Maurice (or the boy in the straightjacket)

I remember the cold, windy April morning that they took Maurice away. I told the men with the straightjacket that he was innocent, just a victim of circumstance. He just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

They didn’t buy it.

Maurice was my age, just turned sixteen about two weeks ago. His long black hair draped his face as they forced him into the van that morning. He was unusually pale and skinny for kids our age. He wasn’t a goth or an emo, like everyone claimed he was. He was, as he put it, “wearing whatever the hell he wanted to wear,” which usually contained a black t-shirt with some sort of skull or satanic writing on it, black jeans, and, if he was outside, his large black trench coat.

The men had told the others outside with me what he was going away for. I told them that Maurice would never do anything like that. Sure, he has a nasty attitude at times, but he would never do anything like this, even if was this pissed off at people.

Let me explain, first off, what exactly happened for him to be taken away in the first place.

Maurice told me night before he got taken away that he had been invited to a party. Little did he know that the jocks had brought three kegs of beer. He started drinking and then he took some bottles to trash our principal’s house with. Drunk as he was, he decided to make Molotov Cocktails and chuck them at the principal’s house. The principal didn’t wake up, luckily for him, but his wife did. She heard the racket and saw the plumes of smoke coming from below, freaked out, and called the police. She saw Maurice at a distance, and the rest is self-explanatory.

The men with the straightjacket told us that our friend was going to be going to the local “nuthouse” as they called it. I still prefer to call it an asylum, because nuthouse sounds so…dirty. Even though I didn’t want them to call it the nuthouse, they did anyway. Anything could be taken as an offense to people like this, and I didn’t want to get on the wrong side of the law.

Maurice scanned the crowd of students, then looked at me with his piercing blue eyes, and we established eye contact for a split second. He shot me a look that said “get me out of here!” I shook my head. There was nothing I could do for him. If I tried, I’d be arrested on the spot. I saw him look down to the ground in despair as the men closed the van doors on him. His hair spilt downwards, like obsidian icicles, glistening in the dimly lit van.

I turned away and cried.

I couldn’t get through school that week. I tried forging notes to get me out of class. I faked sick. I even forced myself to throw up in a toilet so the nurse would actually let me go home. Finally, I was sent by my mother to see the school counselor twice a week.

At least I got out of history twice a week.

The counselor and I would talk about feeling and struggles, normal things a counselor would want to talk about in a time of crisis. Unfortunately, they only made me more depressed. Finally, he offered a solution. The asylum was looking for a new janitor after the old one retired a few weeks ago.

I thought this was the perfect opportunity to go meet with him and get him through his ordeal.

I visited the asylum later that day. The secretary looked like she was about to fall asleep at any second, and her make-up was horrific. I’ll spare you the details. I rang the little bell at the desk, and she jolted like a live wire passed through her body. She adjusted her glasses and asked me what I wanted. I told her that I was interested in the job opening. She gave me an application and I filled it out. As I handed it back to her, she asked me a question that I thought was funny at the time, but later realized that she was dead serious. Her question was:

“Do you scare easily?”

I, of course, said no.

I started working the week after school let out for the summer. They gave me my own uniform; it was bleach white and kind of itchy. They said it was so the patients couldn’t tell us apart from the walls. As I walked through the labyrinthine halls, I looked in the cells of many of the patients. Many were depressed, moping around in their straightjackets. Some were sitting around, smiling and acting like everything was all right.

I pitied them the most, but not as much as when I got to Maurice’s cell.

His cell was the dingiest, dirtiest cell imaginable. He had no window, only a small, flickering light bulb in the socket above his head. His straightjacket looked like it would crush him at any second. He looked strangely peaceful as I looked at him. I slowly opened his door, the hinges creaking as it condemning anyone who entered his room to damnation.

“Hey, Maurice,” I called weakly.

“Hey, you,” he said back.

We chatted. We talked about the asylum draining his hope away. The food was terrible, the activities sucked, and the “helpful” nurses could burn in hell for all he cared. I figured that talking to him was the bright point of his day. He also told me that his medication was extremely high, even though he was perfectly sane. I believed him. He also said that they would eventually take off the jacket for good behavior. I promised him the day that happened I would be there for him. I cleaned his cell and locked the door behind me as I left.

That was the best night I had experienced for a long time.

The rest of the summer went by slowly. Maurice and I became better friends. In the middle of July, he got his straightjacket taken off, and he also received a plastic chessboard. We played for three hours. Maurice beat me every single time. He was genuinely happy for the first time here.

This would probably be the last time he was happy…ever.

The next time I visited Maurice, he was lying on the floor. He complained of a constant pounding in his head, and I saw his limbs twitching. His muscles were having spasms, and I assumed that he was going to have a stroke any minute. I called for the doctors, but none came. I started CPR, but it didn’t help. I asked him how he was feeling. He replied, but not in the manner that I thought he would.

“Those assholes…I would thank them myself, but you’re here…I don’t want you to see it…could get pretty ugly…”

He then blacked out.

I felt faint.

The last thing I remember was the doctors finally coming to my side right before I dropped. I remember yelling “I’m OK! Save HIM!!!” over and over again.

I felt the blood rush to my head and blacked out.

***

Maurice and I were in the hospital when I came to. Doctors were surprised that I woke up that quickly. I had been out for a few hours, but there had been no signs of life from Maurice. They were going to pull the plug on his life support in an hour. I pleaded with the medical team to keep him on life support for a little longer, at least until he came to.

They said that he already was dead. If they pulled the plug, it would be less pain for him in the long run.

I cried. What else was there for me to do?

***

School started at the end of August this year. Maurice and I would have been juniors. Only, I was a junior, and Maurice was six feet under. He had been dead for over a month now. I was still depressed. I felt like a shadow going through real life.

Until I learned what those assholes did to Maurice.

The day that his straightjacket came off, he became much happier. He became TOO happy, apparently. Because of this, the “helpful” nurses upped the dosage on his medication. When he took all of that medicine at once, his body started to shut down. They made him delirious, they made him hallucinate, they made him suffer and die.

I wanted to quit my job at the asylum, but something kept calling me back. I kept going back, back to the deathtrap my friend endured, back to the place I called hell, back to that fucked-up asylum day after day. Something kept bugging me inside. I didn’t know what.

Until I stepped inside his cell.

For some strange reason, I went back to the pit of despair I called Maurice’s cell. I looked around the now empty room. The light bulb still flickered weakly. The hinges still sounded of doom. Except…I felt like I was being watched…

Hello again…friend…

I turned around. No one was in the hallway. There was no gust of wind that could do that. It sounded vaguely familiar...

“H-h-h-hello?” I cried weakly.

I have something to ask of you…

I shivered. It was Maurice’s voice.

“What do you want…M-M-M-Maurice?” I stammered.

So you do remember me. Thank God.

I looked around. I knew that Maurice had been dead for over a month now. There was no way that he was here. Not here, not in this hell hole.

It was also this time I remembered those words the
receptionist told me on the first day. Did I scare easily? At this point, I could have jumped out of my skin from anything.

You remember what got me in here, right?

“You threw those cocktails at the principal’s house…y-yeah, I remember”

Good, good…

There was a long pause.

“Well, Maurice? What do you want me to do? Something illegal so I’ll burn and rot in hell? So I can join you so you won’t be alone down there!?”

Close…Hell isn’t that bad once you get used to it…

I knew this wasn’t going to end well.

I want you to do what I did to get in here, but I have a target in mind…

“OH HELL NO, MAURICE! I WON’T DO THAT FOR YOU!” I screamed. I then heard the condolences of the “helpful” nurses down the hall.

Come on, buddy…do it…for me, please?

I stood silent.

“I have to go. My shift’s over.”

Think about it…

I left the asylum, broken, tormented, confused. I vomited in the bushes. I knew that I wasn’t hearing voices. The others…in the cells…surely they heard Maurice…they had to have! I had looked at them earlier during the ordeal, but all I saw was their empty, thoughtless eyes. They knew nothing. I could hear maniacal laughter in my head. Was it me? Maurice? Someone else? I nearly blacked out again, but somehow I made it home. My parents were out of town now, but I wished they were home. I dragged myself upstairs and lay in bed, until I heard Maurice again.

Good night…buddy…

I forced myself asleep.

***

September turned to October, and still I worked at the asylum. I stayed away from Maurice’s cell, although I still heard his laughter occasionally. Everyone started joking that I should be locked up in here. I just played along with them, knowing that their demise was eminent.

I planned to honor Maurice’s wish.

I would burn down the whole damn place.

I planned to do it on Halloween. Everyone would suspect it was just a prank done by other people. No one would suspect the lowly janitor for burning the whole hell hole that they call the asylum. They might call me crazy…even you might, after hearing my ranting…but I had to honor my dead friend’s wish.

I started volunteering for the recycling company. I collected everyone’s glass bottles twice a week. This was the perfect opportunity for me to get the bottles for those glass fireflies. By the end of the month, I had forty-three bottles exactly, taking only one bottle from each of the forty-three loads I took.

That meant that the asylum had forty-three reasons to fear me.

Halloween night came by faster than I thought. I had the perfect plan…my logic unflawed in every way. I would go out in a costume and venture off toward the asylum. Everyone would think I just got lost. From there, I would duck off into the woods surrounding the place and watch the inferno take its toll on the building. Then I would run back home and pretend nothing happened.

I knew where the gas tank was, so I siphoned enough gas for the forty-three bottles. I would be sure I used them all. I also brought enough string for all of them, and I also stole some of my dad’s lighters.

So…you finally decided to honor your friend’s wishes…

“Shut up, Maurice,” I said to no one in particular. “After this, will you leave me alone?”

Maybe…

I started walking to the prison where my friend had once resided, had once been tortured, had died in. This was to be no one’s tomb anymore.

I poured gas into the first bottle, cut some string, and lit the makeshift fuse. I threw the bottle with all my arm could muster. It hit and shattered one of the second story windows. I saw the flames start to rise inside.

That’s right, buddy…doesn’t that feel good?

The flames leapt inside the building like specters dancing in the shadows of the night. It felt good. I lit another one and threw it. I threw it farther than the first and it landed on the roof. I saw orange and yellow dance on the roof. Satisfied, I threw the other forty-one bottles and completely incinerated the building. The asylum was now swallowed by the blaze.

Good job. Now, you’ll feel light headed for a bit…

“What’s that supposed to…supposed…to…”

***

Here’s what I’ve been told.

I was found the next morning in front of the asylum out cold. The asylum workers rushed me to the hospital. I was in a coma for four days. The doctors said that the inhalation of all that gasoline and smoke knocked me out.

Here’s what I remember.

I remember waking up in the hospital in the middle of the night. I didn’t know where I was, what happened, or even what day it was.

All I remembered was Maurice.

I screamed. I didn’t care who heard me. I screamed at the top of my lungs over and over again.

“MAURICE! MAURICE! MAURICE!”

The medics believed that the fumes had killed part of my brain. They believed that I had some sort of dementia. They sent me to the only unscathed wing of the asylum for treatment the next morning. The asylum workers checked out the wing for any available cells, and they found only one. They took me in without a problem.

I was fine until we got to the cell. It was the darkest, dingiest, dirtiest cell available. The light bulb overhead was still flickering on and off, still clinging onto the smallest amount of light left. There was no window. My eyes widened.

“MAURICE!”

***

Now the doctors say I’m doing well. They may take off the straightjacket for me soon. Maurice says that it feels good to move your arms again. I might even get a chessboard for my room. Maurice would like that a lot.

He still comes up to talk with me. Everyone says I’m crazy when I start talking to Maurice, but he just tells me to ignore them. I’m usually on good behavior until they give me my medication. Maurice tells me just to swallow it and it will be over faster. I obey him.

It feels good to have someone I can relate with talk to me whenever I need it. Maurice feels that way too.