About Thirteen

A short story about a man in a different situation.

                "Good morning Rebecca!” the receptionist sang out from behind her desk as I walked into the posh waiting area. Her bright personality greeted me every morning making the day ahead seem that much more ominous. "Hello there, Terry. Got anything for me?" I leaned over the counter and an array of sunny figurines and cheerful pictures littered her desktop. "Not a thing, maybe that means it will be an easy day!" She smiled too cheerfully for someone in her position. I smiled back as brightly as I was able and continued on my path through the sliding glass doors. Terry's cheerful greeting lilted through the doors before they could shut her out, "Thank you for calling Yellow Valley Institute. How may I direct your call?"

                Yellow Valley Institute had too much cheer to its name, much like its receptionist. I assume cheer is what most people saw when they entered the building. I only saw the medically declared mentally insane that were held captive in their padded cells. Much like the one I had been focusing on lately. We called him Thirteen. I watched him from the small box like window that was drilled into his door with a metal frame. He was holding his camera and looking out the barred window. His eyes were vacant and his body seemed to lack a skeleton. He sat slumped on his poor excuse for a bed, his old body broken with time.

                The day he arrived he came in kicking and screaming. He said he didn't want to go back. We all assumed he was in another mental facility before and had escaped. The story was that he was found at a party downtown. He had on scraps for clothing and a name tag from the door man at said party with the writing "Thur Teen" written under "My name is...” He also came in with the camera he was currently holding with no clues of his identity on it. The only pictures on it were a few from the party and one of an old house, all of which were in his files. They tried to keep the camera from him, but I found it was the only thing that kept him calm so I requested it to be returned to him.

                I knocked on the door and turned the lock. I've found it frightens him to just walk in unannounced. "Hello, Thirteen." He turned to me, excitement lighting his eyes. I sat in the padded chair that I brought in with me. "Thirteen, that's me, yes ma'am." His surroundings were meek. He had only the bed and table bolted to the floor. Luckily, he wasn't a suicide hazard, therefore he was allowed a blanket and pillow as well.

                "How are you today?" I adjusted my stark white coat and poised my pad and pen for notes. "Happy today. See a pretty lady." He gestured to his camera, "Like pretty ladies." He fidgeted and moved closer on his bed focusing his attention fully to his company. "You see my pretty ladies?"

                "Yes I saw them. Did one of them bring you to the party?" I had been prying into his memories for two weeks, trying to figure out what had happened to him. The local mental institutes had never claimed him as a former patient. Figuring out his identity had proven tedious. "Yes..." He fidgeted again playing with his camera. He flashed the camera taking a picture. "I follow pretty lady there. She said it was fun."

                He began to inhale and exhale like he had something he wanted to say. I already had my hand in my pocket before he blurted out his next words. "I need more film. Film all bad." It was a game we played. Every time I came he needed more film. I gave him the film, he gave me answers.

                When he saw the film in my hands he became anxious. He wanted to get up and come for the film but he hesitated. His glance was as timid as a trapped animal as he looked from the door's window to the film. I could see from my seat that a guard was stationed there. He had attacked the therapist that I replaced. The guard had hurt him badly, as the scar still remained on his forehead, while trying to restrain him. Slowly I stood and gave the guard a signal to stand down. I gradually walked over to the bed and sat beside Thirteen. He watched me closely as if I were going to hurt him. I held out the film and he snatched it from me. While he fiddled with the camera's back flap I took out the picture of the house that was on the camera's original film.

                "Where is this Thirteen?" I held out the picture for him to see. He glanced quickly then went back to prying open the camera. "My house," he said the same as always. "I know, but where is it?" He let out a harsh sigh. He didn't like that question. I speculated it was because he didn't know the answer. A click sounded as he finally got the flap open. I watched him while he forgot I was in the room. He carefully ejected the current film in the camera and set it aside. It was when he was snapping the new film in place that I noticed the etching on the inside of the flap. "Thirteen," I said louder than I meant to, causing him to jump. In the process of being startled he dropped the camera on the floor. I quickly picked it up before he could grab it. I dodged his arms as he reached for me. He immediately started to yell, "Give me camera! My camera!" he sounded like a spoiled child. The guard stationed outside rushed through the door. He talked to the patient to calm him down. Ignoring the commotion I read the inscription and scribbled the name on my pad.    

                "Thirteen, calm down. I will subdue you." The guard's voice was strong and demanding. Thirteen began to panic as he shrank into himself. I handed him the camera trying to calm him with soft words. "It's okay Thirteen, he won’t hurt you I promise.” I turned to the guard, "Let's leave him be so he can calm down." Without a response the guard picked up the chair I had brought in with me. He waited for me to exit with my things then backed out the door watching Thirteen cautiously. "Should I sedate him?" The guard asked as he watched Thirteen rock on his bed cradling his camera. "I think he'll be fine for now." I watched the patient for a bit as the guard settled back to his post. "Call me if he starts any trouble," I ordered the guard. He gave a curt nod then resumed his watch.  

                Back in my office I wrote the name from the back of the camera more clearly. Alexander Seshman. The name played over and over in my head as I made my way to my desk from Thirteen's room. I was giddy with excitement that I may have found my patient's identity. It made me queasy that the name seemed familiar. It had to have been in the news or maybe another doctor could have mentioned him at a conference. There wasn't an instance I could really pin down. Cueing up my computer, I first searched the patient database. All the mental institutes had a linked database for reference and instances such as missing or found patients. None of my search preferences gave results to the identity of one Alexander Seshman. Next I moved on to Google. I would have automatically searched police records but people in my profession didn't have access to such tools. It was deemed unnecessary. So I was left to the world's top search engine. As soon as I hit the return key, headline after headline exclaiming Alexander Seshman assaulted my vision. My heart pounded as I realized what I had stumbled upon. Clicking on one of the links, a version of the house in the picture from Thirteen's camera flickered across the screen. The headline made me shiver, but the article made chills run down my spine. I had spent time with this man dedicating hours upon hours trying to fix him.  

                I considered ignoring the facts I discovered. Maybe he only thought it was his house. Maybe Thirteen found the camera. There was only his possessing this camera that linked him to this Alexander Seshman. Eager for proof that my patient was innocent, I clicked another article. My hope shattered as Thirteen’s picture loaded slowly. The word thirteen caught my eye in the article... That's when I knew. I had to call the authorities.  

                I listened to the police officer talk to the group of doctors that took residence at Yellow Valley Institute, me included. Thirteen, or Alexander Seshman, had brutally murdered thirteen women. He stored their bodies in the house that had burned on Raster Avenue. The camera, along with the pictures from the party and the house on Raster Avenue, were now sealed tightly in an evidence bag. The officer said they had been looking for Seshman six months now. They believe he lost his mind after his house was burned down, of which they believe he had done himself to hide evidence. Though they do not know how he made it to the party or if he was planning to act again, they were glad that I had found him and had turned him over. I, on the other hand, was feeling disgraced.

                Alexander passed by surrounded by officers and snuggly confined in a stained white straitjacket. His eyes met mine and for a second I saw intelligence. The moment passed quickly and his passive insanity came back full force. "Bye pretty lady!" he called to me. The officers violently pushed his head down as he was forced to walk. I gasped as they took him away. A lone tear crawled its way down my cheek. I wasn't sure whom it was for. Alexander, myself, or the women he killed. Or was it fear that I could have been next?  

Author's Note

Rip it to shreds. Tell me how I can be better. I'm sensitive to plot criticism, but hit me with your best shot.