The Dead Don't Speak | Open Novella Contest 2020 | ✔

Chapter 11: The Dead Don't Speak

The story as it was told by the higher-ups in the aftermath went as follows.

Inmate Liz Phillips died of a meth overdose. She'd blackmailed a poor officer so she could sneak into a bathroom and use drugs in there. An overdose sent inmate Phillips into a frenzy. In her delirium, she'd attacked inmate Bailey Church before breaking into a cell and attempting to strangle inmate Daniela Guerrero to death. By the time Doctor Henry Jones, psychiatrist at Lonewood Medium Security Prison, could pull her off inmate Guerrero, the drugs had taken their toll on her mind and body and killed her.

It was the worst bureaucratic nonsense story I'd heard in my life.

"We're friends, aren't we?"

How did the discarded Ouija Board play into the story? How did the inexplicable, bloody message on the wall of my cell factor into it? Why would Liz have attacked Dane so violently, despite having interacted with her once or twice at most? What about the fact Liz had no history of drug abuse at all?

It was all like Doctor Jones had told me after my mental health screening. Swept under the metaphorical rug. Can't have people know what really goes down in a wicked place, can you? Can't risk more budget cuts. Can't risk harming the institution's reputation.

Easier to just look away.

I knew what had really happened. I knew Liz had been possessed by a malevolent ghost, knew that she'd succumbed to it, her body unable to handle the strain of the spirit. I knew I'd dragged her into the whole mess, asking her for help she should've denied me. I knew the harsh truth, the unfairness of it all in hindsight. And I knew the world kept turning.

"I've never told anyone about this before. But if you're willing to listen, I'll tell you now."

We're very lucky, you and I. We live in a world in which we can choose our own reality. We can pick our own truth. What, you don't like the one life handed you? Create a new one. Believe in it, convince yourself it's real. Sulk in it long enough and the truth will become a lie while your lie becomes your truth.

"It's... I don't know. It feels like I should tell you, somehow. Like it's your right to know. Okay, maybe I'm just talking bullshit there."

The higher-ups chose their truth. I chose mine.

"But... Before I go, just listen, alright?"

I hope you'll make your choice count.

It was early in the morning and the sun had just begun to rise. I sat on the floor of my cell, leaning against a cold wall. I had a terrible headache. My collision with the bathroom wall had saddled me up with a mild concussion.

"You asked what I knew about Counselor Matthew Taylor. Let me tell you... he was an awful piece of shit." Dane's voice was hoarse and raspy and it was clear she found it difficult to speak, both in the literal and figurative senses. She sat on her top bunk, looking down at me. Her fingers travelled to touch the gruesome bruising on her throat; tangible evidence of the attempted strangulation days ago.

I didn't say anything. I just waited for her to speak.

"I didn't experience any of it myself, but my girlfriend told me stories about him. I'll spare you all the nasty details, but the guy was a fucking predator. Couldn't keep his hands to himself if he tried. I'm sure management must've at least suspected something, but nobody ever tried to get him to stop. Seems like our safety and needs are never quite top priority, are they? So we just had to live with it. Everyone was aware that if you knew what was good for you, you stayed as far away from him as you could get."

The picture of the smiling man on Doctor Jones' computer invaded my mind, danced before my eyes. I saw the laugh lines, the dorky glasses, the empty cataract staring into my soul. I couldn't think about that damned cataract anymore. Every time I envisioned it, I saw it on Liz's face instead of Taylor's.