Hell Within -- Chapter Two: The Bastard -- Scenes 1-3

Chapter Two: The Bastard

-1-

"What happened to your hand?" Dr. Ambrose said.

A pang of anxiety shot through Mandy Green’s chest.

She searched his face.

Dr. Ambrose was a gracefully aging man in his late forties. He sat symmetrically in his imitation Victorian chair with his hands on the armrests staring intently back at her with his dark brown hair and leathery skin. There was an intense kindness to him -- the sort that she didn’t trust.

The versatility of the man’s face amazed her; he never flashed the same expression twice.

"What do you mean?" she said.

"Your right hand. You’ve been hiding it from me all session, but I saw the bandages and the finger splints."

Mandy slipped her hand out from under her thigh.

"This?"

His eyes narrowed to slits.

"I kinda slammed my hand in the car door."

Dr. Ambrose shook his head. "If I wanted to hear a good lie, I’d go talk to a car salesman."

"Really, that’s what happened!"

He frowned. "That’s all?"

"No, that’s about it."

He shook his head and sat back in his chair. "It’s the ‘about’ in that sentence that troubles me."

She shrugged, and Dr. Ambrose sighed.

"That’s not gonna cut it this time."

She folded her arms. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."

"Let me explain something to you. The only reason that you’re not still at BMHI, is that you were talking about your issues rather than filling our sessions with smokescreens."

"There’s nothing to talk about," she snapped.

"Last week, you had a big straight gash in your arm like someone had cut you. Last month, you had a bad knot on your forehead. I have a hard time believing that anyone’s that accident prone."

She rolled her eyes and found the hearth to the left of his chair, and she stared into the mound of ashes in the bottom. She didn’t want to talk anymore. She didn’t even want to be here.

Dr. Ambrose sighed. "I’m not part of a conspiracy against you."

She gave him a hard look and then turned her head toward the window.

She hated this room. It was so . . . green. What was it that this fool liked so much about that damned ugly color? And the office always smelled like a pine tree took a shit in it. It was just the kind of new-age thing that her mother would go nuts over.

Dr. Ambrose leaned forward. "I have an idea of what you’re living with. Your mother thinks you’re her albatross."

She looked down at Paul’s feet. He always wore the same black loafers. She wondered if that was his only pair or if he had a whole closet full.

"I don’t know what you expect me to say."

Dr. Ambrose shook his head and sat back. "Are you suicidal?"

She frowned and turned her head toward the window seat to her right. Outside, gray skies, and a view of BMHI -- the nuthouse where they’d imprisoned her for most of the summer. She wasn’t going back there.

Then her eyes caught her own reflection in the glass of the window, and what a poor countenance it was. Her face was as white as chalk made even more pallid by the died-black hair, and with the black mascara running, she looked like a severe-faced clown.

She looked back at Dr. Ambrose.

"Do I look stupid to you?" she said.

Dr. Ambrose bowed his head. "You answer with a question."

Mandy stood up and started for the door, and Dr. Ambrose stepped in front of her.

"If you walk out, I’ll have you committed."

"You won’t do that."

"Try me."

"Fine," she screamed and plopped back down on the couch.

Dr. Ambrose stepped over in front of her and stared at her, but she wouldn’t acknowledge him -- wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

"Are you suicidal?"

Mandy smirked. "Yeah! I tried to kill myself by breaking my hand and two of my fingers."

He nodded. "You certainly come in injured often."

Mandy didn’t look at him.

Paul sighed and walked over to the window and looked out.

"What’re we gonna have to do to get you to talk? Do you want a different psychologist?"

She glared at him. "I want you people out of my life!"

Paul gave her a scorned look. "I’m afraid that’s not an option."

He approached her and knelt at her knees so his eyes were level with hers. Mandy frowned, folded her arms and looked away. He was such a ham. He had a way of making her feel like an idiot for being in the same room with him.

"You have to talk to someone, Mandy. It might as well be me."

"What do I have to say to get out of here?"

Paul stared at her a moment, stood, and returned to his seat. "Answer my question in a way that satisfies me that you’re not going to go home and do something stupid again."

She glared at him. "I’m not going to kill myself, damnit."

He leaned forward in his chair, propping his elbows on his knees and lacing his fingers together -- a posture that provoked a mischievous grin from her. She thought he looked like a person sitting on the bowl.

"I don’t believe you."

Her mouth fell open. "What in God’s name do you want—a signed affidavit?"

Paul’s eyes softened a bit. "I want you to start talking to me about what’s really bugging you."

She huffed. "Okay, so my life sucks, but in case you haven’t noticed, I’m trying to do something about it."

"Oh?"

She gave him a look of contempt. "I spent all of last summer saving up for that car. As soon as this school year’s over, I’m going to drop out, and get as far away from here as I can."

He smirked. "I don’t have to tell you what kinds of jobs are out there for sixteen year-old homeless high school dropouts."

"Oh, bullshit! Whatever it is, it’s better than this."

"And what about school? Are you just going to throw your whole life away?"

"I suck at school anyway."

Dr. Ambrose leaned forward in his chair. "I’m aware of that, and I’m also privy to the fact that you’re functioning well below your potential."

"Don’t patronize me!"

He leaned back. "Someone needs to. You haven’t thought this thing through."

"Can I go now?"

He sighed.

"I guess we’re done."

She stood up and stared at him wondering what he was up to, but his expression was readable this time -- worry. Her frown relaxed, and she turned toward the door.

"Ms. Green?" he said.

She gave him a tired look.

"Don’t do anything stupid before we’ve had a chance to talk again."

-2-

Mandy stared across the gravel driveway at the white Toyota Starlet sitting beside Davy’s truck. She’d seen the car here before. She recognized the Mega Death sticker on the back glass.

And she knew what it meant.

She looked up to the white and tan single-wide and sighed.

On the good days she could walk straight back to her bedroom and no one would notice her.

She eased her car door shut and slipped up to the front door, and then she applied her key to the lock one tooth at a time. And she opened the door and crept in keeping her head down and her eyes to herself.

But as she was locking the door back, she caught a glimpse inside Davy’s room to her left.

Davy sat at the poker table in his bedroom wearing a pair of gym shorts and a sleeveless white tee shirt that proudly displayed the blue tattoos that covered almost every inch of his arms.
Another man, a scrawny one she vaguely recognized, sat across from him watching with avid interest as Davy arranged the cocaine on his shaving mirror into lines with a business card.

She looked away.

Davy gave her a sour look, got up, and shut his door. She rolled her eyes and stepped over to the next door on the right -- her bedroom -- and flopped down on her bed turning her back to the doorway and staring at the dark paneling.

The sheets hadn’t even warmed beneath her before she felt her mother’s eyes on her back.

Maybe if I ignore her, she’ll go away.

"So what did your shrink have to say?"

"None of your business."

She heard her Mom step through the doorway and stop at the side of her bed.

"I’m tired of your attitude."

Mandy smirked. "Tell Davy that it’s stupid to hide from me. I know what he does."

"Don’t bite the hand that feeds you."

Mandy sat up and stared her mother down.

"And it seems to keep you in all the crank that you want, too."

Her mother’s mouth fell open.

"If you’re so damn unhappy why don’t you just leave?"

Mandy rolled her eyes. "And reduce your food stamps?"

Her mother scowled. "You little bitch!"

"What does that make you?"

Her mother bit her index finger, turned around, and stomped out of her room.

Mandy leaned back in her bed and sighed. Her mother would win the argument; she always did. But it still felt good on the few occasions when she was able to get a little bit back.

-3-

Fourteen hours later, Mandy willed herself awake. Her alarm clock -- an old Wesclock that once belonged to her grandmother -- read 6:00. And the light coming through her window told her that it was morning.

She rolled off the bed and stood up. Her legs felt like they had sofas strapped to them, and her cheeks seemed to be sliding off her face. It was as though gravity had doubled since she’d fallen asleep.

Her naps seemed to be getting longer and longer these days. The only thing she disliked about them was waking up -- doing so always made her feel used up.

She dragged through the den into the kitchen where Davy sat at the circular table counting the dope money that he always kept in a cigar box. He looked up at her long enough to let her know that he was irritated.

She brushed it off, went over to the counter, grabbed a half-eaten bag of Ruffles, and started back to her room with them.

"Sit down," Davy said without looking at her.

She gave him an incredulous look and kept on walking.

He grabbed her arm and tugged her toward him.

"I said, sit the fuck down."

She sat in a chair across from him.

Davy finished sorting his cash, stacked it up neatly, and deposited it back in the box and slid it aside. Then he laced his fingers beneath his bristly chin and stared her down.

"What do you want?"

He looked at her a moment longer and then sat back.

"You ever talk back to your mother like you did yesterday, and you’re gonna have me to deal with."

"If you say so," she said, standing.

He clutched her shoulder and shoved her back down in the chair. "I’ll tell you when I’m done talkin to you."

She frowned. "It must really make you feel like a big man to push a 16 year old girl around."

She heard a fleshy thwack and found herself on the floor staring at the grate on the bottom of the avocado refrigerator, and her left cheek felt as though it had hundreds of hot needles in it.

She looked back in Davy’s direction. He stood over her now. The table was overturned and rocking like a pendulum, and the force of whatever it was that hit her dumped all the money in Davy’s cigar box.

"Pop that smart mouth off to me again, and I’ll break your other goddamn hand."

She touched the lower left corner of her mouth and found that she had no feeling in her lip. And her hand came away red.

She gave Davy an accusatory look.

"You had your mother so upset last night she didn’t get any sleep. If you think what I just did was bad, try disrespecting her like that again."

She pushed herself up and started back for her room, but Davy grabbed her arm again and spun her around.

"One more thing, you’d better hope you know how to keep your mouth shut."

The pain of being knocked down to the floor caught up with her now. The left side of her face felt like someone hit it with a brick. And she said nothing to him.

He stared into her eyes. "You fuck with me, and I’ll slit your goddamn throat."

She nodded.

He released her shoulder.

She made her way back to her room quickly and closed the door. Then she dressed herself as best she could and didn’t bother cleaning herself up. There was no way she could’ve hidden the swelling of her lower lip anyway.

Then she grabbed her pocket book and her keys, slipped out and started for the door in the living room area.

But just as she reached the door, she sensed him behind her.

"Where the hell do you think you’re going?"

She turned around. "I need to be alone for a while."

Davy searched her face and nodded. "You better not run your fuckin mouth."

She turned around and was out the door before he could say another word.

(Continue to "The Bastard:" scenes 4-5)