FicWad

“So, Mister Way.”

Doctor Simmons stared across at his patient, his hands securely cuffed to a thick leather belt fastened tightly around his waist and his feet chained close together allowing him only to shuffle into the room.
It wasn’t the first time he had examined a prisoner on Death Row; it was actually quite common. Most saw faking insanity as a way out. Yes, if you managed it, you escaped death, but a life locked in a mental institution dosed up with Thorazine and in regular contact with people who suffered severe psychotic episodes was certainly no picnic.

“Take a seat.”

Gerard sat down opposite the desk behind which, Doctor Simmons silently regarded his patient. It was during these first few minutes that he got a feel for whether or not the man was faking. Generally, the prisoner would lose his temper and demand attention, or he would simply do something to act crazy. Gerard did neither of these things. He merely sat, his head ever so slightly tilted down so that his dark eyes rolled upwards to stare back, unblinking, focussed on a spot some three inches behind the doctor’s eyes. It was unnerving to watch as the doctor waited for any other reactions from the young man.
What came next surprised him, as Gerard turned his eyes quickly to the left then back. By now they had widened significantly and he appeared deeply agitated.

“What is this?” he finally asked.
“What do you mean, Gerard?” Doctor Simmons asked as he raised an eyebrow; if he was faking, he was certainly clever.
“How is he here? He’s dead. I saw him!” Gerard looked down at his clenched fists refusing to look at either the doctor or the room’s other occupant.
“We’re alone, Gerard,” the doctor assured him. “Who can you see?”
“Oh, fuck you! You can’t do this to me! I’m not insane. He’s here! He’s sitting… right over there!” Gerard nodded with his head towards a low cabinet situated on the far wall.

The vehemence in his tone and the certainty in his eyes momentarily gave the doctor pause. Even though he knew beyond doubt that the only two occupants were himself and Gerard, Simmons turned his head to look in the general direction of the cabinet. As expected, the room was empty.

“There’s no one there, Gerard.”
“How are… he… how…” Gerard glanced between Simmons and the figure he could clearly see, seated on the cabinet. With a scream of frustration, he pushed himself to his feet and, shuffling the couple of feet to the desk, he leaned over menacingly, despite his restraints. “He’s fucking right there! What’s the matter with you?”

Behind him, the door burst open revealing the two guards who had escorted him. Strong hands pulled back into his seat and he flopped back breathless and tense.
Simmons waved to the guards that he was safe and wanted to continue the examination. Waiting until the door was closed again and a calm had once more descended upon the room, he asked his next question.

“Can you describe him?”
“I can do better than that,” Gerard snapped. “I can give you his name.”
“Go on,” he urged.
“Ray Toro.”

Simmons frowned; the name was familiar. Glancing down at the open file on the desk, he noted the details listed for Ray Toro.

“Your guitarist?” he asked evenly.
“Yeah, my… don’t wave! He can’t even see you, you clown haired freak!”

Within a fraction of a second, Gerard was on his feet once more, but instead of advancing on the psychiatrist, he was facing the cabinet, his expression one of anger and irritation.

“What are you doing here? You trying to get me to kill you all over again, because, believe me, I will Toro, trust me! I killed you once! You stay dead!” Gerard’s pitch continued to rise as the tirade progressed. “Do you hear me? You stay dead!”
“Gerard?”
“What?” Gerard snapped; turning back to face Simmons with a look of impatience firmly fixed to his face. It appeared as though he had completely forgotten why he was there.
“Why do you think he’s here?”
“I don’t know,” he snapped in reply as he glanced back towards the cabinet. “To annoy me? Drive me nuts?”
“Do you think you’re crazy?” Simmons asked quietly.
“Excuse me?”

Gerard turned to look at the psychiatrist; the question had thrown him off balance. He appeared as though it was beginning to dawn on him that he was actually being evaluated and that if he were to be committed, everything he had done or said so far only seemed to confirm their suspicions.

“I’ve already been declared sane,” Gerard scowled at the presumption of the question. “The trial. I was supposedly sane then.”
“You say supposedly. Why is that? Do you think they were wrong?”
“What? No!” Gerard replied, aggrieved by the question. “There’s nothing wrong with my sanity! I knew exactly what I was doing then and I do now too!”
“And yet, you’re seeing your dead friend?”

Gerard turned a glacial expression towards the doctor. So cold was the stare that he directed towards Simmons that it actually sent a chill down his spine.

“I’m seeing a dead guitarist,” he corrected.
“Take a seat, Gerard,” Simmons motioned with his hand, suggesting that Gerard should return to the chair. “Why don’t you ask him why he’s here?” Simmons went on to suggest innocently.

Gerard frowned with contempt as he sat down once more. The idea was ridiculous. Why would he give credence to the idea that this was even remotely possible?

“Because it can’t be real,” he snapped, his tone exhibiting a very real sense of annoyance at the suggestion. “Do I seem like an idiot? I know what you want from me. You want me to make like I’m crazy.”
“Why would I want that?”
“I don’t know! Validate your existence, maybe? Or maybe it’s that you don’t like the unpleasant thought that I could do what I did and not be crazy!”
“You said you were declared sane for the trial. Tell me about that.”
“The declaration or the trial?” Gerard replied suspiciously.
“Well, I’m going to assume that you were examined by two doctors, one for the defence and one for the prosecution. You must have been considered sane enough to stand trial and able to accept responsibility for your actions. But that doesn’t necessarily mean that there can’t be a revision of that judgement if more evidence comes to light.”
“I’m not insane,” Gerard growled.
“Tell me about the trial,” Simmons continued, glancing down at the file on his desk. “Tell me about when you took the stand.”

Gerard sat back in his chair and smirked.
“What have you got written there? Some notes on my performance?”
“Is that what it was? A performance?” Simmons asked, raising an eyebrow.
“You know damn well it was,” Gerard scoffed at the question.
“Well, tell me anyway.”
Gerard shrugged indifferently. “I went up after the court was shown the video of the sweet, but truly insane, Marion Jacobs doing my dirty work.”
“Marion Jacobs…” Simmons glanced at the file again.
“You know Doc, you really ought to read up on your patients before they come to you. You’re making me feel very unimportant here.”
“You don’t like that?”
“Who would?”
“How did you convince her to help you?”
“I thought you wanted to hear about the trial?” Gerard frowned at the diversion.
“Indulge me,” Simmons replied, leaning back in his comfortable high-backed chair.
“Okay,” Gerard shrugged. “I met Marion at a comic book fair. She’d read the first Umbrella Academy series and… stop looking in that fucking file and just listen to me!”

Simmons’ head jerked up at the sudden and unexpected venom in Gerard’s tone. A very clear and definite picture of Gerard’s state of mind was forming and Simmons was doing all he could to corroborate or refute his assumptions.

“I am listening Gerard,” he confirmed quietly. “Go on.”

Gerard sighed as he tried to get his train of thought back on track.

“Okay, so she didn’t just read my comic book, she was obsessed with it, and me. Oh, yeah, she practically worshipped me. I don’t know, there was just something about her that told me that she was willing to do anything, if she thought it was right. You know?”
“You thought she was weak-minded?” Simmons clarified.
“I didn’t think it, she was,” Gerard replied gravely.
“While you’re telling me this, what’s Ray doing?”

Gerard glanced to his left and back again with a slight laugh.

“He’s still sitting there. I guess he wants to know as much as you do.”
“That makes sense.”
“Don’t patronise me, Doc,” Gerard leaned forward slightly. “I know you don’t believe he’s here.”
“I don’t see him, but I believe you do.”

Gerard leaned back in the seat once more as he thought about Simmons’ statement. It was condescending and superior, but he decided to let it go.

“Anyway, I met up with her alone, after the fair. It didn’t take long to realise that she was missing a few screws,” he laughed to emphasise his opinion of her sanity. “I told her that I wanted to leave the band, but the guys were blackmailing me, how they practically held me prisoner. I told her all about how they used their looks and fame to get what they wanted. That they had faked evidence against me in case I told anyone or tried to leave. I begged her to help me put an end to their bad ways. She lapped it up.”
“Did you sleep with her?”
“Of course not! I was the innocent one. The good and pure victim in a band of evil men, neck deep in sin and debauchery. And she went for it; every last word. It wasn’t long before everything was arranged. I told her everything she needed to know and we planned it all in meticulous detail.”
“And yet it all went wrong?”
“It didn’t all go wrong!” Gerard snapped at the accusation.
“Your voice was on the tape during your brother’s murder and her death, all recorded.”

Gerard pouted with annoyance.

“Yeah, well, neither of those things were supposed to happen! I’d asked her to film and record Mikey. I had no idea that she was recording herself too.”
“You couldn’t watch your brother’s death, even though you planned it. Why do you think that was?”

Gerard glanced back over to where Ray was seated, swinging his legs casually and his hands gripping the edge of the cabinet with straight arms pushing his shoulders slightly forward.

“If you’re going to suggest that I couldn’t watch my own brother die, out of remorse or guilt, then think again, I watched it at the trial without flinching.”
“Yes, I think that might have swung the jury against you.”
“What? Really? You don’t say!” Gerard jeered. “Might it also have been that I was guilty as Hell?”
“We never really did get to the bottom of why you did it.”
“I just told you why!”
“You’re saying that you believed all the things you told Marion Jacobs?”
“Well… duh!”
“What if I suggested to you that the evidence you claim you were being blackmailed with was a fiction created by your own paranoia?”

A wave of different emotions swept across Gerard’s face as he took a few minutes to wrestle with the information. It certainly wasn’t the first time it had been suggested; Bob had implied something very similar, but he had dismissed it as nonsense. Now, here was a psychiatrist saying almost the exact same thing. Was it a coincidence? Was it a test? Firmly convinced that the belief in the blackmail was too deeply fixed in his mind to be the result of paranoia, Gerard assumed the latter of the two options.

“I’d say you were the crazy one,” he finally replied.