The Hollow City Read Online Free PDF Page A
Author: Dan Wells
THE DOOR , nearly filling it with his bulk. I allow myself to hope that I might be released, but he seems to sense my optimism, and frowns and shakes his head.
“You made quite a splash here, they tell me.” He grunts slightly as he drops into the nearby chair. He has dark hair, ringing his face with a dark beard, and the frames of his glasses look thin and fragile. “I wish you’d have come to see me sometime in the past six months—it’s one thing to get a call from the hospital announcing your long-lost patient has finally surfaced, and it’s quite another to learn that said patient has managed to injure two members of the hospital staff—one of them, I might add, the head of the psych ward. You did not make any friends with your outburst yesterday, I assure you of that.”
“You’re in a mood,” I tell him. Dr. Vanek has always been gruff, much more so than any of the other psychiatrists I’ve dealt with. Some of them were great; I even had a crush on my old school counselor, a young, pretty woman named Beth. She’s the one who first diagnosed me with depression. She loved her job; loved helping people. On the opposite end of the spectrum, sometimes I think the only reason Vanek got into medicine was to show off how smart he is.
“Didn’t I warn you about this, Michael?” Vanek rubs his forehead with thick, sausagelike fingers. “Didn’t I tell you, when you started missing a session here and there, that a lapse in treatment or medication could result in a heightening of your symptoms?”
“Do you have a cell phone?”
He sighs. “No, Michael, I never bring my cell phone to our sessions, you know that. Though now I understand that your distaste for technology has grown some new and interesting dimensions. Tell me about these Faceless Men.”
“They think I killed them. They think I’m this … Red Line Killer.”
Vanek raises his eyebrow. “Where did you get that idea?”
I open my mouth, but say nothing. I promised the reporter I wouldn’t say anything. I shrug. “It just … seems obvious.”
“Well,” says Vanek, nodding, “that saves me the trouble of breaking it to you gently. If we’re going to do anything about it, though, I think you ought to tell me where you’ve been for the last two weeks. The Red Line Killer killed a janitor in an industrial park last week, and it would be nice to be able to prove you were somewhere else.”
“Hiding,” I say. Vanek has a poor bedside manner, perhaps, but he’s not dumb. He might be able to see the truth. “You need to get me out of here. We can talk about all of this back in your office, or wherever you want, but not here.”
“I’m not here to get you out,” he says, staring at me intently. “I’m here to oversee your transfer and readmittance to Powell Psychiatric. Dr. Sardinha is recommending high security, intensive therapy, and neuroleptics.”
“Neuro … what?”
“Antipsychotic medication,” Vanek explains. “You’re not just a violent patient anymore, Michael, you’re a violent, schizophrenic patient. That is not a good combination in the eyes of our medical or legal systems.”
“I’m not crazy.”
“Please, Michael, we prefer the term ‘mentally divergent.’”
“I don’t have multiple personalities.”
Vanek laughs, a rough sound, like a bark. “Double damnation on whoever started that misconception. Schizophrenia has nothing to do with multiple personalities; it means that your brain responds to stimuli that don’t exist. You see and hear things, like these Faceless Men of yours, and you believe things, like this paranoid plan of persecution and surveillance, that are not real.”
I sit up desperately, but the arm restraints stop me from leaning very far forward. “I’m not crazy,” I say quickly, “and I’m not paranoid.”
“Please, Michael,” he says, peering at me over the tops of his glasses. “You’ve been paranoid your entire life. That’s a reasonable enough reaction for
“You made quite a splash here, they tell me.” He grunts slightly as he drops into the nearby chair. He has dark hair, ringing his face with a dark beard, and the frames of his glasses look thin and fragile. “I wish you’d have come to see me sometime in the past six months—it’s one thing to get a call from the hospital announcing your long-lost patient has finally surfaced, and it’s quite another to learn that said patient has managed to injure two members of the hospital staff—one of them, I might add, the head of the psych ward. You did not make any friends with your outburst yesterday, I assure you of that.”
“You’re in a mood,” I tell him. Dr. Vanek has always been gruff, much more so than any of the other psychiatrists I’ve dealt with. Some of them were great; I even had a crush on my old school counselor, a young, pretty woman named Beth. She’s the one who first diagnosed me with depression. She loved her job; loved helping people. On the opposite end of the spectrum, sometimes I think the only reason Vanek got into medicine was to show off how smart he is.
“Didn’t I warn you about this, Michael?” Vanek rubs his forehead with thick, sausagelike fingers. “Didn’t I tell you, when you started missing a session here and there, that a lapse in treatment or medication could result in a heightening of your symptoms?”
“Do you have a cell phone?”
He sighs. “No, Michael, I never bring my cell phone to our sessions, you know that. Though now I understand that your distaste for technology has grown some new and interesting dimensions. Tell me about these Faceless Men.”
“They think I killed them. They think I’m this … Red Line Killer.”
Vanek raises his eyebrow. “Where did you get that idea?”
I open my mouth, but say nothing. I promised the reporter I wouldn’t say anything. I shrug. “It just … seems obvious.”
“Well,” says Vanek, nodding, “that saves me the trouble of breaking it to you gently. If we’re going to do anything about it, though, I think you ought to tell me where you’ve been for the last two weeks. The Red Line Killer killed a janitor in an industrial park last week, and it would be nice to be able to prove you were somewhere else.”
“Hiding,” I say. Vanek has a poor bedside manner, perhaps, but he’s not dumb. He might be able to see the truth. “You need to get me out of here. We can talk about all of this back in your office, or wherever you want, but not here.”
“I’m not here to get you out,” he says, staring at me intently. “I’m here to oversee your transfer and readmittance to Powell Psychiatric. Dr. Sardinha is recommending high security, intensive therapy, and neuroleptics.”
“Neuro … what?”
“Antipsychotic medication,” Vanek explains. “You’re not just a violent patient anymore, Michael, you’re a violent, schizophrenic patient. That is not a good combination in the eyes of our medical or legal systems.”
“I’m not crazy.”
“Please, Michael, we prefer the term ‘mentally divergent.’”
“I don’t have multiple personalities.”
Vanek laughs, a rough sound, like a bark. “Double damnation on whoever started that misconception. Schizophrenia has nothing to do with multiple personalities; it means that your brain responds to stimuli that don’t exist. You see and hear things, like these Faceless Men of yours, and you believe things, like this paranoid plan of persecution and surveillance, that are not real.”
I sit up desperately, but the arm restraints stop me from leaning very far forward. “I’m not crazy,” I say quickly, “and I’m not paranoid.”
“Please, Michael,” he says, peering at me over the tops of his glasses. “You’ve been paranoid your entire life. That’s a reasonable enough reaction for