Missing Pieces, Part Four
This is the final installment of Missing Pieces, a four-part short horror story about the dangers of baby sitting and pyramid schemes. Thank you for allowing me the space to venture into this unfamiliar territory. It’s been a blast.
Catch up on all previous parts: part one, part two, part three.
Trigger/content warning: body horror, violence, discussion of mental health and self harm.
I was swiftly becoming tired of waking up in dark rooms, unaware of my surroundings.
I could feel my ankles and wrists were shackled to a metal table. I tried to remain calm, but my natural bodily functions were kicking into overdrive. Escape. Fight. Run.
As I twisted my body, searching for any inclination of an escape route, I heard movement behind me. Then the voices.
A door sprung open, allowing light to fill the room, illuminating my deepest fears. I was back in some kind of mental health facility.
The last time I woke up in a mental hospital, I was recovering from the deaths of my younger sisters, Veronica and Jenny. Under no volition of my own, I was kept there for almost a year. My mother couldn’t look at me anymore. She couldn’t handle the break downs, night terrors, panic attacks, and utter despair radiating from every step I took.
So, she dropped me off at the dreaded facility, visited a few times over the course of my stay, and I haven’t seen her since I was released on my 18th birthday.
That year is at once a messy haze and a vivid nightmare.
And I woke up in the same predicament once again - held in captivity without an advocate to make a case for me.
Two men in long white coats walked into the room, one pushing a metal cart toppling over with large, silver medical equipment.
“Please, let me go,” I pleaded, “I’m not supposed to be here. I’m better now.”
Neither answered me. They continued to prepare the devices, filling syringes with clear liquid and wiping down needles. It was at that moment I noticed the IV drip to my right. I tried to pull the tube from my arm, but before I could disrupt the flow of whatever they were pumping into me, one of the men covered my mouth with a white cloth. Everything went black. Again.
Days, maybe even weeks, went by following the same routine. I had no concrete concept of time in this hellscape. I awoke to nothingness, people came in to drug me, and the lights went out once again.
One day, I woke up in a room with a window. I was certain I had died and moved on to purgatory to await sentencing. A woman walked in dressed in lilac colored scrubs. She smelled like detergent and cigarettes.
“I need to take your vitals, hon,” she said matter of factly, casually, like it was just another Tuesday and she was living for the weekend.
“Please,” I said, “You have to help me.” I had forgotten what my voice sounded like. “This is a huge mistake. I’m not supposed to be here.”
“Go ahead and sit up for me,” she said, not skipping a beat.
“I need to contact the police and open a case against Charles and Sarah Rainwater. They kidnapped and drugged me. Please.”
She wrapped a blood pressure cuff around my arm.
“You’re going to need to stop talking while I check this or the reading will be inaccurate.”
We sat in silence. She avoided my gaze. I stared daggers into the top of her head.
“130 over 80. Not great. I’m going to grab your meds and be right back,” she said, moving towards the door.
“I’m begging you,” I said loudly, “They’re dangerous. Look what they did to me.” I lifted my arm, the missing pieces of my flesh red, unmistakeable.
She held back a gasp.
“If nothing else, can you please call my mother? I’m still legally under her conservatorship. I can’t be here without her permission.”
She hesitated.
“I won’t tell a soul who helped me, I swear.”
She pulled a pad of paper and pen from her pockets. “Hurry. Before I come back to my senses.”
The lead nurse of my hall decided I was behaving well enough (and shutting up enough) to attend group sessions.
I walked into the room with an abundance of reluctance and chose a seat in the corner. The room filled with about 15 people, most mumbling to themselves and rocking back and forth. What were they doing to us?
While listening to my peers talk about unspeakable abuse and torment, I studied every face in the room, wondering who else was trapped in this place.
I saw her fiery red hair first. Then the dark circles under her eyes. Then, something unfathomable. An ice cream scoop sized crater peeking out from her forearm.
She noticed me staring and folded her arms across her chest, hiding the missing piece of her arm from view.
Group ended and she rushed out of the room. I tried to catch up with her, but was stopped by JK, the leader counselor of this group session.
“I’m so glad you felt up to joining us today,” she said, a stepford smile stapled to her face.
“Well, it was between coming to group and trying to count the ceiling popcorn again, so, this seemed like the more exciting option.”
She stared.
“Dr. Carmichel, the director of Moonlight Behavioral and Mental Health Facility here, would like a moment of your time.”
JK lead me to Dr. Carmichel’s office and knocked on the door.
“Come in,” we heard from the other side.
“I’ll leave you to it,” she said while patting my shoulder and walking away.
Dr. Carmichel was physically intimidating. Tall and brooding with eyes that looked right through you. He had a demanding presence, like someone who had forced many secrets out of countless people.
“Your mother called us yesterday,” he said while motioning for me to take a seat across from his desk, “She had hoped to speak with you, but we encouraged her to try back once you had begun to socialize and partake in the program.”
“You can’t legally keep me here.”
“That’s incorrect. As you informed one of our staff members, who is no longer in employment at this facility for breaching privacy regulations, your mother was appointed your conservator eight years ago and is still legally obligated to make decisions crucial to your mental and physical well being.”
Silence. Technically, he was right, but I hadn’t physically seen my mother in almost a decade. I hoped things would stay that way, that I could move past the auburn hair picked up by the wind.
Dr. Carmichel looked at me like a misbehaving preteen girl, an unfortunate nuisance that occupied his day.
He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a manila folder. My heart sank.
“A history of violent outbursts, attacking medical personnel, countless incidences of self harm and attempted suicide,” he said nonchalantly, as though he were reading off his grocery list.
He looked up and gave a grisly smile, “Your were institutionalized at the age of 17. Your history is not on your side in this moment.”
I didn’t realize I had begun to cry until tears dropped on my hands. I wiped my face, embarrassed and misunderstood.
More silence. He clasped his hands together and set them on his desk. He had me where he wanted me. I wondered how much the Rainwaters were paying him.
“Work the program. Be a contributing member of this facility. Don’t harm yourself or others. Take your meds. Then we’ll discuss communication with your mother.”
“And my release?”
He stood up, “One day at a time.”
The group sessions were nauseating, but they gave me time to try and get close to the red head. She was the only one who could possibly understand what I was going through. I needed to know how long she had been trapped there and what she had done to escape.
Group ended and I tailed her out of the room.
“Hey. Hey!” I said, tapping her on the shoulder. She jumped and yelped like a dog whose tail was stepped on by her owner, the worst kind of betrayal.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you,” I said, hands up, “I was hoping we could talk.”
“If you carried any ounce of intelligence in your head, you’d know we can’t talk,” she replied.
Ouch.
I held out my arms, showcasing the craters. “We’re just supposed to ignore this connection?” I asked, “Pretend we don’t share the same trauma?”
“That’s exactly why we won’t be talking to one another,” she said, continuing to walk down the hallway.
I paused momentarily before walking after her.
“I don’t understand.”
“Clearly.”
“Ok, I don’t know what I’ve done to you exactly, but I’d love to understand what the hell is going on and how to get out of here.”
She turned abruptly, stopping me in my tracks.
“Not here. There’s a place we go. You’ll get the information tonight. Be patient and stop talking.”
I paced in my tiny room that night, awaiting news from the redhead. After what felt like hours, a note was slipped under my door. I picked it up and looked through the window of the door. No one.
“Group room. 11:40 pm. Tonight. Eat this once read.” was scribbled on a napkin. I memorized the info and ate the napkin in three painstaking bites.
The orderlies made their nightly 11:30 rounds, but this time, they didn’t lock my door.
I made my way to the group room quietly, my heart beat radiating in my head.
I peeked into the room. The lights were off. I moved the handle slowly, careful not to make any noise. When I closed the door behind me, someone covered my mouth and held me close to them.
“Don’t make any sound,” a deep voice said, “We have to wait for the others. Do you promise not to move or talk?”
My head moved up and down in response, my body responding before my mind processed the question.
He released his grip and moved away, my eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness. I saw his outline. The orderly from before. He had left my room unlocked.
A couple of people quietly made their way in. Then she arrived.
“Everyone here?” she asked.
“Yes,” the orderly responded.
“We have to work quickly tonight. JK is even more suspicious than usual. She’s asking lots of questions”
“Sammy, who’s the new chick?”
A flashlight turned on. Sammy, the redhead, was holding it.
“She’s a VC survivor too,” she said, shining the light on me, “Hold out your arms.”
I held both arms out, gaping flesh wounds in plain sight.
One of the women moaned, “Those are really bad.”
Sammy directed the light at her, Tonya, who rolled up her pant leg, showing us her missing flesh. Robert was next. His back was covered in craters. Lastly, Sammy pulled up her shirt, her torso riddled with holes.
“My source inside VC says Charles is going off the deep end,” the orderly, Jason, said, “He’s getting sloppy and acting irrationally. Word is that Sarah and the girls don’t even sleep in the same house as him.”
The girls. Daisy. Dahlia. Their little voices and giant hearts.
“If we’re going to breach the security here, we need a confirmed, vetted getaway on the outside. Someone who’s aware of what’s at stake and trustworthy. Any ideas?”
As I played catch up and pieced together what they were planning, John crossed my mind.
“Everyone else involved is so far up Rainwater’s ass, they can’t see straight,” Tonya said.
“New girl, any ideas?”
The light shone on me.
“There’s a guy Charles uses to get close to people. To kidnap and mutilate them. John.”
“And why would he help us escape if he’s cozy with Charles?”
“I think Charles is holding something over him. I don’t know for certain, but maybe we could offer him something better than what Charles is giving him.”
Before I could complete my thought, a commotion began in the hallway. The yelling grew louder and closer to the group room.
Sammy turned the flash light off and whispered, “Hide.”
The five of us dispersed, ducking into cabinets and under tables. Someone opened the door just as I settled into my spot behind two large bean bag chairs used for one-on-one therapy sessions.
Someone with heavy boots stepped into the room. They left the lights off and made their way toward the back wall and opened each cabinet, one by one. I took my opportunity and bolted through the door, back to my room.
Staff yelled through out the rest of the night, the lights remained on, and orderlies made half hour room checks.
I vomited twice, all of my doubt and paranoia bubbling to the surface.
When I arrived at group the next morning, Sammy was nowhere to be found. I eyed Tonya and Robert, but they avoided my gaze, staring holes into the ground, trembling.
I couldn’t see clearly, but it looked like Robert had a fresh bruise around his eye.
When group finished, I tried to catch up to Tonya, but was intercepted by Dr. Carmichel.
“You’re needed in the medical wing immediately,” he said, grabbing hold of my elbow and dragging me down the stairs. Two nurses followed suit, checking over their shoulders to make sure none of the other patients noticed.
We descended until we reached the lowest level. One of the nurses opened a large metal door. He led me inside. I breathed deeply, knowing it was the room I was first brought to months ago. The room where they kept me drugged and disoriented, breaking my will to live.
“There’s a reason we monitor social interaction in our facility very closely,” Dr. Carmichel said softly, waiting for the nurses to close the door from the outside. He flipped the lights on.
One large metal table sat in the center of the room, chains hanging from the edges.
“You all are unwell,” he said, pacing around the room, “You feed these dangerous ideas to one another and when those ideas get out of hand, you make stupid decisions.”
He started pulling drawers open one by one, searching for something. He grew more and more frantic.
“Those decisions impact the operation of this entire facility.”
Another drawer slammed shut.
“We move mountains to guarantee our patients are provided for and given the utmost care on their paths to healing and re-entrance into society.”
He found what he was looking for. A metal tool, shaped like an ice cream scoop, with jagged, sharp edges.
Two men in black masks entered the room. I screamed, my entire body radiating with the urge to flee.
“Your actions in this facility have consequences. You are always being watched. Remember that.”
The men strapped me to the table and injected my arm with an icy blue fluid. I was out in seconds.
I was forgotten. My mother never called or swept in to rescue me. My hair started falling out again. My skin dried and cracked. I avoided any type of reflection for fear of what would stare back.
I had nightmares about Veronica and Jenny every single night. I woke up screaming into an empty room, no one registering or responding to my unconscious pleas.
I thought about Sarah a lot. I wondered how she could live with herself, how she could raise precious children knowing one day an absolute stranger might initiate them into a secret cannibalistic pyramid scheme cult.
More and more patients showed up with missing chunks of skin. No one spoke. No one fought, for fear of ending up like Sammy. Or Tonya. Or Richard. Or me.
One night, the men in masks came for their weekly supply of my flesh. Carmichel was still using me as a lesson for every other patient. I didn’t know how much longer they’d need me. They were running out of space on my body. I wondered where they would retire me when they had stolen all they could.
I stopped fighting them long ago. All my strength had to be preserved and used towards my own survival. Just getting up, just breathing in and out, just staying in this horrifying world.
They walked me down to the basement and opened the same large, metal door, shoving me inside. Instead of following me in and chaining me to the table, they shut the door behind me. As the man shut the door I noticed something. He was wearing a navy blue braided fabric bracelet, just like John.
I heard raised voices, then a loud thud. I searched for any kind of weapon, but it was useless. Just as I spotted the fire extinguisher across the room, the door opened again.
The man with the bracelet walked in and took off his mask.
John.
I scurried behind the table, trying to put space between us. He held his hands up in surrender.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he whispered, “But you have to work with me quickly if you want to get out of here alive.”
“Why in the hell would I trust you?” I screamed, somehow finding my voice again, “Look at what you did to me!”
I held my arms out.
“I know,” he couldn’t look at me, “I’ll never be able to express how sorry I am-”
“Oh, please,” I scoffed, “You don’t get to be sad and sullen right now. Look at me, John. I’m a monster. Because of you.”
He looked me in the eyes and it almost took my breath away.
“You’re not a monster. You’re a survivor,” he said, tearing up, “Jason made contact with me a few weeks back and let me know what was happening in this facility just after he was fired. We had no idea. Sarah’s upstairs now making a commotion, but we have to move quickly to guarantee you can run without being seen.”
I swallowed hard, no idea how to process what he was saying.
“I’ll never be able to make up for what I did to you and I wish I could explain why I was capable of such violence,” he said, rubbing his hands across his face, as if he were wiping away the unspeakable memories, “All I can say is Charles Rainwater has me under his thumb and I chose my life over your safety. But I can get you out of here right now.”
“What about the others? There are dozens of other people just like me upstairs.”
“I don’t have room,” he said, throwing his hands up with a huff, “There isn’t enough time.”
“Bullshit. You’re doing this to eradicate your own guilt. To clear your conscience to be able to move on with your life. I’m not going anywhere without the rest of them.”
John breathed deeply, “I’m sorry. You’re right. This is hard, but the only way for this to work is for you and you alone to leave with me right now while Sarah continues to build a fire upstairs. She’s duking it out with Carmichel as we speak.”
I started to cry. I couldn’t look at him without reliving that brawl.
“I hate you.”
“I hate myself too,” he said, digging into his pocket, “Here. Take these.”
He threw car keys onto the metal table.
“I don’t have to go with you. I know you’ll never trust me and I don’t blame you, so just take the car and go. There’s an address plugged into the GPS already. It will take you to a storage unit that has all of your belongings. I moved everything, even your car, once Charles got ahold of your mom and convinced her to keep you institutionalized.”
“He did what?” I yelled, blood boiling, ears ringing, teeth gritting.
“I’m so sorry. He got in touch with your mother somehow months ago and convinced her to sign you in. I don’t know how he does it, but all of the hospitalization is legal.”
My heart sank. I always wondered if she could ever love me again, or even look at me like her daughter. I realized in that moment how utterly alone I was in the world. If my mother was persuaded by the suave and scheming nature of Charles Rainwater, all hope was lost.
“Take me.”
John jumped into action, putting his mask back on. He grabbed the chains from the table.
“I have to shackle you to make it look like I’m leading you back to your room.”
I grabbed his wrist and looked into his masked eyes. The same eyes I saw in the girls’ room that fateful night. The night I should have left the Rainwater’s forever.
“If you hurt me, if you mislead me, if you take me back to that God-forsaken house, I won’t survive,” I said, digging my nails into his skin, “I’ll die. And when I die, I promise you, I’ll haunt you until your very last pitiful day.”
He nodded, “I understand.”
He led me out the door and up the first flight of stairs. Boots stomped with purpose above us. We stopped and waited them out.
“Come on,” John whispered, signaling for us to keep ascending.
We reached the second floor landing.
“Stay directly behind me and move quickly. We’re exiting out of the fire escape. My car is parked around the corner of the alley. If we get separated, run to the car and go.”
He handed me the keys once again.
“You have to get out of here. You’ve made it this far. Just hang on a little longer.”
I nodded.
Everything after that point is a blur. I know we were shot at. I know I fell several times. I know there was blood. I know we almost didn’t make it.
It’s been five years since John dropped me off at that unfamiliar storage unit, blood seeping from a wound in his side. I haven’t heard from him since.
I don’t know what forgiveness feels like when entire years of my life were taken from me, but I know that I don’t wish him ill will.
It bothered me for years that after all I endured, I couldn’t help but to feel that some man rescued me like a damsel in distress from a crumbling tower. My therapist reminded me I saved myself long before John had a change of heart when I smashed his ankle in and did everything I could to escape. I save myself every single day by waking up and getting out of bed.
I finished my degree and now I advocate for the safety and autonomy of marginalized people with mental health unwellness. I also publicly bash pyramid schemes every chance I get.
Dr. Carmichel’s medical license was revoked. He’s awaiting trial on charges of medical malpractice and conspiracy to commit extortion.
Charles Rainwater was eventually indicted on accounts of mail fraud, securities and commodities fraud, extortion, and insider trading. The charges of kidnapping and drugging were dropped, lacking admissible evidence. He was sentenced to thirty years in prison. I’m certain he’ll be out in ten.
Sarah Rainwater accepted a plea deal for a reduced sentence. She corroborated with prosecutors and provided crucial information that led to Charles’ sentencing, but much of the pertinent evidence was destroyed before Charles was even arrested, including all of the video footage they had of me and other prisoners.
She maintains she had no idea people were being held against their will and that the VC products utilized human flesh. I don’t know if I believe her, but I know without her stepping in that fateful day, I would be dead.
Daisy and Dahlia went to live with Sarah’s sister on a buffalo farm in Montana. I pray for their safety and resiliency every single night.
My skin has morphed around the holes in a way that looks like an avant garde art installation. I catch people staring at the craters sometimes, skin growing in a way that it shouldn’t. It’s confirmation for them that my story is true.
The horror is real. It doesn’t matter if you’re neurotypical or not. It doesn’t matter how hard you work to protect yourself or do the right thing. The wrong people will wait for the right chance to take advantage of your sensibilities.
I can’t be certain, but there are distinct moments in which I feel unfamiliar sets of eyes on me, graphing my moves, learning my routines, waiting for an opportune moment to strike.
There are some things they can’t ever take from me, no matter how hard they try, how often they push, or how tirelessly they manipulate. My story and my name.
I’m Matilda Stone and I’m picking up the missing pieces.
Bethany Swoveland is a writer, artist, and creative out of Waco, TX. She publishes a monthly email newsletter dedicated to all things creativity and radical vulnerability. Sign up here.