By Reason of Insanity by Shane Stevens Page B

the ward, he did a quick two-step and clapped his hands. The attendant, amused at the nonresponsive act, thought him just another nut.
    The doctors had not been amused, nor were they fooled by Bishop. They quickly saw through his deception, his carefully planned pose of impartiality and middle-of-the-road common sense. Tired, defeated in their jobs after the early idealistic years, each thinking himself a failure in his profession and neglected by his peers in private practice, they resented the patient’s obvious belief that he was smarter than they. Beneath the rehearsed exterior they glimpsed the trauma that had gone largely unhealed, the threat of insane violence that lay under the surface. They recognized the faked emotions too, and regarded this as particularly ominous. A man without feeling for his fellow creatures, without a standard of moral conduct, a man raging inside with a lifetime of repressed anger, psychically scarred by years of horrendous suffering in the most formative period of life—such a man, desperate, unpredictable, was no candidate for normal society. Whether he ever would be was highly doubtful. The doctors concurred in their evaluation. Homicidal tendencies, possibly dangerous.
    Bishop was so sure of his performance that he spent the next two days congratulating himself. He had done it, he had again proved his cleverness. Calmly, dispassionately, he had told of his childhood, what little he remembered of it. With huge, innocent eyes he had said there was no anger left in him. Man should live and let live. Killing was wrong, except, of course, when it wasn’t wrong. When was that? Why, when the authorities said so, of course. As for his years in the hospital, he had only praise. He had learned much, he would always be grateful. What had he learned? That people should love each other. He loved everybody, though of course some were easier to love than others. He smiled, his face open, honest, sincere. Yes, he loved everybody.
    When he was told that the doctors had recommended his continued incarceration, he thought a mistake had been made. Someone got the names mixed up. He checked with a staff member. No, no mistake. He couldn’t believe it. Had he not performed brilliantly? Had he not proved he was one of them? The doctors, he felt certain, must surely know that he was as sane as they were. It was all just a silly mistake, it had to be. It had to.
    That night he dreamed of monsters feeding on flesh, and woke up screaming. The monsters were still with him as he ran hysterically through the ward. He was quickly sedated.
    When the realization came that no mistake had been made concerning him, Bishop’s rage was boundless. He thought only of killing. The doctors would be first, those demons who made him suffer so. Kill them. Then the attendants and guards. Kill them. The other patients, the hospital, everything and everybody connected with it. Kill them all.
    His mind dwelled on death and destruction. In his mind’s eye he saw them all dying, painfully, horribly. Again and again he looked, laughing, smiling. He sat on a throne behind a big desk pressing buttons sending pain shooting through them screaming at his feet. He stepped on their heads, crushing them flat like broken eggs oozing on the floor. When he saw enough he just changed the scene but it was always the same. He had the power now, and he was doing all the killing.
    Two days later he set fire to the ward. After bunching some beds together and piling the linen in the middle, he lit matches and fed the flames. The blaze was roaring by the time an attendant raced in. Bishop attacked him with his bare hands, struggling the man to the floor. When they pulled him off, he was still banging the head on the wood slats.
    A half year passed before he was returned to a ward. Locked away in isolation, he made no reply when told that the attendant had suffered a fractured skull. Nothing seemed to matter to him as the spasms once again wracked his