Secrets that Aren't Hard to Keep

'I don't think I'll ever figure you out, Arthur Kirkland. You've already got a full-time job and you want to work in a loony bin? How are you going to have time for anything?'

'Well. It's interesting, different peoples' mental cases and_'

'Yeah, yeah. Mental... stuff. I know. You're so weird.'

I grinned and shook my blonde hair out of my face, looking up at my boyfriend. He was glaring at me playfully from the driver's seat.'

'Thanks for driving me.'

'No problem. Can I pick you up?'

I laughed at his pleading face and kissed him quickly, getting out of the car. 'If it means that much to you.'

He tried to pull me back by my arm, but I jerked away, laughing.

America blew me a kiss and drove off.

I turned towards the hospital and sighed, rubbing my forehead. I couldn't tell America the real reason I had painstakingly passed all those degrees and was now working here.

Apparently Ivan Braginski_ the Russian Federation_ had once stayed here, and they still had files in the basements.

And since America absolutely could not stand the man, he wouldn't understand my connection to him... and interest in his psychological history.

It did feel a little awkward being amongst people thousands of years younger than me, but I adjusted quickly.

It was interesting, though.

Anyway, since most of the new doctors started at the actual beginning of the year, everyone already had pretty secure friends, so I ate alone at lunch and thought about how I'd get my hands on the files.

I wasn't working with any patients yet_ I was just studying, learning about the curriculum.

'Hey,' said a voice, and I looked up, surprised.

It was a boy, about twenty-two, with thick brown hair, blue eyes and a really friendly smile.

I smiled back and stood up. 'I'm Arthur Kirkland.' It still felt odd, introducing myself by the name I usually reserved for my closest acquaintances. But I couldn't exactly say I was the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland.

We shook hands and he introduced himself as Ben Nolan. 'I got here a week ago, and I don't know anyone yet,' he laughed, his eyes embarrassed.

I laughed too. 'I can imagine. I'm not too good with people either.'

We sat down.

'So what were you thinking about? You looked pretty intense,' Ben said.

'That's my happy face,' I clarified. 'No, I was just thinking. You know how this used to be an old-fashioned mental hospital? With bars and cages and that kind of thing?'

He nodded, his eyes clouding over. 'That's really creepy, I reckon. Thousands of crazy people must have died horribly in this building.'

We both looked around as if expecting to see ghosts floating around cutting themselves.

However, there weren't any, so we exchanged a glance and laughed.

'Seriously, I was doing a... personal project... on a man who might have stayed here.'

Ben's eyes widened. 'Really? But isn't this place famous for... well, in the old times no patients ever got out?'

I frowned. 'This man was different.'

Ben was looking suspicious, so I said quickly, 'He's dead, now, of course. But, I just thought, it seemed interesting.'

Acknowledgement dawned in his eyes. 'You want to get into the files.'

I nodded reluctantly.

'Normally I wouldn't tell anyone this, but I think I can trust you,' I said doubtfully.

'You do this a lot?' he said with a laugh. 'Go on illegal projects?'

I shrugged. 'It's not really illegal. Just... not talked about a lot.'

We talked about normal things after that for a while. The topic of partners came up and I couldn't stop myself from blushing, and I looked down.

'You've got someone,' said Ben with a grin. 'Who's the lucky girl?'

I winced a little. This was what I had braced myself for since he'd started talking about his ex girlfriend.

'Well... actually, he's a guy...'

'Then who's the lucky guy? What's his name?' Ben said, without missing a beat. There wasn't even a flicker of shock in his eyes.

I was surprised, myself. Last time I checked, teenaged boys weren't exactly as okay with same-sex oriented people as, oh, say, France.

'Alfred,' I said. 'He's American.'

'You landed a Yankee?' laughed Ben. 'How'd you manage that?'

'He moved,' I said with a smile. 'Still got that awful accent, though.'

Ben cracked up, and I couldn't help feeling a twinge of guilt. I had to lie, of course. Couldn't tell anyone I was actually a country itself.

But it was trying.

'I'll catch a taxi home, America,' I pleaded. He frowned. 'Why do you wanna stick around this dump after your shift anyway, England? It's pointless.'

'Personal interest.'

'So you keep saying. Anyway_ You better not be late.'

He left without saying another word.

I sighed, just like I had this morning.

As I made my quiet way along the corridor, I thought America really didn't want to know why I was really hanging around. Better to just spare him the truth.

I came to the door Ben had showed me that led to tangle of basements beneath the hospital.

The door... was locked.

I gritted my teeth. I wasn't in the mood for a locked door.

Grabbing the doorknob, I pulled it right out of the lock.

They make with the dramatic kicking down locked doors or shoving their hands through the wood in movies and TV, but see? This was a lot easier and only required a little of my strength.

I slipped through and closed it behind me, hearing it click locked again.

Perfect. None of the doctors still working would know I was here.

I stole silently down the stairs, and then saw something out of the corner of my eye.

I looked over my shoulder. Nothing.

But when I looked back, Russia stood in front of me.

'You shouldn't be here, beloved,' he hissed at me. 'Let the past be the past.'

And before I could scream or run back up the stairs, he was gone.

I blinked, rubbed my eyes.

My imagination was playing tricks on me. It was the bad feeling of this room that was getting to me. Even the air smelled wrong_ too old, too unused.

As soon as I stepped down into the actual room, whispers filled my ears.

'They killed me because I could see more than most_' 'I felt for him something else_' 'I don't want th_'

'I didn't even know who I was and_' 'Pain, nothing rhymes with pain_' 'Shouldn't be here, I'm not crazy_' 'What is that, my l_'

'GET OUT OF HERE, BELOVED! IT'S NO PLACE FOR THE FREE!'

The last words were screamed, then masked with sighs, gasps, other, fainter screams, and I thought I could make out a woman screaming, 'Ivan!'

'SHUT IT!' I yelled, as loudly as I could.

Everything went silent, and I was left standing there, panting, even though I hadn't exerted myself.

Okay. I should have turned around and got the hell outta there.

But I couldn't.

Something drew me to the filing cabinet.

'No place for the free...' Ivan hissed in my ear, but I ignored him. Wasn't real. My imagination. Not. Real.

I pawed through the files, and found one.

Marked Ivan Braginski.

I was terrified, I admit. Flat out terrified.

I slid it out before I slammed it away from me and ran off, and, sitting at the dusty table, started to read.

Lucy Moon

Seems to dream a lot, dreams of 'people' called the names of countries

Like he thinks countries ARE people

Seems to have a special connection to 'England' who he admits he admires and enjoys the company of

Apart from the occasional breakouts, patient appears normal, almost not mentally disabled at all

Talks normally, laughs, and knows what's going on around him

Says morbidly oriented things and delights in thoughts of pain and death

It continued in this gloomy fashion for a while, and then folded away into recounts of the patient's crimes.

I grew sick of reading about bloody, violent murders after a while_ most of the ones detailed were of Ivan killing his doctors previous to this Lucy Moon.

I frowned. The name Lucy Moon rang a distant bell, but I couldn't think where from.

I sighed and rubbed my forehead. Yes, I'd been prepared for gore and horror down here. Yes, I knew what Ivan was like. Yes, he fascinated me.
The first recorded psychiatrist he'd been treated by had been a woman named Molly Saw, and she had died of multiple lacerations, scratches and, to my horror, bite marks. She was presumed killed by wild animals, but nobody knew how that had happened, since she lived in the city.

I leant my head in my hands. I didn't really want to know that Ivan had behaved like a rabid animal and killed this woman.

'You'll never know anything about me, beloved,' Ivan whispered, leaning down on the table.

I barely glanced at him. I supposed it was a ghost of the former Ivan, who had lived here, that was speaking to me now, since he wasn't currently dead.

'Then I'll concentrate on Lucy Moon,' I said, still not looking up from the files.

'The only girl,' he said, reaching out and caressing the side of my face.

I shuddered at the cold touch, like a breath of wind, and got up.

'I'm sure no one's going to miss these,' I murmured, tucking the files on Ivan away in my jacket. I hesitated, then found Lucy Moon's file and took that, too.

'You couldn't understand,' Ivan told me. 'You're free... we were not.'

I looked at him, straight in the eye. 'You're free now.'

'Not me,' he whispered, and disappeared.

Shaking, I pulled my jacket closer around me and forced myself to go slowly up the stairs, and quietly slipped out of the door, closed it and got the hell out of there.

America was asleep on the couch when I came in.

I lingered by the door for a second, wondering whether to wake him. He probably wouldn't be very happy with me. Not that he was anyway.

So I went to the blinking answering machine and pressed play.

'I dreamed about you.'

The words were softly spoken, but so deadly and intense I had to lean against the desk.

I rubbed my forehead wearily. Ivan. I couldn't imagine America's anger if he'd heard this.

Maybe that was why he was waiting up for me.

I groaned at the thought, and was about to hit delete when I paused.

My finger hovered over the play button again.

'I dreamed abou_'

I hit delete and walked away.

Before I could leave the room, the phone rang.

I froze.

Agonized, caught between picking up or ignoring it, I ended up standing rooted to the spot and let it ring out.

Fortunately America was a very deep sleeper, and he was still asleep when the words rang through the room.

'You won't find whatever it is you're looking for, beloved.'

The message ended.

I heard America get up in the other room, and raced over to press the delete button again.

'Hey,' he said, blinking at me blearily as he came into the light.

I smiled at him nervously.

'Was there a message?' he asked, looking at the answering machine sleepily.

'Just some government thing. I'm sorry I woke you, love.'

He shook his head. 'Nah, it's okay. I'm glad, actually_ I wanna talk to you.'

I nodded, looking at my feet.

He ruffled the hair at the back of his head, looking embarrassed.

'Since I'm not gonna be in England much longer, I'm really sorry I was such an idiot earlier.'

I sighed inwardly with relief. So he hadn't actually heard either of the creepy, cryptic messages.

The relief was followed immediately by guilt. Here he was_ my actual boyfriend_ trying to apologise to me for something he'd had every right to be angry about, and all I could think about was some other guy who I shouldn't even be thinking about.

I realized America was waiting anxiously for my answer, so I forced myself to smile again and say, 'No, America, I get it_ I know I've probably been acting weird lately.'

'I'll say,' America agreed, a grin spreading across his face.

I laughed a little awkwardly, and we hugged.

I buried my face in his shoulder and wished I could treat him like he deserved.

Once I was sure America was asleep, I sat up in bed and clicked the light back on.

I pulled the files from my jacket on the floor and flicked through them unenthusiastically, until I reached a paper titled, 'Dr. Otto Schmidt.'

Interestingly, the name sounded German, which was surprising_ Ivan hated Germans.

I slid it out. Apparently, Dr. Schmidt hadn't worked at the place I worked at now_ he'd treated Russia at another hospital in Ukraine.

Then why was he in this file? Maybe it listed all Ivan's doctors, whether they worked at the hospital or not.

I started reading.

By the time I read the last line, I was so horrified the paper slipped out of my loose hands and fluttered to the floor.

I picked it up, trembling, shoved it back in the file, hid the file in my wardrobe and went back to bed, clicking off the light.

I was so sickened by what I'd read nausea kept rising in me.

Dr. Otto Schmidt had been known for cruel methods of treatment of Ivan. He seemed to despise his patient, and was often violent, in a way that was shocking but still technically acceptable for his time.

One day, an orderly had been walking past Braginski's cell. Schmidt was meant to be in there, giving Ivan his medications.

The orderly had checked in and found a horrifying sight.

Braginski had been sitting in a corner, his knees drawn up to his chest, the straitjacket he'd been wearing ripped open at the front, the patient's arms free.

About two metres away from him lay the body of Dr. Schmidt, torn open from the neck to the abdomen, his blood smeared all over the floor and white walls, his innards strewn all over the room.

His lungs were lying next to his face, and his rib cage was shattered all over his split chest. His skull had been partly crushed in at one side, and all of his limbs were broken, twisted unnaturally. His eyes had both been ripped out and stuffed in his mouth. His forehead had been slit open and the bone there cracked, letting the brains be pulled out as they had been. Most of the flesh on his forearms had been torn off, and it no mystery why the flesh had not been found in the room.

In the corner, Ivan sat, rocking back and forth and screaming with laughter, his eyes rolled back, blood all over his face, his teeth sunk deep in the man's heart, stringy insides hanging down from his mouth as well as foam.

Written on the walls with blood were the words, 'I DIDN'T DESERVE YOU.'

Braginski had been restrained, and he'd screamed senseless things in Russian at everything there with him before he'd been heavily sedated and sent off to a hospital with much higher security.

The autopsy on the mutilated corpse revealed that Schmidt's arms and legs_ and fingers_ had all been broken before the time of death, and Braginski's purpose had been to torture the doctor as much as possible before he'd died.

The torture was considered expertly performed.

It looked to me like the hatred had been mutual between Russia and Schmidt.

The message had been right.

Maybe I was never going to find what I was looking for_ something to show me that Ivan Braginski had a spark of sanity left in him.

I'm ashamed to say I cried myself to sleep.