Seeds of Darkness

Toran Redstone sat up in bed, legs tangled amidst sterile white sheets. A trickle of cold sweat rolled down his spine, spreading shivers in its wake. He spoke to himself in a quiet, urgent murmur.

“My name is Toran Redstone. I am nineteen years old. I did not murder Gracey Hale.” He rocked himself. “I did not kill that little girl. I did not kill her. That wasn’t me. That was Toni. These are Toni’s thoughts. Block them out, Toran; these are Toni’s thoughts.” With a pale, trembling hand, he pushed his sweat-damp hair away from his forehead and wondered if he should get one of the orderlies to sedate him.

I had to do it. She had to die. They don’t understand. She wasn’t a little girl at all. She’d watch me wherever I went. She stood over my bed at night. They don’t understand; I had to stop her before it was too late.

His scalp stung as his hand fisted in his hair, plucking out strands between his fingers.

“Not me. Not me. Not me.” He muttered to himself, quietly. Desperately. “Not me. This belongs to Toni.”

He hated the drugs they used. It only lulled his body; it didn’t quiet the chaos in his mind.

Nightmares and memories always blurred together for him. That was nothing new.

But this dream, the one he’d just woken from, always left him rattled.

No. No sedatives tonight. He’d already decided that. Making himself vulnerable could be dangerous. He’d been listening to the whispers again.

He knew he ought not to, but sometimes he got so lonely the whispers started to feel like friends, talking softly to him from some place out of sight—telling him about their lives, about their doubts, about their sinister plans.

They told him Francine, poor warped creature, was looking for a new plaything. She hadn’t made up her mind yet about who she’d conquer: him or a fellow inmate, two doors down. He’d fake taking the nightly sleepers until she made her move. He didn’t want to be left at her mercy.

He told his psychiatrist right from the start, when he first heard the wicked secret from his bodiless friends—Francine, C Ward's night orderly, was sedating and molesting the patients. Of course no one believed him; no one ever did. Not when he was eleven and not now.

He still had dreams about his first time. Monica and her three friends caught him alone and dragged him to their room… and, oh, the things they taught him.

He was never going to forget.

He didn’t know back then that a beautiful face could hide a wicked mind.

He smiled sardonically as the memory came back to him—bitter and wild.

Whoever said the first time didn’t hurt for boys clearly lacked imagination.

“It’s supposed to hurt.” He could almost feel Monica’s breath in his ear. “Now be a good boy and do as I tell you.”

Her favourite words. He still had the scar on his chest where Monica sank her teeth into him.

Oh, yes. His first time hurt. So did every time after that.

Worse than what they did to him was the humiliation he faced when he told the matron, and the whole story spread through the orphanage. The older boys mocked him without restraint; the girls avoided him as though he might besmirch their good names. Their caregivers hushed it all up—because in what world could three seventeen-year-old girls harm or take advantage of an eleven-year-old boy? They kept the game going for months afterwards, but he never breathed a word of it to anyone.

He learned fast from then on, never to imagine the worst was behind him. He’d been beaten and screwed, scratched and bitten, tided up and cut up, tied down—he fucking hated restraints. He’d seen the filthiest corners of the human imagination, and yet he still couldn’t fathom why. More than half the people he met were vile gluttons. They gorged themselves on abuse—sex and violence and pain.

So much pain.

Call it paranoia, but he had an odd suspicion he drew these kinds of people to him. The ones who were rotten at the core. Twisted, broken-minded fiends had a way of finding him, drawing him in. His last foster mother, for example— the very reason he was institutionalised. He took as much as he could until he couldn’t take any more. The one time he fought back, he got caught. He didn’t even hurt her that badly, not the way she hurt him, not how he wanted to hurt her, not how he imagined it, how he planned it, how he dreamed about it.

He supposed that made him twisted and broken, too, but there was no staying good; no staying clean. Not if he wanted to survive.

By then his record counted against him. He was already onto his third psychiatrist about the voices, and she was a real piece of work, too. He accused until he was blue in the face, but in the end his bruises were labelled self-inflicted, and his truth was categorised as delusions.

At fifteen he was branded mentally unstable and declared psychiatrically comorbid. Sometimes he believed he was.

Toni’s frantic ramblings faded as the whispers about Francine grew clearer, a sure sign she was nearby. It was just as well; he was stiff with anxiety, wondering if she’d come for him and aching with tension. It would be over soon, and if she was going to get what she wanted, then he was going to get what he wanted, too.

The door handle rattled as Francine fiddled with the lock and then stepped into his room. Her head snapped back, eyes wide, as she saw him sitting up, waiting. She probably expected to find him already half incapacitated from his nighttime sedative—particularly him, because among all the other disorders they’d plastered him with, Toran Redstone was also a sleepwalker, prone to act out his vivid and violent night terrors.

“So, you chose me?” Toran said dryly.

“Excuse me?”

“Well, initially you couldn’t decide between me and Toni Porter, down the hall, but I see you’ve chosen me.”

Her face blanched at the mention of Toni, eyes so wide he could see the whites all round. The corner of his mouth twitched. This was the part he almost found amusing, the way it frightened people when he spoke their secrets.

“In my opinion, Toni’s the better option. He’s already flapping round the rafters tonight; no one will suspect a thing.” He wondered what kind of bastard it made him to offer Toni as a sacrificial lamb—or knowing Toni was close to a breakdown and might wring her greasy neck. “Besides, I’m generally far more lucid than Toni. You know, he’s always raving half the time; no one is going to pay attention when he’s telling the truth. They wouldn’t know the difference.”

Even in the darkness of his room, he could see the calculation in her eyes. They traced his face, snagged on his lips and settled there. The decision solidified.

“Sure, I’m prettier,” his derisive smirk had a violent edge, “but am I really worth the risk?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about?”

“Of course you do.”

“Toran, you’re having an episode.”

Toran’s eyes widened with comprehension as he realised why she chose him.

“Of course,” he snickered. Hatred and fear welled up inside him. “It’s embarrassing it took me this long to realise: I’m the sleepwalker. The nutcase who has vivid sexual delusions.”

He was the perfect candidate.

Toran yanked his legs free of his bedding and surged to his feet. His thoughts sharpened. There was no way out of this. If he used force, he’d lose all privileges; they’d harshen his confinement or worse. If he screamed, they’d say he was raving and increase his meds. She had him trapped. The hatred pulsed, growing, bottled in his chest along with the scream of rage he knew better than to release. How had he missed this?

“I’m going to sedate you, Toran; you could hurt yourself; you could hurt me. Let me help you calm down. Let’s take our medication and come back to what’s real, okay?”

She came towards him with a syringe. His hatred turned inward, toward himself; his fear turned to cold panic. He felt them rise like cold, dark water… and he was drowning.

He closed his eyes and let the other side take over, the part of him that didn’t feel anything. It was a numb, mechanical persona. Calculating. The side of him strong enough to do whatever needed to be done. Toran, with all his melancholy and his maudlin self-pity and his inept bravado, simply slipped away.

He breathed deeply, felt the cold linoleum beneath his bare feet, and waited. He’d let her think he was being a good boy.

He caught Francine’s wrist as she came towards him, stopping her from injecting him. His other hand wound around her waist as he pulled her against his body until he could feel every undesirable line of hers.

She was the ugliest woman he’d ever seen. Whether because he knew what she really was or because of her appearance he couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter. He’d ignore the limp, mouse-brown hair, greased back so that her forehead looked twice the size. He’d ignore the oily, pale skin, spotted red with adult acne around her hairline. He’d ignore the sharp, dark eyes that were like staring into an abyss, with brows that were plucked into oblivion and drawn back on too thin. He’d fuck her the way she wanted—as if he wanted her. He could already feel the thrum, shivering in her pudgy, sweaty back. But first…

“Let’s not play this game,” he whispered in her ear. “I know my brand of crazy. I know I’m lucid, so let’s cut the crap. I know what you want, and I’ll let you have it—it’s been a while for you, hasn’t it? Since someone fucked you back. But I want something in return.”

She hesitated for a moment. He pressed into her, letting her feel him, letting her know he’d deliver.

“What do you want?” Her voice was soft, trembling.

He’d already won.

“Something, anything, to get me out of my own head for a little while.”

“That’s what the sedative is for.”

“I’m sick of that shit.” He snatched the syringe out of her hand and let it fall to the floor, then just as quickly he threaded his fingers through hers and pulled her hand behind her back. “I don’t want to be subdued. That shit can barely keep me under, let alone quiet the noise.”

“Then what do you want?” She stood on her toes, rubbing against him. Her lips brushed against his with every word. The taste of her breath hit the back of his throat, and he squashed the impulse to cringe away.

He tilted his head, ear turned towards the whispers.

“The opioid they’re using to wean the new inmate in ward C – that's the ward you’re supposed to be attending tonight. I know you have it. Give it to me.”

Toran could feel the drug leaving his body, like beads of sweat it rolled across his skin and then evaporate, leaving him cold, lucid. He opened his eyes to the thin beams of light filtering through the slits-for-windows near the ceiling. An indistinct memory burnt at the back of his skull, like boiling water bubbling up to the surface, seconds from spilling over. His muscles clenched, and his stomach rolled as the night before came back to him in stabs of colour and smell and sensations that made his skin crawl. He could still taste her sweat, smell the damp of sex. He tried to move, to fight off the attack the ghost of his actions launched on him. He fell from his bed, down on all fours, and heaved. Warm bile splashed onto the floor, splattering his hands and running between his fingers. He heaved again, spewing up the brittle denial he tried to shield himself with.

He could hear Francine’s whispers, like an angry swarm of black flies inside his head.

You enjoyed it. He heard the accusation as if it were directed at him; it wasn’t.

“I did what I had to,” he answered anyway.

This was Francine’s fight, her internal warfare. But he felt the claws of her guilt tear into him regardless; his own guilt wrapped so tightly around hers he couldn’t tell the difference.

You’re sick, twisted.

“I was protecting myself!” He heaved again, the words barely out of his mouth.

It was true. She would’ve found a way to get him one way or another. Now she was sated, and it was on his terms—a participant rather than a victim.

…warped whore.

He heaved again, more bile. The smell of it twisted with his self-disgust, and he heaved again and again, his back arching as every muscle stained, until nothing was coming up aanymore,but still his insides fought to expel a poison that was only present in his head.

Her whispers were crying now, and her remorse sank into him so that he fought to keep the sobs trapped in his chest. His body shuddered with regret that didn’t belong to him. He sucked in deep breaths of moist, sour air. Francine’s whispers faded and blended in with the rest until they sounded like a gentle breath of wind. His body was still trembling, but he listened to his heart slow.

He sat back carefully, the pool of vomit laid before his knees, gradually creeping toward him. His mouth curled, slowly, tugging a twisted smile across his face. It didn’t matter where Francine was right then; he knew she felt just as filthy as he did.

He looked up at the sound of the door.

B Ward’s day orderly was tall and bald, with dark skin that all but glowed with vitality. His broad lips had deep brackets, as though constantly on the brink of a smile.

“Clean up in isle two,” Toran murmured breathlessly, a remnant of that twisted smile still on his face.

“What happened?” Idren’s voice rolled from deep in his chest as he helped Toran up from the floor and onto the bed.

“I got sick,” he answered dryly.

“That’s twice in the last three days.” He pressed a hand to Toran’s forehead. “You’re not running a temperature, but you look...”

“Like shit?” Toran substituted when Idren hesitated.

“I was going to say sick.” Idren smirked.

“I always look sick.”

“Sicker than usual. I think you need to see the doctor.”

Toran shook his head. “No, I’m fine.”

“That’s what you said last time.”

Genuine concern furrowed Idren’s brow. He was one of the few people Toran encountered who was … normal, he supposed was was the right word. There was no hostility, no desire to do harm, just a vague sense of pity. The normal ones always pitied him. He supposed he was rather pitiable. But so often that pity could be just as overwhelming, just as appalling, as the other reactions. Idren’s pity was different, less demeaning.

He wouldn’t say he liked Idren—he hadn’t liked another human being since he was eleven—but there was something kind about him which made Toran feel less damaged.

“Really, I’m fine.” He tried to smile, but it felt all wrong, more like a strange grimace.

Idren grinned at his attempt. “C’mon let’s get you cleaned up.”

Four days later Toran sat in the chair opposite his psychiatrist. She gave him a falsely kind smile. The whispers he heard around her weren’t as vicious as the whispers he heard around other people. Mostly her whispers spoke about children and grandchildren. Sometimes the whispers expressed her frustration with some of her patients—usually him. He tilted his head towards the whispers now.

“Toran?” Her brow furrowed in confusion. “What are you doing?”

“Listening,” he answered quietly.

“I thought—"

Toran made a sound to silence her, placing his finger to his lips, gesturing for her to be quiet.

She scowled, affronted, her beige lipsticked mouth opened to speak again. No doubt to tell him off. He cut in before she could get a word out.

“Has your daughter taken your advice yet?” he asked her.

Dr Serine’s frown deepened, the creases around her eyes crinkled with the pointed look she gave him.

“About her affair, I mean,” he responded to her questioning expression.

“Excuse me?”

“You told her,” He paused to listen to the whispers, then quoted, "She was 'ruining a perfectly good marriage', and this Joe character she’s seeing isn’t worth it.”

Her eyes widened for the briefest moment. A second later her expression soothed out to calm indifference, but he knew he’d gotten under her skin.

“Would you like to talk about how your daughter’s infidelity makes you feel, Dr Serine?” The corner of his mouth curved up into a wicked smirk. He wasn’t innately cruel—no, the world had cultivated that mean steak in him.

He just wanted to be left alone, but they never seemed to leave him be. These damned doctors, always with the questions and the poking and prying, trying to get inside his head. Well, he’d show them what it felt like when he got inside their heads—he could do it far better than they could.

“I thought we agreed you weren’t going to listen to these voices anymore, Toran?” She kept her voice impassive.

“Are you saying I’m wrong, Dr Serine? Your daughter isn’t having an affair. You didn’t say those words to her?” he asked back, equally as impassive.

“I’m saying, we’re here to discuss you, Toran.”

“The voices talk about you, and supposedly I’m the only one who hears them.” Toran leaned forward in his seat, elbows resting on his knees. Clasping his fingers together, he continued. “You want us to talk about me, but I hear the voices, and they talk about you; ergo, to discuss me is to discuss you.”

Dr Serine sighed at him; a flicker of annoyance skimmed her gracefully aged face. “Why are we here, Toran?”

“Because Francine got caught, and now she’s pointing the bloody finger at me,” he said dryly, leaning back in his seat again.

He did not want to discuss this. His every muscle tightened in rejection of it. Hot emotion simmered in his belly, rose up and clenched in his chest.

“You attacked her. She heard a sound from your room. When she went in to investigate, you grabbed her and tried to assault her. She stabbed you with the needle she had with her in self-defence.”

That’s not how it happened! The thought roared in his head.

Toran ground his teeth. “If I’m the one who attacked her, why did she wait until the inquiry about the drugs came up before reporting the incident? If I attacked her, why didn’t she report it right away?”

“A sexual assault, even an attempted one, can be very humiliating—"

“Tell me about it,” he scoffed, cutting her off.

“She didn’t report it because she felt certain you were having an episode; she believes you were unaware of your actions, not to mention she was experiencing a great deal of shame because of the incident,” Dr Serine said impatiently.

“So, this shame she’s feeling is somehow my fault?” he said irritably.

“You-”

“I didn’t attack her!” he snapped.

“Then tell me what happened.”

“She’s been fucking inmates for months, Adelaide. I told you this weeks ago.” His snarl slowly turned into a mocking sneer. “If you can call what she does to them fucking. I was next on her roster. I told her I would oblige if she gave me the drugs.”

“Think about what you’re saying, Toran. Why would you agree to have sex with her when part of your treatment includes a nightly sedative which you obviously didn’t take in the first place?” She argued vehemently. “How would you even know she had any kind of drugs on her at all—it happened at the end of her shift?”

“The same way I knew about your daughter’s affair.”

“And so, we come to the root of the problem,” Dr Serine said, regaining her tone of calm. “These voices you hear, they aren’t real.”

“Aren’t they?”

“No, they are not.”

“Then how did I know about your daughter’s affair?”

“My daughter isn’t having an affair.” Dr Serine shook her head, giving him that kind smile he found so patronising. “I don’t have a daughter.”

“You’re lying.”

“Why would I lie to you?” She tried to reason with him. “I’m here to help you.”

“No.” He shook his head. She was doing it again, making him doubt his sanity. “I heard. The voices, I heard clearly—"

“No,” Dr Serine said in a sympathetic voice, “you overheard. You overheard some piece of conversation, some gossip. It’s what you do. You overhear bits of conversations, snips of information, and your brilliant mind connects the dots. When you feel threatened, which, because of your neurosis, happens often, your brain plays back these bits of information which you then perceive as these voices you talk about. You make astute guesses in an attempt to shock people away from you. It’s your defence mechanism which you use to accommodate your antisocial behaviour. But the more you do this, the more disconnected from reality you become.”

Toran shook his head. He wouldn’t let her do this to him again; make him believe he deserved to be here, make him believe he really was crazy.

“No,” he said again, defiantly. “The voices are real; they told me.”

“Toran,” she pleaded, her voice filled with that cloying sympathy. “You’re not well. Until you accept this, I can’t help you get better.”

Frustration swelled up inside him, expanding and contracting like a living thing. His throat tightened and he blinked away the burning at the back of his eyes. No one would ever believe him. He wanted to curse. He could feel the profane words he wanted to shout at her perched on his tongue. He let out a harsh breath, the scream dying on his sigh. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of seeing him break.

“Are we done here?” he asked her, pressing his palms to his eyes.

She sighed and waved an orderly over to escort him back to his room. Gritting his teeth, he complied, ignoring the orderly’s unnecessary grip on his arm.

As they stepped into the corridor, the lull of mid-morning lingered—orderlies moved with the slow rhythm of routine.

Just before they turned the corner toward the secure wing, Toran caught sight of the reception desk through the open door. A woman stood there, blonde waves curved past her shoulders, flowing white blouse unbuttoned too low. Her voice was soft, sweet, like a whisper he might’ve heard before. “Jo…Joanna Mason. Dr Serine asked to meet me. I’m a friend of her son.” Toran’s head snapped up as he turned to look back, but the orderly tugged him forward.

Joe… Joanna. So, Dr Serine was telling the truth. She doesn’t have a daughter...

He supposed that was how Dr Adelaide Serine would explain this to herself.

People were intrigued by him. They were fascinated by his mind—as unhinged as they all claimed he was. They wanted to take him apart, rip away his face so they could see his cogs turning —find out made him so clever. So broken. Despite the fact no one believed he could hear the whispers, they were all piqued by his ability to know things.

The orderly released him into his room. He flopped onto his bed and heard the door click as he was locked in.

He wondered how much more of this hell he could endure before he’d finally had enough. What horror, what humiliation, would he have to live through next before he finally took matters into his own hands and put an end to it all? He kept telling himself dying was for the weak, that only a coward took his own life. But the more time he spent in this place, the more it seemed like a viable way out.