NO SANITY: #1 Contagious

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Young Adult  |  House: Booksie Classic
Inspired by my viewing of Suicide Squad, I started on my own series of short stories that follows a similar concept. This story is the back story to a notorious criminal called "Mad Mad Makka" whose currently chained up in a certain hole, in a certain place, in a certain area. She used to be a famous mafia leader, before she seemingly snapped and murdered her four underlings. Now Dr. Robin Franz gets to spend every other day listening to her raving insanity and keep notes on if her state improves. That is, until someone tells him they're letting her loose on the condition she'll take down the same crime unit she used to run.

Submitted: August 26, 2016

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Submitted: August 26, 2016



In a certain place, in a certain area, there is a hole in the ground that is infested with rats, mold, and other assortments of disgusting things that are hard to mention even for the inmates.  It is an asylum prison for very, very crazy people.  And not in the good way crazy.  The rip your heart out and eat it kind of crazy.  Needless to say it’s not the place you want to end up, work related or otherwise.

And back in a certain cell of this certain place in this certain area is a certain inmate who isn’t even allowed the freedom to move around the cell.  The door is iron, about a foot thick, with only a small sliver to slide food through.  Inside, there is a cot, with a rough, filthy blanket, a bucket at the foot of it, and a very thick bolt that keeps two chains attached firmly in the wall.  If your eyes follow these rusty old chains, they’ll eventually find iron shackles clamped permanently around the muscular, scarred, bloody wrists of thick, trained arms, a d-cup chest, thick waist, wide hips, long legs, broad shoulders, muscular neck, and pointed, chiseled face of said inmate.  Her natural hazel brown eyes are sunk into sleep deprived sockets, and greasy, deep brown and dark red hair falls around her jaw and neck.  The right side of her head is completely red, while the left only has the ends dyed.

On the streets of New York she was known as “Mad Mad Makka,” but to the guards and files in the prison her name is Makka Alverone, one of the biggest, baddest, and youngest leaders of the mafia.  One night in one of the restaurants owned by her family, a human trafficking front, the police were called to respond.  When they got there, they found her resting in a chair in the middle of the room, coated in blood and guts, smoking a cigar, with a bloody tire iron still resting in her hand.  The restaurant was a scene from a horror movie.  There was blood everywhere: on the walls, the ceiling, the tables, the floor, and even in the ravioli being served that night.  There were four bodies, all of which couldn’t be properly identified except for fingerprints.  They were so brutally bludgeoned that their faces and teeth couldn’t be used.  Makka also vouched for their identities.  They were the four top men under her rule.  She still hasn’t told anyone why she did it.  The only assumption is that she just snapped.

Today is the beginning of month two of her visits from Dr. Robin Franz, a young man specializing in criminal insanity.  He’s been visiting her every other day for the past month as part of her “treatment,” “She won’t speak to the guards anymore.  Its freaky.  Ever since we gave her that mp3 player like you requested all she’ll do is listen to it and stare at the door with a weird smile on her face.” The head guard explains to the doctor as they walk down the hall.

“And that’s a problem? I didn’t think you’d like her talking to you.” The doctor asks in slight exasperation.  He’s not sure what this man is expecting out of her.  She is insane.

“Yeah, but it’s like what they say about kids: her silence is suspicious and creepy.” The guard explains, restraining his urge to shiver.  The doctor simply presses his glasses a little further up his nose and restrains the urge to roll his eyes.

Finally, the two reach the door 137 and the 24 hour guard unlocks the door, pulling on it hard to let the psychologist in as usual.  He enters quietly, pulling the metal chair from beside the corner and setting it in the center of the room, a small distance from his patient.  She just watches him quietly, her chapped lips curled up in a happy little smile and her right thumb running over the smooth surface of the ipod nano in her hand, “Can you hear me?” He asks patiently.  Her head doesn’t move and her expression doesn’t flicker for a second.  Either she’s pretending she can’t, or she honestly can’t.  Most likely it’s the first one and she’s trying to pull him into a trap.

He knows it’s dangerous for him, but he walks up and leans in to the pull the earbuds out from her ears anyway.  In the passing of a millisecond she’s managed to clamp her teeth around his jaw ferociously.  With a cry he pulls back, stumbling into the chair behind him.  Daintily, he touches the now bleeding bite mark as she cackles in pleasure.  She pulls the earbud from her right ear, “I bit it so its miiiine!” She hisses, her eyebrows arching.

The doctor runs a hand through his dark hair, straightens his glasses, and pulls a small rag from his coat pocket to help clean off some of the blood running down his neck, “That was rude.” He states with a frown, “Besides, that’s not the saying.”

“No? Sorry, it’s been so long, I must have forgotten.” She explains, relaxing in her cot against the concrete wall.

The young man lets out a small of huff before opening his manila folder and pulling out a pen to start the session, “So,” He prepares himself with a breath, “Why’d you kill them?” Makka’s head rolls across the wall with her eyes in their sockets.

“Every time you come in here that’s what you always start with,” She moans, “Why’d you do it, Mac? You should know insanity is defined as doing the same thing over and over but expecting a different result.” She folds her arms across her large chest clad in a black and white striped shirt.  She has pants on her legs that match it.

“Well, I think we’re all a little insane,” He explains, writing something across the page, “The only difference between you and me is I know how to limit my crazy, and you don’t.” His mismatched eyes of dark brown and crystal blue watch her over the rims of his thick glasses.

“Then I guess I’ll answer the same way I have and expect you to finally leave me alone: I’m psycho.”  The doctor only smiles slightly at that and continues writing his notes.

Responses: still sarcastic, but she’s starting to remember things better each time.  Was able to remember full definition of a word.

“So,” He starts off again as soon as he’s done writing, “How do you like the ipod? The guards are saying you never stop listening to it.”

“Oh!” She exclaims in joy, a grin crawling its way over her face, “I love it.  They let me add a new song every week.”  Robin’s eyes glint with mild concern.  It’s only been two weeks since he signed the request for her to have it.

“You’ve been listening to the same two songs over and over for two weeks straight?” He asks in confusion.

Her head bobs up and down, “Every day until the thing dies and the guard has to charge it for me.”

“What are the songs on there right now?”

“Heathens by Twenty One Pilots and Bohemian Rhapsody.” Her eyes glint with pleasure at his scrunched eyebrows.

He relaxes his face into a mask of indifference once more and scrawls across the page: Behavior: monotonous listening of music suggests anxiety and Closterphobia.  She’s starting to get antsy and is searching for any escape.  Could lead to danger for the guards.

“You know I can understand why these young kids like that band so much.  They have this deeper understanding of the abuse that society puts on people now of days.” Makka rolls on while he’s writing, staring off into the distance and rubbing her shoulder absent mindedly.  The doctor takes notice.  Last week a guard had to taze her in that spot.  She obviously holds a grudge.  He also noticed that guard wasn’t on his shift like he normally is.

“What happened to the guard out front?” He asks patiently, not looking up, moving right past her comment.

She stirs as if from a daydream and focuses her eyes on him again.  The grin reappears on her face once more, even more malicious and disconcerting than before, “Oh, him? He’s in the hospital right now.” She says it quietly, purposefully like an after-thought, but her tone speaks to a deeper enjoyment.  She obviously attacked him and that’s why he’s there.

“What happened to him?

“He got tazed in the eye.” She states casually, inspecting her shackled wrist.  The pen pauses from a moment and his eyes flash up.  Their eyes meet, hers filled with a taunting sparkle, begging him to react, his steady and dead, ignoring her request.

The session goes on like this for the hour.  It’s actually smoother than its run before.  The first time he visited, she constantly yanked at her chains and screamed at him like a wild animal until the hour.  He simply had sat there, his knees crossed, his glasses resting straight on his nose, his hands in his lap, his face expressionless and emotionless.

Finally, the guard taps the door to tell him the hour had passed. The doctor glances back, nods once to show he understands, before closing the file quietly, sliding both it and the pen back into his coat pocket and rising to his feet, “That’s it for today, Mac.  I hope tomorrow goes well.  You’ll have to tell me what your adding to your playlist then.” With that, he turns towards the door.

“I’m going to get out one day.” She says suddenly, making him take pause.  A cruel smile flashes across his face as he turns partially back.

“Not until hell freezes over.” He responds coolly, opening the door and leaving once more.

As soon as the door closes, Robin releases the breath he’d had pent up from the beginning of the session.  Once more, he reaches up and rubs a finger over the scabbed over bite marks on his jaw, “Have a nice day.” The guard bids farewell as he heads down the hall.  The doctor pauses to give him a sympathetic smile and a wave of thanks.  The poor idiot has no idea what he’s in for in the weeks to come.

That night, Robin unlocks the door to his New York apartment in the same way he always does: three minutes spent tiredly going through key after key until he finally finds the right one.  As soon as he’s through the door, he drops his briefcase with a loud thump and a groan of exhaustion.  He quickly washes his face, brushes his teeth, and pulls off his clothes, tossing them lightly into the full bin by his dresser.

Then he’s free to turn the lights out and quite literally collapse into bed with a sigh of pleasure.  As he’s closing his eyes and settling into the mattress, though, Mac’s words come back into his mind, “They have this deeper understanding of the abuse that society puts on people now of days.”  With a growl of annoyance and frustration, he rolls to his other side and stuffs a pillow over his open ear as if to muffle out her voice from his head.

Eventually, he is able to drift into sleep.

“Dad, mom, I’m home!” A young Robin calls out from the front door as he slides inside from a long day at middle school.

He hears his father’s angry voice from the kitchen, “Dad? Mom?” He asks, his eyes beginning to widen with slight fear.  His father must be in one of his moods again.  He can only hope mom is alright.  His fingers clench around the bruise on his shoulder from dad’s mood a couple days earlier.  He was forced to wear long sleeves in April just to hide it, and his building has no air conditioning.

His footsteps are quiet on the creaking floorboards as he creeps down the hall, “You think it’s alright to talk back to me, you stupid bitch?!” His father screams.  Robin is getting more and more anxious.  Usually mom would be crying, or speaking, or making some kind of noise by now, but he can’t hear her at all.

Finally, he is within sight of the kitchen.  The backpack he’d been holding in his hand falls to the wood with a thump.  It’d slipped free of his hand from the pure shock.  His jaw is open as well, and the tears can’t be stopped from running down his cheeks.  His father has an aluminum baseball bat, and is bringing down over and over on the still form of his mother.  There’s blood on the ceiling, and the wall, and the floor, and on her.  There’s blood everywhere.

“Mom?” He whimpers.  His father finally sees him and Robin immediately makes a break for the door, his father right on his heels, waving the baseball bat threateningly, screaming something about how he’s going to get it too.

Robin bolts up in bed with a loud scream of terror.  He and his bed are both coated in sweat.  The man relaxes back against the pillows, trying to get his breathing and heart rate to slow down some from the nightmare.  He puts a hand over his eyes and wipes the sweat off from his eyes, nose, and lips, “Fuck.” He gets out as a small whimper.

Morning has come again.

© Copyright 2018 Rebel Hart. All rights reserved.

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