Knowing A Killer (Part 1)

Life opens opportunities to everyone. You either take them or leave them. Sometimes the decision isn't an easy one to choose, especially if it involves carrying the weight you once dropped long ago.

Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tick-tock.

It's all Patient 234 hears. Every second of the dreadful hour he spent waiting for another reporter or journalist to arrive. Once every month, Dr. Neariz would conduct a therapeutic exercise by inviting a person with access to the public newspaper to join him in a session with his patient. Unfortunately, there hasn't been any luck with the same report or journalist returning the following month.

Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tick-tock.

All that noise made Patient 234 so disturbed. It makes him want to do things that will stop that damn ticking. As he sat in a white room, he began to admire his surroundings. There was a messy bed, a cluttered dresser, and a worn-out and wooden desk. Everything in that small room was white. Everything except the numbers and hands of the clock above his head.

Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tick-tock.

Patient 234 stared at the clock and watched the thin hand continuing to travel in a circle. His facial expression was of one lost in thought. He wasn't the only one wondering how today's interview was going to go. A woman, nearly the same age as him, awaited in place as a security guard scanned her for any weapons and unnecessary items.

Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tick-tock.

"Patient 234, stand up, hands at your sides, and calmly approach the door. You have a guest," a man said. After giving clear instructions to the insane one, he unlocked all the deadbolts on the door and opened it. That door was like the rest in this facility. It was white, made of steel, and impossible to unlock without having a certain key.

After the buzzer beeped above one of the doors that led to the outside, the woman was allowed access into the building. This hospital wasn't like a typical hospital one would go to for emergencies, injuries, or monthly check-ups. There was a waiting room, but there were limited places to sit. Each chair was spaced out in symmetric rows of three. There wasn't a television playing quietly in a corner, but there were magazines on a few chairs.

Like a prison this place was. It wasn't a luxurious institution that focused on creating opportunities for the patients to get well or start a new life. This hospital was a place to remind the patients that they were unstable, different, and outcasts from society.

The marble floors were a brighter version of the eggshell-white walls. At least the ground was clean. So clean that someone's reflection could be seen if they looked down at themselves. It was obvious that the one great factor of this facility was the staff kept it spotless. As soon as a guest were to walk through the steel doors, the strong scent of bleach wafted through their nose.

"Please state your name and business being here," a man ordered. When the young woman entered the building, she approached a counter that was enclosed in a plastic case. He was sitting in a black chair and wearing all white. At the moment, he was filling out papers on a clipboard. "Caitlyn Willers. I'm here to interview Patient 243 requested by Dr. Neariz," the lady said.

The clipboard was then slid through the gap between the window and counter. "Sign your name, date, and the current time here. After your hour is up, you'll mark down that current time in this blank here." If Caitlyn were to guess, this place sucked the soul out of the staff as well as the patients. The receptionist spoke in a low and bland tone as if he was bored.

Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tick-tock.

As Caitlyn scribbled down the information needed, the clerk placed a plastic and blue, faceless ID card on the counter. Every guest had to wear a visitor badge. Once the forms were returned, Caitlyn clipped the badge to the pocket of her unbuttoned, grey blazer. "Follow Mr. Bracken," the man sighed. He pointed towards the door on the other side of the waiting room. There stood another worker dressed in white that blended in the walls.

"Follow me. You'll be in room 17. You will be monitored and guards will be on standby in case the patient becomes triggered to harm you." This man had lived in the words he spoke. He must have been new because the cream color of his skin still had a glow, his blonde hair didn't have a speck of grey, and he had a pip in his step.

Caitlyn nodded to the staff's reminder. The halls matched the lobby. The walls and floors were white and bland. The dramatic lack of color made Caitlyn feel uncomfortable and anxious. She wondered how someone could be driven more insane than they already were from living in a place like this.

The numbers above the stainless steel doors started to increase. These rooms were patient rooms, but the one Caitlyn was led to present itself as an interrogation room. Although, it was a space for the doctor and patient to discuss mental health progress. There was a large glass window that peered into the gloomy room. No one else was in there.

Once Caitlyn stepped in, she looked behind her to glance out into the hallway. However, that window was one-sided, meaning no one could see out while others could see in. Thankfully, this white room had a shadow tone to it. There was only one light and it hung above the metal table. In the middle of that table was a chain connected to a loop. At the end of the chain were shackled.

Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tick-tock.

Caitlyn took a seat at the table. She removed a notepad and pen from her satchel that hung over her right shoulder. There wasn't a doubt that she was nervous. After all, opportunities like these didn't come often.

Caitlyn Willers was going to be a part of an experiment regarding access to memories in need of unlocking in the mind of Patient 234. His case was unsolved, and she wanted to help him. Caitlyn had her reasons why she believed this patient had innocence hiding away inside him.

Again, the screeching buzzer echoed as the locks on the door clicked. There he was. Patient 234 entered the room and was led like a dog to the table by a much broader staff member. This worker was a security guard because his uniform was grey and black like the guard that waited outside the facility.

The shackles were strapped around the wrist of the patient before the escort left the room. "You have one hour," echoed a voice from the intercom next to the clock.

According to Caitlyn, Patient 234 didn't look insane at all. His appearance seemed normal. The only thing truly eye captivating was the decay of his right cheek that expose his teeth and gums. The opening was small, but it didn't go unnoticed. His chestnut-colored hair was short, choppy, and messy as if it hadn't been brushed in days. The tips of his hair brushed against his thin browns and were tucked away into the collar of his white shirt. He too wore all white scrubs, and it made his skin look grey rather than a light peach color.

Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tick-tock.

Patient 234 sat at the desk and leaned back in the cold chair as if he was already exhausted from this interview. Caitlyn clicked her pen and marked down the time, which was ten after ten. She was stalling and working up the courage to say even the simplest word, like a greeting. When her amber eyes pierced into the patient's dark, yet glossy orbs, memories of the past started to flood her mind.

Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tick-tock.

"Can you state your birth name?" Caitlyn asked nervously. "Timothy Allen." Caitlyn nodded as she felt her anxiety melt away. Finally, a conversation could be started. After all, an hour goes by faster when least expected. "I am Caitlyn. I'm sure Dr. Neariz has mentioned me. If not, then all I can say about myself is that I'm someone from your childhood."

Caitlyn knew of Patient 234's name, but she couldn't refer to him by his birth name unless she asked for it. Tim kept his hands on the table. He was fiddling with his thumbs and kept squeezing into fists every ten seconds. Tim was lost in thought. He was listening to the clock that kept ticking away. "I don't recall," he replied.

A predicted answer. Caitlyn then removed a photograph from her purse that hung over the chair now. "That's okay," she sighed. "We went to the same elementary school in Colorado. That there is me, and this here is you." The image was in black and white like most yearbook photos were back in the early 1990s. Caitlyn used a pen to circle herself and Tim in the picture.

"I'm here to help you, Timothy. Your case is still unsolved because you haven't been charged with murder yet. You are looking at a lifetime in prison or here if you don't get the help for your innocence." Caitlyn had said too much about her interest or being here, but it was the truth, and he needed to know it. Tim scoffed as he pushed the picture aside. "I don't remember much about my past," he mumbled. "I don't recall much of anything."

Again, Caitlyn’s assumption of his answers was correct.

It's been approximately sixteen years since Tim attended elementary school. Too many traumatic events occurred within the period up to now for him to remember his early years that weren't full of torture.

"Why are you trying to prove my innocence? I killed my stepfather. I did it," Tim said. Caitlyn wrote down his confession before she removed folded papers from her handbag. "But you testified that an apparition had control over you," Caitlyn added. "Something like this?"

The folded sheets of paper were printouts of other pictures, such as colorings of a black figure. After gliding the paper to Timothy, Caitlyn glanced at the clock. "How did you get these? W-where did you find these?" There was aggressive confusion in his voice. Something about these drawings triggered the patient, and Caitlyn’s immediate instinct was to look toward the large window.

It didn’t matter if Tim had been chained to the table, Caitlyn felt fear pound her heart. "These, um, were found in your childhood bedroom.” Tim’s left eye started to flicker. It wasn’t unaware that he had episodes of seizures. The rapid fluttering of his blinks, the constant squeezes of his hands, and his twiddling thumbs, all of it were symptoms of an emotional breakdown about to erupt.

Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tick-tock.

There was that clock again. Tim could hear the ticking louder than he could hear the voices in his head telling him not to speak. This young woman was only trying to help him, yet he needed to refuse for her and everyone else's safety. "Stay out of there!” Tim screamed. He slammed his hands on the table, and Caitlyn scooted her chair back. She didn't exit her seat, but she wanted to keep a cautious distance from him. "I-I don't know you. You don't fucking want to know me!"

Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tick-tock.

"I'm a monster! I-I'm cable of doing so much evil. I'll do anything it says." "Tim, it's okay," Caitlyn said quickly. She raised her hands as if she were surrendering to someone with a loaded gun. "I believe you. I believe that you are being overpowered by an evil entity." Caitlyn peeked at the window once more. As much as she wished she could see a staff member keeping an eye on her, she had to act defensively to keep this patient underwhelmed.

Tim started to shiver. He took in a deep breath and slouched in his seat once more. His head hung low as he stared at the shackles around his wrist. "I'm not here to write a book about you. I'm not here to make your existing surface into the news. I'm only here to help you because I think you can help me too," Caitlyn said.

After Caitlyn noticed that Timothy got stable and relaxed, she scooted her chair back to the table. She took the school photo, printed sheet, and her notebook and placed them back in her purse. She even slipped the pen back inside as well. Honestly, she didn't even need to take down notes anymore.

Tim looked up at her and studied her appearance. She was the same age as him if she claimed to have gone to the same elementary school. He gazed at her sincere expression, then at her reassuring smile that slowly stretched her light-pink lips. "Alright," Tim whispered shakily. That fake smile on Caitlyn's face grew after hearing Tim’s response. He was willing to corporate with her, and that raised a brow on the elderly man that watched from behind the glass.

The buzzer rang before the door opened. Tim knew the drill, so he stood up. After the guard unlocked the chains that connected to the table, he grabbed the patient by their wrist before escorting them out. "Bye Timothy!" (Y/n) awkwardly blurted. Tim said nothing. He didn't even look at her. Although, he did once the guard led him past the window.

"Well,” a man huffed as he entered the interrogation room. “Thar went better than I could have ever imagined.” Doctor Donald Neariz was a man in his late sixties. He had grey hair that was styled to cover a few of his bald patches. Those dark-green eyes reflected Caitlyn for he was staring directly at her. He also had skin tags and wrinkles on his face that hardly went unnoticed. Neariz had the description of a typical doctor that would work in a place like this.

"Come back Monday. The month gap will affect his comfort," Neariz said. He held open the door as Caitlyn collected her belongings. Caitlyn smiled politely as she headed out into the hallway. "Will do. I'm sorry for the outburst I caused earlier." "It happens. Patients overreact when their disturbing memories afloat," Neariz mentioned.

Instead of having a staff member walk Caitlyn down to the lobby, Donald took it upon himself to do so. After all, the conversation over Patient 234 wasn't over, and he was very impressed by the outcome of the interview. "Giving him that closure seemed to uncover something. I'm sure he'll remember you over time."

Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tick-tock.

All over again, that ticking repeated it's an annoying sound. Patient 234 sat in his room he was led back to. He was rubbing his feet that were free of the cuffs as he pondered in thought over the missing pieces of his puzzling past. "Caitlyn,” he whispered.

Timothy had been given multiple opportunities to reveal the truth behind who he was and the responsibility for his actions throughout the months he was locked away. This opportunity is one, he's going to take.

Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tick-tock.