TWO

THEN

Recovery progressed at a snail like pace. Some days Clinton felt he was going backwards. And the doc's questions didn't help. The bastard didn't even listen to his replies. He sat there behind his desk, stony faced and in silence with a file in his hands jotting down an occasional note. He displayed little interest. And the questions seemed irrelevant. That bothered him. Who needed to know about his childhood? His problems were about now, not back then. Or how he performed as a man? Fuck him.

Clinton believed he was wasting his time here. Then he reflected, maybe it wasn't so bad after all. Other than the medics there were no enemies here. Realisation forced a rethink. Rehab really wasn't that bad? He was being fed, being paid and being cared for. All he had to do was talk, and talking was one of his better skills. Truth or the truth as he reported it yielded to distorted lies. It made for a better story.

After several months Clinton Stanley was transported to a medical centre in Arkansas and assigned to twice daily therapy sessions. Then he was pensioned off by the Military. There was no welcoming home party, no family. His mother had succumbed to cancer and no one else cared. One day, when he was famous they'd care. And like Ted Bundy, John Wayne Gacy and Jeffrey Dahmer, he vowed he would find fame.

Cast off like an old burned out tank and scuttled onto the scrap heap. Clinton felt used, abused and unwanted. Only it wasn't a scrap heap, it was worse. It was a rehab centre, a prison without wardens and a hell not all that different to Afghanistan. A PTSD psychiatric facility, it was the repair shop for the broken and mentally disturbed soldier. In Clinton's mind, the medical staff's first intent was the catagorising of a patient's mind. More often than not these so-called carers appeared more interested in justifying their own existence.

Clinton sought a rational explanation for his presence here. He found none. It was true, at one time in Afghanistan he suffered severe trauma. That was no surprise. Most soldiers serving there endured some form of stress. He was no different. But he wasn't mad, angry yes, but a long way from insane. And he had healed, at least externally. The inner scars however remained, as deep as ever. Counselling couldn't clear the conscience or ease the guilt. He had to live with his actions. Cunning, deceit and downright denial nullified the worst of the memories.

Step two in his rehab process required the convincing of the doctors that he, Clinton Stanley no longer posed a risk to society. His anger issues were behind him. These controllers of his future moved slowly. Many days they didn't move at all. Would finding God help? It usually did, at least in their eyes. Clinton arranged a meeting with the Chaplain, God's apprentice. He sought forgiveness.

Another box was ticked on his medical record. Discharge moved his plan one step closer. But he couldn't free his mind of the counsellors and their damned indifference.

They provided neither peace nor resolution. Their words were empty, delivered at a thousand dollars an hour. He remained as angry as a cornered snake and just as ready to strike. The rage burned more fiercely than ever. Yet he'd learned how to play the game.

His prime purpose was to plot a path to future fame and to then create a diversion that armed him with the element of surprise and protected against the penalties of the law. Clinton toned down his anger, became a model patient. He portrayed the role with the convincing skill of an Oscar winner. His audience swallowed his every word. The wording on his medical chart took on a positive note.

The library became his research centre. The biographies of his heroes, Gacy, Dahmer and Bundy provided inspiration. He studied their crimes, he intended to be better. And not be caught. His prime ambition was to one day see his story share shelf space with these celebrities. He planned to live long enough to read of his deeds. Maybe he could even write it himself and do a book promotional signing. He might become rich.

He also read extensively on Post Stress Disorder Trauma. Its presence was already noted on his medical history. It could well become his 'get out of jail' card. Diminished responsibility, what a crock of shit, he knew precisely what he was planning. The law was an ass, it protected the guilty. Clinton smiled. The game was so one-sided, fortunately, in his favour.

How soon could he get out of here? He looked at the psychologist occupying the chair on the other side of the table. Today he'd not even taken one note. His expression suggested he was elsewhere. If only he knew what I'm thinking? Clinton continued with his incessant chatter.


NOW


"Do you really think I'll be able to handle the pressures of being on my own?" he asked. It was, he figured the appropriate question, one suggesting uncertainty.

"You're never on your own, Clinton," replied the discharging Sister. "We're here for you always. Remember, we are as close as the phone, any time, day or night." She handed him discharge papers along with a support kit. It contained a phone, a free transport pass, a social security card and a new wallet with five hundred dollars in cash.

He rode the bus into the city contemplating where he should head. Several places were ruled out. For some reason Atlanta attracted his interest. First, it was so vast he could easily disappear. Second, it wasn't too far from Florida and the ocean. Third, it was the home of the Braves, the greatest sporting team on the planet. He'd found his new home. All he needed was an untraceable way of getting there.

Paranoia travelled as his companion. Doubts were intensifying. Who could he trust? The military? No way, already he'd reasoned they were tracking his whereabouts. Why else had they supplied a phone? No doubt it had been fitted with a tracking device. Today, technology had ears and eyes everywhere. Every usage of the transport pass and social security document would also register on some computer terminal. Who had ordered this surveillance? Clinton reached his first decision. He'd trust no one.