Who’s murdering who in Millersburg? John Miller was a doctor at the asylum. He was sure he didn’t kill three people with the wrong dosage. Bad Memories gives you a tangled web of love, betrayal, double cross and manipulative individuals and murder. The relations between characters will keep you reading
born April 1967 in Brooklyn, ny and lived in Florida since 2000 served US Navy 1984-86 abstract realism painter, 1st time author, mental health/disability activist, have two degrees working on a third.
Follow Douglas @ floridaanarchy
Introducing a sample of Chapter 1
John Miller mused to himself while mechanically working the pill machine. Life was easier when I worked at the asylum. I had different things to do, not the same crap day in day out like now. Miller thought back to the asylum and those three people who died. He was certain he didn’t screw up and kill them. He remembered his wife Julie who was a sectary there who dated Doctor Younger before she dumped him to marry me. Why do those three screams haunt me?
The name itself blurred in his mind, blurred with the robot movement of the machine once, the Liebermann Labs Inc., had boasted of only two tablet making machines, each of which stamped but a single tablet at a time. But lately it seemed there had been an increase in the demand for tablets especially aspirin now, there were many of the machines, stamping six tablets in an operation. The tablets for a veteran’s hospital in California, tablets for an asylum in New York, tablets for a home for the aged in suburban Milwaukee. There seemed no lack of institutions, everybody was in an institution, and you lived in an institution, or were entertained by an institution. You were buried in an institution by an institution. The machine went round and round and he watched it with tired eyes to see that it made no mistakes briefly, on occasion; his eyes glanced at the yellow-faced, large wall clock. Its hands moved much more slowly than the machines in fact, an inhibition seemed to keep them back as they approached five-thirty, which they were nearing now
He knew the answer to that; the clock did not want to be alone with the bottles that lined the walls of the loft. He had often watched the bottles too; he had watched the bottles for a long time before he realized it was the bottles that were watching him. Every day for almost a year he had been coming to the loft, everyday for almost a year, he had seen the morning sun streaming through the lofts grimy windows. Everyday he had watched that brittle sunlight. He would watch it, and then look away at the walls of the loft. It made the walls and their bottles seem darker, more sinister. Every day he has seen the sunlight fade, and another day done, a day he could scarcely distinguish from the one before. He had become a different person, he knew the luster was dulled in his brown eyes, his young shoulders were becoming stooped, his chest hollow, his brown hair thinner. He had not played tennis in years now.
He felt too far gone ever to begin again, his hands that had once been delicate instruments of manipulation and still had now become inferior adjuncts to a machine; a man’s hand touched his arm.
“John,” the man’s voice said.
He turned saw the smiling, round face of his boss J. Liebermann was big, square headed, cleft chinned, as perfect a replica of Hindenburg as it would have been possible to find. “The telephone please,” he said in his soft, Viennese manner. “Someone asks for Mr. Miller!” John Miller switched off the tablet machine. In the laboratory’s unkempt office he dug the phone out from under the bills and papers that covered the desk. J. Liebermann hovered benignly in the background. “This is Albert,” said the voice at the other end of the line. Change from the pounding throb of the tablet machine to a voice coming over the wire made hearing temporarily difficult. “Albert,” the voice repeated, “you know me, Albert Smith, Doctor Smith.”
“Oh-h-h,” Said Miller. “This damn noise in here, I couldn’t hear you, “but he knew it was only the grinding clatter of the machines that had delayed his recognition, his slow response of a brain beaten down by monotony. “Are you in town, Albert?”
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