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Unheard
Lowering his arms from a defensive sheilding hug over his head, Laret Toomey breathed a sigh of relief, as the breeze had died down.
Toomey was a small, skinny, sensitive man.
One whom could not stand the likes of loud noises, rain water, or cars, for these all triggered mania.
He was released to the community from Massachusetts' Danvers State Hospital in 1992 after spending almost 7 years in the abusive conditions that the Massachusetts State mental health department so graciously provided.
He was involuntarily admitted in 1986 by his family members which would no longer tolerate his instability and necessary mental upkeep.
Diagnosed at a young age with severe obsessive compulsive disorder, catatonic schizophrenia, and crippling manic depression that sent him into manic episodes, often resulting in violence.
He had been wandering the fringes of the meekly populated area for 2 years, in fear and isolation from the people of society that judgementally shunned him based on his dingy and unkempt appearance, as well as his catatonia and tendencies to talk to himself, which were due to his obsessive compulsive nature and schizophrenic hauntings. Living in small makeshift camps deep in the 50 acre patch of forest in the small town of Danvers, which he didn't have the courage to leave once released from the institute.
It was a cold October morning and he stood on the newly fallen foliage of the deciduous new england trees in his mud stained, previously white tennis shoes given to him upon his release which were now ripped far past the point of comfort and protection from the elements.
His Levi's jeans were worn and holy from years of daily wear, and his denim jacket over a gray polo offered little warmth on this chilly day.
As he stood in relief of the now calm wind, he ate a can of navy beans with his fingers, and started on his daily walk. 'I told you so.' he said aloud to himself matter of factly, in a teasing voice. Toomey happened to have a very childlike tone to his voice, giving him a very immature presentation.
He said this line often due to his disorders and compulsivity. This is something he would retort frequently to the demons that plagued his mind with hateful, argumentative, degrading jaunts.
As he walked his nervous stiff walk on this day, he decided to visit the institute which once housed him, Danvers Asylum, which had been abandoned since his discharge.
As he approached the grounds after a walk of just over two miles through the forest, he walked nervously through the overgrown field as memories of tortures and neglect flashed through his head at the ominous sight of the massive gothic architectured building.
After finding an open door on the west side of the building, the smell of asbestos and molded wood ambushed his senses, making him even more uneasy as the unpleasantness of it all. Office desks and chairs were strewn about the halls, line with melancholy dull orange-yellow cracked painted walls.
Papers littered every foot of most of the halls.
'I told you so', Laret muttered to himself in response to the voice of the devil speaking filth to him.
He walked through the halls, peering in rooms with flipped cots and torn apart pillows.
He found his way to an old room that he previously occupied and stood in silent anxiety at the recollection of the times he was strapped down to his cot and subdued with sodium pentothal, before then coming to with a cork in his mouth and malevolent faces on the orderlies administering electro 'therapy'.
He remembered the nights in the common room where he'd sit to himself as Pat Haim chased dragons in front of him, wearing at his sensitive nerves, sending him into chaotic violent rages where he was injected again and awoke in a straight jacket in a padded party room.
In the middle of his flashbacks, his though was interrupted by a loud metallic crash at the end of the hallway he stood in, followed by a loud, 'Hyeh, hyeh, hyeh' laugh.
He recognized that laugh as belonging to another previous patient, one Gregory Timbs.
Timbs was a man who was clearly and proudly a Boston raised lunatic. A hulk of a human, he was at least 6 foot 5, 300 pounds, with a wide bald head riddled with scars, and few teeth remaining in his mouth.
He came to Danvers 4 years prior to Toomey's arrival.
His criminal trial of a home invasion and execution of a couple, their two children, and dog, found him to be insane and sent him to Danvers to remain for the rest of his natural life, but the state failed to maintain this sentence, releasing him in lack of resources.
It was a fluke that let him see freedom in the first place, for the asylums were liquidating their rosters and kicking out to the lap of society, as many as they possibly could, regardless of the patients offenses and mental states.
At this thought, Toomey quickly turned to flee, but as he rushed to turn, he bumped into a stack of chairs bringing them loudly clattering down in the hallway.
He heard a loud, 'huh!', then heavy running footsteps on the ceramic tiled floor.
Toomey navigated around the fallen chairs and shuffled quickly the other way, as he heard a thick Boston accent at the other end yell, 'hey, who are you!'
Toomey turned around and Timbs immediately recognized him, 'Ah, it's you old buddy!', he said as he closed in toward Toomey, his right hand itching his back as he approached.
He reached Toomey, 'what are you doing here?', he asked with an ingenuine smile.
Toomey becan to answer, 'well, I ca—'.
Timbs lunged at him and struck him to the ground, his tree trunk of a left forearm holding him pinned to the tiles floor by the neck.
His right arm came from the right side of his back holding a syringe of clear liquid in his hand, bringing it toward him.
Fear struck every atom of his being as he watched the wildly insane look in Timbs' eyes as he brought the syringe to his neck.
Fade to black.
Toomey awoke in a small white room used for sedated disciplinaries. He was strapped to the table at his wrists and ankles and Timbs was no where in sight.
After hours of paralyzing fear, he heard Timbs' heavy footsteps approaching accompanied by a nonchalant whistle in the hall outside of the shut, windowless door.
Timbs entered the room and shut the door behind him, a thirsty demonic grimace, below his wide evil eyes.
He held a leather doctors satchel and carried with him a short stool on wheels.
He sat the stool down and rolled it to the side of the bed.
He said, in a taunting sadistic voice thickly lathered in Boston twang, 'I'm afraid I have some bad news. The results came back and you don't have much time left to live.'
He let out a loud 'Hyeh, Hyeh, Hyeh!' laugh as he pulled a scalpel from the black leather satchel.
Toomey screamed for 4 days before death brought him mercy from the horrific hand of Gregory Timbs.
Unimaginable evils occur in this world.
I pray for the ones whose final screams are laughed at and go unheard outside of their captors' chambers.
© Sebastian Grey
Toomey was a small, skinny, sensitive man.
One whom could not stand the likes of loud noises, rain water, or cars, for these all triggered mania.
He was released to the community from Massachusetts' Danvers State Hospital in 1992 after spending almost 7 years in the abusive conditions that the Massachusetts State mental health department so graciously provided.
He was involuntarily admitted in 1986 by his family members which would no longer tolerate his instability and necessary mental upkeep.
Diagnosed at a young age with severe obsessive compulsive disorder, catatonic schizophrenia, and crippling manic depression that sent him into manic episodes, often resulting in violence.
He had been wandering the fringes of the meekly populated area for 2 years, in fear and isolation from the people of society that judgementally shunned him based on his dingy and unkempt appearance, as well as his catatonia and tendencies to talk to himself, which were due to his obsessive compulsive nature and schizophrenic hauntings. Living in small makeshift camps deep in the 50 acre patch of forest in the small town of Danvers, which he didn't have the courage to leave once released from the institute.
It was a cold October morning and he stood on the newly fallen foliage of the deciduous new england trees in his mud stained, previously white tennis shoes given to him upon his release which were now ripped far past the point of comfort and protection from the elements.
His Levi's jeans were worn and holy from years of daily wear, and his denim jacket over a gray polo offered little warmth on this chilly day.
As he stood in relief of the now calm wind, he ate a can of navy beans with his fingers, and started on his daily walk. 'I told you so.' he said aloud to himself matter of factly, in a teasing voice. Toomey happened to have a very childlike tone to his voice, giving him a very immature presentation.
He said this line often due to his disorders and compulsivity. This is something he would retort frequently to the demons that plagued his mind with hateful, argumentative, degrading jaunts.
As he walked his nervous stiff walk on this day, he decided to visit the institute which once housed him, Danvers Asylum, which had been abandoned since his discharge.
As he approached the grounds after a walk of just over two miles through the forest, he walked nervously through the overgrown field as memories of tortures and neglect flashed through his head at the ominous sight of the massive gothic architectured building.
After finding an open door on the west side of the building, the smell of asbestos and molded wood ambushed his senses, making him even more uneasy as the unpleasantness of it all. Office desks and chairs were strewn about the halls, line with melancholy dull orange-yellow cracked painted walls.
Papers littered every foot of most of the halls.
'I told you so', Laret muttered to himself in response to the voice of the devil speaking filth to him.
He walked through the halls, peering in rooms with flipped cots and torn apart pillows.
He found his way to an old room that he previously occupied and stood in silent anxiety at the recollection of the times he was strapped down to his cot and subdued with sodium pentothal, before then coming to with a cork in his mouth and malevolent faces on the orderlies administering electro 'therapy'.
He remembered the nights in the common room where he'd sit to himself as Pat Haim chased dragons in front of him, wearing at his sensitive nerves, sending him into chaotic violent rages where he was injected again and awoke in a straight jacket in a padded party room.
In the middle of his flashbacks, his though was interrupted by a loud metallic crash at the end of the hallway he stood in, followed by a loud, 'Hyeh, hyeh, hyeh' laugh.
He recognized that laugh as belonging to another previous patient, one Gregory Timbs.
Timbs was a man who was clearly and proudly a Boston raised lunatic. A hulk of a human, he was at least 6 foot 5, 300 pounds, with a wide bald head riddled with scars, and few teeth remaining in his mouth.
He came to Danvers 4 years prior to Toomey's arrival.
His criminal trial of a home invasion and execution of a couple, their two children, and dog, found him to be insane and sent him to Danvers to remain for the rest of his natural life, but the state failed to maintain this sentence, releasing him in lack of resources.
It was a fluke that let him see freedom in the first place, for the asylums were liquidating their rosters and kicking out to the lap of society, as many as they possibly could, regardless of the patients offenses and mental states.
At this thought, Toomey quickly turned to flee, but as he rushed to turn, he bumped into a stack of chairs bringing them loudly clattering down in the hallway.
He heard a loud, 'huh!', then heavy running footsteps on the ceramic tiled floor.
Toomey navigated around the fallen chairs and shuffled quickly the other way, as he heard a thick Boston accent at the other end yell, 'hey, who are you!'
Toomey turned around and Timbs immediately recognized him, 'Ah, it's you old buddy!', he said as he closed in toward Toomey, his right hand itching his back as he approached.
He reached Toomey, 'what are you doing here?', he asked with an ingenuine smile.
Toomey becan to answer, 'well, I ca—'.
Timbs lunged at him and struck him to the ground, his tree trunk of a left forearm holding him pinned to the tiles floor by the neck.
His right arm came from the right side of his back holding a syringe of clear liquid in his hand, bringing it toward him.
Fear struck every atom of his being as he watched the wildly insane look in Timbs' eyes as he brought the syringe to his neck.
Fade to black.
Toomey awoke in a small white room used for sedated disciplinaries. He was strapped to the table at his wrists and ankles and Timbs was no where in sight.
After hours of paralyzing fear, he heard Timbs' heavy footsteps approaching accompanied by a nonchalant whistle in the hall outside of the shut, windowless door.
Timbs entered the room and shut the door behind him, a thirsty demonic grimace, below his wide evil eyes.
He held a leather doctors satchel and carried with him a short stool on wheels.
He sat the stool down and rolled it to the side of the bed.
He said, in a taunting sadistic voice thickly lathered in Boston twang, 'I'm afraid I have some bad news. The results came back and you don't have much time left to live.'
He let out a loud 'Hyeh, Hyeh, Hyeh!' laugh as he pulled a scalpel from the black leather satchel.
Toomey screamed for 4 days before death brought him mercy from the horrific hand of Gregory Timbs.
Unimaginable evils occur in this world.
I pray for the ones whose final screams are laughed at and go unheard outside of their captors' chambers.
© Sebastian Grey
