Page 9 of Under the Bed

That part, this weakness when it comes to me, is what he hates the most. The bald asshole has been holding a grudge against me since the moment we met.

It doesn’t help that I keep stealing his baton—and beating him with it—without consequence.

They almost never sedate me here, no matter what. Unless it’s that time of year. That one night when I’m at my worst, that’s when they stick that needle into my arm.

Other than that…

Kaleb is on the path to healing, Dick. He’s been isolated from the rest of the patients in his room for the past five years. We’d be doing him a great disservice by punishing him. Electric shocks would only serve to spiral him. Take a day off to heal. Tomorrow, you’ll be as good as new.

The loser heard that from Dr. Reynolds every time the latter broke up our fights. Despite the bruises on his face, ribs, and back. Regardless of how swollen his head was. The blood that often painted his lips red.

My doctor wouldn’t let him hurt me.

He won’t ever let him. He needs me.

Maybe he fantasizes about writing a book about me. Or he’s curious about a twenty-six-year-old murderer who wears a mask for hours at a time.

Who cares?

Today, all of this ends.

The years I’ve spent locked up. Probed. Looked at. Questioned. The cuffs on my hands now are nothing new.

Done.

My fucking God, I can’t wait to have this jumper off me. To kick off the white slip-ons.

This prisoner’s uniform, I’m so over it.

Good thing my driver seems to be about my size. He’s perched on the white minibus in a tan sweater, a pair of plain jeans, and leather boots. Waiting for us.

Apparently, he isn’t obligated to wear a uniform like Dick is. I didn’t plan on changing out of my clothes so soon. Couldn’t count on it.

But after twenty-six years of being shit out of luck, I lucked out. Who knew God had a conscience?

Dr. Reynolds should’ve assigned me another one to join us on this ride, at the very least. If he were a wise man. If he were any less obsessed with me, with needing to learn everything he can about me.

“Dick, this type of behavior is inappropriate and uncalled for.” My sixty-five-year-old psychiatrist stands there with Berkshire as his backdrop.

Inappropriate. Ha. What’s inappropriate is that Dick has my photo and mask hidden in his backpack.

What’s uncalled for was Dick waking me up before the crack of dawn. He did so to let me know he held my stuff hostage as a guarantee that I wouldn’t try anything funny.

Me?Try?

Only the weaktry.

Iwillkill him. And there will be nothing funny about his death.

Anyway, I nodded, silently promising to be good. Dick laughed. He thought he had won. Still believes he has the upper hand since I haven’t snitched on him. As if I need Doc Reynolds for anything other than this stupid trip.

I’ll have Shiloh’s picture and my mask soon.

An identical mask to the one I wore back home. I’ll wear it throughout the arduous, hours-long walk home. Or while I drive the car that I’ll steal. Depending on how lucky I get.

One thing’s for sure.

I’ll get it back from Dick, and I’ll be wearing it when I break into her apartment. When I terrorize her.

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