All Men Go Mad

What I liked about the mornings here was the fog that rolled in from the dark green sea. The gloomy clouds would dim the sunlight, and all you could hear were the gulls crying from a distance as the waves slapped against the sharp rocks that surrounded this small island. I’d open my rusty, squeaky window, breathe in the ocean mist and lick the salt from my lips and hum in satisfaction. The calm mornings on this island made me forget the reason I was sent here as a punishment for an officer misconduct—a memory that I wanted to forget. Just three years here, I told myself, you can last three years, Stella. I turned away from the window and faced my dull room. Everything here was either a murky brown or a dull gray.

During my first month here, the dull, melancholic state of the island turned my mood sour with irritation and disdain. The island was only a reminder of my mistake gone horribly wrong. The smell of rusty metal and iron inside the prison-like facility didn’t help improve my mood either despite the fact that I was lucky enough to not be behind those particular bars. Rather than being a negative force on the island, I tried brightening my mood with frequent hikes around the island, outside of the prison during my spare time.

I remembered trying to pick the lavender flowers and red cosmos near the island’s edge to spread throughout my dull room, but almost fell over the cliff into the sharp rocks below in the sea if it weren’t for the Chief keeping his eye on me. ‘It ain’t worth it darlin’,’ he told me after yanking me up from the edge, ‘All pretty things don’t last here.’ At this comment, I remembered retorting angrily back that my father always called me pretty. He barked out laughing, startling the seagulls around us and responded warmly, ‘The only thing you are is pretty aggressive!’ I scowled at him, but this just further proved his point. The next morning, small bouquets of dried lavender, daisies, and cosmos in a variety of color sat outside my room’s doorstep. The wrinkles on the flowers gave it a raisin-like texture that felt rough against my fingers, but the colors were as vivid as they were when alive. A note was attached to it with chicken scrawls: ’My daughter used to dry flowers all the time. Never saw the appeal, but damn girl got me into the habit. I guess pretty things can last a good while. – C. Newman’

The few other correctional officers here said that Chief Newman treated me differently because I was the only female on this island. An officer said that I almost resembled his long past wife if it weren’t for my dark hair, and my attitude like his estranged daughter. This possibly explained why most of my colleagues didn’t want to associate themselves with me. After hearing this rumor, it was no coincidence that the Chief was nearby whenever I needed help or had a question about the facility. Despite the Chief’s amiable personality, he was never found in the dining commons with the other officers. Some people said that he dined alone in his room or office with a portrait of his long past wife. I found him once outside near the cliff’s edge tossing breadcrumbs to a group of gulls. He looked out into the distant, foggy horizon, and held a tired expression. His eyes would droop and he appeared ten years older than usual. I joined him once feeding the gulls. No words were exchanged.

I started sneaking saltine crackers in my pockets instead whenever it was my turn to patrol the island borders. The seagulls would eventually start to gather on the same cliff at the same time, eagerly squawking for breadcrumbs. Their yellow beaks would nibble out of my hands greedily, reminding me of the yellow police badge I’d use to proudly display on my chest back in the city. Mom and dad never really approved of my career choice. ‘It’s too dangerous,’ mom would say. And dad would nod, agree with mom as usual, 'Too dangerous. There are dangerous men out there—dangerous dogs.’ My hands would wrap around both their aging ones tightly, give them a grin, and promise and reassure them that they wouldn’t have to worry. It wasn’t even three years out of the police academy that I ended up here with my parents breathing down my neck about danger, dogs, and my own sanity again.

Despite the isolation and being away from the hustling, bustling city, I slowly warmed up to appreciate some of the things this island had to offer within half a year. Letters from my parents and friends back in the city were a warm welcome. A friend was recently engaged and was planning the wedding the same year I was relieved from this island. My mom said the neighbors have been stealing her Tupperware lately, ’Your father and I would always bring them their favorite dishes, but that Rosa would never return the Tupperware. It’s driving me crazy, and it’s driving your father bonkers too. I think I’ve seen him take more of those vitamins for Madness-relief than usual. I tell him that he doesn’t need those—never once even snapped his fingers at me in irritation or even turned into a dog, but the man insists. He says it’s better safe than sorry, though he wouldn’t mind going Mad to get sent to your island just to visit you. I told him it was no laughing or joking matter—I fear the day he turns Mad.’ and the letter ended with a pattern of X’s and O’s and an attached Polaroid picture of dad, snoozing, mouth gaping wide with drool beginning to slip from the corner, and the daily newspaper blanketing his chest—the ultimate picture of Madness; I laughed at this. In the corner of the picture, a large bottle of vitamins was displayed, the label advertising, “Madness-relief 10mg, take twice daily”.

My mom thinks Madness is a joke, but my dad was fearful for good reason just as any other male-born being was paranoid of going Mad and turning into a crazed canine. He would read international news articles about outbreaks on occasion; probably thinking the fear would keep him in check from going insane. Despite Madness never existing in female-born individuals, I still felt my dad’s paranoia, which was why I wanted to be part of the city’s police force. Ironically, paranoid men dominated the job preventing and protecting citizens from outbreaks of Madness, thinking their civil duties would keep the Madness at bay.

Storing away the letter and pinning the silly Polaroid up in my room, I left to start my daily rounds around the prison facility. The rounds were easy enough—check the cells, check the security system, count the inmates. The iron bars throughout the large facility were old from years of use, but it still did the job. I waved at another correctional officer down the long rows of prisons in front of me before continuing on, checking off a list from my clipboard.

Suddenly, a loud and long whistle forced me to focus and stopped me in my rounds. My clipboard fell from my hands, clattering loudly against the concrete floor as big hands from behind pushed me forward. “What’re you doing just standing around?!” Chief Newman shoved me to move, appearing out of nowhere, “We have a Code Red we need to handle before it gets out of hand.” This was the first I seen him this alert and demanding, startling me to move and keep up with him.

“Code Red?” I asked. This would be my first emergency here. Series of iron bars flew passed me as I kept up my pace with the Chief. The men in the cells wore matching gray uniforms with different identification numbers. They were only numbers here. Some glanced up from their cells to look at us while others ignored us. Some sniffed the air above them, revealing fluorescent green collars locked tightly around their bare necks that lit up in their dark cells.

“Cell A51,” he shouted back at me. “There’s been an attempt at escape and one of them turned.” I tried hard to focus on his words, ignoring the stares I was receiving from the inmates. We ran down metal spiral stairs to the first floor, revealing even more iron bars and more gray men in green colors. “We’re so understaffed now, but luckily these dogs are whipped to obedience. Well, most of them are at least.”

We finally approached the cell to reveal its iron bars were gnawed off, chewed up as if it were meat and bone. Adrenaline instantly flooded my system and my eyes darted around rapidly. Other men in gray uniforms looked at me expectantly. Some smirked, others gave me blank stares, and some had the audacity to lick their lips and whistle at me. Chief Newman next to me placed his large hand on my shoulder, “This’ll be great practice for our newbie correctional officer. This is an easy one—and a dumb one apparently.”

The growls could be heard clearly inside the single cell, and I noticed a few other officers gathered towards the other cells, their equipment in hand and ready to tame the other prisoners should they also go Mad from all the commotion. A large lump suddenly formed in my throat, and I was brought back to memories of the city again. It was rare to see a man turn into a dog.

The Chief snapped me out of my daze, barked a loud laugh before shoving me into the dark cell, “S’right Stella. You know what to do then: cage, control, and capture. The three C’s.” He stood right outside the cell’s opening, blocking it from the prisoner’s escape, but also from my escape too.

I gulped as I turned to face the jail breaker. It wasn’t until then that my body began to feel heavy. My hands felt around my body in the dimness. I was wearing a heavy chest protectant under my vest that was filled with equipment. At my hips, I felt a long, thickly woven whip. On the other side, I felt a small can of mace, safety unlocked and ready to use. In my front pouch, I saw rows of small needles filled with sedatives. The only thing that felt amiss as my gun. There was a difference between this job and my previous one as a city officer. In the city, we needed guns despite the fact we rarely used it. Except that the first time I used it out on the field was also my last time.

Three C’s, I thought. I detached the black whip from my right hip and gripped it tightly. It felt heavy in my hands like the cool metal of a gun, but instead this whip felt right. I closed my eyes, breathing in and relaxed my shoulders as I exhaled audibly. Put down the dog.

I opened my eyes and began stepping forward into the dark. I unfurled my whip and continued into the depths of the cell, which wasn’t as large as it appeared to be. The scent of dust and wet dog filled my nostril, followed by the pungent odor of rusty metal. Iron flakes surrounded a medium sized black dog with brown spots. Its canines were red from chewing on the iron bar it held between its teeth and front paws. Metal scraping against teeth hurt my ears, but I continued forward anyways. The dog immediately focused on me with dark brown eyes glaring and began growling louder, its furs bristling. It dropped the chewed up metal bar from its slobbering mouth, grinning fiercely at me as it crouched back, ready to pounce at me. The clattering sound of metal hitting the concrete floor resonated and everything fell silent. Sirens and gunshots were blaring in my head, flashes of camera lights popping in and out as I remembered trying to wipe the warm blood off my hands, spreading it around more.

“No,” I gulped, suddenly nervous and unsure of myself. It was like the city all over again. The weight of my whip soon felt like the heaviness of the gun I last held that brought me on this damn island. Growling bounced off the cement walls of the cell, echoing in my ears and further making me panic.

The Chief’s bellowing laugh snapped me out of my reminiscent daze again, “These ain’t your city dogs, girl. There’s a reason why these dogs end up here.” To further prove Newman’s point, the crazed dog only licked its lips and growled more at my voice. I gripped the whip in my right hand tightly, grounding myself. With the Chief’s comment in mind, I snapped my whip towards the dog as it began to lunge at me, spit flying everywhere.

Leather cord wrapped around the dog’s drooling muzzle tightly, forcefully snapping its jaws shut. Cage. I remembered, immediately caging the dog and pulling it towards me roughly with the thick whip, controlling its erratic movements. The mutt attempted to back away, shaking its head roughly from the tight grip of the whip. Capture. As soon as it was close enough to me, I jammed the small sedative in the dog’s neck. A bright red collar was secured around its neck similar to the ones the men in gray uniforms wore. I watched the dog whimper, back away from me sluggishly as I loosened my grip on the whip. Its body fell to the ground in a soft thud, knocked unconscious.

“Good job,” The Chief stepped next to me. “Not too bad for your first Code Red I s’pose, but hopefully we won’t be havin’ anymore of them.”

“Thanks…” I muttered, exhaling the breath I didn’t realize I was holding in the entire time, “But what do we do now?” This had never occurred during my time here before. Some of the prisoners were definitely Mad with their incessant rambles, but very rarely did they succumb to the Madness and turn. This was only the second time in my long years of experience.

“‘Correct’,” Newman answered, nodding his head towards the dog’s direction, “There’s a fourth ‘C’ in that list: cage, control, capture, and correct. We are a correctional facility.”

I raised an eyebrow, “Is that just a nicer phrase for this place instead of calling it a prison?” ‘Correctional facility’, my ass, I thought to myself. I had never seen any ‘correcting’ done in this ‘correctional facility’—the prisoners only ate, slept, and occasionally had recreational time twice a week. The only people staffed here were officers, and occasionally a young neurosurgeon that came in along with weekly mail on a small boat to stay for a few days. My thoughts were interrupted when light pops were heard in the cell.

The unconscious dog began shedding its fur and shifting. Its bones cracked and popped loudly, making me flinch. The transformation almost reminded me of the half-Mad man I shot in the city before coming here—ugly and painful. I rarely saw this transformation because the inmates on this island were crazed and deemed unstable by the federal government, but they weren’t stupid enough to go Mad here of all places. But whenever one did go Mad and turn, it was protocol to have a neurosurgeon on board to conduct studies. What was left on the floor was an unconscious and naked man. The only difference between this one and the one in the city was that one was dead. The red collar that was around the dog’s neck now appeared green on the man’s neck.

“What’s the point of correcting?” I asked, “All men go Mad and turn eventually.”

The Chief laughed, slapping my back that actually hurt, “Don’t you know this already, Stella? What’d they teach you in that fancy schmancy city huh? Thought you city folk are all about that science-hubbub nowadays—’specially you young folks.” He took a look around the small cell to record the damage on a yellow notepad that looked almost brand new—it was probably the first time the Chief had to use it in a while. “All men turn into dogs,” he muttered darkly, “Some sooner than others.” He began handcuffing the naked man’s wrists. “We not only correct, but study them so we can figure out what calms these mutts—what makes this Madness go away. That’s our job.”

I absorbed his words and watched him silently. The torn grey uniform lied still in the corner where inmate A51 went Mad and turned, remnants of where he was still grasping onto sanity. I began to wonder what was it that caused him to turn. The darkness? The isolation? The prison did feel more still than it usually did. “Have you ever gone Mad?” I asked, out of the blue.

He slumped the unconscious inmate over his broad muscled shoulders. “Clean up and file the report for me upstairs, will ya’? Call that neurosurgeon too and tell her to get her ass here quick. I’ll take care of this mutt,” he ordered softly. A melancholic look glazed over his face, shadowing the same dullness in his eyes I see whenever he fed the seagulls. Without glancing back to see if I complied, he left. All that was left were torn up iron, flecks of blood, bits of grey fabric, and an unanswered question.

The clean up was easy, but my mind was a tidal wave of unwanted memories hanging loosely on a thin thread ready to snap and spiral downward into the storming seas of my sanity. I remembered when I was shivering in the alley corner, covered in blood of either a man or a dog—I couldn’t remember the details anymore— where my colleagues found me in shock, covered me in a blanket and carried me away while they called the local coroner. A scream tore through me to call the local pound instead—it was a dog, not a man anymore; dog’s blood slipping between my fingers, but they insisted, shouting at me that it was a man’s. What difference did it make anyways if it was a logical man or a Madness-driven dog? Both had the same warm, red blood.

Other officers stopped me in my tracks, asking me if I was all right, that they were just as shaken up over this Code Red as I probably was. They didn’t think Chief Newman would put me, his favorite officer, in a rough situation like that. I gave them a shrug and hobbled up the long metal staircase to the main office. The clacking of my heavy boots against metal resonated in my ears, sounding a lot like the iron bars closing each day after putting prisoners back in their cages. This isn’t the city anymore Stella, the darkness and island mist that would roll into the prison on occasion is a clear reminder.

The office was dead as usual, everyone either off duty or in their rooms gossiping about the latest Code Red with inmate A51. I punched in the neurosurgeon’s personal phone number from a list of emergency contacts and waited for someone to pick up. The ringing was finally interrupted with a loud and abrasive, “What?”

“Is this the neurosurgeon?” I wrapped my fingers around the thick phone cord.

A laugh, “Wow, can’t even bother to read my name on the label they got you to call from?” The voice behind the phone sounded feminine, which forced me to glance at the name card where I got the number.

“Oh!” I stammered, almost dropping the phone, “U-Uh, I mean, is this Dr. Amira DiSalvo?”

“You got it babe,” she laughed, her demeanor changing, “Something happened at the island facility? I mean, I figured, if you’re calling me anyways—hey, you a girl too?”

The last question caught me off guard, “Uh, yeah.”

“They finally hired a fellow female now huh?” a sigh of relief, “Been telling the higher folks that the only way to get things done is if they allowed more girls to take on these sorts of jobs. Anyways doll, I’ll be over soon. That hound still working there?”

“Uh…?”

“That hound-chief—what’s his name—Chief-Something—Chief Newman, I think? He still in charge?”

“Yeah.”

“Old dog needs to retire,” she let out a sigh, “I’ll be there within an hour. What’s your name again, hon?”

“Stella.”

“Lovely name,” she hummed, “See you in a bit, love!” And then she hung up.

The phone eventually made its way back down onto the desk a few minutes after the more than interesting phone conversation—Amira DiSalvo. I felt my cheeks turn red from either embarrassment at all the pet names she called me, or from irritation at her speedy, irrelevant interrogation of me. I gently slapped my own cheeks, shaking my head furiously before jumping in shock at a booming voice behind me.

“’ya just got off the phone with her?” Chief Newman gently shut the office door behind himself. He saw my nod and red cheeks and grimaced as he wiped the specks of blood off his bare arms. “She’s conducting research on Madness—hence why we have a neurosurgeon here. She’d be here more often if it weren’t for the fact that we don’t have as many outbreaks. Honestly, I’m glad she’s not here often.”

“Why not?” my hands found its way around the phone cord again, wrapping my fingers around it. “She seems nice.”

“‘Nice’ is a good way of putting it,” the Chief rolled his eyes. “What Amira is, is a manipulative bitch.” The tone in his voice didn’t sound like he was joking as he normally is. I looked up from the phone cord to see him glaring at her phone card. “Stella, out of all the advice I’m about to give you on this island, out of all the people to not trust, it’s Amira.”

“Even the dogs?” I tried to laugh it off nervously, not used to the Chief being so serious. “I can trust the dogs over a logical female human?”

The only response the Chief gave me was a stern, fatherly look. But beyond the paternal concern, I saw fear in his eyes—a similar one in my father’s eyes, but deeper and more ingrained. I thought of the inappropriate question of whether or not he had gone Mad before, but decided against asking it again.

“Chief?” we broke eye contact and stared at another officer that peeped into the room. “Uh, Dr. DiSalvo just arrived. She’s going over your reports right now.”

We both rushed from the main office into a different part of the island that I never got the chance to explore. A small white laboratory was placed a few miles off away from the prison with biohazard signs and “No Trespassers” signs along the hike there. The seagulls stopped following us halfway there, and vegetation became sparse the closer we got. It wasn’t until the Chief started unlocking the big, white doors to the lab that I noticed the distinct jingling of his plethora of key rings. Despite the geographic isolation this island gave off, it was lively and loud outside the prison. This was probably the quietest area of the island. There were no signs of wildlife, and the ocean tides crashing against the island was just a whisper just outside the lab.

The Chief stormed inside the lab down the eggshell white corridors that smelled too clean to the point where my nostrils burned. We entered into one of the rooms and soon, red invaded my vision. “Stella, darling!” her voice sounded exactly like it did on the phone—sultry and round. “So great to finally meet you dear!” I was immediately greeted with a tight hug from the redheaded woman.

“Uh,” my cheeks flushed red again. “Y-You too, Dr. DiSalvo.” Her curly red hair smelled like the salons in the city.

“Amira is just fine, love,” she let me go, small hands still gripping my shoulders. She was pale with speckles of light brown dots freckling her face, teeth as white as the walls in the room, and eyes green like a cat’s framed by thin wire rectangular glasses. There was a lack of professionalism in the air that I thought was necessary in emergencies like these, but Amira’s warm, lighthearted demeanor was welcoming after a stressful situation. The back of her hands gently grazed my reddening cheeks. “Oh Stella, babe, you look flustered. You feeling well?”

The Chief coughed loudly, catching both of our attention. He nodded his head over at inmate A51 strapped tightly on a steel table, completely naked and unconscious. “You’re here for him, Dr. DiSalvo, not Stella,” he grunted. He looked tense, his muscles slightly protruding as if he was ready to pounce, jaws clenched as he spoke through his teeth.

Amira rolled her eyes, sneering at the Chief before moving towards inmate A51. The tension in the room was palpable, and I wanted to leave, but Amira’s stare kept me still from moving. Not once had she bothered to speak or look at the Chief. She continued her work around the unconscious man, tightening the straps and placing all sorts of wires around his head as she continued to leisurely talk with me. “Stella,” she said my name slowly, sending shivers down my spine at the almost seductive way she said it. “You know why only biological males go Mad and turn to these dogs?”

I shook my head.

“Because,” she hummed, turning on a machine hooked up to the man that started convulsing. I flinched, and out of the corners of my eyes, I saw the Chief’s fists tighten. “All men are naturally dogs—you know that phrase, darling?” She ignored the saliva that ran down inmate A51’s mouth, taking down notes, all the while fidgeting with buttons on the machine that put the man in and out of consciousness. The clicking of her heels against the white tiles echoed in the room along with inmate A51’s muffled screams, continuing to convulse and shake against the metal table. “My research is to find out why men are dogs. Irritation, frustration, stressful or traumatic events seem to trigger them to go Mad,” her eyes flitted over at the Chief briefly before locking onto mine again. “Something pathological, neurological, or a common heritable ancestor maybe? Genetics? Hormones? The answer is endless, Stella.” She laughed over the man’s cries.

“What do you plan on doing once you find the answer?” I asked, feeling uncomfortable, especially hearing the man’s screams.

“Well,” Amira shut off the machine, ceasing the cries, “That depends on the answer now, doesn’t it?” She snapped off her blue gloves, placing them lazily on top of the man’s rising and falling chest. “I’ll be kind and let this mutt rest for today. A lobotomy is scheduled for tomorrow, and I don’t want it shutting down on me.”

Amira spent the rest of the week in my personal room and office, claiming that she’d prefer to stay on the island if she had more work to do than commute back and forth daily. The Chief insisted she have her own room, but the adamant neurosurgeon demanded she share a room with “a fellow female companion, far away from the mutts in the facility”. There was clearly bad blood between the Chief and Amira, though I had no clue why. Before retiring to my room for the day where Amira would be found admiring my collection of dried flowers, the Chief would pull me aside and give me more warnings. At the same time, Amira would talk on endless about the dangers of dogs, men, and Madness.

“Stella,” she would address me while painting her toe nails a dark red, “I’m going to let you in on a few secrets.” And then she proceeded to tell me about her past, about why she became a neurosurgeon wanting to shed light on Madness. Her abusive father had gone Mad several times in her childhood and was never caught until her late teens. Oftentimes, her stories would always be interrupted by phone calls. “It’s my ex-girlfriend—again.”

“You date women?” I asked nonchalantly. It was almost normal for women to date other women because of this rising fear of Madness. Given Amira’s past, it made sense.

She turned off her phone, settling back into the corner of my bed, “But of course darling,” she giggled, “Why would I want to date a dog? Tell me, Stella, have you ever dated another woman before?” She leaned up close to my face, making me blush.

“O-Of course!” I stammered, “I’ve dated a few men and women, actually.” I looked away, clearly embarrassed. Relationships never worked out because of my job as an officer in the city. The long hours drove a lot of people away. Of course, the island wasn’t the best place to look for relationships either. Amira’s foxlike grin erupted the cocoons of butterflies in my stomach.

“Taming dogs too?” she hummed, “You’re a wild one, Stella.” She played with my calloused hands, slipping her own soft hands into mine. “I know that Chief-dog doesn’t like me too much,” she hummed, tracing the back of my hand with her thumb almost lovingly. “He sees what I do to those filthy mutts for my research and obviously doesn’t approve.” I could see the contemplation behind her green eyes. Her glasses were placed on the nightstand next to one of my poetry books I read during my free time. Sir Philip Sidney was one of my favorites. “He’s going to hurt you one of these days, Stella.”

“Because he’s a man? And all men turn to Mad dogs eventually?” I muttered, repeating Amira’s usual lecture and mantra, though it meant nothing to me. Instead, I relished in her warmth and gentle caresses. Amira’s strong vehemence towards men made me understand her concern, but never thought much of it.

She quickly shifted herself, sitting on top of my hips, red tangles falling in curtains and framing my face. Her cool hands gripped mine, green eyes locking onto my dark eyes, “There’s a reason why he’s been a Chief here for so long. Ever seen any letters or packages in the mail from his wife? From his daughter?”

“His wife is dead,” I answered, suddenly confused. “His daughter is… somewhere.”

“He went Mad, Stella. He accidentally killed his own wife during his outbreak, and now he’s legally separated from his daughter because of this.” Amira’s face leaned closer to mine, as if to emphasize her point, “He was a valuable officer though. And the government didn’t want to completely get rid of him. So they did the next best thing—made him Alpha dog of this godforsaken mutt-filled island. Far away from civilization where he and all these other dogs can’t do any harm.”

The sudden burst of newly discovered information hit me like the waves slapping the cliff’s edge of the island. Chief Newman had gone Mad before. I felt waves of confusion, concern, and hurt. Why hadn’t he told me? I thought, did he just not trust me enough? My thoughts shifted to another, “Why are you telling me this?” my face was still locked in her grip.

Amira leaned closer, “I can take you away from here, Stella.” She kissed my cheeks lightly, as if testing the waters. “I don’t want him to hurt you. I don’t want any of these filthy dogs hurting you like all the other people I’ve ever cared about in my life. You know how dangerous it is,” she kissed my lips once. “You’ve told me about what happened to you in the city, Stella,” she kissed me twice. “I’ve got money; I can sneak you out, babe.”

I let her kiss me more, half aroused and half confused. My brows knitted in concern, different, opposing thoughts flurrying in my mind. The idea of seeing both my parents again filled me with joy, being able to attend my best friend’s wedding early, and returning back to civilization would be a big relief. I could forget this island entirely, and forget the incident that brought me to the island to begin with. Despite these enticing thoughts, I gently pushed Amira off me, addressing her look of concern, “I’ll… think about it.”

The next few days, the Chief had been hounding me during my rounds. He would give me unnecessary jobs on top of my usual duties, and I knew that it was to keep me busy and away from Amira. The prison seemed livelier because of the Chief hustling me. The inmates seemed to grow restless, picking at the rust on the iron bars, and talked more than usual. This unnerved a lot of the other officers. They were expecting another Code Red to happen. It didn’t occur to me until now that the restlessness of the inmates was because of the Alpha—the Chief’s nervousness must be why.

Before retiring for the night, I found myself aimlessly walking up the metal stairs to the Chief’s room. A gentle “Come in” could be heard muffled behind the metal door before I had the chance to knock. His room was warm and welcoming with a fur rug in the center, a fireplace in the corner crackling and popping with life, a filled bookshelf with unlabeled books, and a desk next to his bed with a picture of his wife and daughter. In the dimly lit room, I could see the Chief’s shadowed face filled with worry, regret, and paranoia. I sat on a leather armchair facing the large man on his small bed.

“Have you come to tell me that you’re leaving tomorrow with Dr. DiSalvo?” he didn’t look at me, only staring at the shadows dancing on the ceiling from the fireplace. The wrinkles on his face were more prominent than usual, stress lines deepening them, as I kept silent. “Stella, I’m not gonna warn you anymore ’bout Amira. Seems like she’s already caught you in her jaws.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about your wife and daughter?” I calmly asked. Anger and resentment of the Chief faded over the past few days; instead, sympathy and pity replaced it.

“Bitch told ‘ya, huh?” the Chief sighed, seeming smaller than usual. “I just didn’t wanna scare you off, Stella.” He sat up on his bed, facing me before continuing, “I feel like that’s what I do best now that I’ve experienced this Madness. I’m gettin’ old, and I can feel it looming over me every time I wake up. Images of my wife screaming, and my daughter shaking in the corner, absolutely horrified at the beast I’ve become.”

“Why am I here?”

The Chief laughed bitterly, “Straight to the point now huh? Stella, none of those other correctional officers know what the hell they’re doin’. And these dogs? These inmates, these men—whatever ’ya wanna call ’em… They need a new Alpha eventually. What better than a woman immune to Madness with the same fears of a man to whip ’em in shape when this ole dog is gone loony?” He points to himself.

“Amira can fix you,” I muttered half-heartedly.

“You see what she done to A51?” It was true. A51 had recently returned to his cell with a shaven head full of stitches and scars, a dead expression, and heavy chains wrapped around his limbs that forced him to slouch. The green collar around his neck never once flickered orange or red. “Amira is a woman lost in her own sorts of madness and insanity. S’why I kept warning you about her.”

We both kept silent for a few minutes, not knowing what to else to say or ask of the other person. After silently getting up from my seat, I left the Chief’s room without another word, deeply contemplating. Instead of retiring to my room where Amira would be found reading my poetry books, I started wandering the dark cells. The only visible things were the fluorescent green collars glowing in the dark. Inmate A51 was asleep in his cell, but from the little light that came off his collar, I could still make out the dark bloodstains on the floor. Heaviness weighed down my shoulders.

My nightly stroll ended up taking me to the cliff side where the seagulls made nests on the rocks. A few eagerly cocked their heads at me, wanting food that the Chief and I hadn’t fed them anymore since Amira’s arrival. The harsh wind blew back my dark hair, and I felt calm once more. I could almost feel the cool steel of the gun in my hand again, the warmth of blood in the other as I recalled the now distant memory. Blood was still blood—man or dog.

The next morning, the weekly mailman arrived on a small boat that would take anyone else that wanted to leave with him. Chief Newman, Amira, and I stood at the dock with a few luggages in our hands. Amira’s twisty red hair was in a topknot to prevent the sea wind from messing it up, dark sunglasses shielding her sharp green eyes. The Chief held a grim expression as he normally does whenever around Amira, but I just gave him a gentle smile, approaching the dock towards Amira before handing her her bags.

“Stella, darling,” she murmured, taking off her shades. “You’re making a mistake, my love.”

“The Chief and I have some hungry seagulls to feed,” I smiled, seeing the Chief holding back a grin as the seagulls above cried obnoxiously. “I’ll call you again when we have another outbreak.”

“Dear,” she gripped my hands tightly, “why make you more of a dog than me?” I recognized the lines immediately from Astrophil and Stella’s Sonnet 59. The boat’s engine started with a loud rumble, and soon red hair began blending into the teal sea until they just became a speck in the distance just like the city.

“Why’d ’ya decide to stay?” the Chief stood next to me on the dock, big shoulders finally relaxing as he crossed his arms.

“We’re all a little Mad inside.” I responded, “Dog, men, and women.”

The island was growing on me like the vegetation that eventually began growing over Amira’s once pristine, white laboratory after several months of her absence. The seagulls were fat with breadcrumbs and sunflower seeds that I would feed, and they come to me eagerly perched at my footstep every evening with or without food. Only one outbreak had occurred since Amira’s absence, but this time it was my duty to decide whether or not to call the redhead neurosurgeon. I decided against it after taking a longing look as the large black dog stared at me with fearful eyes, whimpering before I even unfurled my whip. I remembered his large pointed ears stood up in alert when the sirens went off, bushy tail tucked between his hind legs as he backed into a corner and began howling at me in panic. Even in Madness he was driven by his human instincts and fear—fear of hurting me, or fear of what he had become, I wasn’t sure.

I remembered that eventually, the large dog settled itself between my standing legs, shaking in fear as I shut the alarm off manually in the Chief’s office—soon-to-be my office—and instructing the others to file the usual report paperwork, but to not contact Amira.

“W-Why not?” the young officers would look at the dog lying between my feet, paranoid that he would jump and attack viciously like any other dog driven by Madness. “It’s protocol to call the neurosurgeon.”

“An Alpha takes care of her pack,” my voice didn’t quiver at this statement, though the Chief’s pointed ears perked and twitched slightly at this. “And I’m the Alpha now.” Blood was still blood—man or dog; and I was determined to not let blood spill again.