Room C6

It was a little past midnight when Tommy heard the sound of chains dragging on the tile floor.

The noise came from outside the room and down the hall: links clinking, sliding, drawing closer. Three rooms down. Then two. Then one...

Something waited outside. He hid against the opposite wall, knees tucked to his chest. A shadow appeared between the bottom of the door and the floor but it was soon obscured by... mist. No, smoke. Drifting in through the narrow space. The haze wafted, billowed, rolled toward him as if driven by some unseen intelligence. When it overtook him a scent reached his nostrils and he recognized it, vaguely; frankincense? Myrrh? He couldn't remember. He couldn't remember much of anything.

A piercing skirl assaulted his ears: metal on metal. The thing outside, whatever it was, wanted in. But the door was locked. That was what you did with crazy people after all—

lock them up and throw away the key. And Tommy was most assuredly crazy.

Wasn't he?

He closed his eyes and tried once again to remember...

The troubles had started years ago, while Tommy's older brother Kent was still in high school.

It was, in his brother's own words, an awkward time. In many ways he was still trying to figure out who he was; what his preferences were. He had kissed a boy, and the news had spread. The local church, Dartmoor, had gotten word of it. They had initiated a campaign on social media, warning that God would punish the iniquitous. They said the earth would be cleansed of sodomites. They said Kent would incur God's wrath.

Dartmoor was a Baptist church, but the Baptists had denounced them. They were known to be a hate group. Most of their so-called congregation were members of the same inbred family. They were a black mark on the community, and most everyone in their small town knew that, and kept them at arm's length.

Eventually the media assault subsided. Kent had gone on with his life. He had joined the Army... and less than a year later he had died, in Afghanistan. Tommy and the rest of the family had nearly forgotten about Dartmoor until the day of the funeral.

They had protested Kent's funeral. Standing on the road outside the cemetery with signs that announced "God hates America" and "God hates homos." Tommy's dad Lance had confronted them, punched one of them square in the mouth. The police had intervened but said the church was within its rights. "What about Kent's rights?" dad had screamed...

Tommy opened his eyes. There was no smoke. No sound of sliding chains. Had he imagined it? Dreamed it? He didn't always know what was real anymore.

He forgot what he had been thinking about. The funeral... and... after. What had happened after? His memory clouded once again. He tried to think, to recall, but it was so hard. He sat on his bed, back against the wall.

There were no windows here; no handle on the inside of the door. There was only the bed and the toilet. The walls were cushioned. It was a punishment, because Tommy had "acted out." The next step, they had said, would be a straightjacket.

He tried to remember the incident. Was it yesterday? The day before? He had attacked another patient. The skinny man with wild eyes and rotten teeth. He had come so close that Tommy could smell his rancid breath and he had said "Lack o' parental supervision, that's the trouble, see? Boy needs his daddy! Daddy keep you in line, son! Bend you over his knee and—" and that was when Tommy had attacked him, pushing him to the ground, pounding on his chest and face. The men in white had stopped him before any real damage had been done, but it was enough. Enough to get him sent to the "personal safety room."