One Flew Under the Cuckoo's Nest - Sample Chapter 4

Dominic was pacing up and down the corridors saying 'calm, calm, calm', yet inside a volcano was about to erupt. He had to do something to feel better but what could he do? He hadn't decided yet. He knew what he wanted to do but he resisted the thought. He resisted it until the thoughts and feelings became compulsive: a compulsion driven by a voice, or was there more than one? Dominic had been taken over.
He had felt 'it' coming over him for several days. The medication had lessened his anxiety to a degree though its benefits were reduced by Bernie's disturbance. Her screams had frightened him, yet at the same time he appreciated that they must have brought some release from tension. And Dominic was now very tense indeed.
'Calm, calm, calm', he told himself again and again. There was no calm, only confusion: his mind cluttered with thoughts he believed were not his own. His stomach felt tight; he felt dreadful.
'Dominic! You are evil. Punish, punish... punish him, punish him... Evil! Punish!' The voices kept repeating themselves over and over again. He looked around him to locate their source; there was no one there. He looked out the window to check whether everything remained the same outdoors: The distant trees stood tall in the same spot but their branches were moving, curling like snakes slithering down the trunks. He stared at one particular tree: 'Oh my God it's alive. It’s speaking to me,' he thought.
'I am the tree of death. Come to me, come.'
Dominic shook his head, looked at it again - still it communicated with him, still the branches slithered.
'Calm, calm, calm,' he said, as he practised his relaxation technique again. But Dominic's storm had only just begun. He looked at the walls that suddenly started to cave in on him, contracting and expanding. He felt claustrophobic and jumped out of his chair in panic.
'It's not safe here. Where can I go? They're coming after me again.’ One thought followed another, his anxiety increasing all the while.
He slipped downstairs discreetly - his only chance if he were to escape. He passed by a cleaning lady in the corridor, looked straight at her, staring intently at her appearance. She looked exactly like his mother.
'Mother? Mother? What are you doing here? Thank goodness you've found me!'
The cleaner turned to face him saying, 'I'm sorry, I think you've made a mistake.’
'I haven't made a mistake. You're my mother and I need you. You must help me to get away.'
The cleaner showed signs of embarrassment and unease. She did not know what to say apart from what she had already said: 'You're mistaken, I'm sorry!'
The storm began to rage: 'How can you lie to me as well. I'm your son. You're not going to reject me. I can't stand it any more...'
Noticing Dominic's distress she asked him which ward he belonged to?
'I can call a nurse if you need help...'
'Help? I don't want any help,' now unsure whether the lady was in fact his mother.
'Time to run, must get away, and appear normal, say sorry... or everyone will be on the rampage.’
'Sorry, I made a mistake, silly of me... bye.' Dominic quickly disappeared from view after reaching the end of the corridor.
The cleaning lady shook her head in disbelief. She would add this episode to her list of stories - her extremely popular repertoire at parties. What an interesting life she led - full of surprises even though she was just the cleaner!
By now Dominic's head was throbbing, gushing, pounding, and crashing with thoughts and images with the fury of a sea crashing against the rocks. He walked faster and faster in the hope that he could leave 'it', 'them', though really, himself, behind. He could not yet call ‘them’ symptoms; it was too early in his schizophrenic career for that. As yet, there was virtually no distance between his symptoms and himself, no distinction between his tormentors and his torment and no awareness of a boundary dividing internal and external reality. The night was closing in as the reality of day quickly faded.
His dead father appeared amid indiscernible flashes from the past. An image of him kissing his father’s corpse made him shudder and re-live his original fear.
I shouldn't have kissed him, he told himself. I wish that I hadn't. I was trying to be brave but I was scared. Then he touched his own lips convinced they were still cold from that kiss. They'll always be cold, he thought.
By this time Dominic was sitting on a step near the cafe which only opened in the afternoons: 'You can tell me now Dad, I won't tell anyone else. I'll keep it a secret, cross my heart,’ he said making the gesture. What were you trying to say to me? Tell me! Dominic pleaded to outer space as he rocked backwards and forwards.
You won't tell me because I'm a bad boy. You won't tell me because you thought it would hurt me. Is that it, Dad?’
His thoughts were interfered with once more: ‘You are evil Dominic, you need to be punished. Evil, evil, evil.'
Dominic covered his ears shouting No! No! Get away! Get away! Suddenly he got up and was on the move again, running away from danger, running to disaster, terrified of everything and everyone, especially himself. He did not know himself - he dared not do so, yet he hated the parts he did know especially the empty shell that he inhabited and the loneliness of his pathetic form.
Dominic, unaware of time, locked as he was in a timeless torture chamber where it did not exist, needed protection from the phantoms that wanted his blood. He made his way back to the ward, still semi-deserted and found Jake's shaving items which he had made a mental note of earlier (if things ever got out of hand). He slipped out of his bedroom and into the gents' toilets. As he walked passed the mirror his own reflection scared him. He backtracked, looked again. As he looked he was unable to focus: his pupils were like pin points, his face distorted until he could no longer see himself. His eyes blurred, no longer there, burned out, in fact. Repulsed by the vision facing him he went into a cubicle and finally locked the door, falling down on his knees.
His expression changed from that of the hunted animal to one who is about to be ritually sacrificed. He breathed deeply, composed himself with solemnity before preparing for the offering.
'I'm sorry Dad, I'm sorry but I'm doing this for you.'
He drew a razor across his wrist and felt nothing, smiling as he watched the blood trickle. He drew it across once more - the more blood he produced, the greater the satisfaction. He was ecstatic, entranced, in another world, no longer counting the number of times he had cut himself, lost in a ritual act that was becoming more manic. And as he did so, emptying the burden of his soul. While lost in his actions he was accompanied by haunting voices that rhythmically followed his gestures. By now he was no longer looking at his wrist, his eyes were fixed high above him.
The release felt tremendous, he was dizzy from the kick, or was it from the loss of blood? It did not matter! He felt good. He didn't want to stop the mutilation. Even if he wanted to, he would not have been able to stop himself. His ascent was irreversible.
Elsewhere Lorraine had been searching for Dominic. No one had seen him. After looking for him everywhere she returned to the office in a panic.
'Excuse me, Mickey, but I've looked all over for him but no one seems to know where he is. Nobody has seen him this morning.'
'Thanks Lorraine, I'll go and look for him. Stay here and hold the fort. We're expecting a new admission shortly so can you make her a drink and ask her to wait?
I'll be back soon.'
Mickey left the office, checked Dominic's room, no sign of him there. He asked Mal if he'd seen Dominic. He hadn't.
'Dominic! Dominic!' he shouted. There was silence.
By this time Dominic had reached another level of consciousness or maybe he was approaching unconsciousness?
From the distance Dominic heard his own name. He thought it was his father calling him.
Mickey entered the gents and shouted 'Dominic, Dominic!'
'Is that you Dad? You've come for me! Oh, how I've missed you! We'll be together again. I knew you would return, I knew you would forgive me. I'm not evil, not even bad. Don't leave me again! Dad? Dad?...’
'Dominic, are you in there, Dominic! It's Mickey, open the door!'
In an instant, Dominic's ritual was ruined when he recognised Mickey's voice and began the return journey back to reality, once more beginning to panic as he looked down at the bloody mess of his butchered arms.
Dominic was shocked and dazed. Someone had done this to him! Who? The sight revolted him.
'I've been attacked. I've been hurt!'
'Calm, calm, calm,' he repeated, as the blood continued to gush out. Frightened and in pain, soaked through with perspiration, the tempestuous storm began to subside. He was wounded, shell-shocked, and unable to remember how he had got there, what he was doing there?
'Dominic, open the door,' Mickey shouted again.
'Go away! I'm not coming out!' he shouted back nervously.
'What are you doing in there Dominic?' he gently asked him. 'Are you alright?'
'I'm alright! Go away and leave me alone. You're all the same... you're all against me...'
'I want to help you Dominic. Trust me, open the door.' Mickey's voice was still calm.
'I never trust anyone who says trust me. If I open the door you won't help me, you'll punish me. You don't know a damn thing about trust. No! I'm not coming out.'
Dominic heard Mickey's footsteps slowly walking away from the cubicle. As he heard the door creaking Dominic breathed a sigh of relief.
'He's leaving me in peace,' he thought. He was anxious as to what he should do next. As time began to expire his anxiety grew. Again he hacked at his wrists, fighting against the voices, racing against time. He heard more footsteps.
'Dominic! Open the door at once!'
'Whose voice is that?' he wondered. 'It's not Mickey's, oh no, it's Dr Foster. He doesn't like me. He hates me. What will I do now?'
'Open the door, Dominic.’ It was Jodi's voice. 'Dr Foster had to be called from an important meeting... don't waste any more of his time.'
He didn't like Jodi either; he knew she wasn't a good nurse. Whenever he had tried to speak to her she was always too busy. She told him to return at a more appropriate time and he knew from his own experience that that time never came.
'Dominic! Please open up, we want to help you.' Mickey was better than the others, he even said 'please'. Dominic, however, did not like the 'we' that followed. Had he aligned himself to the others? Was Mickey on his side, or theirs?
'Dominic, come out!'
That was Mickey, he thought. All three of them together concerned him. They were stronger than he was. What kind of torture will they inflict on him?' He was terrified of being terrorised.
'Dominic, come out this minute and stop this nonsense. I think you've had enough attention for one day.'
That was a very angry Dr Foster, he thought. Dominic could not bear, among many other things, people shouting at him. Anger had the effect of shattering him into fragments. His shell was open and unprotected, therefore the noise pierced straight through him.
Dominic couldn't say 'No' to Dr Foster, too much the authoritarian figure for him. Dr Foster had power and he knew it.
Slowly and with great difficulty Dominic turned the lock and opened the door. The action stretched the split-open skin; the blood trickled down the door as he held its handle.
His trousers were blood-spattered with star-shaped forms. His shirt was smeared with blood. His emergence resembled an exhausted artist who had been working obsessively for days. Dominic was unable to face them so he kept his head down.
Mickey's look was one of concern; Jodi was disgusted, while Dr Foster was extremely annoyed.
'What have you done Dominic? Jodi get a towel to stop the dripping before we clean and bandage his arms,’ Mickey said.
Jodi returned quickly with the towels. She was shaking her head. She could have done without the extra work. Extreme behaviour such as this demanded extra reports, medication reviews and answering questions to curious patients etc, when all she wanted was a quiet life!
Dominic now seated in the bathroom remained in a daze. Mickey had told Lorraine to keep the other patients away. 'Tell them to use the other loo, we're busy just now!' Jodi cleaned his wounds without any tenderness, more like the way she scrubbed her pots and pans. Dominic did not respond.
'There's no serious damage, doctor,' she said, as she wrapped the bandage tightly round his wrists. 'With a bit of luck they should heal well,' now addressing Dominic, 'but I think you might be left with some nasty scars, Dominic.’
'Scars? Did she say scars?' The word suddenly reawakened Dominic. 'I hope I'm left with scars. I like scars. I'd like to collect scars like medals to be proud of, you know? I don't want them to fade, I need them as proof to show other people that I'm suffering, otherwise, how can people know that there's anything wrong with me?' The doctor interrupted Dominic’s musings once more.
'Why did you do this to yourself, Dominic?' He did not wait for a reply; he was after all in charge. 'Your behaviour is quite inappropriate, Dominic. You can do better than that, surely, can't you? This is a hospital Dominic - no place for you to do this kind of thing! I will simply not tolerate it. Do you hear me, Dominic? You've caused everyone much concern today, given us a lot of work... what with Lorraine looking everywhere for you, Mickey having to leave the office. You've disrupted the whole ward, do you realise that? Do you Dominic?’
Dominic said nothing.
Lorraine had brought the medication requested by Dr Foster. She stood beside him waiting for an opportune break in his lecture. Eventually he turned, took the medicine from her, and pushed it under Dominic's nose.
‘Now swallow this,' he said aggressively.
Dominic took some time before grasping the cup. With every movement of his hand his wrist ached but Dr Foster made no attempt to assist him - after all his wounds were self-inflicted.
'What is it?'
'Never mind asking questions', he angrily retorted, 'I'm not going to talk to you when you're in this frame of mind, not after what you've done. Swallow it!' he shouted.
'I like to know what you're giving me. If it's Largactil then I need a glass of water. It's so bitter. I’ll feel sick if I take it by itself.'
Dr Foster's patience was stretched to the limit. He snatched the cup from Dominic, opened his mouth and shouted: 'Swallow it, and then you'll get your water.' Dominic obeyed. The doctor then refilled the cup from the tap. 'Now drink this!' Dominic obeyed.
'And Dominic, before you lie down I want you to listen carefully to me. I do not allow this sort of display on my ward. If it's attention you're looking for then this is the wrong way to get it. You're always playing up and it will have to stop. Do you understand? We need order in the ward. I don't want you upsetting the other patients. You must start thinking of them for a change instead of being so self-absorbed all the time.'
Dominic felt like a scolded child. Why was he being punished? What had he done to upset him? He was hurt. He had hurt himself because he felt hurt and now the doctor was hurting him all over again, blaming him, accusing him in fact of being a troublemaker.
Not once did Dr Foster ask Dominic... no, he did ask him... but not once did he stop to listen to the reasons for the self-mutilation. What led to such savage venting of feelings? What drove him to such self-destructive behaviour?
No, Dr Foster was not sufficiently interested in Dominic, he didn't even express the caring he so badly needed. He was instead punished for his illness and given a warning: If you do this again Dominic, you'll be out. After all, this is a hospital and we can't have you thinking crazy thoughts and acting out in this way.
'Patients are very susceptible. We don't want them imitating you. That's what happens, you know, when one patient sees what another patient has done, they might think why not try it out? And in no time at all, you'll have everyone behaving in the same way. And why Dominic, basically because they think that they'll get the same attention that you're getting today. Do you see my point, Dominic? I've already spent more than enough time with you. Get some rest, and bear in mind what I've said. I'm warning you, Dominic. No more games!'
Dr Foster walked away and Lorraine helped a puzzled looking Dominic back to his room. He didn't understand the rules. 'He would be out,' the doctor had warned him, but out to where? He didn't want to be expelled, he was already a reject: society had rejected him, but now there was also the possibility of being rejected by the medical experts.
Calm, calm, calm, I'll need to learn how to behave so that they won't throw me out. But sometimes, like today, I couldn't control myself because I didn't know what was happening.
Lorraine helped him into bed. 'Now rest, Dominic, rest and I'll look in on you shortly.'
Dominic closed his eyes; he could not sleep: I can't work it out. I'm here because they say I've got an illness yet I'll be thrown out if I exhibit it. So that's how it works! I'm allowed to be ill as long as my illness is quiet - as long as it goes unnoticed, as long as I don't upset anyone. I see! He laughed nervously; no one told me that before!
He kept studying the problem like a mathematician eagerly working out formulae. They'll recognise my illness as long as I don't get too ill and make them angry. I see! But I don't really see. No! I don't understand what Dr Foster was talking about. I can be a mad person as long as I don't act like one. If I act like one, then I'm no longer mad, but bad. So that's why the doctor was punishing me, because I was bad....
The more he tried to make sense of their rules, the less he understood them. Finally tired of going round in circles he drifted; sailing gently on calm seas, clear skies. The storm had abated.

Meanwhile, Penny and Nathan had been entertaining Chloe, a new patient. She had arrived on a difficult day and was kept waiting for hours before anyone attended to her. Chloe had overheard some of the commotion and even saw anxious looking people running up and down the corridors. She was unsure if they were staff or patients. No one had explained to her what was going on. What kind of a place was she being admitted to? Already she was frightened - not only by the new environment but the chaotic world she had entered.
What kind of people was she joining? She wondered at that, too, looking at Penny and Nathan, both of them much older than herself. She was only eighteen. She stared at Nathan, his steady twitch in time with the rocking; shocked by their quirks and mannerisms: the way they rocked together in unison, marking time, holding themselves because no one held them. Why had she been admitted to that particular ward? And what if the ones she sat beside were dangerous?
Penny caught her looking suspiciously and fearfully at her: 'Don't worry Chloe,’ she said reassuringly, 'it's always strange when you first arrive, that's natural. I can still remember my first time – it seems like more than thirty years ago, I think.' Chloe looked at her in astonishment, a little distressed.
'Oh don't worry, honey, you won't be coming back here in thirty years time. I have to come in now and then, you see I've got schizophrenia.' Penny declared her label with pride.
'What have you got?'
'Got? What do you mean? I haven't got anything,' replied Chloe.
'Everybody's got something wrong with them or they wouldn't be here. I know what's wrong with all the patients on this ward. So what brings you here?'
'Nothing! It's none of your business anyway,’ she replied abruptly.
'Now that's not very friendly behaviour, is it? Maybe I was a bit forward but I was only trying to make you feel at home. I'm sorry if you took it the wrong way.' Penny slowly moved away from Chloe.
'No, don't move, please, I'm sorry. I'm feeling nervous because it's my first day here. I'm here because I'm fed up, tired, I'm here for a rest. I suppose in answer to your question I've got depression.' Chloe smiled at Penny.
'You poor thing! Depressed at your age! Working too hard at school then?'
Chloe stopped smiling: 'I left school a couple of years ago. I'm a nurse, well, a nursery nurse, that is.’
'So you like children do you?' persisted Penny.
'Yes I do. I like caring for them, playing with them; they're fun to be with.'
'Just wait till you've got your own.'
'No, I don't want any of my own. I couldn't love them but I do love other people's children.'
Chloe surprised Penny; she was so emphatic about it, too.
'No offence Chloe, but you're only a young girl, too young to make an important decision like that. I'm sure you'll change your mind when you're older.' Penny said in a maternal fashion.
'And why should I change my mind?' demanded Chloe.
Penny was silent for a moment, as if Chloe's question was a ridiculous one to ask. After a few moments she said: 'Because it is natural to want to have children. Every woman yearns for a child; she doesn't feel complete without children...'
'But why, tell me why?'
Penny now astonished at Chloe, hesitated for a moment, wondering if Chloe was asking a serious question or merely teasing her. Still in doubt she answered. 'Children are wonderful, especially their innocence and contentment. They give so much! And as I said, it's natural for a woman to want children so that she can love them and watch them grow up.'
Chloe was ready to fire the next question; there was much rage inside her.
'But supposing the child is not loved?'
'Well, that's very sad...'
Chloe cut her off before she had finished the sentence.
'And supposing the child is robbed of her innocence... supposing she's not loved at all... but hurt instead?'
'I don't understand what you're saying,' exclaimed Penny, by now heavily sedated and too tired to think.
'Never mind! Forget it!'
Mickey approached Chloe and Penny: 'I hope you've not been upsetting our new patient, Penny?'
'You know me better than that Mickey.'
Mickey stretched out his hand to Chloe: 'I'm the staff nurse. Call me Mickey, my apologies for keeping you so long.' They shook hands.
'If you'd like to follow me.' Chloe got up and followed him to the office where he scribbled a few details making her admission official. She was now the responsibility of New Hope hospital until such time as she was discharged. Following this, she was accompanied by a nurse and asked to change and bathe; her weight was also recorded.
Once these formalities had been attended to, Mickey introduced her to her fellow-patients. As she looked around her trying to form an impression of the ward and the people, she was relieved to see several young faces. Fortunately, they weren't all as ancient as Penny and Nathan had appeared to her. Smiling nervously at the unknown faces, she suddenly felt pangs of remorse and sadness - sad that her life had taken her at only eighteen to New Hope. She remained unconvinced by her GP who had recommended a short stay there. She didn't believe a short or even a longer stay could bring back or even replace the lost years of her childhood. She had only agreed to go in for assessment so that her medication could be properly sorted. In any case, she had nothing to lose, for feeling as low as she did was becoming more and more unbearable. There was, however, one positive aspect to being in hospital - she was away from home, removed from her family and safe from the painful memories of her childhood. At least she had been offered a breathing space.
When Lyndsey entered the common room Chloe was dumbstruck. Lyndsey looked painfully thin. They smiled at each other: a meeting of two souls, two pilgrims in search of healing.
Lyndsey sat down beside Chloe, already cued up in the language (thanks to Penny).
What have you got?' asked Chloe.
Lyndsey did not hesitate: 'I've got anorexia!'
'What's that?' inquired Chloe, unfamiliar with the word.
'I don't eat properly. It's a food problem. My doctor says that I don't want to grow up... you know... that I want to remain a child or something like that. He says it's very serious, that if I don't eat I could die - but I feel fine. In fact, when I look in the mirror I look so fat I feel disgusted with myself. But he says that's part of the disorder.'
'And what have you got?'
'I've got depression!' she replied openly, this time non-aggressively.
'Do you know what's causing it, I mean, do you know what's making you depressed? I don't know why I've got anorexia!'
'I've got an idea! Yes, I think I know why I'm depressed but it's a long story and, well, I don't think there's a cure for it.' There was sadness in her voice and a measure of truth in the statement.
Lyndsey felt unable to pursue the conversation. Her last words seemed so determined, final, unalterable even. They sat there in silence, curious about each other, though not curious enough; interested, but too exhausted to pursue the interest... for now. Life had not been fair to them. Unable to help themselves as a result of life's heavy blows, how could they help each other? They were alone together sitting in the silence and in that silence they felt each other's pain. They were together. They were together-alone.