Henry Franks(18)

They stopped where the low metal gate swung open to the walkway to his house. It wouldn’t stay shut; the hinges were rusty and the white paint was flaking off like dandruff. Since there was no fence anywhere else around the front half of the property, it didn’t much matter, really, if the lonely gate was closed or not.

“Sweet dreams, Henry,” she said, and rested her hand on his arm for a moment before she walked toward her house.

“Thanks,” he said; then, louder, so she could hear, he said it again, standing on the sidewalk watching her walk away.



Hinges squealed as the door opened. William jumped at the sound, turning around just as Henry walked into the kitchen. The hint of a smile on his son’s face faded as they stared at each other. William looked down at the bloodstains on his work clothes and tried to hide them behind his hands.

“Sorry,” he said as he pushed past Henry, pulling his consultation jacket off as he walked, leaving bloody fingerprints on the white sleeves as he slid out of it.

“Dad?” his son said, the word distant and barely more than a whisper through the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears.

He looked over his shoulder as he fumbled with the keys, trying to slide the right one into the deadbolt. “Didn’t have time to clean up after work,” he called as the key finally slid home.

He slammed the door shut behind him, the echo storming through the house like thunder. William threw the coat into the corner and ran to the bathroom. Heavy curtains covered the window in there, as well, and he was rushing too much to turn on the light. In the dark shadows he turned the hot water on and began scraping at his hands to scrub off the blood.

The water steamed and turned red as he held his hands underneath it. He scrubbed, over and over, rubbing his hands together. His fingers trembled as he tried to get all the blood off. In the darkness it was difficult to see if they were clean or not, so he just kept scrubbing.

Tears fell into the sink, mixing with the blood as he stood there, boiling his hands until they were sterile. Still, he didn’t stop until the water turned cold.

Discovery of Two Additional Bodies Leads to Calls for a Town Hall Meeting Saint Simons Island, GA—August 19, 2009: In what has become an all-too familiar scene this summer, Glynn County Sheriff’s Officers were called to the beach beneath the village pier where an early morning fisherman discovered two bodies behind a piling.

Charles Bensen, 63, and his wife, Gertrude, 59, residents of Manchester, NH, were visiting family when they were reported missing earlier this week.

Preliminary autopsy reports list blunt force trauma as the preliminary cause of death.

“At this time, it would be counterproductive to speculate on any connections between this unfortunate occurrence and any other ongoing investigations,” said Staci Carr, District Attorney of Glynn County.

“We will continue to follow all leads and value all contributions from the community,” said Major Daniel Johnson of FLETC as they sealed off the beach.

The Bensens are the fifth and sixth deaths in Glynn County this summer, all allegedly from blunt force trauma. While preliminary research has not shown any connection between the victims—Sylvia Foote, Crayton Mission, Paul Wislon, Derrick Fischer, and the Bensons—police spokesperson Carmella Rawls has issued a “No comment” when asked for further details from the official autopsy reports.

Brunswick mayor Jim Monroe has announced a press conference and town hall meeting for August 20, 2009 at 7:00 PM in the Glynn Academy auditorium to discuss recent events. All interested parties are invited to attend.

Margaret Saville, PhD

St. Simons Island, Glynn County, GA

Thursday, August 20, 2009

Patient: Henry Franks

(DOB: November 19, 1992) The leaves of the palm tree, brushing listlessly against the window, were brown and dying. One sprinkler head peeked out above the dry grass but no water shot forth and patches of dirt had broken through. Henry turned back to the doctor, his fingers resting on his wrist, trailing the scar.

“Henry.” Her pen hung like the sword of Damocles over her legal pad. “I was wondering if you ever sleepwalk.”

He shrugged.

“Are you still tired when you wake up?” she asked.

“Sometimes,” he said.

“When?”

He looked out the window, then pulled his hair down in front of his eyes.

“Henry?”

“I don’t know.”

“Can you try to remember for me?” she asked.

“Will that help?”

“Maybe. You might be having blackouts and not even realizing it.”

“Better,” Henry said with a shrug, “to ask Elizabeth.”

“Elizabeth?”

“Or Victor.”

“They’re not real, Henry.”

“I know. I’m forgetful, not crazy.”

“Amnesia doesn’t mean that. It’s a process to remember,” she said. “Your brain is still trying to understand the accident and, perhaps, it’s using your dreams to help with that.”

“There was an accident,” he said, each word its own sentence, distinct and harsh.

“Yes.”

“I should have died.”

“You remember that?”

He shook his head, hair flying away from his face, and his eyes couldn’t stay still. “No.”