug of hot coffee. Smacking his lips, he stared through the glass at Hank. A security officer stood at his side.
"He went berserk, you say?" Asked the officer. Mulrose glanced up at him.
"Yes, yes he did. Thankfully, he subdued himself. No intervention was needed."
"Pity. It’s my first day on the job. I was hoping to see some action." The officer grumbled.
"Yes, pity." Mulrose stood, placing his mug on the desk in front of him. "I think he’s had enough. I’d better go in and evaluate him."
"Whatever you say, Doc." "And Smith, let me make this perfectly clear. No one is to know of this. I merely called you for security reasons. Don’t mention this to a soul. I mean it."
"Yes, Doctor Mulrose. That is your name, right? Mulrose? I’m still learning names, and I’ve always been terrible with na-"
"Yes, it is Mulrose. And not a soul, Smith."
"Of course. I won’t tell anyone." "Good. Now, I’d appreciate it if you left."
"Yes, no problem, sir." Smith turned around and grabbed his hat off the corner of Mulrose’s chair. Dusting it off, he popped it on his head and walked out the door, whistling. Mulrose watched Smith walk down the long corridor to the main ward, listening to his heavy footsteps. When they had finally faded, he locked the door behind him. Mulrose picked up his clipboard and flipped a switch. Suddenly, the room Hank lay in was illuminated by blinding florescent lights. Mulrose pushed a large red button, opening the large metal security gate separating the rooms. He began to stroll towards Hank.
"Hello, Mr. Mioz. How are we doing this fine morning?" Hank squinted. His eyes burned. He let out a muffled yelp.
"There we are, signs of life! Good!" Mulrose chimed as he walked up to Hank’s bed. Staring down at him with a wide grin, Mulrose removed the gag from his mouth.
"W-what have you done to me?" Hank coughed. "W-where am I?"
"Well, you, you don’t know?" A puzzled look came over Mulrose’s face. Scratching his chin, he continued to star down at Hank, who had begun to sweat profusely.
"N-No, I don’t. Where am I? And where is my son?" Hank said, forcefully now. Mulrose appeared even more puzzled. He paused, and then spoke, slowly. "Mr. Mioz, what are you talking about? You don’t have a son."
"What? Of course I do. Where is my son?" Hank began to panic. He strained his neck, trying to look around the room, searching frantically.
"Ryan! Ryan! Where are you!"
"Mr. Mioz, please, stop. Calm down, you must have been dreaming. You don’t have a son."
"Are you fucking daft, doctor! Of course I have a son! Why d’you think I’m here!" Mulrose looked down at him in sympathetically.
"You’ve been here for the last 13 years, Mr. Mioz. With me."
"N-no. I haven’t. No. You’re lying. Where is my son? Ryan! Ryan!"
"Alright, Ryan, am I going to have to sedate you again? You know I hate doing it." Hank paused.
"W-what? What did you just call me?"
"I called you Ryan, of course. Your name. Ryan Mioz." Hank stared at Mulrose, his eyes wide and unblinking.
"Ryan is my son’s name. I’m Hank, Hank Mioz. You know that, don’t you doctor?" Hank stuttered.
"No, you’re name is Ryan. And if you don’t stop this, I will sedate you. Don’t think that I won’t."
"I’m Hank! Ryan is my son! Where th’fuck is he!? Ryan! Ryan, can you hear me!"
"That’s it, Ryan. You’ve brought this upon yourself." Mulrose reached inside his pocket and pulled out something long and brown. Hank could only see it out of the corner of his eye. Oddly, it didn’t seem sharp. It definitely wasn’t a needle, Hank was sure of it. Mulrose pulled a red-striped lighter out of his shirt pocket. Casually, he ignited the lighter and brought it to his face. Suddenly, Hank realized what Mulrose held in his hand. A cigar.
Mulrose lit the cigar and took a long, exaggerated hit. He blew smoke into Hank’s face. He took another long draw, leaned over Hank’s chest, and began showering him with fiery embers. The smoke made Hank’s eyes run. He began to cough uncontrollably.
"That’s it, soak it in. You love cigars, don’t you?" Hank didn’t respond. He could barely breathe.
"Of course you do. You’ve always loved them, haven’t you?" Hank continued to cough. Mulrose, puffing on the cigar, let out a high pitched chuckle.
"Oh my, what’s the matter? I thought you loved these things?" Mulrose held the cigar inches from Hank’s left eye. Hank began to thrash helplessly.
"No! No! Doctor what are you doing?!" Hank screamed. "No! Help!"
"Oh, come now, Mr. Mioz. It’s high time you got what was coming to you, don’t you think?" Hank could feel the cigar hovering above his eye lid. His eyelashes began to burn ever so slightly. He continued to scream in protest, the veins in his forehead bulging uncontrollably.
"No! No, doctor! Y-you can’t! You can’t!"
"And why is that, Mr. Mioz? Why can’t I? Give me one good fucking reason why I shouldn’t burn your eyes out?" Mulrose was screaming now. His eyes were wild, his fingers trembled. Suddenly, he thrust the lit cigar into Hank’s left eye, grinding it deep into his socket. The cigar suddenly snapped in half, spilling ash across Hank’s burned face. His face was covered in blood. Hank’s left eye had been destroyed. The pain was unbearable.
"Oh, lucky you! These damn generic pieces of shit were such a waste of money, don’t you agree? I wish I had brought some Cubans."
Hank writhed in agony. Once again, he began to sob. Suddenly, a voice sounded from the speaker above his bed. A female nurse’s nasally voice filled the room.
"Doctor Harrison Mulrose, please report to the Detention Ward. You’re assistance is required." Mulrose shot a frustrated look at the speaker. He let out a muffled, inhuman growl.
"Well, looks like you’re very lucky today, Ryan! But, not lucky enough, I’m afraid. We’d better speed this up, don’t you think? We don’t have much time left. They’ll be down here looking for us soon."
Hank, overcome with pain and fear, began to lose consciousness.
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"R. Mioz: Highly intelligent, 14 years of age, schizophrenic." The words cut into Ryan like a knife.
"Son, it’s for the better."
Ryan glared across the table at his father, his brow furrowed, his eyes filled with hate. A man dressed in a white lab coat and brown spectacles sat next to him. His face was dotted with scars, and his forehead had three long, deep creases running across it. Hank looked to the man with hollow eyes. The man sensed Hank’s helplessness. He responded.
"Ryan, let me remind you, this is for your own good. You’ll be happier here. Things will be better here."
"Listen to the doctor, Ryan. He’s telling you the truth. This is for your own good." Ryan held his hateful stare. He remained motionless. The doctor and Hank exchanged a worried glance. The doctor sighed, rubbing his eyes.
"Listen, Ryan. You don’t have a choice in the matter. You’re a smart boy, you know that you’ll be a patient here at Brandy, one way or another. You can either go willingly, like a good boy, or, we can have you sedated, restrained, and carted to your room." Ryan remained still. He began to grip the arms of his chair, his arms began to shake. His father began to lose his patience.
"That’s it. Son, get up." Ryan ignored him. His father began to raise his voice, his face darkening.
"Get up, now, Ryan!" The doctor opened his mouth to speak, but decided against it. He watched Hank as he stood, pointing a shaking, pudgy finger at his son.
"Now! You will not pull this here, boy! You’ve cost me too much! Too god damn much!" Ryan suddenly stood, breathing heavily. Fists clenched, he stared his father down, unblinking. In a deadly whisper, he spoke.
"You selfish piece of shit. This is your fault! This is your fucking fault! I hate you! I fucking hate you!" Hank, in response, lunged across the table at Ryan, ferociously. The doctor, predicting a scuffle, was ready. Swiftly, he grabbed Hank’s collar, yanking him backwards. Ryan flinched.
"Mr. Mioz, control yourself!" The doctor breathed. Hank whirled around, arms raised. He contemplated retaliation, but decided against it. He sat, slowly. Ryan remained standing, wavering back and forth.
"I hate you! I hate you!" Ryan screamed. The doctor, flustered now, called to the nurse in the other room.
"Claire, send them in!" Three security officers filed in, each one wielding a wooden club. Ryan spun his head, eyes wide. He blinked.
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Hank stared at the ceiling, his left eye clamped shut. His right eye began to twitch. Mulrose let out yet another high pitched chuckle.
"Oh, how I love this. I love it, love it, love it!" Hurriedly, he whipped out his checkered pipe and began to smoke it. After taking a few puffs, he held it over Hank’s bleeding eye socket. Carefully, he tapped the side of the pipe, showering Hank’s bloodied face with even more ash. Hank, now covered in puss and debris, let out a yelp.
"Why...why are you doing this to me? What have I done?" Mulrose paused, and then suddenly slammed the pipe down, grinding it into Hank’s open wound. Ferociously, he answered.
"Why do you think, Ryan Why the hell do you think?" Hank continued to sob. Helplessly, he began to blubber.
"I...I dunno’. Please, stop. Stop!" Hank’s right eye was wide now. It was bloodshot from the ash and smoke. Tears streamed down his face. Mulrose glared down at Hank, his shoulders rising and falling heavily. He opened his mouth to speak, but stopped himself. His eyes were glued to the metal security gate. It was opening. He could make out three silhouettes behind the glass, each one with a security officer’s hat on. Mulrose stood, immediately. He dove his hand into his back pocket, fidgeting with something. As he searched, the security gates opened. As he had predicted, three security officers strolled in, shoulders raised. They were nervous. Something had happened. Among them was Smith.
A change came over Mulrose. He sat, calmly, folding his hands on his lap. As they approached, he raised a hand and waved.
"Hello, gentlemen! I’ve been expecting you! I’ll be finished with Ryan here shortly. Please, wait outside."
They ignored him and pressed on.
"Excuse me, gentlemen! Please wait outside! This patient is unstable, it’d be for the better if you waited outside!" Mulrose’s voice began to waver.
They pressed on, hands hovering inches from their firearms.
"Stop! Stop right there!" Mulrose was screaming now. He stood, moving his hand towards his back pocket. Smith spotted him. He stopped, signaling for the others to stop as well.
"Put your hands on your head! Now!" Smith barked. Mulrose froze. His expression, wild.
"Alright, gentlemen. We wouldn’t want this to get out of hand, now, would we?" Mulrose chuckled as he sat back down, resting his blood stained hands on his head. One of the officers approached. He seemed to be in charge, and was the oldest of the three.
"Lie down on the ground. On your stomach, let’s go." Mulrose ignored him, smiling.
"On the ground, now!" Mulrose continued to smile. The lead security officer unholstered his pistol and pointed it at Mulrose.
"I will shoot, I am authorized to kill you!" Mulrose’s smile remained as cheerful as ever. He arched his right eye brow.
"Oh, I’m sure you are." Mulrose laughed. Smith and the other officer dove for their pistols. Hank fought the leather restraints, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of the scene. He managed to twist his head to the side so that he could just barely see the metal security gate. In its doorway stood a man with brown, curly hair. He was dressed in an all white patients’ one piece, the regulation garb for the mentally insane. Beside him stood a woman in a doctor’s lab coat. She was short despite her red high heels. They looked odd, out of place, in such a cold, industrial environment. The man suddenly spoke.
"Ryan, listen to the officers." Mulrose squirmed in his seat. He ran a bloodied hand through his auburn-red hair. His smile faded.
"Did you hear me, Ryan? Listen to the nice man. Lie down on the ground, now." Mulrose let out an inhuman squeal. His eyes darted around the room.
"I-I am not Ryan. I am Doctor Mulrose. Doctor Harrison Mulrose." Mulrose spoke with a trembling voice. The man began to walk towards the security officers, who had their guns pointed straight at Mulrose.
"No, I am Doctor Harrison Mulrose. You are Ryan Mioz. You’re in a boat load of trouble, Ryan. You’ve really done it this time." Ryan began to mutter beneath his breath. Hank couldn’t make out a word of it.
"I haven’t done a thing. W-who is this man? I am Doctor Mulrose!" Ryan trailed off. He began to reach for his back pocket again.
"Stop that, Ryan. And you’ve done quite a bit, actually. We’ve got you for assault and battery, first degree torture, assault with a deadly weapon, among other things." Doctor Harrison Mulrose and the woman stood beside the lead security officer. The doctor rested a hand on the officer’s arm, lowering his gun.
"Please, holster your firearms. They are no longer needed, I can take it from here."
"A-are you sure, doctor?" Stuttered Smith, keeping his eyes on Ryan.
"Yes, of course I am sure. Holster them. They’re unnecessary." The officers complied. Mulrose began to walk towards Ryan.
"Ryan, I know you’re scared. Please, calm down. No one wishes to hurt you." Ryan ignored him, his let hand still resting on his head, his right grasping something in his back pocket.
"Come here, Ryan." Mulrose stood several feet from him with an outstretched hand. Ryan stared at it with hollow eyes. Slowly, he stood, hand still in his back pocket. He took a step towards Mulrose.
"Now, that’s a good boy." Mulrose whispered. Ryan took another small step towards him. As a smile broke over the doctor’s face, Ryan lunged at him, teeth bared. Clenching the back of his shirt, Ryan spun him around. Wrapping his arm around his neck, Ryan held Mulrose in an astranged, one-armed choke hold, his other hand still in his back pocket. The security officers responded quickly. Mulrose’s face began to turn bright red.
"Put him down! Now!" Screamed Smith, pointing his gun straight at Ryan’s head. Ryan merely smiled, and pulled something long and silver from his back pocket. Hank could barely make it out against the bright laboratory fluorescent lights. Mulrose’s eyelids began to fall.
Finally, as Ryan raised the object to Mulrose’s temple, he realized what it was. It was a colt 45. His colt 45.
"Now, everyone just stay calm." Ryan said in a deep voice, crudely mimicking Doctor Mulrose.
"We WILL shoot you!" Smith screamed again. Ryan simply smiled and pulled the trigger. There was a loud crack, nothing more. As Mulrose fell, he pointed the gun at Hank. Resting the barrel on the side of his father’s ear, Ryan pulled the trigger once more, swiftly. Hank’s body twitched violently, and then went still. Blood cascaded down the side of his face, collecting in a small pool on the floor. The officers opened fire. Ryan raised his arms in a morbid embrace, his body resembling a bloodied, demented cross. He fell, bullets peppering his chest and face. He lay in a crumpled mess on the floor. Smith walked up to him. Cautiously, he knelt down next to him. Blood poured out of Ryan’s mouth. His chest shuttered. He was trying to speak.
"Save it." Muttered Smith, coldly. He had never really liked the sight of blood. It made him nauseous.
"R-Rosie." Breathed Ryan. His eyes fluttered shut.
