PianoTickler3
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- Apr 18, 2020
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1
Wake Up Call
Hello. My name is Taylor Robinson. My friends here call me Bins. They censor most outgoing communication here, but we’ve risked everything to send this. If you find my little message in a bottle here, please, they need help.
To avoid any personal bias, I’m going to tell this story as objectively as I can, with as many details as I can remember. This is the story of my day today, mostly, but this story starts with one small conversation I overheard the other night. It was between Counselor Poretella and someone whose voice I didn’t recognize.
Poretella: “Think of it like organic electroshock therapy.”
Voice: “Why the hell would EST be better?”
The unknown voice was male. There aren’t many of them here.
Poretella: “My God, no, it’s not. Not from external sources. But our studies show that the excess of electricity the brain generates on it’s own can be very beneficial to the overall well-being of those in need of treatment. Without overloading the system, so to speak. The brain doesn’t need insulin; it doesn’t need anything that their own bodies can’t make. Not to mention all the studies that show the benefits of laught-”
Voice: “And what about ‘all the studies’ that show how high stress negatively effects mental health?”
Poretella: “Our control group is doing very well so far, as we expected. It will take longer for the other groups to show signs of progress, but this was also expected. Our study isn’t complete yet.”
Voice: “You dodged my question.”
Poretella: “The brain is a powerful force, sir. You and I both know that with time, anything can become normal.”
That was as long as I was willing to eavesdrop. I didn’t get a good look at the man. I didn’t stay longer or tell anyone or do anything, fearing repercussions. I was there for another reason anyway, and I sure as hell didn’t want to get caught for that; not over something stupid like loitering. I brought back the file I had retrieved and hid it in a sizable hole in my mattress. It’s not much, but I knew if I could prove what I heard; prove the file was real – Anyway, it’s where this all started. It's when I learned I was part of the control group – part of an experiment.
Ok. I’m getting ahead of myself. I don’t think I have a lot of credibility left to those of you on the outside. I think the best thing to do is to tell my story and let you draw your own conclusions. Back to today.
“FUCK!”
The first thing I hear every morning.
It’s my roommate, Torch. Ha. Roommate. She’s my cellmate, Rebecca Wood. She’s in her early twenties, I think; a slight build, about 5’8”. When she got here, she had purple hair, but it now forms a line around her temples where her natural brunette roots have been growing in. She always hears the whirring before I do.
The whirring sound comes from five-hundred and twelve spinning brushes that lower from the ceiling over each of our bunks. Sixteen by thirty-two. Each one is about two and a half inches wide when spinning at full speed. That information hasn’t helped us yet, but I gather as much as I can. You never know.
They aren’t covered at night. When we try to sleep, they hang above us, waiting to strike. I’ve spent many nights lying awake, studying each one, looking for a weakness. Some people can fall asleep by counting sheep; I fall asleep counting torturous brushes.
I’ve almost given up on that; there isn’t a clear weakness. It’s a well-designed, well-maintained system. But I do have a strategy. Not everyone has the wherewithal for strategy.
“NO! NO! NononononohohohohahahahaHAHAHAHAHAAAA!”
My room- cellmate’s body is hit with the wall of brushes at the same time I am. I too, struggle with the wall of sensation that hits me before I am even really awake. It’s unfortunate that I fall asleep on my back, studying the five-hundred and twelve brushes.
The spinning bristles like this feel like millions of tiny fingers, with just enough randomness that you can never desensitize, and a maddening level of consistency throughout your entire body. I mean it, everywhere that can be reached from above. My sides, stomach, thighs, breasts, nipples, armpits, arms, hands, clit, ankles, my fucking shins, the tops of my toes – I involuntarily throw my head back in laughter, and the bristles that were previously focused on fruitlessly trying to attack my eyeballs lower themselves onto my neck. Everywhere in my body is begging me to make it stop, and doing its best at flailing away with or without my permission.
Torch’s laughter usually reaches a peak around this point. We’re now fully awake and fully aware of every. single. tiny bristle finding it’s way in to every vulnerable place.
“HAHAHAhahaBIHIHIHIHINNS!” And she coughs, briefly interrupting her cries. “HEEHEEHEEHEEHEHELP MEHEEHEEHEE!”
She’s beyond help now.
It’s difficult to think clearly through this kind of assault. It’s difficult to think at all, but it’s almost muscle memory for me now. I muster up all the strength I can and use my outstretched limbs to push my torso up. I can’t stress enough how hard it is to will yourself to go towards the source of your own torture. The added pressure makes it all the more horrible, and I squeal loudly every time as I leave my underarms exposed to thrust my stomach, sides, thighs, and hips deeper into the problem.
See, if you flail and push one of the brushes up, it slowly lowers again, but if you push a lot of them up, you have enough time to reorient to cover as much of yourself as you can.
The brushes retract as far as I’ve pushed, and before they can make their way back to my skin, I flip myself onto my stomach. They wheel away at my back, rear, calves, and bottoms of my feet, and I am almost soothed by the routine. Step one complete. I explode into another round of laughter despite myself.
“PLEAHEEHEEHEHEEHEASE! PleasepleaseplHEEHEEHEEHEASE STOP! JUST FUCKING STOP! NOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHO! I’M AWAYHAYHAYHAYKE! I’m-” She lets out a piercing scream. “HAHAHAHAHA I’m- HAHAHANOOOO I’M FUCKING AWAKE!”
She’s no longer talking to me. I can’t pay much attention to her anyway; the brushes are demanding every bit of focus I can muster. On to step two.
I push my back up as far as I can to make a small amount of space. Enough space to act. I bring my knees up to my breasts and lie on them, and my arms can now reach and cover my exposed feet. The bristles return to my back, neck, ass, and arms, but my worst spots are now protected, for the most part. Now all I have to do is ride it out and try not to piss myself laughing.
“Ahahahahahahaha,” Torch gasps, then dissolves into helpless, silent cackles.
My laughter is more or less constant now. I try my best not to move, not to react, but every once in a while a bristle finds its way between my fingers onto my feet or works its way too low between my legs and my squirming laughter is renewed. I’ve tried to count how long this morning wake up call lasts, but I can never stay focused long enough. It demands every ounce of brainpower I have.
This is every morning. This is my life – This is our lives. They need help.
At last the brushes relented and retracted, mockingly, back to the ceiling. Waiting for their next turn. I uncurled and laid on my side, catching my breath as I looked through my twisted nest of hair at the small beetle making its way down the pale-grey wall.
“Good morning, Respite!” The small speaker above the door chimed a simple melody and continued its grainy transmission. “Orderly Adderley here again with your morning announcements!”
Adderley is one of the good ones here at Respite. The only staff regularly on site are the two orderlies, Wanda Adderley and Norma Castor; and the overseer of Group C (us), Counselor Poretella. Castor will punish you for so much as sitting with poor posture, and a meeting with Poretella isn’t one soon forgotten. But Adderley genuinely seems like she’s trying to help, even if she didn’t always know the best way how. The beetle had almost reached the ground.
“First off, we would all like to wish a very happy birthday to Regina Pointer! Happy birthday Reggie!” Adderley clapped enthusiastically as she said it, causing the speaker to pop loudly. “Let’s see what else we have here,” the speaker continued, “Dinner tonight will be our Famous Fourth Fridays Fiesta! So be sure to bring your mariachi shakers, and your, y’know, dangley, little, hat ball things!”
She tries.
“And today is Block 2’s turn for morning treatment, so be sure to report to your assigned rooms at eight o’clock! Block 1 will take the evening slot for treatment at three…”
“THREE P.M. IS NOT EVENING, YOU ****!” Torch had recovered. Her voice was almost always hoarse now, between the yelling and the laughing, and being trapped here at Respite. From behind me I could hear her moving to sit at the far side of her bunk. The beetle seemed surprised to find the floor.
“...meet in the common room for the afternoon games!” There was a pause in the announcements. The sound of rustling paper clamored through the speaker. The beetle worked its way clumsily across the floor toward the foot of my bunk and I lost sight of it.
“I have a note here from Counselor Poretella,” the speaker said before Adderley cleared her throat, “You can feel free to talk to me- erm- Counselor Poretella- if you… hmm? No, sorry, you can feel free to talk to me, Orderly Adderley, if you hear of any kind of suspicious activity that might threaten the successful treatment of everyone here. We’re all here for our own benefit.”
On the other side of the room, Torch had begun to cry. Remember her. Rebecca Wood. Get her out.
I rolled over before walking over to her side of the small room we share. I sat down on her bunk and wrapped my arms around her from behind. Adderley’s relentless cheeriness seemed to fade into the background.
Torch flinched very slightly at first contact, but then thrust her face into my bicep and held on to my arms with hers. She began to sob. I could feel slow drips of water running down to my elbow before falling, one by one, onto her mattress. A long moment passed before she spoke.
“I fucking hate this place. I don’t deserve to be here.”
“I know, Rebecca. And I’m going to get you out of here.” I had no idea how.
“How?” she responded between tears.
“I’ve got a plan.” I didn’t have a plan.
Her sobs lessened, and became a soft stream of tears as she looked at me. Right into my eyes.
Right into my soul.
“What’s the plan?”
I squeezed her tight one more time before letting her go and walking back to my parlor.
“You’ll know when you need to know,” is all I could think to say.
Our room isn’t glamorous by any means. It’s about 150 square feet. Maybe less; it’s hard to estimate. At the center of our front wall is a door that holds our only window, letting the florescent light in from the hall. Through the window we can see other doors, labeled 4C, 6C, and 8C. Ours is labeled 5C. We don’t have control of the lock.
On the opposite wall are the heads of our beds. Heads of Our Beds. That’s not a bad band name. Remember that too.
Stay focused, Taylor.
A thin sheet covers each of our bunks. I think they actually tried to color coordinate them. Torch’s sheet is purple, to match her hair. Mine is beige. I guess they think I’m boring. But underneath the beige, near the foot of my bunk, in a hole no one knew about, was my very own stolen file, and (presumably) you’re reading this despite their attempts at censorship, so who’s beige now, bitch?
Stay focused, Taylor.
At the ends of our beds (no wait, Ends is better than Heads), are our parlors. The term was coined satirically. A metal sink with a small faucet is mounted just below a rectangular piece of shined metal imbedded in the wall. You can almost make out your reflection in it. I picked up my hairbrush from the edge of the sink and studied my foggy look-a-like as I brushed.
I met my own eyes, dark brown around the edges, lighter in the middle. I looked closer in the metal, trying to see the dark brown flecks around my pupils I knew to be there, but I couldn’t make them out. My long, light brown hair began to straighten itself as I picked away at the tangles. I’m not tall at all – about 5’5” – and my hair was now nearing two feet.
I was naked. We’re required to sleep naked every night, and consequently, every morning, we wake up that way.
As my increasingly straight hair made it’s way to my breasts, I remembered how much I missed having access to a bra. I used to wear a C cup. They wear on me now. My hair reached my stomach, and it seemed to be as untangled as it was going to get. I noticed the split ends that rested just above my bellybutton. I had lost some weight, and briefly felt good about my appearance before remembering the kind of diet and exercise you get here.
From the other side of the room, a steady stream of liquid made its way into a bowl. The toilets are between the door and the parlors. I try not to make this connection.
“Aaahhhhhhhh, nothing like laughing your ass off first thing in the morning to make you enjoy a good piss.”
Sometimes the connection is made for me.
I brushed my teeth and returned to sit at the edge of my bunk. Our uniforms would be arriving soon, but I still had some time to try and think up my “The Plan” I had promised. My file sat safe in my mattress only a few inches away.
I felt a small itch on my right foot and jerked my leg reflexively; the beetle I had just accidentally kicked landed at the base of my toilet.
But even if I showed someone this file, what would it prove? Who could I even show it to? Even if I told someone- told everyone, that I knew why we had all been committed here, what would it change? Shino, Torch, Jackie, hell even Stephanie; they would all still be trapped here.
The beetle had landed on its back, legs kicking helplessly in the air. I scoffed at the metaphor. Since the big bang, particles and planets had been making their way through the universe; life developed and evolved over billions of years; and the consequences of generations of mundane decisions had led to this beetle, helpless on its back, right in front of me, right there and then, just to prove a point. Thanks, universe.
I leaned down and hovered my finger within grasp of its legs. When it grabbed hold, I flipped my hand over and let it crawl safely back onto the floor.
I looked up at Torch, using her stolen felt-tip marker as a makeshift mascara. About a year ago she realized that her temper sometimes got out of her control; she’d never done anything terrible as a result, but she recognized a problem and decided to try to better herself. She was making excellent progress with her therapist, until out of the blue, she was committed.
For years, I had been seeing a psychiatrist for my ADD. It wasn’t a huge deal to begin with, and the medication was really helping, until, for seemingly no reason, I too, was committed. To a mental hospital. To Respite. We’ve been here for three or four months, I think, but the days kind of blend together here.
And Torch is right, she doesn’t deserve this – none of us do. ‘Just think of it like organic electroshock therapy… Our study isn’t complete yet.’ We were resigned to a prison of tickle torture BECAUSE we don’t deserve it. We’re the control group.
I finally said it. They tickle us. All hours of the day. It’s supposed to be only one 30-minute treatment per day, but put one toe out of line, and that toe is going to be swarmed with feathers. They also schedule “team-building exercises” in the afternoon. You can guess the kinds of games their small, one-track minds come up with. To say nothing of what we endure from other patients.
“Bins, you okay?” Torch was looking at me quizzically. I blinked. I forgot I had been staring at her while lost in thought. I quickly looked back to the beetle. It was now sneaking its way under the door into the hall.
“Yeah, sorry, I just- I was zoning out. Sorry.”
She lifted her mattress and placed her marker on the bed frame underneath. The mattress hit the frame with dull, resonating thud when she dropped it.
“Well, snap out of it. We’ve got morning sessions today.”
I spent a moment trying to figure out why this was relevant. We have morning sessions every other day, and the rest we have evening sessions. Was today special? “So?” I asked.
“So, I’m going to be exhausted and annoyed the rest of the day, which means that breakfast is the only time we all get to just, like, hang out. The closest I get to feeling normal here is shooting the shit with you guys.”
I was flattered that I was part of the little good she could experience here. “I- Thanks, Torch,” I responded.
“For what?”
The conversation was interrupted before I could explain. Our door swung open abruptly, and Orderly Castor unceremoniously tossed two clear, sealed bags into the room. They slapped onto the ground and tumbled a bit before resting at Torch’s feet. They were our uniforms.
Castor is probably in her mid-fifties. Her once-broken nose hadn’t healed properly, and her baggy, uncaring eyes told us she had been in this line of work a while. Without a word, she turned, spinning her short black hair, and made her way across the hall. She left our door open as she swung open the next, finding another two bags from her cart.
The girls in 6C were in the midst of their own conversation, but were unfazed by the uniforms that landed between them. Yolanda leaned casually on her parlor sink, gesturing as she made some unheard point. Erica was still lying on her bunk; the pale soles of her feet that faced us contrasted with the dark skin of her face that I could see behind them. Her expression showed she was barely listening.
“Howdy neighbors!” Torch’s greeting was sarcastically cheery as she waved with equal enthusiasm. I stifled a laugh as Yolanda glared. Erica rose from her bunk, uncaring as ever. They grabbed their respective bags and hid behind the wall to dress. They don’t find her as funny as I do. Castor pushed her cart further down the hall.
“I do hope they come over for bridge some time. Here, I think this one’s yours,” she said as she handed me one of the bags, “At least the milkman’s always on time.”
“Someday you’ll have to bring me to this fifties utopia you’re always living in.”
“When I find it, I’ll let you know. I mean, we don’t get to have real careers, but the food is waaay better. If you cook it right. Plus we’re both white; we’ll be fine.”
I took the bag and ripped open the cellophane, letting the bulky coveralls and thick-soled boots fall to the floor.
“Our pale asses can find nice rich men to be subservient to,” she continued, “and one night I’ll stab him in his sleep with his stupid silver letter opener.”
Torch picked up her coveralls, looking at them apprehensively. They were a neutral blue, with thirteen small bulges where flexible discs had been sewn in. I think everyone here knows how many there are, as they are all strategically placed. One each under the arms, lower ribs, inner thighs, upper calves; one on either side of the zipper near the bellybutton, and one on each breast. The last disc rests on the inner seam where the legs meet the torso.
I don’t know why I’m trying to be so proper. The last disc is on our fucking pussy. Spending so much time with Torch has really helped me be more direct. Maybe this treatment is good for something.
I could feel each disc slide into place as I stretched my feet through the legs and my arms through the sleeves. I zipped up the front, bringing each disc tight against my body. A soft clicking sound as it reached the top indicated the magnetic lock had secured the zipper in place. I looked in the parlor mirror to fix my collar. A backwards “TR5C” embroidered in black across my left breast looked back at me. A brown patch on my right sleeve bore Respite’s logo, a capital “R” with a small figure relaxing comfortably on the diagonal stem.
In the reflection, I could also see Torch still holding her uniform up and staring at it.
“So just how rich is this man that still receives written letters?” I asked, trying to distract her, “How big is the house you’ll inherit?”
She looked at me gratefully; she knew what I was trying to do. She won’t admit it, but she depends on me here. It’s a responsibility I don’t take lightly. I imagine she thinks it’s the other way around. I guess both are true.
“First of all, it’s the fifties. You think he’s using his letter opener to see poop emojis?”
I waved my arm dismissively.
“And he’s got a two story house,” she said.
“Ha what? You can do better than that.”
“I’m getting to it,” she replied indignantly, sliding her own legs into her coveralls, “He has a two story house… with an elevator!”
“The very definition of extravagance!” I exclaimed, as I slid on my boots. The brown faux leather of the high tops are not entirely unstylish. The interior of the boots, however, are covered entirely by disc. The zipper on the inside of the ankle made sure it was snug against my skin, and it too, clicked securely into place.
“The idea of such a thing!” Torch responded with similar enthusiasm, adding a vague Victorian accent. She sighed deeply before slipping her own bare feet into the boots.
We were now fully dressed in our uniforms. For some, like Torch, it’s a dooming feeling. The orderlies, Poretella, the rarely seen security force – they all have control over our uniforms. They can choose a single disc on a single patient; or all of us, all over, all at once. The discs vibrate at their whim. And let me tell you, it tickles like hell.
“Wouldn’t the coppers suspect you if he was stabbed in the middle of the night in your house?”
Torch looked out through the open door. Erica and Yolanda, now dressed in the same uniform we were, joined the steady stream of other patients heading for the mess hall. Erica walked quickly, but Yolanda stayed within a pace behind, waving her arms emphatically as she spoke.
Torch looked back at me with a wry smile. “Nah, I’ll just blame it on one of the servants. What copper could resist these recently widowed eyes?” She fluttered her freshly inked eyelashes at me, and then we both just stared for a moment; her blue eyes popped with the uniform, and I was temporarily sucked into them. Only minutes before, I had seen them light up when I promised her a way out of here. I need to find her a way out of here.
“Let’s get out of here,” she said. She stood up and walked towards the door.
“What?” I was dumbfounded.
“To breakfast, dumbass,” she replied, sensing the excitement in my voice, “C’mon, we’ll miss all the bacon. It’s the only thing they haven’t figured out how to make powdered yet.”
Oh, yeah. It wasn’t even breakfast yet, and we’d already been tickled half to death and had a teary-eyed embrace at the brink of misery. Please, if you’re reading this, they need help. Get my friends out of here.
Don’t worry about me. The file in my mattress isn’t my only secret. Poretella was right, that night I stumbled onto the reason for everything. Anything can become normal.
This is my normal now. And I’m not sure I want to go back.
2
The Stalphas
A distant scream dissolved into helpless laughter. I glanced around at the other blue-clad patients in the hall. No one took notice. Most continued their conversations or met up with friends from other rooms. Marin leapt into Francisco’s arms and kissed him before waving hello to Sam. The three of them returned to the flow of traffic and chatted over the sounds of the giggly begging.
“You don’t have a plan, do you?” Torch chuckled.
“Well, uh, no. But I’m working on one,” I said, trying to sound as hopeful as I could.
She shrugged and smiled. “You fucking liar.”
I glanced into a room as we passed it. The bright green sheet on one of the bunks had been torn off, and now draped over the parlor sink.
“What’d’ya think?” I asked, “Temper tantrum or washing out the stains?” Sometimes we entertain ourselves with games that may seem grim to you, but it goes a long way towards keeping our sanity here. Most of us have been in these situations ourselves, especially in the early days. It helps to make light of them.
“Well you see, my dear Watson,” Torch stuck her nose up and smoked on an invisible pipe held loosely in her hand, “as you can see, the bedcover is the only thing that’s been disturbed, and its landing in the wash basin seems just a little too convenient. We can deduce,” she started triumphantly and thrust her finger into the air, then dropped it and continued flatly, “that wake up calls fucking suck.” She took a long drag from her pipe.
We were nearing the far end of the hall, which after 14C, opened up into a common room. I couldn’t help but smile as I saw the dim light of the sunrise through the barred windows. This is the only room with a view to the outside, so most of us spend our free time here. The six small, wooden tables were filled with pens, crayons and half-finished games. Two to six matching chairs surrounded each table. A couch large enough to comfortably sit two people – but usually held four or five – was positioned against one of the laughably dated wood-paneled walls. I wonder how long this place has been here.
We’ve crafted our own versions of Scrabble, Monopoly, and even Candyland using ripped bedsheets, glue sticks, maxi pads, playing cards, and many long debates about the official rules as we remembered them. The Stalphas usually win those debates.
As we rounded the corner left into the mess hall, the screaming, laughing mess of a girl was too hard to ignore. A silhouette kicked and begged through forcefully joyful tears at the small crowd around her.
“Torch! Bins!” a familiar voice called out to us over the commotion. Shins and Jackie waved from their yellowing, plastic table, occupying two of the four yellowing, plastic seats that surrounded it. Their trays were already in front of them. Torch has joked about the privileged lives they lead in 13C; first to the food, around the corner from real sunlight, and far enough away from the treatment rooms on the other end of 1C that they can’t hear the manic laughter of the patients there. There’s usually enough manic laughter to go around outside of treatment anyway, a point the girl’s attackers were gleefully proving.
Torch waved back and responded, “Bacon!” and with that, she quickly made her way to the end of the short line on the opposite side of the room. I walked to my friends’ table and Shins stood up to hug me. From behind her, the girl screamed before returning to uncontrolled laughter. I held Shins tightly.
Shins – Shino Takahashi – was my first friend here. We actually had a class together in college, Intro Guitar, but we didn’t interact much there. I remember her being already quite skilled at guitar. She had a more than basic grasp of English, but she still had difficulty explaining her musical proficiency to her counselor, so she got stuck with us fair-weather musicians. I remember the time she tried to help me learn a pentatonic scale. She was a foreign exchange student from Japan, and I wasn’t aware she’d decided to stay here in the U.S. after that semester, until I saw her here. She’s since confided that she was seeing a professional to help her acclimate to her new culture. Committed to Respite – what a hell of way to be introduced.
We are almost exactly the same height, same age (twenty-nine), and have the same Well-This-Is-My-Life-Now-So-I-Might-As-Well-Make-The-Best-Of-It attitude about being here. Our respective roommates, Jackie and Torch, are much less cavalier about it. And I’m honestly surprised at Shino’s WTIMLNSIMAWMTBOI attitude; I think she might be the most deathly ticklish person here. Nevertheless, she is almost always so calm and positive in the face of ever-present torture. I’m glad we found each other here. She deserves better.
After a long moment, we released each other and sat down. My circular seat bowed slightly around the metal tube that anchored it to the ground.
“How are you?” she asked.
I shrugged. “Another day, another treatment. You?”
“Same,” she nodded.
Jackie looked at us both for a moment before speaking. “Hi Jackie, how are you? I hope your morning is going well. It is, thanks so much for asking! How ‘bout you, Jackie? Well, I’m doing okay, y’know, can’t complain.”
Shino giggled. “I’m sorry, Jackie,” I said through a smile, “It’s good to see you.”
She mock glared at me from across the table. “You know what? I can complain.”
“What did she do now?” Torch sat in the seat to my left, placing her tray in front of her. “Actually, I don’t care. They’re already out of fucking bacon.”
“Here, have mine,” Shino offered as she handed her two strips of floppy bacon across to Torch.
Torch looked at her with a stunned expression. “Really?” and continued without waiting for a response, “Thank you, Shins. You’re the fucking best.” She grabbed the bacon and took a sizable bite from both strips before tossing them on top of her scrambled eggs. “You don’t happen to have any hot sauce, do you? These eggs are bland as shit.”
Shins shook her head apologetically. I placed my hand on her upper arm and mouthed, “It was a joke,” as Jackie responded.
“You’ve clearly never tasted shit. Shit is not bland.”
Shins brought her palm to her face and shook her head for a moment before looking back at me and mouthing, “Duh.”
Meanwhile, Torch had her eyebrows raised to the moon. “Do I want to know why you’ve tasted shit?”
“Baby-sitting when I was kid. Man, it gets everywhere. I’m so glad I’ve never gotten knocked up.”
And now a paragraph about Jackie. It’s important you know these people; these are the ones I’m doing this for. I wish I could tell you about everyone here, but I just don’t think I’ll have the time to write it all.
Jackie Lardner stands at a proud 6’1”, her unkept blonde hair is nearly always in her face. She’s the one responsible for our ridiculous nicknames. I mean, c’mon. “Bins” doesn’t even make sense. You stumble over your own name ONE TIME, and –
Stay focused, Taylor.
She was a professional athlete (a soccer player for Sky Blue Football Club in New Jersey) before a rather public display of, well, unfettered alcoholism. Her manager insisted she go to an alcohol treatment center. Instead she was transferred here.
‘Taylor roBINSon,’ in case you’re wondering. One time.
“Amen.” Torch raised her cup of milk towards Jackie and she met it with her own; the plastic made a dull click, and they both returned to their meals.
“Are you eating?” Shins asked me. I opened my mouth to respond, but was cut off by the loud pleas pouring from the girl. We all stopped to watch.
“HAhahaha PLEAHEEHEESE! Hahahahahee I can’t I cahahahan’t! I’ll do anything! hahahaHAHAHAHA I’ll do whahahahaha I’ll do whatever you wahahahahahaHAHAHAHA!” She was lying on her back, thrashing her wavy hair from side to side, which mostly obscured her freckled, desperate face. Her upper back rested on Jacob’s lap, and he held her arms from just above her elbows with one of his muscled arms, pushing them tight against his chest. Her hands contorted fruitlessly above his head. His left hand dug into her armpit, occasionally clumsily grabbing at her upper ribs.
“What happened?” Shins asked.
Olivia was knelt down by the girl’s right side, using one hand to drag her nails over her upper arm and armpit, and the other to grab half-heartedly at her side and ribs. Red held her ankles in the clamp of her own thighs, keeping the girl’s legs bent, and using her free hands to tickle the poor girl’s calves and knees.
“Adderley really painted a target on her back with that birthday shoutout,” Jackie observed, “Fuckin’ Stalphas.”
Stephanie had straddled her hips, expertly tickling everything within reach. Reggie screamed again when Stephanie clamped repeatedly over her the sides of her pelvis.
And in a room full of over 20 people, some of whom she considered friends, not one was getting up to help her.
“Bins, don’t.” I looked at Torch, confused, before I realized I was standing. Torch looked at me sternly for a moment before continuing, “You know how this goes. Just keep your head down and go get some breakfast.”
I looked to Shins, and she nodded once. Whatever I decided, she would be right behind me.
“Mmmm, eggs,” Jackie said cautiously, “Hey Torch, how do you think the eggs are today?”
“They’re delicious, Jackie. And, oh look, it’s a side of Don’t Piss Off The Stalphas Just To End Up In Trouble With Castor! Jackie, what do you think of your Don’t Piss Off The Stalphas Just To End-”
“I get it, I get it.” I closed my eyes, pinched the bridge of my nose, and sighed. Reggie’s laughter echoed off the walls, filling the room, filling my skull. You just have to accept it. This is life now. This is normal. I took a step towards the other side of the room.
“Bins,” Torch warned.
“I’m just going to get some breakfast.” I really meant it.
I took a wide berth around Reggie and the Stalphas and made my way to the now-vacant breakfast line. Castor, wearing a hairnet and a hard glare, filled my tray with a spoonful of powdered eggs, a brown slop that vaguely resembled oatmeal, and scoop of something that almost looked like yellow ice cream. Torch insists that it’s some kind of radioactive sludge, but I’m pretty sure it’s mushed-up banana. We reached the empty container where bacon once was. Castor intensified her glare, and I turned to walk back to our table.
I absently wondered how the beetle had found its way to my room. There must be a crack in the common room somewhere. I hoped it’d found its way back out. Even after being saved from being stuck on its back, it would’ve had to dodge the parade of patients heading for the mess. I had forgotten to look for it on my way here. Hopefully someone else had noticed it and helped it a little further on its journey out. We all need help from time to time.
I stopped dead in my tracks. There’s something to that. I helped it off its back. We all need help. Help from someone else. Help from the outside. I’d been down this road before; our only contact with loved ones are through letters, and they take blackout markers to censor any trace that there’s any wrong-doing. I don’t think my sister ever figured out the code I tried for weeks to send her. So we need to bypass the censoring. It felt unnaturally quiet.
We could hang a banner from the common room window. No one would see it. We could give a message to the beetle. No, that’s ridiculous. Focus, Taylor. We’d need to get into the mailroom. Sneak our call for help in with the already sorted mail. I’d passed it that night while I was exploring the offices. I could go back there. I could just – Why was it so quiet?
I blinked, bringing the world back into focus. The first eyes I met were Olivia’s. She shook her head with genuine pity. The rest of the Stalphas had their eyes on Stephanie, waiting for their next command. Stephanie had her eyes on me, patiently waiting to see what I’d do. Reggie, still held firmly in place, gratefully took exhausted breaths.
I looked to our table. Torch had her head in her hands. Jackie was hurriedly cramming eggs into her mouth. Shino was already on her feet, ready to spring to my defense, waiting to see what I’d do. The faces at the next table were also turned towards me. I looked around. Everyone was watching. Waiting to see what I’d do.
This was exactly like that time in fourth grade. Well, instead of a cafeteria full of patients, it was a classroom full of other fourth-graders; and instead of a prison gang of tickle bullies, it was a book report I’d forgotten about, but still. Stephanie snapped her fingers twice to bring my attention back to her.
“I’m sorry, we’re all booked up. I can make a reservation for you if you’d like.”
“Now’s fine.” Who said that? Did I say that? Stephanie was bringing herself to her feet, never breaking eye contact with me. I think I said that. She stepped over the tired husk of Reggie Pointer to face me. I definitely said that. Olivia tapped on Jacob’s arm, prompting him to release their victim. Red followed suit. Reggie let her limbs fall to the ground, still catching her breath.
Stephanie lunged a hand toward my side, and I reflexively brought my arms up, throwing the slop of my tray everywhere. I crouched, trying to spin away, but her hand followed me. I stood up to run away, but Jacob already had his hands on my shoulders, and gently but firmly brought me to the ground. Red gleefully joined the attack on my sides, and I yelped loudly again before settling in to a steady laughter.
“HAHAHAHAha fuck YOOUUHOOHOOHOO!”
Jacob moved away as Stephanie pinned my arms to the ground above my head. Red’s nails continued to dance skillfully across my ribs, and her hands squeezed randomly at my sides. I think I felt my leg, kicking helplessly, land on something unexpected. I had other priorities at the moment. Stephanie was sitting on my upper arms, saying something; she scuttled her nails expertly across my helpless armpits with a renewed vigor.
I was able to move my arms and hands up towards Stephanie’s back. Not much, but enough to find something soft. Her hair. I grabbed as much as I could in both fists and quickly yanked them back to the ground. Stephanie screamed and the tickling stopped. I was able to breathe for a moment.
There had been more commotion around than I was aware of. Olivia was standing between Jackie and Jacob, trying her best to separate them. Jacob had something on his hands. Blood? On his face too. I heard Shins calling something out, but couldn’t find her. Jacob got shoved back and fell over Red. Where is Shino? Where’s Torch? I need to find them. There’s too much happening. Stephanie, from above me, sat in shock. No, it wasn’t shock. It was fear.
Suddenly everything was very loud. Not the noise in the room, but the nerves on my skin. It’s hard to describe this feeling. It’s like nothing exists. I’m aware of my body; I’m trapped in it, but it isn’t me. Whoever it is, she’s on fire. Pulses of something too intense to identify are covering her faster than I can process it. I can’t think. I can’t escape. I am nothing but this feeling. And it is eternal.
My sister and I were born two years apart, almost to the day. She hated sharing birthday parties with me growing up. I was the little kid who ruined her cool, rebellious persona in front of her friends. I hated those birthdays too; she was always so nice to me when we were at home, but if I ever approached her in her group of friends…
We went to the same college. San Francisco State. (Go Gators!) My first year there she told me she thought it’d be fun to share our birthday party. I didn’t have many friends there yet, and I took her invitation as an act of kindness from my big sister. It went well at first. She picked me up from my dorm, drove us to Ocean Beach, introduced me to her friends, and like any good older sibling, she facilitated much underage drinking.
Some of the guys had dug a hole and decided I should be buried in it. It was cold and starting to get dark, so I didn’t particularly want to, but I was feeling the affects of the drinks. What could go wrong? Once buried to everyone’s satisfaction, I could see over a mound of sand that my sister had started digging around my legs. I felt her fingers reach my shoes, and I playfully protested as she pulled them off. She had bigger plans, and made sure that her new hole left nowhere for my now naked feet to hide.
“New drinking game!” She exclaimed to the crowd, “If you can’t make Taylor laugh, you have to finish your drink!” And with that, her nails scribbled all over my soles. I instantly threw my head back into the sand, hearty laughter escaping from my body. The others laughed at my predicament, some pointing at the frantic dance my feet were doing. But I could see a look in my sister’s eye. Maybe she didn’t plan this, but she sure as shit was going to milk it. And I was helpless to stop her.
She kept up her assault for what was probably a couple minutes, and when she finally stopped, I tried to regain what little composure I could muster. I heard scattered clapping and chuckles from my new friends. I tried to play it off like I thought it was funny too, but I knew what she was doing, and she had no intention of letting it end there.
“Looks like I won!” She got to her feet and pointed at one of her friends. “Trevor! Your turn!” As he took his position, she turned back to me. “Don’t laugh! He needs another drink!” The group cheered their agreement, and I tried to play along.
Trevor had apparently already had a bit to drink. His clumsy fingers made their way aimlessly around my feet, and he couldn’t keep up very well with the limited flailing I could manage. Even so, the dam had been broken. It wouldn’t take much contact with my ticklish soles before it would overwhelm me. I shook my head violently and tightened the muscles in my face, and I was able to hold out for maybe twenty seconds before the flood of laughter filled the beach. He took a victory lap, making sure that I was giggling for a solid minute before he passed his turn to the next contestant.
There were fifteen or so people at that party, and everyone got a turn. Most took a second turn. Some took a third. And finally, after everyone else had gotten bored with the game and moved on, one drunk frat boy with square glasses and a foot fetish played with my ticklish toes for the remainder of the evening.
I spent hours trapped in the damp sand, crying with laughter, exhausted, humiliated, and cold. I didn’t speak to my sister for months after that.
I don’t know what compelled me to write that here. I guess I’ve already wasted the time to write it; I might as well leave it in.
And actually, it’s a good story to show how I used to feel about being tickled. It’s all-consuming by nature, at least if you’re as ticklish as I am. I think I’ve come to appreciate that nature. It’s an escape from the constant distractions in life. My whole mind and body focused on this one sensation. Nothing else does that, not for me.
Not even sex. I spend so much energy thinking about what my face looks like, or what I’m doing tomorrow, or if the noises I’m making are pleasing to hear, or where I think this relationship going…
Ok, now I’m definitely sharing too much. Stay focused, Taylor.
Most people – sane people – still see tickling the way I used to. The people here at Respite certainly do. That’s why I’m writing this. Let’s get back to it. Back to today.
Her name is Jess, by the way. My sister.
Wake Up Call
Hello. My name is Taylor Robinson. My friends here call me Bins. They censor most outgoing communication here, but we’ve risked everything to send this. If you find my little message in a bottle here, please, they need help.
To avoid any personal bias, I’m going to tell this story as objectively as I can, with as many details as I can remember. This is the story of my day today, mostly, but this story starts with one small conversation I overheard the other night. It was between Counselor Poretella and someone whose voice I didn’t recognize.
Poretella: “Think of it like organic electroshock therapy.”
Voice: “Why the hell would EST be better?”
The unknown voice was male. There aren’t many of them here.
Poretella: “My God, no, it’s not. Not from external sources. But our studies show that the excess of electricity the brain generates on it’s own can be very beneficial to the overall well-being of those in need of treatment. Without overloading the system, so to speak. The brain doesn’t need insulin; it doesn’t need anything that their own bodies can’t make. Not to mention all the studies that show the benefits of laught-”
Voice: “And what about ‘all the studies’ that show how high stress negatively effects mental health?”
Poretella: “Our control group is doing very well so far, as we expected. It will take longer for the other groups to show signs of progress, but this was also expected. Our study isn’t complete yet.”
Voice: “You dodged my question.”
Poretella: “The brain is a powerful force, sir. You and I both know that with time, anything can become normal.”
That was as long as I was willing to eavesdrop. I didn’t get a good look at the man. I didn’t stay longer or tell anyone or do anything, fearing repercussions. I was there for another reason anyway, and I sure as hell didn’t want to get caught for that; not over something stupid like loitering. I brought back the file I had retrieved and hid it in a sizable hole in my mattress. It’s not much, but I knew if I could prove what I heard; prove the file was real – Anyway, it’s where this all started. It's when I learned I was part of the control group – part of an experiment.
Ok. I’m getting ahead of myself. I don’t think I have a lot of credibility left to those of you on the outside. I think the best thing to do is to tell my story and let you draw your own conclusions. Back to today.
“FUCK!”
The first thing I hear every morning.
It’s my roommate, Torch. Ha. Roommate. She’s my cellmate, Rebecca Wood. She’s in her early twenties, I think; a slight build, about 5’8”. When she got here, she had purple hair, but it now forms a line around her temples where her natural brunette roots have been growing in. She always hears the whirring before I do.
The whirring sound comes from five-hundred and twelve spinning brushes that lower from the ceiling over each of our bunks. Sixteen by thirty-two. Each one is about two and a half inches wide when spinning at full speed. That information hasn’t helped us yet, but I gather as much as I can. You never know.
They aren’t covered at night. When we try to sleep, they hang above us, waiting to strike. I’ve spent many nights lying awake, studying each one, looking for a weakness. Some people can fall asleep by counting sheep; I fall asleep counting torturous brushes.
I’ve almost given up on that; there isn’t a clear weakness. It’s a well-designed, well-maintained system. But I do have a strategy. Not everyone has the wherewithal for strategy.
“NO! NO! NononononohohohohahahahaHAHAHAHAHAAAA!”
My room- cellmate’s body is hit with the wall of brushes at the same time I am. I too, struggle with the wall of sensation that hits me before I am even really awake. It’s unfortunate that I fall asleep on my back, studying the five-hundred and twelve brushes.
The spinning bristles like this feel like millions of tiny fingers, with just enough randomness that you can never desensitize, and a maddening level of consistency throughout your entire body. I mean it, everywhere that can be reached from above. My sides, stomach, thighs, breasts, nipples, armpits, arms, hands, clit, ankles, my fucking shins, the tops of my toes – I involuntarily throw my head back in laughter, and the bristles that were previously focused on fruitlessly trying to attack my eyeballs lower themselves onto my neck. Everywhere in my body is begging me to make it stop, and doing its best at flailing away with or without my permission.
Torch’s laughter usually reaches a peak around this point. We’re now fully awake and fully aware of every. single. tiny bristle finding it’s way in to every vulnerable place.
“HAHAHAhahaBIHIHIHIHINNS!” And she coughs, briefly interrupting her cries. “HEEHEEHEEHEEHEHELP MEHEEHEEHEE!”
She’s beyond help now.
It’s difficult to think clearly through this kind of assault. It’s difficult to think at all, but it’s almost muscle memory for me now. I muster up all the strength I can and use my outstretched limbs to push my torso up. I can’t stress enough how hard it is to will yourself to go towards the source of your own torture. The added pressure makes it all the more horrible, and I squeal loudly every time as I leave my underarms exposed to thrust my stomach, sides, thighs, and hips deeper into the problem.
See, if you flail and push one of the brushes up, it slowly lowers again, but if you push a lot of them up, you have enough time to reorient to cover as much of yourself as you can.
The brushes retract as far as I’ve pushed, and before they can make their way back to my skin, I flip myself onto my stomach. They wheel away at my back, rear, calves, and bottoms of my feet, and I am almost soothed by the routine. Step one complete. I explode into another round of laughter despite myself.
“PLEAHEEHEEHEHEEHEASE! PleasepleaseplHEEHEEHEEHEASE STOP! JUST FUCKING STOP! NOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHO! I’M AWAYHAYHAYHAYKE! I’m-” She lets out a piercing scream. “HAHAHAHAHA I’m- HAHAHANOOOO I’M FUCKING AWAKE!”
She’s no longer talking to me. I can’t pay much attention to her anyway; the brushes are demanding every bit of focus I can muster. On to step two.
I push my back up as far as I can to make a small amount of space. Enough space to act. I bring my knees up to my breasts and lie on them, and my arms can now reach and cover my exposed feet. The bristles return to my back, neck, ass, and arms, but my worst spots are now protected, for the most part. Now all I have to do is ride it out and try not to piss myself laughing.
“Ahahahahahahaha,” Torch gasps, then dissolves into helpless, silent cackles.
My laughter is more or less constant now. I try my best not to move, not to react, but every once in a while a bristle finds its way between my fingers onto my feet or works its way too low between my legs and my squirming laughter is renewed. I’ve tried to count how long this morning wake up call lasts, but I can never stay focused long enough. It demands every ounce of brainpower I have.
This is every morning. This is my life – This is our lives. They need help.
At last the brushes relented and retracted, mockingly, back to the ceiling. Waiting for their next turn. I uncurled and laid on my side, catching my breath as I looked through my twisted nest of hair at the small beetle making its way down the pale-grey wall.
“Good morning, Respite!” The small speaker above the door chimed a simple melody and continued its grainy transmission. “Orderly Adderley here again with your morning announcements!”
Adderley is one of the good ones here at Respite. The only staff regularly on site are the two orderlies, Wanda Adderley and Norma Castor; and the overseer of Group C (us), Counselor Poretella. Castor will punish you for so much as sitting with poor posture, and a meeting with Poretella isn’t one soon forgotten. But Adderley genuinely seems like she’s trying to help, even if she didn’t always know the best way how. The beetle had almost reached the ground.
“First off, we would all like to wish a very happy birthday to Regina Pointer! Happy birthday Reggie!” Adderley clapped enthusiastically as she said it, causing the speaker to pop loudly. “Let’s see what else we have here,” the speaker continued, “Dinner tonight will be our Famous Fourth Fridays Fiesta! So be sure to bring your mariachi shakers, and your, y’know, dangley, little, hat ball things!”
She tries.
“And today is Block 2’s turn for morning treatment, so be sure to report to your assigned rooms at eight o’clock! Block 1 will take the evening slot for treatment at three…”
“THREE P.M. IS NOT EVENING, YOU ****!” Torch had recovered. Her voice was almost always hoarse now, between the yelling and the laughing, and being trapped here at Respite. From behind me I could hear her moving to sit at the far side of her bunk. The beetle seemed surprised to find the floor.
“...meet in the common room for the afternoon games!” There was a pause in the announcements. The sound of rustling paper clamored through the speaker. The beetle worked its way clumsily across the floor toward the foot of my bunk and I lost sight of it.
“I have a note here from Counselor Poretella,” the speaker said before Adderley cleared her throat, “You can feel free to talk to me- erm- Counselor Poretella- if you… hmm? No, sorry, you can feel free to talk to me, Orderly Adderley, if you hear of any kind of suspicious activity that might threaten the successful treatment of everyone here. We’re all here for our own benefit.”
On the other side of the room, Torch had begun to cry. Remember her. Rebecca Wood. Get her out.
I rolled over before walking over to her side of the small room we share. I sat down on her bunk and wrapped my arms around her from behind. Adderley’s relentless cheeriness seemed to fade into the background.
Torch flinched very slightly at first contact, but then thrust her face into my bicep and held on to my arms with hers. She began to sob. I could feel slow drips of water running down to my elbow before falling, one by one, onto her mattress. A long moment passed before she spoke.
“I fucking hate this place. I don’t deserve to be here.”
“I know, Rebecca. And I’m going to get you out of here.” I had no idea how.
“How?” she responded between tears.
“I’ve got a plan.” I didn’t have a plan.
Her sobs lessened, and became a soft stream of tears as she looked at me. Right into my eyes.
Right into my soul.
“What’s the plan?”
I squeezed her tight one more time before letting her go and walking back to my parlor.
“You’ll know when you need to know,” is all I could think to say.
Our room isn’t glamorous by any means. It’s about 150 square feet. Maybe less; it’s hard to estimate. At the center of our front wall is a door that holds our only window, letting the florescent light in from the hall. Through the window we can see other doors, labeled 4C, 6C, and 8C. Ours is labeled 5C. We don’t have control of the lock.
On the opposite wall are the heads of our beds. Heads of Our Beds. That’s not a bad band name. Remember that too.
Stay focused, Taylor.
A thin sheet covers each of our bunks. I think they actually tried to color coordinate them. Torch’s sheet is purple, to match her hair. Mine is beige. I guess they think I’m boring. But underneath the beige, near the foot of my bunk, in a hole no one knew about, was my very own stolen file, and (presumably) you’re reading this despite their attempts at censorship, so who’s beige now, bitch?
Stay focused, Taylor.
At the ends of our beds (no wait, Ends is better than Heads), are our parlors. The term was coined satirically. A metal sink with a small faucet is mounted just below a rectangular piece of shined metal imbedded in the wall. You can almost make out your reflection in it. I picked up my hairbrush from the edge of the sink and studied my foggy look-a-like as I brushed.
I met my own eyes, dark brown around the edges, lighter in the middle. I looked closer in the metal, trying to see the dark brown flecks around my pupils I knew to be there, but I couldn’t make them out. My long, light brown hair began to straighten itself as I picked away at the tangles. I’m not tall at all – about 5’5” – and my hair was now nearing two feet.
I was naked. We’re required to sleep naked every night, and consequently, every morning, we wake up that way.
As my increasingly straight hair made it’s way to my breasts, I remembered how much I missed having access to a bra. I used to wear a C cup. They wear on me now. My hair reached my stomach, and it seemed to be as untangled as it was going to get. I noticed the split ends that rested just above my bellybutton. I had lost some weight, and briefly felt good about my appearance before remembering the kind of diet and exercise you get here.
From the other side of the room, a steady stream of liquid made its way into a bowl. The toilets are between the door and the parlors. I try not to make this connection.
“Aaahhhhhhhh, nothing like laughing your ass off first thing in the morning to make you enjoy a good piss.”
Sometimes the connection is made for me.
I brushed my teeth and returned to sit at the edge of my bunk. Our uniforms would be arriving soon, but I still had some time to try and think up my “The Plan” I had promised. My file sat safe in my mattress only a few inches away.
I felt a small itch on my right foot and jerked my leg reflexively; the beetle I had just accidentally kicked landed at the base of my toilet.
But even if I showed someone this file, what would it prove? Who could I even show it to? Even if I told someone- told everyone, that I knew why we had all been committed here, what would it change? Shino, Torch, Jackie, hell even Stephanie; they would all still be trapped here.
The beetle had landed on its back, legs kicking helplessly in the air. I scoffed at the metaphor. Since the big bang, particles and planets had been making their way through the universe; life developed and evolved over billions of years; and the consequences of generations of mundane decisions had led to this beetle, helpless on its back, right in front of me, right there and then, just to prove a point. Thanks, universe.
I leaned down and hovered my finger within grasp of its legs. When it grabbed hold, I flipped my hand over and let it crawl safely back onto the floor.
I looked up at Torch, using her stolen felt-tip marker as a makeshift mascara. About a year ago she realized that her temper sometimes got out of her control; she’d never done anything terrible as a result, but she recognized a problem and decided to try to better herself. She was making excellent progress with her therapist, until out of the blue, she was committed.
For years, I had been seeing a psychiatrist for my ADD. It wasn’t a huge deal to begin with, and the medication was really helping, until, for seemingly no reason, I too, was committed. To a mental hospital. To Respite. We’ve been here for three or four months, I think, but the days kind of blend together here.
And Torch is right, she doesn’t deserve this – none of us do. ‘Just think of it like organic electroshock therapy… Our study isn’t complete yet.’ We were resigned to a prison of tickle torture BECAUSE we don’t deserve it. We’re the control group.
I finally said it. They tickle us. All hours of the day. It’s supposed to be only one 30-minute treatment per day, but put one toe out of line, and that toe is going to be swarmed with feathers. They also schedule “team-building exercises” in the afternoon. You can guess the kinds of games their small, one-track minds come up with. To say nothing of what we endure from other patients.
“Bins, you okay?” Torch was looking at me quizzically. I blinked. I forgot I had been staring at her while lost in thought. I quickly looked back to the beetle. It was now sneaking its way under the door into the hall.
“Yeah, sorry, I just- I was zoning out. Sorry.”
She lifted her mattress and placed her marker on the bed frame underneath. The mattress hit the frame with dull, resonating thud when she dropped it.
“Well, snap out of it. We’ve got morning sessions today.”
I spent a moment trying to figure out why this was relevant. We have morning sessions every other day, and the rest we have evening sessions. Was today special? “So?” I asked.
“So, I’m going to be exhausted and annoyed the rest of the day, which means that breakfast is the only time we all get to just, like, hang out. The closest I get to feeling normal here is shooting the shit with you guys.”
I was flattered that I was part of the little good she could experience here. “I- Thanks, Torch,” I responded.
“For what?”
The conversation was interrupted before I could explain. Our door swung open abruptly, and Orderly Castor unceremoniously tossed two clear, sealed bags into the room. They slapped onto the ground and tumbled a bit before resting at Torch’s feet. They were our uniforms.
Castor is probably in her mid-fifties. Her once-broken nose hadn’t healed properly, and her baggy, uncaring eyes told us she had been in this line of work a while. Without a word, she turned, spinning her short black hair, and made her way across the hall. She left our door open as she swung open the next, finding another two bags from her cart.
The girls in 6C were in the midst of their own conversation, but were unfazed by the uniforms that landed between them. Yolanda leaned casually on her parlor sink, gesturing as she made some unheard point. Erica was still lying on her bunk; the pale soles of her feet that faced us contrasted with the dark skin of her face that I could see behind them. Her expression showed she was barely listening.
“Howdy neighbors!” Torch’s greeting was sarcastically cheery as she waved with equal enthusiasm. I stifled a laugh as Yolanda glared. Erica rose from her bunk, uncaring as ever. They grabbed their respective bags and hid behind the wall to dress. They don’t find her as funny as I do. Castor pushed her cart further down the hall.
“I do hope they come over for bridge some time. Here, I think this one’s yours,” she said as she handed me one of the bags, “At least the milkman’s always on time.”
“Someday you’ll have to bring me to this fifties utopia you’re always living in.”
“When I find it, I’ll let you know. I mean, we don’t get to have real careers, but the food is waaay better. If you cook it right. Plus we’re both white; we’ll be fine.”
I took the bag and ripped open the cellophane, letting the bulky coveralls and thick-soled boots fall to the floor.
“Our pale asses can find nice rich men to be subservient to,” she continued, “and one night I’ll stab him in his sleep with his stupid silver letter opener.”
Torch picked up her coveralls, looking at them apprehensively. They were a neutral blue, with thirteen small bulges where flexible discs had been sewn in. I think everyone here knows how many there are, as they are all strategically placed. One each under the arms, lower ribs, inner thighs, upper calves; one on either side of the zipper near the bellybutton, and one on each breast. The last disc rests on the inner seam where the legs meet the torso.
I don’t know why I’m trying to be so proper. The last disc is on our fucking pussy. Spending so much time with Torch has really helped me be more direct. Maybe this treatment is good for something.
I could feel each disc slide into place as I stretched my feet through the legs and my arms through the sleeves. I zipped up the front, bringing each disc tight against my body. A soft clicking sound as it reached the top indicated the magnetic lock had secured the zipper in place. I looked in the parlor mirror to fix my collar. A backwards “TR5C” embroidered in black across my left breast looked back at me. A brown patch on my right sleeve bore Respite’s logo, a capital “R” with a small figure relaxing comfortably on the diagonal stem.
In the reflection, I could also see Torch still holding her uniform up and staring at it.
“So just how rich is this man that still receives written letters?” I asked, trying to distract her, “How big is the house you’ll inherit?”
She looked at me gratefully; she knew what I was trying to do. She won’t admit it, but she depends on me here. It’s a responsibility I don’t take lightly. I imagine she thinks it’s the other way around. I guess both are true.
“First of all, it’s the fifties. You think he’s using his letter opener to see poop emojis?”
I waved my arm dismissively.
“And he’s got a two story house,” she said.
“Ha what? You can do better than that.”
“I’m getting to it,” she replied indignantly, sliding her own legs into her coveralls, “He has a two story house… with an elevator!”
“The very definition of extravagance!” I exclaimed, as I slid on my boots. The brown faux leather of the high tops are not entirely unstylish. The interior of the boots, however, are covered entirely by disc. The zipper on the inside of the ankle made sure it was snug against my skin, and it too, clicked securely into place.
“The idea of such a thing!” Torch responded with similar enthusiasm, adding a vague Victorian accent. She sighed deeply before slipping her own bare feet into the boots.
We were now fully dressed in our uniforms. For some, like Torch, it’s a dooming feeling. The orderlies, Poretella, the rarely seen security force – they all have control over our uniforms. They can choose a single disc on a single patient; or all of us, all over, all at once. The discs vibrate at their whim. And let me tell you, it tickles like hell.
“Wouldn’t the coppers suspect you if he was stabbed in the middle of the night in your house?”
Torch looked out through the open door. Erica and Yolanda, now dressed in the same uniform we were, joined the steady stream of other patients heading for the mess hall. Erica walked quickly, but Yolanda stayed within a pace behind, waving her arms emphatically as she spoke.
Torch looked back at me with a wry smile. “Nah, I’ll just blame it on one of the servants. What copper could resist these recently widowed eyes?” She fluttered her freshly inked eyelashes at me, and then we both just stared for a moment; her blue eyes popped with the uniform, and I was temporarily sucked into them. Only minutes before, I had seen them light up when I promised her a way out of here. I need to find her a way out of here.
“Let’s get out of here,” she said. She stood up and walked towards the door.
“What?” I was dumbfounded.
“To breakfast, dumbass,” she replied, sensing the excitement in my voice, “C’mon, we’ll miss all the bacon. It’s the only thing they haven’t figured out how to make powdered yet.”
Oh, yeah. It wasn’t even breakfast yet, and we’d already been tickled half to death and had a teary-eyed embrace at the brink of misery. Please, if you’re reading this, they need help. Get my friends out of here.
Don’t worry about me. The file in my mattress isn’t my only secret. Poretella was right, that night I stumbled onto the reason for everything. Anything can become normal.
This is my normal now. And I’m not sure I want to go back.
2
The Stalphas
A distant scream dissolved into helpless laughter. I glanced around at the other blue-clad patients in the hall. No one took notice. Most continued their conversations or met up with friends from other rooms. Marin leapt into Francisco’s arms and kissed him before waving hello to Sam. The three of them returned to the flow of traffic and chatted over the sounds of the giggly begging.
“You don’t have a plan, do you?” Torch chuckled.
“Well, uh, no. But I’m working on one,” I said, trying to sound as hopeful as I could.
She shrugged and smiled. “You fucking liar.”
I glanced into a room as we passed it. The bright green sheet on one of the bunks had been torn off, and now draped over the parlor sink.
“What’d’ya think?” I asked, “Temper tantrum or washing out the stains?” Sometimes we entertain ourselves with games that may seem grim to you, but it goes a long way towards keeping our sanity here. Most of us have been in these situations ourselves, especially in the early days. It helps to make light of them.
“Well you see, my dear Watson,” Torch stuck her nose up and smoked on an invisible pipe held loosely in her hand, “as you can see, the bedcover is the only thing that’s been disturbed, and its landing in the wash basin seems just a little too convenient. We can deduce,” she started triumphantly and thrust her finger into the air, then dropped it and continued flatly, “that wake up calls fucking suck.” She took a long drag from her pipe.
We were nearing the far end of the hall, which after 14C, opened up into a common room. I couldn’t help but smile as I saw the dim light of the sunrise through the barred windows. This is the only room with a view to the outside, so most of us spend our free time here. The six small, wooden tables were filled with pens, crayons and half-finished games. Two to six matching chairs surrounded each table. A couch large enough to comfortably sit two people – but usually held four or five – was positioned against one of the laughably dated wood-paneled walls. I wonder how long this place has been here.
We’ve crafted our own versions of Scrabble, Monopoly, and even Candyland using ripped bedsheets, glue sticks, maxi pads, playing cards, and many long debates about the official rules as we remembered them. The Stalphas usually win those debates.
As we rounded the corner left into the mess hall, the screaming, laughing mess of a girl was too hard to ignore. A silhouette kicked and begged through forcefully joyful tears at the small crowd around her.
“Torch! Bins!” a familiar voice called out to us over the commotion. Shins and Jackie waved from their yellowing, plastic table, occupying two of the four yellowing, plastic seats that surrounded it. Their trays were already in front of them. Torch has joked about the privileged lives they lead in 13C; first to the food, around the corner from real sunlight, and far enough away from the treatment rooms on the other end of 1C that they can’t hear the manic laughter of the patients there. There’s usually enough manic laughter to go around outside of treatment anyway, a point the girl’s attackers were gleefully proving.
Torch waved back and responded, “Bacon!” and with that, she quickly made her way to the end of the short line on the opposite side of the room. I walked to my friends’ table and Shins stood up to hug me. From behind her, the girl screamed before returning to uncontrolled laughter. I held Shins tightly.
Shins – Shino Takahashi – was my first friend here. We actually had a class together in college, Intro Guitar, but we didn’t interact much there. I remember her being already quite skilled at guitar. She had a more than basic grasp of English, but she still had difficulty explaining her musical proficiency to her counselor, so she got stuck with us fair-weather musicians. I remember the time she tried to help me learn a pentatonic scale. She was a foreign exchange student from Japan, and I wasn’t aware she’d decided to stay here in the U.S. after that semester, until I saw her here. She’s since confided that she was seeing a professional to help her acclimate to her new culture. Committed to Respite – what a hell of way to be introduced.
We are almost exactly the same height, same age (twenty-nine), and have the same Well-This-Is-My-Life-Now-So-I-Might-As-Well-Make-The-Best-Of-It attitude about being here. Our respective roommates, Jackie and Torch, are much less cavalier about it. And I’m honestly surprised at Shino’s WTIMLNSIMAWMTBOI attitude; I think she might be the most deathly ticklish person here. Nevertheless, she is almost always so calm and positive in the face of ever-present torture. I’m glad we found each other here. She deserves better.
After a long moment, we released each other and sat down. My circular seat bowed slightly around the metal tube that anchored it to the ground.
“How are you?” she asked.
I shrugged. “Another day, another treatment. You?”
“Same,” she nodded.
Jackie looked at us both for a moment before speaking. “Hi Jackie, how are you? I hope your morning is going well. It is, thanks so much for asking! How ‘bout you, Jackie? Well, I’m doing okay, y’know, can’t complain.”
Shino giggled. “I’m sorry, Jackie,” I said through a smile, “It’s good to see you.”
She mock glared at me from across the table. “You know what? I can complain.”
“What did she do now?” Torch sat in the seat to my left, placing her tray in front of her. “Actually, I don’t care. They’re already out of fucking bacon.”
“Here, have mine,” Shino offered as she handed her two strips of floppy bacon across to Torch.
Torch looked at her with a stunned expression. “Really?” and continued without waiting for a response, “Thank you, Shins. You’re the fucking best.” She grabbed the bacon and took a sizable bite from both strips before tossing them on top of her scrambled eggs. “You don’t happen to have any hot sauce, do you? These eggs are bland as shit.”
Shins shook her head apologetically. I placed my hand on her upper arm and mouthed, “It was a joke,” as Jackie responded.
“You’ve clearly never tasted shit. Shit is not bland.”
Shins brought her palm to her face and shook her head for a moment before looking back at me and mouthing, “Duh.”
Meanwhile, Torch had her eyebrows raised to the moon. “Do I want to know why you’ve tasted shit?”
“Baby-sitting when I was kid. Man, it gets everywhere. I’m so glad I’ve never gotten knocked up.”
And now a paragraph about Jackie. It’s important you know these people; these are the ones I’m doing this for. I wish I could tell you about everyone here, but I just don’t think I’ll have the time to write it all.
Jackie Lardner stands at a proud 6’1”, her unkept blonde hair is nearly always in her face. She’s the one responsible for our ridiculous nicknames. I mean, c’mon. “Bins” doesn’t even make sense. You stumble over your own name ONE TIME, and –
Stay focused, Taylor.
She was a professional athlete (a soccer player for Sky Blue Football Club in New Jersey) before a rather public display of, well, unfettered alcoholism. Her manager insisted she go to an alcohol treatment center. Instead she was transferred here.
‘Taylor roBINSon,’ in case you’re wondering. One time.
“Amen.” Torch raised her cup of milk towards Jackie and she met it with her own; the plastic made a dull click, and they both returned to their meals.
“Are you eating?” Shins asked me. I opened my mouth to respond, but was cut off by the loud pleas pouring from the girl. We all stopped to watch.
“HAhahaha PLEAHEEHEESE! Hahahahahee I can’t I cahahahan’t! I’ll do anything! hahahaHAHAHAHA I’ll do whahahahaha I’ll do whatever you wahahahahahaHAHAHAHA!” She was lying on her back, thrashing her wavy hair from side to side, which mostly obscured her freckled, desperate face. Her upper back rested on Jacob’s lap, and he held her arms from just above her elbows with one of his muscled arms, pushing them tight against his chest. Her hands contorted fruitlessly above his head. His left hand dug into her armpit, occasionally clumsily grabbing at her upper ribs.
“What happened?” Shins asked.
Olivia was knelt down by the girl’s right side, using one hand to drag her nails over her upper arm and armpit, and the other to grab half-heartedly at her side and ribs. Red held her ankles in the clamp of her own thighs, keeping the girl’s legs bent, and using her free hands to tickle the poor girl’s calves and knees.
“Adderley really painted a target on her back with that birthday shoutout,” Jackie observed, “Fuckin’ Stalphas.”
Stephanie had straddled her hips, expertly tickling everything within reach. Reggie screamed again when Stephanie clamped repeatedly over her the sides of her pelvis.
And in a room full of over 20 people, some of whom she considered friends, not one was getting up to help her.
“Bins, don’t.” I looked at Torch, confused, before I realized I was standing. Torch looked at me sternly for a moment before continuing, “You know how this goes. Just keep your head down and go get some breakfast.”
I looked to Shins, and she nodded once. Whatever I decided, she would be right behind me.
“Mmmm, eggs,” Jackie said cautiously, “Hey Torch, how do you think the eggs are today?”
“They’re delicious, Jackie. And, oh look, it’s a side of Don’t Piss Off The Stalphas Just To End Up In Trouble With Castor! Jackie, what do you think of your Don’t Piss Off The Stalphas Just To End-”
“I get it, I get it.” I closed my eyes, pinched the bridge of my nose, and sighed. Reggie’s laughter echoed off the walls, filling the room, filling my skull. You just have to accept it. This is life now. This is normal. I took a step towards the other side of the room.
“Bins,” Torch warned.
“I’m just going to get some breakfast.” I really meant it.
I took a wide berth around Reggie and the Stalphas and made my way to the now-vacant breakfast line. Castor, wearing a hairnet and a hard glare, filled my tray with a spoonful of powdered eggs, a brown slop that vaguely resembled oatmeal, and scoop of something that almost looked like yellow ice cream. Torch insists that it’s some kind of radioactive sludge, but I’m pretty sure it’s mushed-up banana. We reached the empty container where bacon once was. Castor intensified her glare, and I turned to walk back to our table.
I absently wondered how the beetle had found its way to my room. There must be a crack in the common room somewhere. I hoped it’d found its way back out. Even after being saved from being stuck on its back, it would’ve had to dodge the parade of patients heading for the mess. I had forgotten to look for it on my way here. Hopefully someone else had noticed it and helped it a little further on its journey out. We all need help from time to time.
I stopped dead in my tracks. There’s something to that. I helped it off its back. We all need help. Help from someone else. Help from the outside. I’d been down this road before; our only contact with loved ones are through letters, and they take blackout markers to censor any trace that there’s any wrong-doing. I don’t think my sister ever figured out the code I tried for weeks to send her. So we need to bypass the censoring. It felt unnaturally quiet.
We could hang a banner from the common room window. No one would see it. We could give a message to the beetle. No, that’s ridiculous. Focus, Taylor. We’d need to get into the mailroom. Sneak our call for help in with the already sorted mail. I’d passed it that night while I was exploring the offices. I could go back there. I could just – Why was it so quiet?
I blinked, bringing the world back into focus. The first eyes I met were Olivia’s. She shook her head with genuine pity. The rest of the Stalphas had their eyes on Stephanie, waiting for their next command. Stephanie had her eyes on me, patiently waiting to see what I’d do. Reggie, still held firmly in place, gratefully took exhausted breaths.
I looked to our table. Torch had her head in her hands. Jackie was hurriedly cramming eggs into her mouth. Shino was already on her feet, ready to spring to my defense, waiting to see what I’d do. The faces at the next table were also turned towards me. I looked around. Everyone was watching. Waiting to see what I’d do.
This was exactly like that time in fourth grade. Well, instead of a cafeteria full of patients, it was a classroom full of other fourth-graders; and instead of a prison gang of tickle bullies, it was a book report I’d forgotten about, but still. Stephanie snapped her fingers twice to bring my attention back to her.
“I’m sorry, we’re all booked up. I can make a reservation for you if you’d like.”
“Now’s fine.” Who said that? Did I say that? Stephanie was bringing herself to her feet, never breaking eye contact with me. I think I said that. She stepped over the tired husk of Reggie Pointer to face me. I definitely said that. Olivia tapped on Jacob’s arm, prompting him to release their victim. Red followed suit. Reggie let her limbs fall to the ground, still catching her breath.
Stephanie lunged a hand toward my side, and I reflexively brought my arms up, throwing the slop of my tray everywhere. I crouched, trying to spin away, but her hand followed me. I stood up to run away, but Jacob already had his hands on my shoulders, and gently but firmly brought me to the ground. Red gleefully joined the attack on my sides, and I yelped loudly again before settling in to a steady laughter.
“HAHAHAHAha fuck YOOUUHOOHOOHOO!”
Jacob moved away as Stephanie pinned my arms to the ground above my head. Red’s nails continued to dance skillfully across my ribs, and her hands squeezed randomly at my sides. I think I felt my leg, kicking helplessly, land on something unexpected. I had other priorities at the moment. Stephanie was sitting on my upper arms, saying something; she scuttled her nails expertly across my helpless armpits with a renewed vigor.
I was able to move my arms and hands up towards Stephanie’s back. Not much, but enough to find something soft. Her hair. I grabbed as much as I could in both fists and quickly yanked them back to the ground. Stephanie screamed and the tickling stopped. I was able to breathe for a moment.
There had been more commotion around than I was aware of. Olivia was standing between Jackie and Jacob, trying her best to separate them. Jacob had something on his hands. Blood? On his face too. I heard Shins calling something out, but couldn’t find her. Jacob got shoved back and fell over Red. Where is Shino? Where’s Torch? I need to find them. There’s too much happening. Stephanie, from above me, sat in shock. No, it wasn’t shock. It was fear.
Suddenly everything was very loud. Not the noise in the room, but the nerves on my skin. It’s hard to describe this feeling. It’s like nothing exists. I’m aware of my body; I’m trapped in it, but it isn’t me. Whoever it is, she’s on fire. Pulses of something too intense to identify are covering her faster than I can process it. I can’t think. I can’t escape. I am nothing but this feeling. And it is eternal.
My sister and I were born two years apart, almost to the day. She hated sharing birthday parties with me growing up. I was the little kid who ruined her cool, rebellious persona in front of her friends. I hated those birthdays too; she was always so nice to me when we were at home, but if I ever approached her in her group of friends…
We went to the same college. San Francisco State. (Go Gators!) My first year there she told me she thought it’d be fun to share our birthday party. I didn’t have many friends there yet, and I took her invitation as an act of kindness from my big sister. It went well at first. She picked me up from my dorm, drove us to Ocean Beach, introduced me to her friends, and like any good older sibling, she facilitated much underage drinking.
Some of the guys had dug a hole and decided I should be buried in it. It was cold and starting to get dark, so I didn’t particularly want to, but I was feeling the affects of the drinks. What could go wrong? Once buried to everyone’s satisfaction, I could see over a mound of sand that my sister had started digging around my legs. I felt her fingers reach my shoes, and I playfully protested as she pulled them off. She had bigger plans, and made sure that her new hole left nowhere for my now naked feet to hide.
“New drinking game!” She exclaimed to the crowd, “If you can’t make Taylor laugh, you have to finish your drink!” And with that, her nails scribbled all over my soles. I instantly threw my head back into the sand, hearty laughter escaping from my body. The others laughed at my predicament, some pointing at the frantic dance my feet were doing. But I could see a look in my sister’s eye. Maybe she didn’t plan this, but she sure as shit was going to milk it. And I was helpless to stop her.
She kept up her assault for what was probably a couple minutes, and when she finally stopped, I tried to regain what little composure I could muster. I heard scattered clapping and chuckles from my new friends. I tried to play it off like I thought it was funny too, but I knew what she was doing, and she had no intention of letting it end there.
“Looks like I won!” She got to her feet and pointed at one of her friends. “Trevor! Your turn!” As he took his position, she turned back to me. “Don’t laugh! He needs another drink!” The group cheered their agreement, and I tried to play along.
Trevor had apparently already had a bit to drink. His clumsy fingers made their way aimlessly around my feet, and he couldn’t keep up very well with the limited flailing I could manage. Even so, the dam had been broken. It wouldn’t take much contact with my ticklish soles before it would overwhelm me. I shook my head violently and tightened the muscles in my face, and I was able to hold out for maybe twenty seconds before the flood of laughter filled the beach. He took a victory lap, making sure that I was giggling for a solid minute before he passed his turn to the next contestant.
There were fifteen or so people at that party, and everyone got a turn. Most took a second turn. Some took a third. And finally, after everyone else had gotten bored with the game and moved on, one drunk frat boy with square glasses and a foot fetish played with my ticklish toes for the remainder of the evening.
I spent hours trapped in the damp sand, crying with laughter, exhausted, humiliated, and cold. I didn’t speak to my sister for months after that.
I don’t know what compelled me to write that here. I guess I’ve already wasted the time to write it; I might as well leave it in.
And actually, it’s a good story to show how I used to feel about being tickled. It’s all-consuming by nature, at least if you’re as ticklish as I am. I think I’ve come to appreciate that nature. It’s an escape from the constant distractions in life. My whole mind and body focused on this one sensation. Nothing else does that, not for me.
Not even sex. I spend so much energy thinking about what my face looks like, or what I’m doing tomorrow, or if the noises I’m making are pleasing to hear, or where I think this relationship going…
Ok, now I’m definitely sharing too much. Stay focused, Taylor.
Most people – sane people – still see tickling the way I used to. The people here at Respite certainly do. That’s why I’m writing this. Let’s get back to it. Back to today.
Her name is Jess, by the way. My sister.
