The fear he felt, when Mr. Elroy said that, was different. It was existential. Harry had, to that point, known that the nurse held power over him, but it wasn’t until that moment that he understood exactly how much. If he could make him live through something like that, see something like that…remember something like that, then Mr. Elroy–he could do anything to him. And worse…he could make Harry want it. Make him beg for it.
“Things could be good for you Harry. You could be happy here. All you have to do, is give me what I want, and help me out along the way, with a couple of…other projects.”
“Other…there’s other people here, like me?”
“At the moment? No. I prefer to just keep one of you around–but you’ll understand, in time. So–what do you say, Harry? You going to be cooperative? Or maybe we could start showing you some other memories? Maybe turn you into a nice, faggot cuck–watching Wilbur, that best friend of yours, fuck your wife right in front of you. That sound like a memory you want to relive, Harry?”
He shook his head. He…he knew Wilbur would have never treated Patricia like that, but Mr. Elroy…well, he could make Wilbur treat them however he wanted.
“Good–now, why don’t we go get some lunch? We still have time.”
Harry thought that was a good idea, mostly because he didn’t want to be alone with this man anymore–not if he could help it. He got up from the bed and tottered to the hall, passing his cane as he went, but Mr. Elroy cleared his throat, and pointed to it. “You’re going to have to accept some things, Harry, even if they are hard to swallow. Get your cane.”
Harry stared at it, and remembered how much of a trial it had been to get to the dining hall that morning, but he didn’t want to use it. He didn’t want to admit that Mr. Elroy had won. “Please…I’ll do whatever you want, just fix my leg.”
Mr. Elroy shook his head, “I can’t fix things, Harry. I only break them. There’s no going back–I told you this. Now get your cane like a good little faggot.”
He hobbled over, and took it in his hand, hating how comfortable it felt against his palm, and how much easier it was to move with it supporting him.
“Good boy,” Mr. Elroy said, and opened the door, “Now, let’s go eat.”
The evening was easier, at least. The cane helped more than Harry wanted to admit, and Mr. Elroy seemed to be in a better mood, now that he sensed that Harry was beginning to give in. It was easy, almost, to accept that what he remembered as that rather strange childhood was what Mr. Elroy told him it was–just the ravings of an occasionally demented mind. But he was feeling better now, more certain about himself. Mr. Elroy chatted with Harry about his past–about Patricia and Wilbur in particular, and Harry found himself able to answer the most…personal of questions about them both. That shouldn’t be possible, if they hadn’t been real, right? But if he’d just been a kid the day before, how could he know any of this? How could he remember Patricia on their wedding night, how could he remember how Wilbur had cried next to him in the hospital room, after the accident? That…that was the only time Wilbur had ever cried in front of him, and it was enough to make his weep too. But men weren’t supposed to be weak like that. Harry…he didn’t understand men these days, wearing makeup, and flouncing about. Everything seemed so…out of sorts. It was better to stay here, and just trust Mr. Elroy. Trust his memories–his real memories–and push that dementia as far away as he could, because if he let it get too close, Mr. Elroy told him it would just…eat him away, until he was nothing at all. Just a husk lying in bed, drooling, diapered, just…trapped in this old thing until someone merciful allowed him to die–but Mr. Elroy told him that could be a long time, because this place had very strict policies against euthanasia.
Mr. Elroy was so pleased with his behavior that day, that he allowed Harry to go to bridge that evening. It was a treat, and Harry enjoyed it–he and Patricia had loved hosting bridge nights with other couples in the neighborhood, and while the first few hands were a bit rough (Harry, for some reason, struggled to recall some of the rules) by the end of the night, he was back to his old tricks–and more than a few women, widows mostly, were eyeing him handsomely, but he allowed Mr. Elroy to escort him back to his room. After all, it was time for his evening smoke, and drink, right?
He settled down in his recliner, in front of the television, watching a sports network, smoking a cigar and drinking his bourbon, talking with Mr. Elroy about how much he loved smoking, how he thought it was important for a proper man to smoke, that they seemed so much more…attractive. Mr. Elroy chuckled, and lit one for himself, “What do you think, Harry? Do you think I’m more attractive now?”
Harry didn’t answer–that…that wasn’t something one man should say to another, but it was difficult to deny it. He was…rather attractive with a cigar in his mouth, it only made him look even more like Wilbur. He drank back the rest of his glass of whiskey, not noticing the spidery veins spreading across his nose and cheeks, as he did, and took a deep draw off the cigar, only to give a deep, raspy cough. Still, that’s what you got, when you smoked four or five cigars a day, like he did–he…needed them, as much as he hated admitting it. In him a voice was screaming at him, trying to convince him this was all wrong, that he needed to stop, but he pushed it away. That…that was just the senility talking. He needed to be clear eyed, for when his son visited tomorrow.
Bracken's Corner 