Mr.Finley

by Matthew Barrett

Marshall Finley was the most docile lunatic I'd ever known. There was such a calming demeanor about the old man that my blood pressure had dropped a few points since I'd been assigned to him. He was nothing like the last fellow, whom we strapped to the bed as much as the law allowed. After eight years of being stuck with uncontrollable psychopaths, I had finally hit the jackpot.

You can't take your eye off of some guys for one single second, not even when they take a piss or jerk off. You blink, and they've gone and cut themselves with some scrap of metal or piece of glass they managed to smuggle. You put ‘em in a straight jacket, you put ‘em in one of the padded rooms and they still find ways to hurt themselves. Not Finley though, he's a nice old fella, reminds me of my grandfather. Hasn't misbehaved since he was transferred here two weeks ago. Looks to me like he's on the fast track to the outside. I'm no doctor, though.

Most inmates, you ask them their name or how their feeling and they'll tell you their whole life story. They'll tell you everything they've ever been diagnosed with, and every reason why they've been put in the maximum observatory wing of Northgate Asylum. All Finley ever talks about is the weather or his kids, how much he loves and misses them. Every day I become his shadow for hours on end, but I can never bring myself to ask him why he's here. I could easily pull his file, but something in me doesn't want to know the truth. I see the way the other guards and even the doctors look at him, like he's a live power line or a bomb that needs defusing.

Finley was in for some good news this morning, and I had asked if I could be the one to deliver it. “Well Mr.F, looks like their moving you to minimum observation next week. Congratulations.” Part of me was a little bit sad that I wouldn't be seeing Finley much longer, and that in all likelihood I would soon be assigned to the craziest son of a bitch they had in the whole damn place, but overall I was happy for him. I would hate for the old guy to die in here.

“Oh, yes, that's wonderful news,” he said without making eye contact; Finley always stared at his feet. “Say, how's the weather out there today?”

“Not bad, not bad at all. I could do with a little less humidity though.” I wonder what he thought about all day, without even a television set to help pass the time. His only links to the outside world were the doctors, myself, and the rest of the guards. “Well, it's that time again,” I said, handing him the plastic cup that contained a trail mix of pills. He obediently washed them down with a cup of water.

“And what's on the menu for breakfast this morning?”

“Pancakes I believe.”

“My favorite.” He said that no matter what was for breakfast.

“You know Mr.F, you'll be able to call and write to your kids, maybe even arrange a visit while you're in minimum observation. That'll be nice, won't it?”

Finley uncharacteristically raised his head and looked me in the eyes for several moments. His cold, dead stare gave me a chill. A little startled, I looked away for a second and that was all it took for Finley to spring from his bed with such surprising quickness that I thought he must have been shot from a cannon. The crown of his bald, liver-spotted head flattened my nose. I quickly forced him to the ground and placed his hands behind his back. I was thunderstruck, watching the red droplets of blood from my nose blemish his starched white shirt. Thanks to our elaborate camera system, a guard and a doctor arrived within seconds. The doctor carried a needle and a straight jacket.

“What happened?” the doctor asked, sliding the long hypodermic into Finley's skin.

“Christ, I don't know. I just gave him his pills, told him he was being moved, and that he could get in touch with his kids.”

“You must not have read his file,” the guard said. I gave him a quizzical look.

“Marshall Finley murdered his wife and kids twenty years ago. They found pieces of them all over the house.”

END