For We Are Many

By Stuart Thaman

No one believes Fletcher Lee when he says he sees someone lurking in the shadows. Removed from his middle school for frightening the other children, 13 year old Fletcher is forced into psychotherapy where his visions are believed to be the result of a traumatic childhood experience. Pressured into reliving his worst nightmares, Fletcher's torments

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hydra Publications
• Release date: Jul 31, 2014
• ISBN: 9780996086776

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For We Are Many

Stuart Thaman

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Copyright © 2014 by Stuart Thaman

All rights reserved.

This book or any portion thereof

may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

without the express written permission of the publisher

except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN: 0996086773

ISBN-13: 978-0-9960867-7-6

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Hydra Publications

1310 Meadowridge Trail

Goshen, KY 40026

www.hydrapublications.com

ALSO BY

Stuart Thaman

_______

The Goblin Wars Part One: Siege of Talonrend

Vatican Massacre

Friday, October 22nd, 1976

            The waiting room at the hospital is noisy. Several televisions are mounted in the corners and they drone incessantly. It seems like people on the news always have something to talk about. All they ever do is just talk. Occasionally, a picture will flash up on the screen and some of those are interesting, but mostly all I get to see is people talking. The outfits that everyone wears are different each day, and that helps make the waiting room better. Today, the newsmen just talk about a baseball game that I wasn’t allowed to go to. I like going to games, but lately the only place I ever get to go to is the hospital. The reporter keeps saying the word ‘sweep’ but I don’t know what it means.

            Yesterday, the only thing they showed on TV was a picture of some great big ship as it sank in a river. I don’t really pay attention to the words the news people say, but I watch the pictures and stare at the screen so I don’t have to see the other people in the waiting room.

            The day before the ship wreck, I got to see a picture of an old Italian man who died. The news showed his face constantly and talked about how he might have been a mobster, but I never saw him holding a Tommy Gun in any of the pictures, so he must not have been.

            Mr. Morris sits in the corner of the waiting room like always. He usually reads magazines, but not today. His brown suit wrinkles and makes noise as he constantly shifts back and forth on the plastic chair. He looks nervous, but then again, most of the people in here are perpetually nervous.

            The fluorescent lights make everything look yellow, like the tiles and chairs and people are all sick. A nurse comes through the swinging double doors of the waiting room with a clipboard in her chubby hands. She has red hair tied up in a tight bun on the top of her head and a pair of thick glasses that do nothing for her frumpy figure.

            Mr. Morris! she calls, and the old man struggles to stand up. A younger man, probably my dad’s age, helps Mr. Morris get to his feet and walks him over to the nurse. The younger one is wearing a black suit that looks expensive and at first I think he must be related to Mr. Morris, but then I remember a story he told me once about how his only wife had died a long time ago.

            I’m sitting next to the double doors and Mr. Morris looks at me when he passes. He smiles to me like always and gives me a ‘thumbs up,’ but I shake my head. He doesn’t know.

            I walk over to the younger man and sit next to him in the chair that Mr. Morris was sitting in. I shift around like he did but the warm plastic seat doesn’t feel uncomfortable. I look at the man’s expensive suit but he ignores me and pretends to watch the news.

            Did you know Mr. Morris? I ask him, wondering if he might be one of the old man’s neighbors or friends.

            Who? he asks, disinterested. The young man still hasn’t taken his eyes from the television but I can tell he isn’t paying it much attention.

            The old guy you walked over to the nurse was Mr. Morris. Did you know him? I ask again but the man just shakes his head.

            That’s too bad, I tell him. Finally, he bothers to look at me and his face shows his confusion. You would have liked Mr. Morris. He was nice and always used to tell me stories.

            The young man shakes his head again and looks me over as though I am some sort of unknown animal. Why do you talk about him like that, kid? he asks me quietly.

            What do you mean? I put my hands in the air by my head as though I have no idea what he is talking about, but I understand. Adults always get nervous and upset when I know something they think I shouldn’t. Playing dumb usually helps me avoid their questions.

            You talk about him in the past tense. He was just here, he says and a couple other patients look over our way so he lowers his voice even more. If Mr. Morris is your friend, I’m sure you will get to see him again.

            I grin because I don’t want to scare him. My dad and the doctors always say that I scare people. They yell at me and say I should just be quiet and act like the other boys my age. According to the principal at school, I scared too many of the teachers and other students so they won’t let me go back.

            Mr. Morris is leaving today to go be with his wife, I tell the man. He looks confused so I run back to my seat in the lobby before he asks more questions.

            The receptionist’s phone rings loudly on her white desk and another nurse walks through the double doors holding a clipboard. I slide off the chair and walk to the doors. The nurse is there for me. Her nametag says Dorothy and she is friendly. She pats me on the head as I walk through the doors and down the brilliantly lit hallway. The interior of the hospital shines with disinfectant and bright white paint which takes away some of the dreariness of the waiting area. Everything smells clean and stings my nostrils.

            Machines beep and hum and doctors move around everywhere in a constant hurry. I always wondered, if the doctors are so busy that they need to jog down the hallways, why don’t they just hire more doctors? The nurse walks behind me and puts her hand on my back.

            We are going to a different room today, sweetie, Dorothy says as she leads me down a corridor I have never seen before. She stops us before a big wooden door that has been freshly painted. The name plate next to the door is blank.

            Don’t keep the good doctor waiting, she says. I turn the handle and let the heavy door swing open. The office is dimly lit and there are no windows. A small green lamp on a tiny desk is the only light source.

            You must be Fletcher, the doctor says with a sickly sweet voice. She stands and walks from behind her desk to shake my hand. The doctor is tall, taller than any woman I have ever seen. Her long blonde hair is held together in a ponytail and she wears glasses like most of the other doctors. Her glasses are smaller though, not the thick frames that remind me of soda bottles. I’m Doctor Lissa Kendrick, she says with a smile.

            I shake her hand and sit down on the low couch across from her desk. She pulls her chair around and sits across from me. With her back against her desk, the doctor’s body nearly eliminates all of the soft light from the room. She crosses her legs and I notice the high-heeled leather shoes that must have made her look so tall.

            You’re new here, aren’t you? I tell her more than ask. Dr. Kendrick looks at Dorothy standing in the doorway and nods.

            You can leave now, nurse, she says curtly. Thank you.

            Dorothy smirks. She brushes the wrinkles out of her uniform and looks to me and then at the doctor. Don’t let his cuteness fool you, she says. The nurse leans in to Doctor Kendrick’s shoulder and whispers, thinking I can’t hear her. Don’t hesitate to call us if you need any help. He will get in your head. This little guy is strange.

            I try to hide my smile, but I like when the nurses and doctors talk about me as though I’m not sitting in the room. They think that just because I am only thirteen years old, I don’t understand their whispers. I take advantage of their arrogance.

           Doctor Kendrick has a large manila folder that she thinks will tell her everything she needs to know about me. So, it says here that your father brought you in a couple months ago for psychotic behavior. She puts little air quotes around the words ‘psychotic behavior’ and flashes her disarming smile.

            I guess so, I say quietly and stare at my shoes.

            Why don’t you tell me a little about why someone would choose the word psychotic when describing your behavior? Doctor Kendrick flips through a few pages of the file and shakes her head.

            I don’t know, I say quickly. I haven’t done anything. I never hurt anyone and I don’t really like being in hospitals all of the time.

            The sound of hurried footsteps and shouting outside the door piques Doctor Kendrick’s interest so she cracks the door open just slightly enough to see the commotion. I can hear Dorothy’s panicked voice among the squabble and the distinct noise of squeaky stretcher wheels flying across the tile. What in the world? she says under her breath.

            I close my eyes in the dark room and smile. That was Mr. Morris, I tell her calmly. He just died during one of his cancer treatments.

            Doctor Kendrick hesitates. And why is that? she asks, ignoring her notes for the first time.

            I shake my head solemnly. I don’t know. I’m not the doctor here. I kick my feet against the bottom of the couch to show my impatience.

            Doctor Kendrick scoots her chair a few inches closer to me and says with a stern tone, How did you know that Mr. Morris was going to die?

            I don’t know. I told you, I’m not a doctor.

            The therapist gets up and sets her folder of notes down on her chair before excusing herself and going into the hallway. I wait just a few seconds before reaching out and flipping the stack of documents open. I see my picture paper-clipped to the first sheet. It is a photo of me in my baseball uniform from last year that used to be framed and sitting on the nightstand in my dad’s bedroom.

            The door opens swiftly and Doctor Kendrick laughs. I try to flip the folder back to its original position but she has already caught me. Thought so, she says, her voice filled with glee. "So it seems the nurse was right, Fletcher. You are a clever one."

            Sorry, I say, defeated. She shuts the door and returns to her post on the chair in front of her desk and looks into my eyes. With her hair pulled back so tightly, her face seems overly angular and foreign. Her eyes tilt up at the corners just slightly enough to make her radiate a certain kind of exotic beauty. In the soft light of the windowless office, her pale skin and light blue eyes are flawlessly enticing.

            Did you kill Mr. Morris? For a moment, her voice loses its subtle, melodic gentleness and takes on a sharp edge that betrays her nervousness.

            He had cancer… I say, but my voice trails off, struggling to overcome the sudden lump in my throat. Our eyes are locked and I want to look away or bolt out of the office but I can’t.

            Did you kill Mr. Morris?

Sunday, October 24th, 1976

            I like going to Sunday school every week. It makes me feel like I’m normal again since the doctors and my dad won’t let me go back to my regular school. An hour before the service starts I get dropped off at the Methodist church where my mom used to go until she died. Dad never went to church with us, but he never does much of anything except for work. All he ever wants to do is go on sales trips and drive to business meetings.

            Alright students, today’s message is about Jesus performing miracles, the instructor says with a cheerful voice. Mr. Davis, the Sunday school teacher, is a fat man. He wears baggy sweaters every week to church even though the building doesn’t have air conditioning and it usually gets hot inside the classrooms. That just makes him sweat and by the end of the class he smells like old cheese and beer.

            There are only a handful of other students in the class because the church congregation is small and mostly comprised of older people. None of the kids sit by me. They all used to be my friends, but when I got kicked out of school, they stopped talking to me. Sometimes I hear their parents whispering about me in the hallways like Dorothy and Doctor Kendrick did. I understand everything they say and I know when they are about to tell secrets about me because of the sidelong glances they all use.

            We are going to read from the gospel of Mark today, children, Mr. Davis goes on. His great big belly heaves and jiggles with every word. He looks like a giant Christmas ornament in his bulky sweater, sitting on one of the short chairs meant for little kids. He looks around the room at all of the students, doing his usual scan to see who remembered to bring their Bible. I always have mine, but most of the other kids don’t bother to bring one.

            Fletcher, he says with a genuine smile, would you mind reading to the class? Before I have the chance to respond, he points to the old Bible in my lap and tells me the chapter and verse.

            ‘And they came over unto the other side of the sea, into the country of the Gadarenes. And when He was come out of the ship, immediately there met him out of the tombs a man with an unclean spirit’, I read aloud, taking the unfamiliar passage slowly. All of the other kids in the class groan.

            We don’t like his version, they complain. Yeah, the King James Bible sounds weird, another says, adding to the chorus of discomfort.

            Quiet down now, class, Mr. Davis says. He is always too nice. The teachers in school would have yelled at the other kids for talking over someone when they were reading aloud. Mr. Davis says that he never raises his voice because he needs to save it for singing. The loudest member of the church choir, Mr. Davis claims that he used to be an opera singer with a promising career. I don’t think anyone would pay to see such a fat man sing in a dorky sweater. Larry, why don’t you pick up where Fletcher stopped, he commands as nicely as possible. Some of the kids chuckle; whenever Mr. Davis wants something done, he always has Larry