Spirit Musings

His hands were locked behind his head on the comfy pillow. His right leg was stretched out in front of him, his left leg was bent, his tennis shoe resting on the quilt as he casually relaxed on the neatly made bed.

He gazed out the window at the trees, full with colorful leaves -- yellow, red and orange -- fluttering to the ground on the light breeze. He felt the brisk chill nipping at the air even though he was inside, not out. He'd have a chance to enjoy the fall when he and the other patients went outside for a walk or for some fresh air as they did every afternoon.

They still let him out even though he lived in an insane asylum. He wasn't that far gone yet. Not like the patients who resided on the fourth floor. They had those patients so drugged, or they hardly had brain cells left after the numerous shock treatments that they had no sense of reality.

Everyone thought he was crazy, but he was really quite sane. He was a writer -- and a quite successful one at that. He was a creative genius, but his family had taken his talents to mean he was a loony tune.

He believed his characters existed and stories were true to some extent. Many writers probably felt the same way. So it was perfectly normal. Wasn't it?

Of course, his family disagreed. They were annoyed by how he constantly lived in a literary world surrounded by imaginary friends. Everyone thought his condition was quite sad. He was still young -- he was only 34 years old. But his youth couldn't save him. His family was convinced he was crazy, so they'd had him committed to The Cottage three months ago.

The Cottage, formerly known as The Cobbler, was a shoe factory. A sweat shop as it was in the time of the Industrial Revolution. Men, women and children worked themselves to death from dawn to dust there. They didn't have breaks or even a lunch break. They made shoes for a pittance they could barely live on. Many of them died because of the piss poor working conditions.

The building should have been condemned long ago. When the government started cracking down on labor laws and work conditions after the Industrial Revolution, many of the sweat shops across the country, including The Cottage, were shut down. The Cottage sat in a detoriated almost ruined state for many years. The city council men had wanted to have the building demolished and replaced with a shopping mall, but some civic-minded ladies in the community had a fit claiming The Cottage has historical value. These ladies wrote to their state senators and representatives -- and every other elected official -- and saved the building. The building was donated to the city for use as a mental institution. The ladies in their research had discovered that there had been a man who had become crazy as a result of working at the factory.

The Cottage wasn't as nice as it was nowadays. The facility was more like a luxurious four-story condominium than a mental institution, but in the past the place was really spooky. No one wanted to go The Cottage -- not even if you were crazy.

He'd heard stories of how it once was. Committed individuals were thrown into a dark, dank room with only a chair, sink and a bed where they were left for days without food, water and any contact with the outside world. Given the circumstances, especially in this situation, he knew why these people had became crazy.

Nowadays the federal government had everything regulated. Mental institutions across the country such as The Cottage were regularly inspected and carefully monitored to protect the insane from being victimized and abused in any way. Still, medical profesionals and health care providers had control. There were drugs and shock treatments, which administered in a more kinder and gentler manner than they had been in the past. Still, such methods, if used correctly, were enough to make you crazy.

But he wasn't crazy. He was just a creative guy with a wild imagination that served him well in his career. But others believed he was a little nuts because of these aspects of his abilities.

He sighed.

A nurse entered the room. The young woman, dressed in a crisp pressed white dress uniform, carried a silver tray with a plastic cup filled with water.

Ah, it was medication time.

"Good morning, Mr. Beckett," the nurse smiled, giving him his pills and the cup. "How are you today?"

"Fine," he said smiling back sticking the pills on his tongue and carefully sipping his water. He never swallowed though. He never took his medication. He didn't need it. He wasn't crazy. Once the nurse was satisfied he had taken his medication, he threw it away in the trash can or hid it in the drawer of the night stand beside his bed.

He had such an engaging smile. The nurse found herself getting lost in the mischievous boyish curves of his lips. It was easy to be attracted to a handsome man like Samuel Beckett. She fantasized how his well-built, firm masculine body would feel against hers. He probably knew how to give women pleasures she could only dream of.

Still, the nurse knew not to give her heart to him. Samuel Beckett was crazy, and he probably didn't know the meaning of commitment or what a romantic relationship was. He probably had no concept of what true love was.

It was so sad because she would have loved to be his lover. She noticed the wistful expression etched on his face. His soft brown eyes were focused on the falling leaves. What was he thinking about, she wondered.

"It's October, Mr. Beckett, almost time for Halloween," she said shuffling over to collect the empty breakfast tray lying on the night stand.

"I know," he said intelligently, his pills stuck between the bottom row of his teeth and his cheek.

Turning her head, the nurse regarded him. She should have given him more credit. Samuel Beckett still had a good grip on reality. He knew what day and month it was unlike the patients on the fourth floor who didn't know what day it was even though they'd been told a million times.

The nurse nodded. "I bet you're excited to get outside and do some scribbling."

"Yes," he smiled again, and once again the nurse was entranced by his engaging smile.

"Are you working on a novel, Mr. Beckett?" The nurse asked with some interest.

Samuel was onto them with his writing. He knew they carefully scrutinized everything he wrote. They were worse than his agent. His agent was an old college English professor and former newspaper copy editor. The guy was ruthless about tearing his manuscripts up and making them bleed.

Of course, he didn't have an agent anymore. His agent had dropped him like a bad habit not long after he'd been committed to The Cottage.

They all thought he had secret subliminal crazy thoughts and themes woven throughout his manuscripts. It was absurb really. He got a kick out of them trying to find elements in his stories and poems that they thought that were a bit off. He'd heard their suspicious whispers, but he knew there was absolutely nothing crazy about what he wrote. Personally he thought they were all crazy, not him.

"Mmm, I don't know," Samuel confessed scrunching his lips into an amused ball making the nurse swoon. "I'll have to see how it turns out."

"Oh, I do hope you're writing a novel," the nurse said excitedly. "I'd like to see you get published again."

So would he. Maybe he would if he could ever manage to get out of this funny farm. He'd thought about escaping but he was afraid of being caught. The grounds were heavily guarded and it was virtually impossible to slip passed the nurses stationed around the clock on each floor.

If he got caught escaping, he feared he might end up on the fourth floor, where he'd really be a loon, and he really didn't want that.

Still, there had to be a way out of here. Someway ...

The nurse noticed his thoughtful expression. Was he creating in his head? What wild flights of fantasy was he dreaming up? What craziness was hatching inside his mind?

"Ms. Moonstruck will be joining you shortly," the nurse told him as she departed. "It's such a nice fall day. Maybe she'll take you outside for your session."

"Thank you," he said quietly, waiting until she left to remove the pills from his mouth. He wrapped them in a tissue and disposed them in the trash basket aside his bed.

Ms. Melanie Moonstruck tossed a long, luxurious, glowing strand of brown hair over her shoulder as she entered his room. She was the psychiatrist who had been working with him for the past three months.

Samuel related well with her. She was his age -- 34 -- after all, so they'd grown up in the same generation and shared many of the same attitudes, philosophies and experiences.

He had sessions with her every other day. He wasn't that far out to require daily sessions, but he did look forward to seeing the psychiatrist.

Samuel found Melanie Moonstruck to be beguiling. She had a slender figure, sharp intelligence and a gentle caring personality. It must be the Florence Nightgale affect because he thought he was in love with his doctor.

He didn't presume that she felt the same way about him. She was a psychiatrist, after all, and he was her patient, so like the young nurse she probably though he didn't have the mental capacity to have a relationship.

"Good morning, Samuel," Melanie said sweetly. "How are you this morning?"

He'd been already been greeted like this ... and asked this question once already today. But it didn't rub him the wrong way like it had when the nurse had asked him. He knew Melanie genuinely cared unlike the others who worked in the asylum.

"I'm fine," he said, smiling, as he gave the same answer he had earlier with an additional remark. "Actually I've never felt better."

He had such an engaging smile. He was extremely intelligent and incredibly creative ... and he looked really good in his red sweater and blue jeans.

Samuel Beckett was a desirable man. It was a shame he was insane.

Strangely, he had a firm grip on reality. He seemed quite normal for someone who was crazy.

Melanie shook her head chasing away her stray thoughts. "Good," she said pleased. "Shall we have our session outside today?"

He had a feeling she'd make this suggestion. "Sure," he said easily, gesturing to his legal pad sitting on the night stand. "Can I write?"

"Please," she said accommodatingly.

He was onto her although he hoped she wasn't like the others.

Please don't tell me you think I'm writing nothing but madness. You don't believe that do you, Melanie? He thought as he regarded her. What I write is not even close to madness -- exaggerated fiction maybe, but even you know art often imitates life; life imitates art.

Legal pad in hand and a pen behind his ear, he followed Melanie to the nurse's station at the end of the hallway. As she leaned over to signing him out on the clipboard, he admired her sensuously curved hour glass figure. The things he could do to her, he licked his lips. He'd give her anything her heart desired, and then some ... it was too bad she thought he was insane.

They walked down the cobblestone path that wrapped around the asylum's manicured grounds. He figured it cost the city a pretty penny to hire gardeners and grounds keepers to keep the facility's lawns, shrubs and trees looking good.

Birds chirped their welcome. He breathed in the crisp, clean air of the great outdoors that had become a bit dreary. Which was only natural -- there was less sunlight in the fall.

He felt the chill in the air, it had a bite to it, and he shivered slightly. Yes, fall was definitely here.

"Are you cold?" Melanie said concerned.

He smiled appreciating her concern. "I'm fine."

Yes, he was. He had such an engaging smile. She'd love to feel his warm lips pressed against his. She bet he was a good kisser. Not only that, she bet it was nice and safe in his embrace. She bet she'd feel pretty good after being in bed with him.

His soft brown eyes searched her face. Was she checking him out? It was almost too good to be true.

She hoped her chargin wasn't showing on her face. She felt so helpless and lost. She was out of control. She was falling head over heels in love with this man.

She was a doctor and he was her patient. And to feel the way she did about him was definitely wrong.

Not only were her topsy turvy emotions a violation of her ethics and commitment to the Hippocratic Oath, Samuel Beckett was ill, she reminded herself. She shouldn't be flirting with him, but he was so *damn* attractive.

"Sit down and take a load off," she said lightly, smoothing the wrinkles rippling across her long black skirt, as she sat on the wooden park bench.

He took his place on the left of her. He crossed his legs, balancing his legal pad on his muscular thigh. His gaze, reflecting a mixture of wonder and pleasure, danced across the fall foliage.

Gesturing toward his legal pad, Melanie said, "What are you writing? Another novel?"

He heard the interest in her voice, but he knew better than to make too much out of it. "I don't know," he said casually. "I'll have to see where my muses lead me."

"Hmm," Melanie mused thoughtfully.

"Do you believe in muses?" He asked, curiosity layered his voice.

"You'd be surprised what I believe in," she said, her firm cultural voice rang true, as she held his gaze.

The passion he saw swirling in her emerald eyes amazed him. He exhaled slowly to regain his composure.

"Would you like to read what I'm writing?" He was taken aback that he'd made such an offer. It wasn't like it bothered him. He didn't have a problem letting people read his work. Except he knew better than to trust anyone at The Cottage, and that included her. But he did trust her. Implictly.

"I'd love to," she said pleasantly accepting his manuscript.

She read quickly becoming engrossed his well crafted tale. He had a strong voice and an engaging style. His characters were well developed and easily likable. He had a good mix of dialogue and storytelling.

She read and re-read, but she didn't find anything crazy. Matter of fact, his manscript was very tight. It was concise and well written. It definitely wasn't a manuscript written one would expect to read by a man who was considered mentally unstable. Maybe he wasn't insane.

There had to be a mistake because in her opinion he was an ordinary, normal guy who had a passion for his craft. He had an incredible gift, the gift of creativity, a talent he used with great skill.

If Samuel wasn't insane, why in hell was he at The Cottage? The answers to that question appeared to be darkly ellusive.

He met her critical, analytical stare. "Well, is it any good?"

"Yes," she said slowly. "It's very good."

He nodded. It meant a lot to him that she liked it.

"Samuel, you've got to get out of here," she said with certainty.

His eyebrows furrowed together tightly. "I can't. I'm crazy."

"You aren't crazy," she said convinced.

He looked at her with interest. "Oh?"

"I think you may be the victim of unfortunate circumstances. In my professional opinion, your family had you committed because they didn't understand you," she said.

Cupping her cheeks in his hands, he leaned forward and tenderly kissed her lips. His mouth was warm, firm and wet. He filled her up with his masculine essence, laced with sensitivity and passion.

Her eyes wizened. His display took her by surprise. But not too much, she melted into his gente and tender kiss, which was incredibly intoxicating.

He drank from her sweet petals. He hadn't kissed a woman in so long. He'd almost forgotten what it felt like. It felt so good ... he wanted more. He pressed his mouth softly over hers. His body ached. He savored her intimate affectionate touch as their exchange became more heated and intense.

"Samuel," she murmured, her feelings subtly expressed in her voice.

"I love you," he said huskily.

From: <NOBR>

mariemuses</NOBR> (Original Message)

Sent: 10/21/2004 12:55 AM

Samuel returned to his room alone.

He was glad his boyish exuberance had returned. He hadn't felt this way in a long time; he hoped it lasted for a while.

He wasn't sure he deserved this bliss. Melanie was the type of woman guys like him only dreamed about. Did she really care for him the way he thought she did? Or did she say she loved him just to placate him ... after all he was insane.

No, Melanie wouldn't do that to him. She really cared about him -- he was sure of it.

It was nice to be in love again. He felt light, carefree and young ... he felt good.

He stretched out across the bed, his legal pad in front of him. His knees rested on the quilt, positioned in a V. His ankles were crossed behind him, his feet dangled in the air.

He let his thoughts and feelings pour from him. He smiled as his story flowed easily over the pages.

To him creation was a challenge. Creation wasn't as easy as he thought it was. He had a great respect, appreciation and awe for God's masterpieces.

Creation was also liberating. People had a need to create and anything artistic endeavor filled that void. He found peace, satisfaction and enjoyment in literary endeavors.

Dorothy Ratner, the nurse who had brought him his medication this morning, entered his room. He glanced up from his manuscript. She glared at him disapprovingly.

He regarded her, saying casually. "Being outside certainly inspired me."

You could have heard a pin drop when she locked his door. He thought her behavior was strange. Nurses were not supposed to lock patients' doors -- unless they were on the fourth floor, and he was there. Worry crept up inside him

"You've been a bad boy," Dorothy scolded him.

His eyebrows furrowed together tightly in confusion. "What ever do you mean?" He feigned innocence. "I'm writing. I thought you all encouraged that."

Her eyes narrowed into angry little slits. "You think you're so smart." She held out a crumbled tissue containing the pills he'd thrown away this morning. "Remember these?"

He swallowed hard. He was in trouble now.

"You haven't been taking your medication, have you?" She chided him.

He shifted into a seated position on the bed, and then rose to his feet. "I don't need it. I'm not crazy."

Dorothy evaluated him. "I'll make a deal with you. I won't tell on you if you dump Dr. Moonstock and date me."

"What?" Samuel said in disbelief.

"Don't play coy with me," Dorothy snapped. "I saw you kissing Dr. Moonstock outside. Anyone who behaves like that definitely can't be insane."

She'd watched them. Samuel was appalled. "I...," He stammered, floundering for an explanation.

"I'm better than that bony bitch," Dorothy said, anger rumbling in her voice.

He took a few steps toward her. "Look, I'm flattered. I'm sure you're a lovely girl, but I don't feel the same way about you as you do me."

"You love her, don't you?" She demanded, throwing the words in his face.

He stood his ground. He crossed his arms over his chest. His brown eyes held a hardened glaze. "That's none of your damn business," he said coolly.

Dorothy picked up the white phone hanging on the wall. She pressed a button to call the nurse's station at the end of the hall. "Send a doctor to Room 13 right away," she said sounding hysterical and upset. "Samuel Beckett went berserk. He locked the door and attacked me. Help me. He's crazy. He's going to ..." She abruptly hung up the phone.

"Why you," Samuel growled advancing toward her. He wanted to throttle her. She was a woman and he really shouldn't hit her, but he wanted to hurt her.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you. It'll make things worse for you," she told him, a sweet evil smile slipped across her lips. "You did this to yourself. You had your chance but you didn't take it."

Keys hurriedly turned in the lock as two burly hospital orderlies, dressed in pressed white uniforms, and Dr. Seth Schiester, the on duty pyschiatrist, rushed in the room.

Dorothy rushed over to the Schiester's side. Tears spilled down her cheeks. Her finger trembled as she pointed at Samuel. "He attacked me."

Schiester gave her a cursory evaluation. "You look fine to me, Nurse Ratner."

"If you hadn't arrived when you did, he would have beat me senseless," Dorothy said, her voice trembling with anguish and fear.

Schiester had a hard time believing her claim. Samuel didn't have a mean bone in his body. The young writer might be crazy, but he wasn't the type of guy who would deliberately attack a woman.

"He hasn't been taking his medication," Dorothy whispered to Schiester.

The information concerned Schiester. If Samuel hadn't been taking his medication to control his condition, maybe he was crazy.

The seeds of doubt had successfully been planted in the doctor's mind. "He's crazy. He attacked me," Dorothy insisted.

Schiester snapped his fingers. "Vinnie and Bruce."

Samuel backed away from the orderlies, brandishing a straight jacket, advancing toward him.

Vinnie and Bruce cornered Samuel on the far side of his bed. The orderlies' beefy grips tightened around Samuel's wrists as they drug him toward Schiester. Samuel struggled to break free, but the orderlies were stronger than him.

"Wait. I didn't do anything," Samuel protested as the orderlies wrapped the straight jacket around him.

While Vinnie and Bruce worked together to put the jacket on him, Samuel shrugged off the cloth momentarily. He fought managing to break away from the orderlies.

"Don't do this," Samuel pleaded with them. "She's lying to you. I didn't do anything."

Pinning him in a corner, Vinnie and Bruce overwhelmed Samuel with their power. The orderlies swiftly dressed him in the jacket, tightening the straps. Samuel felt like a caterpillar snug in its cocoon.

"I hate to do this to you, Samuel," Schiester said apologetically reaching into his white coat pocket.

Concern whirled in motion in Samuel's chocolate pools. He thought Schiester was going to give him an injection to incapacitate him.

His concern evolved into fear when Schiester pulled a roll of duct tape from his pocket. The ripping sound reverberated through the room as the doctor pulled a piece. Vinnie and Bruce held Samuel steady as Schiester put the tape over the young writer's mouth.

"Mmm," Samuel grunted in muffled indignation. Schiester couldn't do this! It was illegal.

Schiester returned the duct tape to his pocket, then picked up the phone. "Dr. Fineberg, this is Dr. Schiester. I have a patient who needs shock therapy treatment," the doctor nodded, listening. "Very good. I'm on my way down."

Samuel knew about shock therapy. Treatments weren't as cruel as they were in the past. Still ... if they gave him shock therapy, it might make him crazy.

"Mmm," Samuel groaned in protest.

"Let's go," Schiester ordered.

Vinnie and Bruce picked Samuel up like he was a sack of potatoes. The young writer's legs flailed mere millimeters above the ground -- a clear indication that he didn't want to go with the doctor or the orderlies.

Samuel's display clearly indicated a panic attack, which had turned into a crazed tantrum, but the doctor wanted to ensure the young writer didn't get away. Vinnie and Bruce held Samuel steady.

"Take it easy, Samuel," Schiester whispered into his ear, poking him in the neck with a needle.

Samuel had no idea what was in that syringe, but his body reacted to the drug almost immediately. A tingling sensation coursed through his body. It felt like Nova Cain numbing his senses. He blinked trying to stop the light headed feeling washing over him.

Schiester looked into his dilated eyes. "That's a good boy," the doctor said soothingly. "You'll feel so much better after you've had a shock treatment."

No, Samuel thought, fighting to stay conscious.

Schiester turned and gestured for Vinnie and Bruce followed. The orderlies carried his limp, stiff body out of the room.

There was no way out. There was no escape.

He was in trouble.

Help me. Oh, please ... someone help me. They're going to make me crazy. Help me. Please. Melanie... Samuel faded away into the dark oblivion rising up to greet him.

Melanie had taken Samuel's file home with her.

She put on her reading glasses, and then sat down on the couch. She spread Samuel's file out on the coffee table. Her 5-month-old Siamese kitten, Scooter, rubbed against her ankles before jumping up onto the coffee table and walking across the file. He stretched out plopping his furry body down for a nap.

"I didn't call you," she said affectionately picking up Scooter and setting him beside her on the couch. She scratched his neck, especially under his collar, and Scooter purred appreciatively.

"Now where was I?" Melanie said to herself, focusing her attention on Samuel's file. She flipped through the pages reviewing their sessions. She'd recorded her observations of Samuel. He was a upbeat, cheerful, well rounded guy, but she hadn't found anything usual about him.

She turned the pages back further, finding his commitment papers. His family had been interviewed, but he had not. She thought this was a bit strange. Usually doctors evaluated the patient's mental stability.

Samuel had not been given such an opportunity. Everyone had just assumed he was crazy when he wasn't.

It wasn't fair. It was poppy cock, that's what it was!

Samuel wasn't insane, and she was going to have him discharged in the morning.

Suddenly an odd sensation washed over her. Samuel? She cocked her head as if she had heard him call her telepathically.

A chill trickled down her spine. The hair on her arm stood on end. Her stomach twisted into knots. Something was wrong.

She reached for her purse beneath the coffee table. She dug around for her cell phone, retrieving it from the bottom of her purse. She dialed The Cottage's number.

"Mary, can you connect me to Samuel Beckett's room?" She requested. Samuel wasn't there, and that definitely meant trouble. "OK, thank you, Mary."

The eerie foreboding feeling she had still clung to her. Samuel was in grave danger, and she was the only one who could save him.

Melanie sped toward The Cottage.

Red and blue lights danced across the glass of her rear view mirror. She pulled over.

Just what I need, she thought wistfully, knowing the cop had pulled her over for speeding.

The cop climbed out of his squad car. His broad shoulders and well built body swayed with stern severity as he walked up to her door. She rolled down the window.

Slightly leaning over, the cop flipped open his ticket pad. He frowned at her disapprovingly. "Ma'am, do you have any idea how fast you were going?"

"I'm sorry, officer," she gushed, pulling her medical identification badge from her purse and showing it to him. "There's a medical emergency at The Cottage and I have to get there right away."

"I see," the cop said thoughtfully. "In that case, you'll need a police escort."

"I'd appreciate that," she said. In this case, especially if it was as bad as she feared, she might need the officer's assistance.

"Just follow me," the officer said jogging back to his squad car.

The room was a blur. Samuel was barely able to distinguish the patients sitting beside him on the bench in the waiting room.

The patients stared at him not sure what to make of him. Samuel tried to speak but no words came out. He'd forgotten about the duct tape covering his mouth.

He stared back at them with his glazed eyes. Please help me.

Twitching nervously and feeling uncomfortable, many of the patients turned away from him. Some quietly chatted amongst themselves while others watched TV. Maybe these patients resided on the fourth floor. If so, they'd be of no help to him.

Yes, the room was spinning. Samuel closed his eyes to stop the nauseating whirling. He was seriously tripping, and if he didn't stay in control he'd be seriously flipping.

Dr. Schiester walked into room. He hadn't seen Vinnie and Bruce following him, but the orderlies must have because they came to collect another patient.

The two orderlies escorted the patient down a long stretch of hallway. About 15 minutes later -- maybe longer because he had no sense of time at that point -- the fluorescent lights in the waiting room flickered and dimmed. Which meant they'd turned on the electricity. That fact was confirmed a few minutes later when screams rippled down the hall. These cries of terror and anguish echoed throughout the room.

He was next. He had to get out of here. If they gave him a shock treatment, he'd be crazy for sure.

He squirmed unable to break free of the restrictive straight jacket. Someone please help me!

Melanie dashed from the parking lot entering The Cottage through its huge ornately decorated wooden doors.

Her hair flew wildly behind her as she ran down the long corridor. She darted into Samuel's room.

"Samuel," she said breathlessly glancing around his empty room.

Now she was really scared. It was exactly as Mary, The Cottage's receptionist, had told her. It was exactly as she feared.

Melanie scurried to the end of the hallway to the nurse's station. Dorothy Ratner looked up from the paper work she was filling out.

"Dr. Moonstock," Dorothy said surprised to see the psychiatrist. "You're working late this evening."

"Where's Samuel Beckett?" Melanie demanded.

Without blinking an eye, Dorothy replied, "According to the log, he's been in his room all after noon."

"He's not in his room," Melanie snapped, fire blazing in her sapphire eyes. "I demand to know where my patient is, nurse Ratner."

Samantha, an older, maternly nurse who had been working at The Cottage for many years, walked up to the desk. "Dorothy, Dr. Schiester wants you to fill out this report about being attacked by Samuel Beckett. Dr. Schiester's waiting for it."

"What?!" Melanie said shocked. "Samuel didn't attack you."

"Samuel is crazy, you know," Dorothy smiled sweetly. "Something inside him just snapped and he attacked me."

"You bitch!" Melanie said, hot anger poured like lava from her lips. "The only one crazy here is you!"

"Oh?" Dorothy said with interest. "Why did you decide to take his side all of the sudden? Is it because you're in love with him?"

"That's none of your damn business," Melanie retorted, then to Samantha. "Where's Samuel?"

"Dr. Schiester has him scheduled for shock therapy," Samatha told the pyschiatrist.

"Shock therapy!" Melanie said appalled. "If they do that to him, it'll make him crazy."

Samantha and Dorothy said nothing. The fluorescent lights in the hallway fluttered becoming dim. They all knew what that meant.

"You better hurry," Dorothy suggested, there was no drop of compassion in her voice. "Or it may be too late."

Samuel's eyes fluttered open.

The hazy disoriented cloud he'd been under started to fade; his strength returned. The drug Schiester had injected into his body must be wearing off.

He could try to escape, but it wouldn't do any good. He was still imprisoned in a straight jacket, which kept him from making a clean getaway. The duct tape covering his mouth prevented him from calling for help.

Vinnie and Bruce rolled the patient, who had just had a shock treatment, past him. The man's hairy hand dangled listlessly over the side of the stretcher. His tongue stuck out in the corner of his mouth, his eyes were crossed.

They'd practically fried the poor man. He was in serious trouble, he thought, as Vinnie and Bruce handed the stretcher off to the nurses waiting to take the patient back to his room. Then the two orderlies rumbled, swaying like rough, tough cowboys about to face each in a shot out, toward him. They grabbed his shoulders pulling him along with them down the long corridor to his doom.

Melanie rode the elevator to the basement, where all the shock therapy treatments were conducted. She thought this setup was kind of creepy.

She shook off her eerie thoughts. Her heart thudded in her chest, her breathing was labored as she raced down the gray concrete hallway.

The light tubes, lining the ceiling above her, waivered between bright and dark until they snapped off completely. Thunder rumbled nearby, followed by a crash of lightning as tremors shook the walls.

OK, I'm not in a lab where a mad scientist is creating Frankenstein. Melanie steadied herself.

Reaching out to get her bearings, she found the wall. She felt along the wall until she clutched at door knob leading into the shock therapy's waiting room.

The patients stared at her blankly when she entered the room. She scanned the room, but Samuel wasn't there.

Oh God was she too late? She gulped and hurried down the corridor, peering into every examination room until she came to the one with Dr. Schiester in it.

She whisked through the large rocking steel doors. Samuel, gagged, bound by a straight jacket and restrained with a neck brace, a strap around the waist and mental manacles locked his ankles down, lay on the table. Running between the highly technical machine and the table, multi-colored plastic tubes connected to the pads fixed to his temples.

"What's going on here?" Melanie demanded.

"Dr. Moonstock," Schiester said surprised to see his colleague. "Samuel has not been taking his medication and is in desperate need of shock treatment."

Melanie was unphased by the information that Samuel had not been taking his medication. The writer didn't need it -- he wasn't crazy.

"I didn't authorize this," she said coolly.

"No," Schiester agreed. "But I didn't authorize your patient to lose his mind and attack a nurse."

"Poppy cock!" She spat. "I demand you release him at once."

"Is there a problem, doctor?" Dorothy Ratner said, entering the room.

Melanie whirled toward the nurse. Dorothy smiled sweetly. Her hands were neatly folded at her waist as she stood just behind the psychiatrist.

Schiester's icy stare swept over Melanie. "You're just in time, Nurse Ratner, Dr. Moonstock had a mental lapse and interrupted our treatment session. I think she's in need of shock therapy."

"Yes, doctor," Dorothy said quietly.

"You all are crazy," Melanie spat, backing away as Dorothy, Schiester, Vinnie and Bruce advanced toward her.

Dorothy reached her first. Melanie posed her body, her arms gracefully stretched out to the side, open palms in either direction, ready to do battle. She had a black belt in tae kwon do.

Dorothy mocked her with her laughter. And that's when she struck. Her leg swiftly swept out knocking the nurse off her feet.

With a thrust to the throat, Melanie made Dorothy gasp for air. Throwing a right cross, she punched the nurse's lights out.

Her long brown hair cascaded around her shoulders. Melanie stood tall, taking a defensive stance, as she faced her three remaining male opponents. It wouldn't be so easy to take them.

Before she blinked her eyes, the cop, who had pulled her over earlier, barged through the door. He brandished a black Magnum at her opponents. Schiester, Vinnie and Bruce stared at him trying to figure out what to make of him.

"I figured you might need some help," the cop told her, responding to the surprise and appreciation he saw in her eyes.

The danger of the situation intensified. An innocent man lay on the table. Schiester's hand hovered near the activation switch on the shock therapy machine as Vinnie and Bruce orderlies lumbered toward them.

"Stop," the cop ordered. "Or I'll shoot."

Apparently Vinnie and Bruce didn't comprehend the warning because they continued to advance. The cop squeezed the trigger and let one fly.

Rushing over to push Vinnie and Bruce out of the way, Schiester took it directly in the chest. Crumbling to the ground, the doctor crawled in their direction. The cop fired again, sending another bullet sizzling into the same spot it had earlier. Clawing at his chest, Schiester sputtered, his energy and strength reaching an end. The doctor's body fell like a mighty tree. He lay sprawled like a discarded rag across the floor.

His job was to serve and protect, so the cop fired two more shots to eliminate the remaining threat. Their eyes wide with surprise, Vinnie and Bruce exchanged looks. Their fingers brushed the blood oozing from their chests. The light in their eyes faded as the orderlies toppled like dominoes to the tile floor.

Melanie rushed over to the table, ripping the pads off Samuel's temples. The cop helped her free him from the bounds that kept him restrained on the table.

Samuel slid off the table, and she peeled the duct tape from his mouth. His mouth quickly found hers. His firm, strong lips pressed against her soft petals. He hungrily engorged on her meaty flesh, enraptured by the sweet, savory flavor of her essence.

"Oh, Melanie," he murmured tenderly.

She freed him from his straight jacket, and he wrapped his arms around her. Raising her lips to his for another delicious kiss, she snuggled in his warm, safe embrace, knowing the horror they'd faced was over

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