May 19, 9.17am
Joseph Everett walked into St Bartholomew’s private psychiatric hospital where his twin brother, Michael, had lived for the past fifteen years. He came to the hospital at least every two days when he was not away on business, and sometimes twice a day if Michael was in a bad way. The hospital was a pleasant sterile façade laid over a maelstrom of human misery. Jolly wall paintings belied the mental pain behind every door. The warden at the front desk acknowledged him but said nothing as he passed. Staff here knew of his frequent visits. Joseph left his keys and other sharp objects at the security gate and proceeded through the main corridors to the day room, pushing open the double doors. He was grimly content as he considered the plan he had put in place and how soon victory would come now that he had leverage.
Joseph experienced the hospital as a toxic soup of fear, confusion and jangled noise hidden beneath the drugs and behavior modification necessary to maintain a superficial calm. But it was the best hospital in Arizona, so he had no choice but to keep Michael here. The staff were babysitters to disturbed individuals who dwelt on the edges of what is called sanity, though Joseph personally doubted that anyone was really sane all the time. He knew that people moved along a continuum of normality in many dimensions. Some days we could all be committed, he thought, with a glance at himself reflected in a bay window.
Joseph found Michael in the same seat he was always placed in. Every day he woke and the nurses took him to a window seat in the day room. He would sit all day, legs hugged to his chest, staring out at the world. He never looked at his brother, never seemed to hear any words spoken to him, yet he was placid and would take his meds, lie down when told and sleep. He was just empty, a shell of a person. Joseph touched him sometimes, smoothing the hair from his brother’s forehead, but there was never any response. They were twins of a sickly opposite. Both were lean, but Joseph’s muscles were well defined, he walked tall and strong. Michael was wasted and weak with cheekbones that stuck out through his pale skin and lips tinged with blue. Joseph spoke with vigor and moved with grace but his brother was silent and gaunt, folded into his space and staring into another world.
“How is he today?” Joseph spoke to the nurse on duty in the day room. They went through this ritual every time, and her reply never changed. But today she started at his approach.
“I need to get the doctor to speak to you, sir.”
She went out of the room and returned with Dr Campbell. He looked serious and held a thick folder. He indicated a private room where they could talk. Joseph felt sweat prickle under his arms. The men remained standing.
“Mr Everett, we need to discuss how to best manage the next steps for Michael.”
“Why? What’s changed?”
“Nothing’s changed. That’s the point. He’s been wasting away for months now, and he’s getting too thin and sick for the main facility here. We have to move him to the intensive care ward, and soon he’ll need intravenous feeding.”
Joseph shook his head emphatically.
“No. He’s fine here. He’s going to get better, I know it.”
Dr Campbell opened the file and pointed at the latest test results.
“It’s all here. You have to face facts. We can make his body comfortable and keep him alive, but he is reaching a threshold. He will become catatonic soon.”
Joseph’s eyes were wide, his nostrils flaring in anger.
“How dare you. I’ve given the hospital millions in gifts. There must be more you can do for him.”
The Doctor shook his head.
“I’m sorry. On my orders, he’ll be transferred next week to the special ward and then there’s a process to transfer him to the hospice when it becomes appropriate. The end is coming, Joseph. You have been the best and most devoted
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