There are few places on God’s earth more desolate than Bedlam Reef. Two hundred miles off the Southeastern finger of Newfoundland, the Reef is the mainland’s last outpost, perched on the very edge of the Atlantic abyss. It is hardly a welcome mat for incoming sailors. Before my grandfather built the lighthouse, many a captain had torn out his keel before he even knew the Reef was there, just below the surface, waiting for him.

Lighthouse keepers are an odd breed to begin with, but offshore men like me make the coastal boys look like regular socialites. The supply boat shows up once a month, except in the winter storm season when it takes a three-month break, but the way I see it you have to travel two hundred miles to find a more happening place than the Bedlam Light. Nobody throws a more exclusive party than me.

The Reef is beautiful, in its own peculiar way. The interaction between the warm Gulf Stream and the cold Labrador currents turns the ocean into a giant mood ring. On calm days, the sea is such a rich blue that the fish are compelled to leap into the air as if they cannot afford the rent. I took a photograph of the lighthouse on such a day and sold it to a postcard company. It’s a best-seller. Other days, the thick Grand Banks mist hangs close to the surface and makes everything gray. Mother Nature lets you know she’s about to throw a tantrum when the water becomes oily green. On days like that, sailors abroad had best look out.

Only a few dozen square yards of rock actually rise above the surface. Folks said my grandfather was crazy to try taming it, but he had survived an encounter with Bedlam and knew that it would be more crazy not to. It took him three attempts to build a foundation that would still be there after the next storm. The Reef claimed two more ships before Grandad turned on the light for the first time. The Bedlam Light was haunted before it even opened for business. Grandad never had a chance.

I was not ten years old when they took him away. He didn’t last long in that lonely white room with no view of the sea. Before that, he took me one day to the very top of the lighthouse where the foghorn was mounted, just me and him, an old man and his grandson. Some day this will all be yours, he said, sweeping his arm expansively from horizon to horizon. One day it was.

My father took over the management of the lighthouse, but he did not have the stomach to live there himself. He hired men to operate the light. Few of them ever lasted more than one good storm. The Bedlam Light was mine for the taking, just as soon as I could finish school. I was a smart kid, I guess, but I didn’t make but a nominal effort. Book learning means nothing offshore. Two hundred miles out, you either have what it takes to keep it together or you don’t.

My first storm was a spectacular Arctic gale. The waves exploded on the Reef and the wind turned the spray into needles which attacked rock, lighthouse and any living creature with equal ferocity; to venture outside was to be instantly stabbed with a thousand knives before being carried away and buried at sea. My Bedlam Light burned brightly and my foghorn added its deep voice to the din. The fishing outfit must have seen me, just as I saw its navigation lights dancing faintly beyond the wall of white water on the reef. When the waves broke the glass in the light room and destroyed my lamp, the crew must have known they were dead, and so they were.

An experience like that would have broken anyone else, but to walk away would have been to give up my inheritance. I figured Grandad had his ghosts, and now I had mine. That fishing crew talked to me while I repaired the light, and I came to know them well. I was alone when I came to Bedlam, but now I have a family.

My family has grown over the years. I suppose restless spirits crave company, and I find myself in a position where I can give it to them. I felt a twinge of guilt the first time I shuttered the Bedlam Light during a storm, but they turned out to be such interesting people! These days, when the sea turns a greasy, envious green, I stand beside my darkened lamp and watch the show. Sailors abroad, beware.

Katie dropped her head down, the angle pulling at the wires attached to the pads on her forehead. She didn’t want Dr. Hawtin to see that she was crying again.

“Hey, Katie?” Dr. Hawtin said, bending down to Katie’s level. “Katie? What’s the matter?” Katie sniffled but didn’t answer, looking out at the samples of fabric, wood and plastic on the table in front of her. She let her tears well up again and the objects swam and blurred through the dark brown streaks of hair that fell over her face. “Come on, Katie. Just try to relax and we’ll give it one more go, ok?”

“No. You’re treating me like a child,” Katie sobbed, closing her eyes to make the objects go away.

Like all the staff, Dr. Hawtin didn’t look like a psychiatrist: with her slacks and jumper and her short, gelled peppered-grey hair, her casualness only made Katie more cynical. “Katie, I’m not treating you like a child. I don’t think you’re a child . . .”

“You think I’m crazy . . .” Katie interjected.

“Hey, remember the rule?”

“See, you’re doing it again! You’re treating me like a child!” Katie spluttered, wiping at the tears that had gathered on her chin.

“No, I’m not, but it’s important that we don’t use labels like “crazy” while we’re in here, ok? I don’t think you’re a child and I don’t think you’re crazy. I think you’re a healthy, normal 32-year-old woman who needs to work a few things out . . .”

“It’s got nothing to do with "working things out"! I can’t feel my fingers! I can’t hold anything, I can’t grip anything and it’s got nothing to do with my emotional state!” Katie cried, her voice becoming hysterical: she was never one for tantrums, but after a week in the clinic she was drowning in frustration.

Dr. Hawtin sat back, giving Katie a moment to cry. “You know,” she continued softly, “this test will show if there’s anything neurological amiss . . .”

“I’ve seen a neurologist. Several.”

“. . . and if there is anything we can start to target it that way.” Katie sighed again and sat up, rubbing the heels of her palms over her cheeks. “So, Katie, take some deep breaths and run your fingers over the textures again . . .”

-----------

“Katie? Are you alright? What happened?”

“Oh . . . I guess I never noticed . . .”

---------------

“Alright, we’ll call it a day for now,” Dr. Hawtin said, getting up to take the wires off Katie’s head. “You've got nothing on for the rest of the afternoon now. I know the woman from animal shelter is bringing some kittens down, maybe you could go have a play and a cuddle?”

“You’re doing it again!” Katie snapped.

“I’m doing what again, Katie?” Dr. Hawtin asked.

“You’re treating me like a kid again. “Oh, I know!”,” she mocked, “”let’s give her some cute, cuddly kittens to pet, she’ll soon forget about this silly lack of sensitivity in her fingers if she’s got some soft little kittens to touch . . .!””

Dr. Hawtin removed her glasses and leant against the table. “That’s not what I meant and you know it. Ok, so you might not be a cat person, but you’ve got the option. Otherwise, there's all the normal things in the lounge or the gardens or you can just hang out in your room. It’s up to you.”

Katie sighed and slumped back down in her chair. “Fine . . .”

---------------

“Oh, Katie, don’t cry! Please don’t cry, baby! Just give it a chance, that’s all I’m saying.”

“It’s not that I don’t believe you - no, don’t look at me like that! - but you can’t keep going on like this. It’s just for four weeks, and it really is a lovely place, more like a resort, really . . .”

-------------------

Dr. Hawtin watched Katie leave, turning the door handle with some difficulty with her wrists. Returning to Katie’s file, she read through her notes but still nothing made sense. Grabbing her pen, she added, "Patient emotional and uncooperative. Scans inconclusive at first examination, diagnosis of psychosomatic response to stress still uncertain . . ."

Mabel Mercedes was talking to the furniture again. Every minute of every day, she cheerily conversed with inanimate objects as if they were intelligent and able to understand her. She had come to enjoy the daily routine of drifting from room to room at her own casual pace, as if paying a scheduled visit to beloved friends and leaving nobody out of the equation. She wouldn't want anyone to think she wasn't polite and considerate, even if they did consider her a little crazy or eccentric.

"There you go, my sweetie. All dusted and shiny like new", she told the dining table, at she studied her reflection in the polished surface and tidied her wispy white hair. She could hardly recognise herself these days, the image of a frail old woman didn't quite match her youthful demeanor. "Mustn't forget those sexy legs of yours!" she humoured, running the duster up and down them. "They remind me of my lovely legs dressed in stockings and high heels. My husband always paid attention to me then!" With that, she blew a cheeky wolf-whistle as she went on her way.

The bookshelf was the next item of furniture to enjoy her company. It was like an apartment block that housed her favourite friends all in one convenient place. "Good day to you all! Shakespeare and Shelley, you have returned home! I missed you both this week. I expect you've enjoyed some fresh air wafting through your pages. Bronte, Wilde and Wordsworth, you look very smart in your leather jackets, the embossed gilt trim certainly appears exceedingly regal. I bet every paperback book on the top shelf feels quite jealous right now!" She looked at them with a raised eyebrow. "Now don't feel inferior", she continued "you know what they say, you can't judge a book by its cover. It's what's inside you that counts: education, adventure and magnificent mystery! It's important to offer intrigue - just like me." She dusted along their spines, reciting the names of each author for as long as it took her to do so.

"Now it's your turn." she said to the Chesterfield chairs, meticulously dusting inside each hollow where the round buttons dimpled the leather surface. "You epitomise everything that is grand in a chair; solid, long-lasting and completely reliable; just like me!" She made her way along the line, like a Sergeant Major inspecting his squadron but, much to her annoyance, she had to neglect the last chair as it already had company.

"Good morning, Mabel", greeted the occupant, his ashen eyebrows glancing over the top of the newspaper. Mabel didn't feel like responding, she felt awkward conversing with other 'people'. It was like a jolt from a cattle-prod; a nudge of reality she didn't quite wish to acknowledge. Choosing to ignore the greeting, she made her way to the far side of the room as quickly as her fragile legs would take her. She heard the reassuring rustle and shake of the newspaper behind her as the occupant returned to his reading. Mabel felt comfortable again.

Glancing at the television set, she sighed. "You look lonely in the corner on your own, you need some company. Today, I'm going to pop to the shops and buy a luscious leafy-green plant with pink flowers to put on your head. Dress you up a bit, it's important to look smart and elegant. Just like me."

Mabel returned to the kitchen and placed the duster neatly back inside the cupboard under the sink. "Don't be frightened now. I know its dark in here but its the best place for you when you are a conspicuous bright yellow and covered in dust and cobwebs! I know it's your job, but some people might not understand, my dear. Really, you should be washed every day but you are so delicate, you wouldn't last very long. Better to be a little unkempt and live longer - just like me!" She chuckled, giving the duster a reassuring pat before closing the cupboard door.

"Just like me...", she thought to herself. For some reason, she always said this. Despite her tendency for escapism, she knew to cling to a sense of identity. Nobody was going to take that away from her.

Greeting her hat and coat in the usual way, she popped them on, grabbed her bag and left to catch a bus. But not without first saying goodbye to the front door, the letter box... and the garden gate.

Except she couldn't open the gate. It was locked securely.

"Mrs Mercedes!", called a concerned voice from the front door. "You shouldn't be outside on a day like this, you'll catch your death of cold!"

Mabel was a little taken aback, not quite understanding where she was or what she was doing. The nurse took hold of Mabel's hand and brought her back inside. Mabel didn't protest, she suddenly remembered this had happened before. The nurse beckoned Mabel to sit down near the fire and gave her a hot drink.

"Hello tea!", Mabel exclaimed, clutching the china saucer with a secure grip. She completely disregarded the kind nurse; instead prefering to engage in conversation with yet another inanimate item.

"You look a fine colour today; just like me - all rosy-cheeked from the warmth of the fire. Oh, and what a lovely perfume you are wearing. Bergamot! Such a sweet and heady aroma."

Mabel wasn't crazy, she was just getting old. It was another day in her own little world, her husband had died ten years since and they never had children. She was here to pass the time while she waited for the visitor she'd been expecting for some time now; the only visitor who would ever come to see her. She just hadn't been told a particular day.

Mabel didn't much care for company, so it was just as well that when the visitor did arrive later that evening, she remained blissfully unaware as she mumbled to her pillow whilst she slept.

Sweet dreams, Mabel Mercedes.

"Bye, honey," said Benjamin Rodney Porter III. He kissed his wife on the cheek and walked out the front door.

"Drive safely!" she called after him.

Ben wasn't listening. Not because he rarely listened to her anymore, although that was true, but because he was admiring his Audi TT, gleaming in the driveway. It was quite a change from his BMW, but he'd earned it: His credit card group had yielded spectacular profits last year. Many of his peers used limos, but Ben couldn't bring himself to be driven around by some barely-competent ignoramus with a chauffer's uniform.

Ben glided through the tree-lined streets of his exclusive enclave, nodded to the security guard at the gate, and turned onto Shady Boulevard. The light at Elm Street turned red as Ben approached, but the turbocharger responded to his precise touch on the accelerator, and he easily swerved around the jerk on the cross street that was already in the intersection. He heard the angry sound of horns behind him, and smiled. If people didn’t have the financial means to acquire a capable automobile, or the stones to drive it as it was meant to be driven, they deserved to be cut off at intersections.

***

Travis Hunter downshifted through the low range of gears of the Freightliner, trying to maintain an open space between the front of his rig and the rear bumper of the little Honda in front of him. Rush hour traffic was crawling along, and the commuters were, as always, impatient to get to wherever they were going.

Travis was also pressed for time; he had to drop his load and get over to the Arena to get tickets to see Taylor Swift. Fearless was in the CD player, and she was singing a love song, just for him. He speeded up a little to keep a Corolla from cutting in front of him, turned up the volume, and sang along with Taylor.

"There's somethin' 'bout the way the street looks..."

***

As always, cars were lined up for blocks waiting to get onto the freeway ramp. Ben smiled as he passed them all in the left lane, delaying until the last minute his cut into a tiny gap at the turnoff. All four disk brakes got a good workout, but he'd saved at least ten minutes. He didn't even notice the rude gestures aimed in his direction by the driver behind him.

***

Travis was still singing along with Taylor Swift.

"So baby drive slow 'til we run out of road..."

No kidding. He inched his rig along in the right lane, watching the moron drivers in the cars below. The swervers. The tailgaters. The cell phone talkers. The makeup artists. It seemed that only the truckers knew how to drive these days. He waved a Peterbilt into the space ahead of him, and then hit the brakes to avoid hitting the Audi sedan that ducked in behind the Peterbilt. Why was it always an Audi?

***

Ben zoomed down the entrance ramp. There was a line of cars at the end, trying to merge onto the freeway. Ben glanced over his shoulder and made a quick swerve to the left at the earliest opportunity. He crossed the double line in front of the surprised driver of a dump truck, and then quickly moved all the way to the left lane, leaving nothing but angry drivers in his wake. He turned on the adaptive cruise control and started his first teleconference of the commute.

***

Two miles ahead of Travis, the highway split, with the left lanes headed toward the city. Travis, still in the right lane, began looking in the side mirror for an opportunity to move over. He saw an opening in front of a Kenworth semi, and the driver flashed his lights, letting Travis in. Just as Travis started to move over, though, two cars from the left lane cut into the space, and then, unbelievably, accelerated to the right, cutting in front of Travis. He locked the brakes to avoid hitting the second car, and by the time he looked back to the left, the opening was gone. Idiots! It was the last straw. He would yield no more. Taylor was waiting.

"Fearless..."

***

Ben entered the express toll lane and sailed past the cars backed up in the regular lanes. He was ahead of schedule, and well into his second teleconference. Every two miles, the transponder on the dash beeped, acknowledging that another dollar had been charged to his expense account. Money well spent, thought Ben, glancing at the stalled traffic on the other side of the divider. Alas, he'd soon have to get out of the express lane so that he could make his exit.

***

Travis was steamed. Even the trucks were cutting him off, and the divide was rapidly approaching. Travis stepped on the gas. It was time to make a stand.

"It's fearless..."

***

Ben assessed the traffic flow ahead. He needed to make a quick move from the express lane, across the freeway, and then exit to the right. He looked for a semi to anchor his next move; drivers of big rigs were predictable, and they'd do anything to avoid an accident, and he intended to take advantage of that fact. A Freightliner was in exactly the right spot. Ben stepped on the gas. He'd use the Freightliner to run interference.

***

At last, Travis saw the opening he needed, and began to move the big rig to the left. As he began the lane change, he saw a little sports car zoom out of the express lane exit, heading for his space.

Not this time, he thought. But the car kept coming.

Taylor's voice egged him on.

"Fearless..."

***

Ben beat the Freightliner into the space, but the truck kept coming. He jabbed at the accelerator to pull alongside the cab, and made eye contact with the driver.

It didn't matter.

I think it is fair to say that everyone who worked in the Refinery’s Engineering Workshop liked Pete Black. And that’s a great tribute to pay to any supervisor. He had this way of getting lazy people to work and the over-industrious to chill-out. Like everyone else I thought of him as a friend rather than a boss.

He was a big man with a heart to match; he had once saved an apprentice’s life, lifting an engine block off him. He never altered in all the twenty years that I worked with him. Every day, he arrived in brown trousers and a check sports jacket. In the morning, he did his paperwork in the office. He had a great system for re-ordering materials that tied into the worksheets. When the computer system came in, he wasn’t impressed. In fact he ran the two systems together. ”˜And what if we have a power failure,’ was his favourite phrase. In the afternoons he would make his round of the workshop in his pristine, white overalls. He never shirked from lending a hand where he thought it was necessary, even on the most awkward, grimy jobs. I often wondered how he kept his overalls so clean.

On the day he retired, it was only fitting that I made the presentation; I was going to be the new supervisor. We held the little ceremony at three o’clock in the afternoon. All the guys in the workshop had clubbed together to buy him a camera. We’d cleared one of the workbenches for the presentation.

Pete stayed in the office busily checking his order cards until the very last minute. When he emerged in his best sports jacket, he was carrying a stack of about twenty carefully laundered, white boiler suits. He put them on the workbench next to the camera. It was then that I noticed he was sweating. Something I had never seen him do.

It threw me.

I suppose I managed to gabble on for a minute or so about how we had all enjoyed working with him and how we would miss him. When I handed over the camera, I joked that he could only have it if he gave me the workshop keys.

Everyone expected Pete to say how much he would miss working with us; maybe even make a joke about how we wouldn’t be able to do without him. Instead he merely muttered a quick thank you and went back into the office. I’ve never seen so much fear in a man’s eyes.

But I didn’t understand.

When the guys finished their jobs, they went into the office, one by one, to say their goodbyes to Pete before they clocked off. They were all keen to head home for the Christmas holiday.

By five o’clock, there were only the two of us. It was time to shut up shop. I pulled down the main shutters and locked them. Then I turned off the main workshop lights, just leaving on the dim emergency lighting. Pete was still in the brightly-lit office. He was standing, stooped over his rack of re-order cards. I watched as he pulled one out, read it and returned it to the pile. Then he pulled out another, and another, and did the same thing. It was only then that I realised how much he didn’t want to leave. I felt sorry for him. But I wanted to go home. I tapped on the glass of the office window, beckoned to him and pointed at the empty workshop.

I thought at first that he wasn’t going to come out, because he sat down in his chair at the desk and just stared at the line of deserted workbenches. He looked completely desolated.

I knew I had to do something. I opened the office door and planted the biggest ever smile on my face. ”˜Come on, Pete,’ I said. ”˜Time to go. I promise, I’ll look after the cards. You taught me well.’

To my relief, he stood up, gave a half smile and switched off the office lights before following me towards the workshop’s side-door. I held it open so that he could go out first. Then I pulled it closed. It was strange being in charge of the keys with Pete being there. What happened next is still a bit hazy. I remember offering the keys to him and saying ”˜Would you like to lock up for the last time.’ He took them and I turned, ready to set off to the car park. The next thing I knew I woke up in hospital with a fractured skull.

Apparently a security guard found me barely alive. The smashed camera was still in its bloodstained case next to my head. Pete was in his office, still checking his re-order cards. The paramedics had to sedate him to get him out. It seems that he had Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. The psychiatrist concluded that his retirement had pushed him over the edge into schizophrenia.

As you can imagine, Now I don’t think of Pete as my friend. But that’s not because he nearly killed me, but because, I’m beginning to think that nobody is truly your friend. Lately, I’ve seen the lads in the workshop huddled together, talking about me. Like Pete, I live on my own and I keep things spotlessly clean. I can’t stop going through the re-order cards, and this is the fourth time I’ve come back from the car park to check that the workshop door is locked.

It’s only five years until I retire. And I’m really worried.

After six years it's almost over, I graduate on Friday! Tomorrow I'll pass the Illinois psychiatric license exam and... at least I think I'll pass-- sometimes it's hard to be sure. I glance across at Lucy's bunk. The pink piglets and Norma Nevada posters were her contribution to our dorm's decor-- and constant reminders that it's time for me to get out and face the real world. The alarm clock was hers too. Both of Mickey's hands point towards heaven, midnight! I sigh and pull out my DSM4 study guide one more time, just to be sure.

OK, sample question number one: According to the Diagnostic Statistical Manual (DSM4), the most commonly observed class of psychological disorder is? "Easy peasy!" I speak aloud before covering my mouth. I watch Lucy sigh before resuming her soft snoring. I whisper "Phobias." Hmm, I need a mnemonic, "Phobias are so common, even I have examophobia, and I'm the most level-headed person I know!" I close my eyes to hold this thought inside. The soft ticking of her alarm clock reminds me to open my eyes. I've never feared heights or closets or supermarkets or clowns or the number thirteen, but "tick-" there "-tock" was always "tick-" something about that clock... "-tock." A tiny voice in my "tick-" head sings in malicious joy, "It's a small world after all, it's a small..."

"QUIET!" I call out into the darkness, "Shhh!" I tell myself. Lucy is still sound asleep. "-tock." My fingers shake only slightly as they move over the DSM4 index. Earworms:Page 67. "A persistent auditory hallucination of a song or musical phrase. At this time, we're aware..."

"It's a tick- small -tock world after all! It's a sma.."

I watch Lucy sleep. I always found it unsettling that her left eye never closed completely. It made her appear as an oddly alluring dead barn owl. My fingers leap over the next five disorders: necrophilia, avian bestiality-- mathematics disorder. It was especially disturbing when she told me she dreamed I was making love to a Ford Mondeo the very morning after I had let Fred Montoya...

Now I whisper, "Lucy! Are you asleep?" I steal a chocolate from her desk then lean in close. Her breath moves my stringy bangs in a sing-song rhythm, 4/4 time. "we're aware it's a small..." I clap my hands over my ears. The same rhythm pulses just beneath the skin of that slender freshman neck. "Lub-dub lub-dub-- after all..."

"Just you wait," I tell her, "after 2000 trips to the cafeteria, countless exams and weekends you don't remember and boyfriends you try to forget, you'll be fat like me!" I wave my hand before her face. "Are you watching me?" Is that the beginning of a smile I see on those lips? I turn to page 310, Paranoia: The belief that...

She is watching me. I know it now. I'm sure I saw those David Bowie eyes flash open just then. I point at her and shout, "I know what you're trying to do to me!" Her lips move as if to kiss the air between us.

Eeew! She did kiss me once. I shivered and almost threw up, then I felt a strange pleasure and I hated myself for that. I hated her too. Pervert. I'm as straight as a Texas highway. That's why I let Freddy do me and why I voted for W twice! No sir, she ain't homogenizing me! I wiped my lips across my sleeve and noticed the lipstick streaks. I glance up at my closet and see the same red stains on each of my blouses looking like the aftermath of an unspeakable massacre. I wipe again. Will I ever get her Wriggly-sweet taste off my lips?

Focus! I remember studying for my freshman finals. Back then it was so easy to get distracted thinking about melting snow, budding lilacs, Whitman, Yeats, Jung, striped toothpaste, infinity, mom-- Freddy! Mom-Freddy? Oh no what would Freud think of that? Oh God-- and still Lucy watches me and waits, snickering not snoring. I'm helpless... it's--"...a small tick- whirled -tock after tick- all. It's a..." I'm thrown to the vomit colored linoleum by the centrifugal force of demented chipmunks shrieking in tongues at 78-RPM. I taste Beethoven's interludes, I smell Van Gogh's severed ear and feel the color of insanity ooze up and course through my veins, glowing hot like lava-lamp oil. Time drips down in silvery snot-drool threads. I rip out page 307, Pica-- and eat it, then I throw the DSM4 manual at her shattered head and fly away. I am invincible! Her glassy eye tumbles out on a slinky spring. It grows mouse ears and serenades me, "It's a small world after all!"

I scream but my voice squeaks out only a dim whisper of the horror before me, "You aren't real Lucy, wake up and let me out of your nightmare!"

I'm drowning in a violence of sorrow. "Why me?" I cry and let the melting checkerboard tiles pull me down into a spiral of shrill happy lyrics eleven octaves beyond infinity, "It's a small small small small wooooorld. It's a..." The triumphant voice of eternal madness welcomes me.

"Ophelia honey? Come on sleepyhead, it's noon! Remember your exam today. God, I'm so sorry, I had the AM/PM alarm switch set wrong again. It's been singing that silly children's song ever since midnight and I'm such a sound sleeper... Ophee?" Lucy bends down to reads the open page of the DSM4 manual clutched in her roommate's pale hands:

300: Hypochondriasis:Patients believe themselves to have one or more serious diseases. Knowledge of the disease can bring on psychosomatic symptoms.

Lucy resets the alarm for 12:03 and flips the switch from AM to PM "I've gotta go now, good luck on that exam! I don't care what Professor Gildstein says, you'll have empathy for your patients and be a great psychiatrist!" Lucy blows a kiss. "I'm gonna miss you Ophelia!"

"Tick--tock, tick--tock, tick--tock..."

Howard stared at the painting as if it was a cockroach or other vermin that had crawled into his studio. He didn't say a word, he didn't need to. Ed felt crushed.

“Look Howard, all I want is a chance for some of my other work to be shown and sold,” he protested.

Howard shook his head. “Ed, I can't do that. This,” he said gesturing at the painting, “has no soul. It is a nice little portrait of a nice little windmill. There are thousands of those out there. I need your dark moods. Give me more like that,” he said pointing at another painting, a disturbing scene in blacks and reds.

“But I don't want to paint like that all the time!”

Howard shrugged. “I can't tell you what to paint. I can only tell you what I can sell. And that one just did this morning for $100,000.”

Ed left the office glumly, and headed back home. His wife, Natasha was waiting there. “How did it go?” she asked, not really needing an answer. She could see it in his face.

“The usual,” Ed replied gruffly. “He want's the dark stuff.”

Natasha shook her head. “Perhaps I should see him. I don't like what this is doing to you.”

“You are welcome to try,” Ed shrugged.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

“Howard, you have to stop doing this to Ed. I fear for his sanity,” Natasha said.

“Oh come on Natasha. He is good at a dark style of painting. The best in fact. He shows the desperation of the human condition in those. I already had this discussion with him. If he wants to paint other subjects, I can't sell them.”

“Can't or is it just harder? He has a name now, plenty of artists have changed their style of painting.”

Howard wasn't listening, but examining the painting instead. “I'd love to know how he gets the reds so vivid,” he remarked..

“No, you wouldn't,” said Natasha as she turned and walked out, the long sleeves of her blouse dangling over her hands.

Howard watched her leave. Strange woman, but entirely devoted to Ed. He hoped she would keep him unbalanced. He needed that inspiration to paint.

Natasha returned home, and searched for Ed. “Honey, I am back. I couldn't get through to him either,” she said, as she found Ed in the bathroom. “Oh, I am sorry, I didn't know you were busy. Well, I will just start making dinner for us."

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

A week later she called Howard. “Darling, Ed has finished another painting. He is very busy right now, and asked that I bring it to you.”

“Sure Natasha, I will be here. Is it good?”

“One of his best ever. I think you will like it.”

She arrived a short time later, and unpacked the canvas. Howard had to admit he was impressed. This was far beyond what Ed had painted previously, almost hideous in form. The reds were more prevalent then the blacks, and he could just imagine the bidding war there would be over this one.

Time went on, and Ed kept to himself, with Natasha bringing the finished paintings to Howard, and Howard almost swooning when he saw them. Each one a masterpiece. Each one even more disturbing then before.

“How is he doing mentally Natasha?” Howard asked, not really caring, but it seemed like the thing to ask.

“Oh, he has resolved all his issues, and is doing fine. He is really quite stable these days, although very into his work. I think he may soon be ready to meet with you again though.”

“Good, good, well keep them coming. Here is a check for the last one,” he said handing her a check for $200,000.

Natasha took it outside and burned it.

-o-o-o-o-

A week later she was back again, with another painting. “Ed would like to see you now. Do you have time today?”

Howard looked at his watch. “I have a free hour at 1 pm. Will that do?”

“That will be fine. I will tell Ed to expect you.”

At one o'clock Howard arrived. “Where is Ed?” he asked.

“He will be here shortly. Be a dear and get me a loaf of bread out of the refrigerator, will you?”

Howard went over and opened the door. There was Ed, with a noose around his neck. He stepped back just as Natasha whacked him with a heavy object and he lost consciousness.

When he came to, he was tied up. Ed's body was next to him, and the smell of gasoline was everywhere. Natasha was standing over him. “Why?” he asked.

“You drove him to take his own life. He couldn't handle your rejection of his portraits.”

“But I told him I couldn't sell the new style, only the old one.”

“Those were his only paintings. The dark ones were mine. Oh, and you asked about the reds...”

Natasha lifted her sleeve, and showed him all the scars on her arm.

“I had to bleed to paint. Ed thought I was destroying myself, then you destroyed him. That's why.”

“You are never going to get away with this you know,” Howard said.

“Who is trying to get away? I am coming with you,” Natasha said, pouring the remaining gasoline over her own head, then tossing the can. “I want to see how you explain this all to Ed,” she added, “fire is so cleansing don't you think?”

The last thing Howard saw was Natasha striking a match. The last thing he felt was the flames consuming his flesh. And the last thing he heard was Natasha's insane giggling as she too was engulfed in flames.

Mrs. Kaitlin Frederick was a perfectionist, and a clean freak. Cleanliness was the most important thing in her life. If anything near her was dirty she had to clean it.

And I mean HAD too.

So it was that one day in her perfect house shared with her perfect spouse and perfect son, she was cleaning the perfect kitchen. Kaitlin looked around. The surfaces shone, and reflected her perfect face.
'Life IS perfect.' She said to herself, and went off to do some ironing.

She found her husband ironing already. He was watching the football while doing so. So it was that Kaitlin found herself with nothing to do. Except...
She could clean the bathroom. For the sixth time today.
"Honey, I'm going to clean around the house." She told her husband, who was entranced by the Leeds V Chelsea match on TV.
"Okay, sugar." He said, kissing her on the forehead.

She bounced upstairs and into the main bathroom. It looked spotless. This is when Mrs. Frederick smiled. 'Never assume a room is completeley clean. There is always one thing that could be cleaned again.' She said to herself, and opened the cabinet. She pulled out Bleach, disinfectant, a towel and a cleaning rag. All she needed in life to be happy.

She was just about to get started on the toilet when she noticed someone's... leavings in there.
'Men. Who needs 'em?' Kaitlin thought, and flushed the loo, frowning. But to her horror, the water didn't go down. It started going up...
'Oh nooo!' She yelled, getting the toilet plunger. She thrust the plunger into the toilet and started moving it up and down in a two-four rythm, like her grandmother always had. But it wasn't working!
Kaitlin felt a fuse go off in her head, she was just going to lose it but calmed herself down...

'Deep breaths...In....Out....In....Out....' She said, and smiled.
'No worries. Just call a Plumber.' She thought to herself, when she heard a smash from the kitchen.
She let out a yelp and dashed downstairs.

She saw a horrid sight. Muddy footsteps. All over her clean, carpeted floor. It could have only been...
"HAROOOOOOLLD!!" Kaitlin yelled, and a six year old boy caked in dirt stepped into the room.
"Yes mummy?" He asked, staring at her.

Kaitlin felt three small fuses go off. She felt her skin go red. But once again, she held it back. That's what she had to do.
"How many times have I told you? No mud in the house! Go and take a bath immediately!" She yelled, pointing upstairs.
"Yes Mummy." Harold said, trudging upstairs, leaving more muddy footprints.

Now what was that smash she heard? She stepped into the living room to see her husband staring at a hole in the ceiling.
"HOW DID THS HAPPEN?!" Kaitlin yelled. The last fuse had blown. She had completeley overloaded the circuits.
"I jumped when leeds scored...and the iron hit the ceiling." Katlins hubby explained.
Kaitlin smiled.

"That has ruined my house. It has ruined it, Micheal. IT HAS RUINED IT, YOU HEAR?!" She yelled, spitting as she did so. She picked up the iron and lobbed it at his head.
KLONG!!
A Knockout. Blood poured from her husbands head. He was gasping for breath.
"999..." He gasped, slowly.
That was not what was on kaitlins mind.

"BLOOD! MORE DIRT, I SUPPOSSSSSE!" She yelled, leaving a hiss on the 'S' because of anger. She grabbed a mop and mopped furiously, but it wouldn't come out of her plush carpets. She instead took a scourer and scrubbed, letting blood stain her clothes and skin. She was busy doing this when all of a sudden she heard a small voice upstairs yell:

'Muuuuummmm, The Water in the bath is green!'

Kaitlin screamed and stomped upstairs to the bathroom. Sure enough there was her boy, in his underwear, pointing to a green bath.
Kaitlin blinked. Veins appeared on her forehead.
"YOU DID THIS, DIDN'T YOU!" She yelled, pointing at Harold.
She grabbed him in a fireman's lift.
"If the bath doesn't work...what else...AHA! THE DISHWASHER!" Kaitlin yelled, running for the dishwasher.
"That will clean the mud off you in 3 seconds flat!!" She yelled.

"No, mummy! Put me down! The green water was bath foam that turns it green! It was a joke, Mummy! Mum! MUUUUUMMMM!!" Harold yelled, but it was too late. Kaitlin had made up her mind, and shoved her boy into the dishwasher.
She put it on full blast.
"DADDY! HELP MEEE!" Harold yelled, starting to cry now.

"Shut up and get clean!" Yelled Kaitlin, grinning. Then she noticed her skin was covered in blood... DIRT. ON. HER.

She scrubbed at it, but it was dry now, it couldn't and wouldn't come off.
Wait...If the blood wouldn't get off her skin...
The skin would get off her!
She pulled open the kitchen unit, and pulled out the potato peeler.

Slowly, she peeled her skin off. Very short bits at first, but as she got used to the stinging pain she went faster, harder, and made the strips longer, striving to get herself clean..

Mrs. Kaitlin, gasping for breath, grinned.
She was clean now... her whole house was clean...

"Oh my God." Cliff thought to himself as he glanced at the bottom of the computer screen. It was 2:30 in the morning. Work would come early AGAIN. He hated his day job and the mask of compassion he had to wear every day. Once home from work, the night and all it's darkness would consume him. His computer had become his research lab and the newspaper his night time boss, churning out assignment after assignment. For hours he would study Google maps, white page listings and various search engines. Referencing and cross-referencing until he was certain. Without ever printing a thing he kept a storehouse of information locked within various email addresses. Once the assignment was complete he simply deleted the information and emptied the trash. Cliff logged off and forced himself to go to bed.

For most of the next hour he laid in bed unable to turn off his mind. His thoughts still calculating and organizing the fresh data from the night's research. Cliff was sure other people had dark thoughts not unlike his own. Thoughts driven by nagging spouses, over expecting bosses, or the justice system itself. Given the deteriorating nature of the world he lived in, Cliff would rationalize his behavior as the norm. He was raised to believe "crime does not pay" but grew up to realize just the opposite. He tossed and turned until the night eventually released him into sleep only to start the viscous cycle over in just a few short hours.

The shower seemed to be his life-blood each morning. Hopefully washing away the night and waking up the day within him. He stood there as the hot water washed over his naked body. As his body came to life so did his mind. The previous night's work mingled with his thoughts of the day ahead. He even considered taking the day off and succumbing to the night again. He felt as if he was half human and half monster, half night and half day. As he toweled himself dry he peered out the bathroom window. It had started to rain and it was going to be a miserable day. He cursed to himself as he realized he had forgotten to check the forecast on the internet the night before. He would definitely have to go to work now. He proceeded to get dressed for work fighting back the urge not to. The darkness did not use to have such a strong force in his life as it did now. I'm not crazy he thought to himself as he pulled his socks on over his shoes. Doctors and nurses do this everyday. Sometimes walking miles on their sock shoe-ed feet. He smiled as he humored himself with his thoughts. Yes, but it was raining today and the reasons for dressing this way would be wasted in the mud. He pulled the socks off and threw them in the corner of his bedroom. With disdain for the weather he thought, "The first time it hadn't been raining though. The first time it came without a hitch. The first time there were no tracks left behind."

He just wished there had never been a first time.

The Embrace of Darkness

Shadows dance across the scarlet stained rocks as I wonder in and out of my sanity. How long has it been, five maybe six years since I was able to look upon my weathered face. The hellish burning inside my soul continues to feed my ever present need to escape this twisted wonderland. But all I see now is the blurred, surreal images that had been concrete to me so long ago. “To what I owe this pleasant visit”, I say in a half crazed, almost whimsical manner. “I thought you had forgotten me and after all this time”. While the blistering, white capped breeze slowly snaked its way into my living tomb, I managed a sinister grin. As a curious child speaks to an adult, I asked, “Why do I awaken into this hollowed, shell of a man each day? What would happen if I just decided to float away into the blackened nothing that awaits the passing of our mortal souls?” Just then, a familiar sound bellowed from within death himself, like a starving cat pawing at its master sleeves. Could it be time to eat? Yes, it's true! My daily sustenance is being brought to me in the proper manner, as it should be. Silken tablecloth, bronze encased cutlery and a jewel encrusted porcelain bowl, for me to wash away all of my grief. As my mouth was about to take in all of the delicious flavors of a fantastic cuisine, the stench of half rotted beef and molding bread made my stomach vacate its resident bile. What I wouldn't do to taste the warm, tender texture of roast beef upon my palette once more.
As much as I fight to remain asleep, my eyes slothfully open and strain to focus on the dim light that flooded through the bars of my putrid abode. After struggling to pull myself up to a slumped sitting position, I gleefully loathe yet another day of spinning a web of infinite woes. As mud surely dries upon the banks of a bog, why can't the blood in my veins slow to a snail’s pace, allowing me to drift into a final facade of broken dreams? Out from behind the pitch black canvas, a foreign sound pulled itself through the thick, stale air and hit me as a carpenter would strike an unsuspecting nail. “No”, I exclaimed inside my worried head, “Not another, not now”. I had almost forgotten the sounds of unrelenting torture. The pungent stench of fear laced urine and the echoing banters for mercy all falls upon deaf ears and forgotten emotion. How can a man find the hatred in his heart to harm another in that manner? While I nervously scurried about the darkness, a meander of howling filled my good ear, followed by the dying cries of mortality. At least they won't have to wonder aimlessly through life in this dilapidated excuse for a luxury suite. Falling backwards against the slime covered wall and before that last thought could leave my memory, I laughed at myself. Even through the fear in my heart, I laughed. A man just died a horrid death and I find myself encompassed by screaming laughter. The sounds fell from my mouth without delay and I cared not if the old ax man heard me. I welcomed his dull, rusted blade. I feared not the agony of death, but welcomed its cleansing blow, releasing me back to the beginning of time itself. I didn't care anymore, by any means I wanted to taste the sweet nectar of a spring time morning again. I want to see all of the colors that swirl through the sun lit hills. I want to feel the warmth of the afternoon sun upon my face. Snapping violently back to the icy depths of despair, I felt myself gripped by a fit of uncontrollable rage. I leapt, from the broken stones on which I sat, for the rusted bars that have held me from my freedom for far too long. I struggled against their will and tugged tirelessly at the lock. Finally, I gave in to the grim reality that I was never going to escape the mauling bite of the eternal serpent.
Weeks have passed or maybe they have all become friends and have become months. For this I was no longer able to decipher. What is time anyway? Is it the feeling that you have been self aware for more than a blink of an eye? Is it the knowledge that you have traveled from here to there and back again? What will I do with myself for the remainder of my cold, rash existence? Could I find it in me to take away what the Heavenly master has afforded for me? Could I continue to embrace the darkness and welcome it into my home? Yes, I could and I will. I will remain the master of this domain, allowing no man or creature the simple satisfaction of happiness. I have become one with this reaper of light. For as long as I have breath in my lungs and the will to awaken, I will embrace the darkness like a child embraces its mother’s breast. Staggering to my feet once more, I begin to feel a new hope flourishing through my veins. Grasping my head in my hands, I pulled at my last remaining strands of hair. I cried aloud, “To God and all who can hear my words, I am eternity. Let it be known, before I collapse from the years of solitude and being engulfed by the oblivious horizons of mans domain, I shall be known as the embrace of darkness.”