Seven-X (22 page)

“Delusions of grandeur will not help you survive, Mr. Hansen. You need psychological and medical attention before you become a threat to yourself and others. I’m ordering you to be held in Ward D pending further observation…”

And with that, two guards rushed into the room to detain me.

“You can’t do that!” I yelled.

As they grabbed me, Haworth added, “You tried to commit suicide last night, and drove your car into a tree.” Then he instructed the guards, “Please take Mr. Hansen to Ward D.”

“I was shot at. They shot my car!”  I cried, as the guards cuffed me. “Get your hands off me. Take your fucking hands off. Leave me…

DECEMBER 20, 2010

JOURNAL ENTRY:                                          

MONDAY DECEMBER 20, 2010 - 9:41 AM

That was it. 

Haworth shut off my recorder and that was the last I’ve seen of it. I should have listened to my gut and gone home when I could. Taken what small victory I had and got reinforcements to knock these walls down later. But I got greedy, and this is my punishment. My equipment is locked away somewhere. I’ve been sitting in this disgusting cage for who knows how long. I finally received my laptop back, after begging for it every time anyone came in here to feed us.

Any confidence I had was shattered when I turned my laptop on and saw today’s date.  It’s Monday morning, December 20th. Five days whisked past me without a trace, leaving no trail except scattered memories and severely depressing thoughts, most of which are concentrated around my death. 

I’m a dead man. I’ve been forced into compliance and I can’t figure out how to escape my fate. If I had indeed chosen death, then this is the place for me to reflect on that decision, and prepare my defense for any hope to return to the land of the living.

Ward D is purgatory, one step from hell. The smell that induced my vomiting, the screams that drew my curiosity, and the pain and terror that haunted my sleepless nights, all belong to Ward E. It was indeed a death sentence; no one had ever gone into Ward E and returned to the facility. It was a hopeless place for the condemned to feed off each other and incite the very essence of hell. There was no supervision. No rules. No restraint. It was merely survival according to the voices that accompany me here, in this pit. 

Blocked from the sight of others, our voices are the only tangible evidence of existence and means of communication. 

Isolation is supposed to provide an appropriate arena for contemplation, self-examination and repentance, but I choose this place as a vessel of information. I want to understand the bowels of Uphir, and the stories that harden, even the toughest criminals here.

My fellow prisoners won’t talk about these things, for fear of punishment, but one voice barks authoritatively at me. It’s Curtis and he’s made it evidently clear, that if Ward E doesn’t devour me, he will.

“Eddie, I’m going to fucking kill you!” is the most repetitive phrase I’ve heard over the last five days. I’ve tried to reason with him, but to no avail. Curtis is convinced that he is a three-strike offender and Ward E will be his final resting place. Of course, I am solely to blame for his predicament.

I think that Timothy Tyler may be in here too; but it’s hard to communicate with all the screaming, growling and banging going on. I scream back with the rest of the animals, howling to the moon and raging out with the forsaken. 

It’s hard to contain your emotions in this environment. A backed up toilet, rusty sink, uncomfortable cot with old sheets, and a crusty, stained blanket is not enough to stay warm and sane. I’m afraid to eat the food, but starving to death is my only other option.  Every time after eating, I can’t help but wonder if it’s the food that’s making us crazy. My thoughts are spinning out of control. The abundance of voices I hear, whether imaginary or imprisoned keep speaking clearly to me, that my time is near. 

They want to kill me, or watch me do it to myself. Bash my head into the steel bars until it cracks open, or rip out the pipe out from beneath the sink and jam it into my eyes or through my chest. Or should I wrap the blanket around my neck and choke myself, suffocate, or drown in the sink. 

All these ideas hover over me, trying to find their way inside me, and force me to press the button in my mind that says, “Yes, I’ll do it.”

My inquisitive mind re-examines my wasted life, trying to add reason to my existence. I’m no Mother Theresa, but I’m no Jeffrey Dahmer either. 

Am I worthy of my next breath or impending death?  The inquisitor wants to know why I invite danger? Why do I constantly put my head in the leopard’s mouth? Why do I avoid my feelings, and build up walls inside to repress the torment? Why do I invite pain and misery to accompany me? 

I was never like this before. I was the life of the party. The class clown. The joker. The guy everybody wanted to party with. And now, this metaphysical change is happening. It’s like there’s a monster growing inside this cocoon of a body, evolving and feeding off my blood.  I’m transitioning, losing control of my power to remain positive. 

My laughs are engulfed in tears and my smile has to be forced open through the pain. I feel the scratches on my back tingling, like my skin is bubbling up. 

The deep scratch from Greta hasn’t healed right, and the constant itching and burning makes me want to rip my teeth into it, and suck the poison out. Maybe that’s why Tyler did it. Maybe that’s all he could recall. The feeling of contamination, frayed nerve endings and irrational impulse. The toxins building inside. A chemical imbalance and wave of defensive response from within the body to heal itself.

My feet are cracked, cold and dry, and when I stand it feels like needles are being inserted into the bottom. 

My eyeballs are pressed into the back of my head, crushed against my brain, so I can’t see, think or process information accurately. Everything is constricting inside me, tightening in pain, closing up like a cocoon. 

Maybe I am just like that vampire bat with wings that retract around my body, locking in pain, squeezing the breath out, so I can see it form clouds in front on me, that shape themselves into the demons that hunt me. 

My fingers feel the frigid touch of cold aluminum, as I pound on the keyboard. But the bottom of the laptop feels warm. I press it against my chest to feel life. Even the light of the monitor, brings me some hope, a form of expression, to focus my thoughts into. 

Another gust of cold air swept through here, and I hear the main door open. Footsteps echo on the concrete, getting closer, and as I look up, I see my first visitor, the Reverend Billings.

JOURNAL ENTRY, AUDIO LOG:

MONDAY DECEMBER 20, 2010 - 9:06 AM

Reverend Billings was a sight for sore eyes. His smile relaxed me as he stood outside my cell and handed me my audio recorder. 

“Be careful. Follow the rules,” he said.

I was grateful for his trust and thanked him as I turned it on.

“I appreciate this Rev,” I told him.

“You’re welcome. I want to talk to you about a few things, Eddie,” he said, pulling up a chair.

“When am I getting out of here?” I asked, feeling Curtis getting riled up in his cell, slamming his body around. 

Reverend Billings glanced over at him before addressing me. “Soon, I hope. I don’t have the authority to make that decision.”

Then Curtis exploded! “I’m going to kill you, Eddie! Hear me! I’m going to stomp on your skull, and split your face open! I won’t stop until I hear the last breath ooze out of your body. You hear me! Tell him priest! I’m going to kill him!”

“Shut the fuck up!” I yelled back.

“You’re dead, Hansen!”

Reverend Billings then calmly stated, “Curtis, I’m working on getting you out too. But you have to cooperate.”

“I didn’t do anything!” Curtis yelled. “Simon was at first post. Something ripped him open, not me! I didn’t kill him. It was his fault! All his fault. He left that gate open!”

Billings answered Curtis. “Dr. Haworth will hear your side of the story soon, if you stay quiet and let me talk to Eddie.”

“He’s a dead man Rev!” 

“Eddie,” the Reverend continued, now focusing on me. “I can’t help you if you continue to violate your agreement here. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I told him.

“I fear for you. I do. You are letting things build up inside you that are unhealthy, in fact, demonic in nature.”

DEAD MAN!” Curtis exploded again, banging himself into the cell bars. I tried to control my feelings and bit down on my lip, containing my urge to scream back. I calmly, replied to Billings: “What do you want me to do?”

“Repent. Allow God’s forgiveness to cleanse you. Create a place for him in your life.”

“Are you blackmailing me with God?” I asked Billings. “Is that my only way out?”

“No,” he told me politely. “I can’t force you to do anything. I can only give you my perspective and tell you what Christ did for me.”

“I don’t mean to be rude, Rev. Let’s talk about something else. I’m not bringing religion into a legal investigation. Skewing my perspective based on intangible evidence.”

“That’s fine, Eddie,” Billings answered. “Just know, I may be your only ally in here. I’m on your side. I’m here to help you and guard your spiritual welfare.” 

“Alright,” I said, sensing his sincerity.

“That’s why I was hired,” Billings continued. “I promised God I’d do it. And I’m going to.”

The stomping started again. “Hear that Hansen. Hear it! It’s your skull.”

“Curtis. You are not helping yourself,” the Reverend sternly warned. 

“I need to get out,” I begged. “You know that there’s something wrong with this whole setup… What goes on in Ward E?” I asked.

Billings hesitated for a moment, and adjusted his seat, thinking of how to frame his next words. “When a person loses complete control over themselves and can not be redeemed, they are sent to Ward E. It is where the perfect possessed are kept.”

“Perfect possessed,” I shook my head, trying to comprehend. 

Billings continued. “When demons gain complete control and power over a person, we have no other choice. The exorcism of one ruling demon is excruciating, eight is nearly impossible and fifty six can be lethal for an exorcist.”

“Seven-X, right? I asked. “They each bring seven back.”

“Seven demons more powerful than themselves, and the final condition of the person, is….”

 ”…worse than the first.” we said together  “I read it. You really believe it?” I asked Billings.

“Believe. I’ve lived it,” he responded confidently. 

“Really?”

“Eddie, do you honestly think anyone chooses to be an exorcist? Would you want my job?”

“Not my first choice,” I told him honestly.

“Mine either,” Billings responded, ready to make his play. “My dream was to play in the NFL. Did you know, I was the Big 12 Defensive Player of the year in 1977. First Team All-American, Linebacker, University of Texas.”

“A Longhorn, alright,” I said. “You know I’m still a Bruin at heart.”

“I won’t hold it against you,” Billings smiled. “I was going to be a first round draft pick. I already had that money spent. My life planned out. Then bang! I ruptured my ACL in the first quarter of the Cotton Bowl.”

“Damn,” I moaned.

“I sat in the locker room, on ice, watching our undefeated season, National Championship and my career vanish, all at once.”

“That hurts.”

“It killed me inside,” Billings said. And I could almost feel the pain well up in him as he continued. “Notre Dame 38, Texas 10. The last game I ever played in.” 

“That sucks. That was it, huh?”

“I prayed to God,” Billings said. “Pray I’d heal up and get drafted. Pray someone would give me a chance. All I wanted was one chance. One chance. That’s all I asked for. Just one chance. You ever feel that way?”

“Way too often,” I told him and judging by the look in my eye, I think he felt my pain too.

“Exactly,” Billings answered as his raw emotion began to flow for the first time in our conversations. He seemed hurt as he told me,  “I worked so hard to rehab. To get healthy again. I just kept working out every day, for hours and hours, hoping for that call. Then, one day, my buddy Earl Campbell put in a word for me with the Houston Oilers and they gave me a tryout.” 

“Did you go?”

“Hell yeah,” Billings said perking up. “This was my shot, my chance to prove myself. I put my heart and soul into every second out there. Every play. Every practice. I was the first one on the field and the last to leave. There was no way I was going to lose this opportunity. And when I made it past the first two cuts, I thought, I’m back. I’m going to make it to the NFL!  I was feeling great, playing great… Then… 

He stopped for a moment of reflection, and I asked, “Then, what?”

“Then, I let my guard down. Just once, during practice. One time. I lost focus on a reverse and doubled back in pursuit not looking at the guard pulling. He chopped me, I stepped back hard, and put all my weight in the wrong direction, and my Achilles tendon snapped.”

“Shit!” I responded. 

Billings somberly continued,  “That was it. It was all over. And I just kept thinking, how could I be so stupid? How… could I be… so… stupid! I saw that play a million times before. I studied it on film, over and over, reacted and made that tackle a thousand times. But this time, this one time, I was a split second behind. Just a split second, and I was trying so hard to catch up, that I lost focus of everything around me.  And I never saw it coming. That’s what did me in. You follow?”