Z2012THECUSTODIAN



=**The Custodian (The Annex)**=

November 17, 1995

I need to get out of this place. And I would, but I have a wife and kids to feed and protect from those who want their secrets kept. Those with power and steady hands. They don't realize that I would never tell a soul about what I've seen as the custodian- at least not out loud. I couldn't possibly bring to words what I have cleaned with my mop and scrubbed away while wearing my yellow rubber gloves. I'm terrified. This is why I'm writing. Truly I have never been a man for expressing my feelings in a diary, but I fear there is much more at stake than my manliness... Every week I see a new batch being shuffled in- they introduce me as the mute custodian, their way of keeping me silent. And it works. I'm far too yellow to defy them or speak out against their deeds. I'm not strong enough to warn those who come here- to save all their lives on account of my own. And I hate myself for that. I hate that I don't have the courage to do in person what I'm doing now. I, like a child behind a blanket, hide behind my pen and journal. I let the new patients believe they are being brought to the facility to receive vaccinations for the Frei Fever. I let them think it is a four-part procedure that must take at least a month to successfully administer. And I let them blindly accept that they shall be saved from contracting the terrible disease. All they see are caring men in white who want to help. They don't see, however, their bloodied hands beneath their blue, latex gloves. What I shall reveal next to whoever is reading is of the utmost importance- last month I was cleaning the Saviors' Hall late at night. While I was mopping I heard muffled conversation. I had never been in the hall this far into the night. You see, I sleep in the adjacent building with the patients, not with the doctors: the "Saviors". Anyways, the talking was coming from one of the backrooms and I followed it, although I suddenly felt unwelcome. Regardless, I put my ear against the dining room door and heard, “and thus commences the monthly 'Long Legs Brotherhood' meeting”. I recognized the voice of Dr. Raven, but the brotherhood he spoke of was foreign to me. Obviously I knew about Old Tom Long Legs. You couldn't have been a child growing up on the Base without hearing stories of Old Tom. But we believed them to be myths, stories- after all that's what they are. But I'm sure that's what I heard: “The Long Legs Brotherhood”. Gaining curiosity, I peeked through the crack in the door. I saw all the facility's doctors, thankfully with their backs towards me, facing Dr. Raven. The sight of them gave me the chills; there was a ceremonial, almost reverent feeling in the air. They were sitting around the long dinner table dressed in white scrubs and surgical masks. And on the table- I shutter at the mere thought- on the table lay a girl, probably in her mid 20s. She looked sick, but honestly everyone here looks that way; it's said to be part of the treatment side-effects. She shook on the table making the silverware rattle and the candle flames flicker. She was mumbling something too. I couldn't completely make out what she was saying- all I understood was “blue...blue...blue”. The men began to pass down a box of latex gloves to Dr. Raven. He slid on a pair, his glasses reflecting the excited flames and the tense body on the table. Then he raised his sterile hands to the ceiling, chanting “for you we sacrifice”. The rattling grew louder and then- then it stopped. I dropped my mop making the smallest wooden thud on the floor. Dr. Raven looked up and made eye contact with me through the door crack. He smiled. That was last night. And now I lay in my bed unable to sleep. I just woke up from a terrible nightmare. I dreamed that I was the person laying on the table amidst the candles and silverware and doctors in surgical masks. But I couldn't see too well. Or hear too well. Everything was in a yellowish haze like when you step outside for the first time on a bright day. I heard a warped voice and saw gloves elevated above a man in uniform's head. But right as those hands began to descend my blurred vision started to focus. I began to make out the person standing in front of me. It wasn't Doctor Raven's beady eyes staring at me. It wasn't his bleached hands that were clenching my throat. They were mine. My hands beneath yellow gloves. My body in the blue custodian uniform. My smile plastered on a murderous face. I woke up in a cold sweat, choking, coughing and tried to convince myself it was just a dream. But more and more I can't escape the feeling that it was all true. Though my hands may appear clean, I know they are bloodied. I might as well be one of those faces sitting around the table for all I've done. I've done nothing. And that's just it.

-Jim Ginley