The pencil snapped. The voices, the voices, they wouldn’t stop...wouldn’t stop...he couldn’t make them stop...Unleashing a wild, barbaric scream of anguish, he stood, knocking the chair away. Holding his head, he tried to shake the voices free. Failing, he glares about, his bloodshot eyes searching helplessly for something, anything, to make them stop.

"We're here Jobe. We're waiting for you..."
"Yes Jobe. Come here Jobe. Let us lick the flesh from your bones. Let us crush your heart between our teeth."
"Jobe..."
"Jobe..."
"Jobe..."
On and on, mercilessly they pounded in on him, wave after wave. "Go away. Leave me alone. LEAVE ME ALONE!"
"Never Jobe. We’re always here Jobe, waiting, waiting for you. We’re going to get you Jobe. We’re going to do to you what you did to us..."

His mad eyes still searching, he looks down at the pencil, still clutched in his fists. Staring at it, his eyes focused on the broken fibers as he steeled his nerve. Desperate, he slowly raised it as his breath came out in ragged jerks. He had no choice, no options. His mind set, he acted. First one ear, than the other. Pain flooded his being.

"Jobe, no stop..."
Grinning wildly, Jobe slumped to the ground, thick, dark blood oozing from his ears. Before the blackness took him, he heard their words, "We’re coming for you Jobe..."

The elemtary school janitor found the body, slumped over the papers Jobe had been grading.
 

The room flickers as his eyes struggle to open. Blurry at first, his location is a mystery. As things begin to take focus, however, he sees the telltale signs. Sideways, an IV protrudes from the wall beside him. Confused, it takes Jobe a minute to realize he is laying down in a bed. High off the ground, it had rails all around. A curtain screens off one side of the room and a TV sits high up in a corner. The small room, a dull, off white, betrays an attempt of homeliness that fails utterly. All is silent.

Slowly, lifting his head to see more, a throbbing fills his scull. Trying to feel his temples, the cold reality of his bondage strikes him hard. Helpless, confined, he is unsafe. Any moment they could come for him.

The door, previously unnoticed, pulls his eyes. Slowly opening, a figure enters the room. She is clad in the same dull, off white, as if born of the room itself. Noticing Jobe staring at her, she moves her mouth. Oddly, no sound emerges. Coming closer, she bends over his chest, checking his pulse. That done, she takes a chart, from the foot of the bed. Marking it with a pen, she replaces it and leaves the room. She returns a few moments later. Producing a needle and cotton swab, she proceeds to wipe his shoulder, producing an oddly comfortable, cooling sensation. Then, sticking him with the needle, she deposits her drug. Finished with her chore, she once leaves again.

Left to himself, Jobe lays back, eyes to the ceiling. Mouth agape, his eyes plead, Òwhy?" In time, the throbbing fades, allowing him to think. He has to get away, that much is certain. Staying in the same place too long is dangerous. It gives...them...time to find him. Bound as he is, however, escape is impossible.

Involved in his thoughts, Jobe fails to notice the door open or the man entering. Feeling a slight tap on his shoulder, he starts, shaken from his anxiety. Looking up, he finally notices the new visitor. He stands there, holding a pen and paper, staring intently at Jobe. Certain that Jobe meets his gaze, he moves his mouth. Like the nurse, no sound comes out.

What’s with these people? Do they all have some sort of speech impediment?
Finally, the man stops trying to talk, and, writing something on the paper, holds it before him. ÒHello Jobe," it read in big, bold letters.

Opening his mouth, Jobe replies. At least, he tries to. Like the nurse and then this man, nothing happens when he tries to speak.

Nodding to himself, the man in the coat writes something down again. Again he holds it aloft, "I heard you, Jobe. You suffering wounds both ear canals. You may never hear again..."

Again summoning up his speech, Jobe tries again, ("WHAT!") Again, no sound.
The doctor must be telling the truth. He really was deaf...
Again, the pen, "You-LSD, other hallucinogenic drug lately?" ("No, of course not. Do I look like a druggee to you?")
The pen speaks, "No, but, two causes of your wounds: hallucinogenic substances or mental instability."

("Are you saying I’m CRAZY? It's the voices, I’m not crazy, the voices, the voices drove me to do it. They're coming for me, don’t you see that. They’re after me. You have to believe me. You have to understand me. You must!...")

Scribbling,"I'm sorry, right now I can't..."
Oh, God, he thinks that I am crazy. He doesn't understand. How could the...he doesn't hear the voices. No body else can hear them, only I can.
"That's right Jobe. No one believes you. No one cares. We'll get you, you know, and no one can stop us," this followed by wild, maniac laughter.

("No, go away. Make it stop. Make it STOP!!") Jobe rages as he struggles against his bonds.

Quickly, the doctor takes out another needle, and without bothering with a swab, stabs it into Jacob’s arm and squeezes. Within seconds, all goes to black...
 

It was several weeks later. Again, Jobe woke in an unfamiliar room. It was dark, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the low light level. Seeing didn’t help much. This room was altogether different from the one in the hospital. That room at least tried to look comfortable. This one seemed to disregard such frivolous things as comfort. Bars comprised one wall, with dank, dark gray stone making up the other three walls, floor, and ceiling. A slight chill left Jobe shivering.

Suddenly, before he could begin to analyze this new situation, a large flickering light appeared in one corner. Glowing a sickly greenish tint, it hovered there for a second or two. It seemed to stare at him, as if it had eyes. After a moment, another light reared up, and another. Slowly they congregated and began to advance on him, gradually becoming more and more distinct. Clearer now, Jobe could see a gnarled, blackened arm, a twisted, misshapen face, a pair of half melted eyes...

No, it couldn’t be, not again. They had found him, this time for real!! "Jobe, we’re here Jobe. It’s time Jobe. We"ve come to take you. You can't escape any more. We"re here..."

"No, go away, please, just go away. I’m sorry, so terribly sorry. I didn’t know. How could I have known?" he pleaded.
"You’re lying Jobe. You betrayed us Jobe. You led us to our deaths while you stayed back and watched. Now it's your turn. This time we'll watch..."
"Please, oh God, please no. It was an accident, an accident! How could I have known? How could I have known? I didn't want it to happen. I didn't want anything to happen. Please, believe me. I didn't want anyone to die. It was an accident..."

"You were our leader, Jobe. We trusted you, put our lives in your hands. It was your duty to know, your duty, but you failed us Jobe. We relied on you, but you led us to our deaths. Now we have only one thing left to do here, to make amends, to take our revenge on you Jobe. Then we're freed from these ties, these shackles, that bind us here to this cursed half life."

"NO! Leave me be, leave me be...Please, I didn't know. I didn’t know. I don’t want to die, please..."
But it was no use. Looming over his head, Jobe could distinctly see his old platoon. There was Jimmy, the 20 year old auto mechanic from Nebraska, and Will, the boyishly faced man from Washington, dreams of his girlfriend and new born son on his mind--they were to be married when he got home in just a few short weeks...Then there was Tim, who’d lied about his age to go to "Nam, to serve his country. They were all there. Their blasted, deformed bodies crowded over him. Their arms reached for him, straining to reach his flesh...

With a lurch, Jobe's eyes flashed open. His bed was soaked in sweat, his skin cold and clammy. He was alive, they hadn’t found him after all. He was ALIVE!

No, that wasn’t the case...the door opened, they were there, coming still...No, GOD NO! It can’t be. Please GOD, it can’t be...
Flipping on the lights, the nurse stepped into the room, an alarmed look on her face. She spun about and returned to the hallway. A scant moment later, the doctor came running. He and the nurse seemed to converse for a moment.

Well used to the routine by now, Jobe waited as the man took forth his pen and paper. ÒGood evening Jobe."
("Maybe for you, doc,") he stammered. ("I've got to get out of here. They'll find me for real soon. I'm trapped and defenseless here.")
"Jobe. Don't you think that by now, they'd have found you already?"
("You don't understand...")
"Jobe, I understand. Tomorrow you leave.Court proceedings done. You go toSt. Vi medical center. There's people there who will help you there."

("NO, I Must go NOW!")
The doctor said something to the nurse then turned to leave, and the nurse did as told, pulling forth a needle...
 

Heavy, malicious storm clouds rolled overhead as the attendant rolled Jobe across the grounds.
"So tell me boy, have you been a nut long? Eh? Was your mother some kind of freak or something, Hmm? Yeah, I bet your whole family's crazy; freaks like you. You stupid piece of shit. God I hate this job, but you wouldn't know, you and all your fellow nut cases, too stuck up in your own fucked up delusional world. Yeah, they send you here, expecting us to wait on you, fucking hand and foot, be your friend, clean the shit out of your pants, wipe up your drool. Well, fuck that pal, you hear me, FUCK you you freak!"

Angrily, the small, black man wheeled Jobe towards a small, squat building. The hospital staff had just taken him here, and, for once, Jobe hadn’t struggled. Sure, he was going to prison, but the voices would be thrown off the scent at least. That was all that mattered.

Finally, the disgruntled attendant reached the large double doors before him. This building, too, was a dull, off white, a castaway from an outdated architectural era. Opening the door, the man pushed Jobe down a short hallway, stopping near the end. Rapping on a door, he apparently heard a reply, for he brought Jobe in.

"Thank you, Kenneth. You had no trouble, I suspect."
"No, sir, none."
"Good. You may leave for now. Wait in the hallway."
"Yes sir." Turning, he left Jobe and the man at the desk.
Turning to face him, the man spoke. Of course, Jobe thought he spoke, he couldn't ever tell anymore more if it really was speech. Slapping his forehead, the man produced the all too familiar pen and paper. Jobe was getting sick of that. Nonetheless, he had to endure it.

"Hi, Jobe. How are we today?" the paper read. ("Good, I guess. I'd be a lot better out of this wheelchair and stupid jacket.")
"Your own good, you know, Jobe. We wouldn't want you to hurt yourself. We'lltake it off later. Want to see some progress first."

("Progress, huh? So you don't understand either.") It was a statement of fact.
Lowering his reading glasses, the man leafed through a file on his desk. Looking intently at it for a few moments, he seemed to be thinking. Finally, he wrote, "Oh yes, the voices. We know all about the voices, Jobe. They come and go, always threatening, always forcing you to do things you don’t want to do, right?"

("Well, partly. They’ve never directly forced me to do anything. They don’t want that. They just want ME!")
Nodding, the doctor continued, ÒWell, see, Jobe. We’re here to help. We want to make the voices go away for good. That’s what we’re here for. Now, I realize this must seem like prison to you, but, I must stress, it’s for your own good."

("How can prison be good for me?")
"Safe from voices here. Maybe they will go away. Maybe We can drive them away. You go back to normal life."

("So you don't think I'm crazy?")
"Jobe, honestly, hospital said yes, but, I can tell you're perfectly sane. Just need helpMaybe this isn't the best place for you. It's the only place however. Many of the people here really ARE crazy. Many of them will be staying here for the rest of their life, but not you. You should be out of here in no time at all. We’re even going to help you learn to cope with your hearing loss."

("My hearing?")
"Yes, Jobe. Have you ever heard of sign language or lip reading?"
("Yeah, of course. You’re going to teach me to do that?")
"Yes, with your permission."
("Thank you doc. Thanks a lot.") Finally, somebody who understood him, who could help him. ("But, what about this jacket and this chair?')
"Of course, just a moment." Raising his head a notch, the man yelled out the door, and within seconds, Kenneth entered. The doctor addressed him.
Keneth unbuckled the straps, then hurriedly fled the room.
Reveling in his new freedom, Jobe stretched his arms. ("Thank you doc.)
On paper again, "Welcome, Jobe. How long you hearing voices?"
("They first started a few months after I got back from "Nam. At first, I thought it was just a bad dream, but then they started becoming more and more frequent. It got to the point where I almost couldn’t teach anymore. Then, one day, I couldn’t take it. They were coming for me, they said, over and over. I was desperate doc, You don’t know what that can do to a man...")

"I see many desperate ppl here. These voices, are they familiar to you?"
("Yeah, they’re the voices of my dead platoon.")
"They say they"re coming for you, that will get you? Why is that?"
("Well, it was towards the end of the withdrawal. We were in camp when we got this radio saying gooks were coming down on us. That wasn’t too unusual, except that we were supposed to be a secure area, returning from recon. Apparently they had followed us or something. Anyway, we mobilized and took off as fast as we could. We were low on supplies, and it could have been anywhere from 10 to 50 gooks on our trail. I didn’t want to take any risk, so I ordered the pull-out. I was in charge of the platoon. Radioing in our plans, we took off. I wasn’t pulling point position. I was bringing up the rear, because I thought the gooks were behind us. I was wrong, They were headed dead on for our point. One minute we were on the trail, watching our backs, the next, their was shrapnel and bullets everywhere. It had been a trap-they’d been waiting for us. Half the platoon went down instantly. Ordering a retreat, we all fled the trail, taking to the jungle. I was the only one who made it. The rest were all killed. I never should have been pulling rear guard. It was my duty to be point man. I never should have led us into that trap, shoulda been more aware of things. Because of my mistake, 15 men, good, innocent men, died. They all had such good things ahead of them. It was our last recon...")

"You think these voices blame you for their death?"
("Yeah, they keep saying how I led them to their deaths, that I betrayed them. They think I knew about the trap. Now they want their revenge. They've been taunting ever since I got back, two years ago")
ÒI see. Well, Jobe, we’ll try to help you as best we can. In a few months, perhaps this will be all just a bad dream ,and you can go home." ("I'd like that doc, I'd like that a lot...")
ÒGood. That's enough for now. Keneth will take you to your room." Yelling for Kenneth again, the attendant reappeared through the door. "Take Jobe to his new room. Show him around, make him feel at home. Make sure he doesn't have any troubles with anyone. I'll have his prescriptions sent down later."

"Yes, sir" Grasping the wheelchair handles, Kenneth whirled Jobe about and left the room.
Once out of the building, the slew of insults continued. Oblivious, Jobe sat there, never hearing Kenneth and his rants about his family, his sister, or his own personal life. It began to rain, and, as the droplets started falling more and more, Kenneth increased his pace. Eventually, he was running. Their destination was a large, decrepit building, seemingly out of place in the modern world. Finally reaching the doors, Kenneth threw them open, hurrying in and out of the deluge. Shaking off what water he could, he removed his jacket and continued down a hallway.

After a myriad of twist and turns, of doors and still more hallways, Kenneth brought Jobe to a halt. On the other side of a plastic-glass window, a man sat, his feet propped up, a cup of what appeared to be coffee in his hands. Two doors led into that room. Jobe was at one of them. Another window looked into a small, crowded room. There were 12 men in there, and 13 beds.

Seeing them, the guard, never once putting either his feet, or the coffee down, stared at them expectantly. Finally, Kenneth pulled out a name tag, pressing it against the window. The guard scrutinized it, and, satisfied, got out a key and unlocked the heavy bared door.

"Man, why do you have to do that every time? You know who I am."
"Hey, rules are rules. After two hundred years, you'd think you'd be used to rules by now, you nigger."
Glaring at him, hatred in his eyes, "Open the door."
Condescending, "Whatever you say." Closing the first door and turning the key, he then unlocked the second.
Hearing none of this, of course, Jobe still sensed the tension and was relieved when Kenneth pushed him through the door and into the next room. Inside, about a dozen men, dressed in little more than hospital gowns, sat or stood. Twenty four eyes were fixed on him and Kenneth. A black and white TV, unwatched, sat in one corner of the small, cramped room. Curtains did their best to hide the thick bars on the windows. Kenneth unceremonously wheeled Jobe to his bed and stormed from the room. Straining to catch a glimpse of his caretaker, Jobe saw a white fist flying, then a black one, before the door slammed shut. He never saw Kenneth again. Turning, incredulous, he looked at his new roommates. They didn’t look so great. One of them, off in the corner, just stood there, lamely, one arm bundled up, his neck crooked, eyes downcast. Avoiding the light from the windows, drool collected at his feet. Another one sat on his bed, glaring at Jobe intently. He didn’t blink...at all.

One of the rest detached himself from the general group and walked towards him. He was about Jobe’s height, perhaps a bit taller, and more muscular. Carrying himself defiantly, he stomped up to Jobe, his mouth moving. When Jobe didn’t reply, he became incensed. Closing the gap between them, he put his face right up to Jobe's, so close Jobe could smell his rancid breath. He didn’t hear the bellowing, but he certainly felt it. This time, Jobe tried to reply, but the man would have none of it. Pushing Jobe, the chair wheeled backward, twisting and turning in odd directions. The man followed, his eyes on fire.

Suddenly, yet another of the dozen rushed up. Putting himself between Jobe and his assailant, he spread his arms. The big hulk stopped, and, with a last, threatening look, ambled away.

("Thank you.")
The man began to speak, but Jobe silenced him. Cupping his ears, he pantomimed the age old expression, ÒI’m deaf".
Nodding, the wiry black man understood. He also cupped his ears, then pointed at himself.
Jobe looked at him quizzically, ("But, you can hear me?")
Shaking his head, the man touched Jobe's lips.
("Oh, you read lips.")
He nodded again.
("Can you, can you teach me? I mean, if it’s not any trouble, only if it’s OK with you. They") he pointed back at the door, ("are going to teach me to sign too, so if you don't want to, it's OK...")

The man shook his head. Taking Jobe's hand, he pulled slightly. Standing, Jobe followed him to his bed. Once there, the man gestured took a pen and some paper. Turning a piece over, he wrote, small, "It's no trouble. I'd be glad too. My name is Frank..."

("Jobe, I'm Jobe.")
Again on paper, "Good to meet you, Jobe. Would you care to start?"
("Start, you mean right now?")
"Why not? You got better plans?"
("No, I guess not.")
Frank set to writing again, and Jobe’s first lesson began.
 

The first few days were rough on Jobe. The others, interested in the newcomer, wouldn’t leave him alone. Even the completely lame one interrupted him and Frank at regular intervals. Standing there, he just drooled, staring at him until Jobe got flustered and yelled at him to leave. With a whimper, he would stick his thumb in his mouth and trudge away. Some of the others threw temper tantrums when Jobe asked them to leave. Those who actually managed to stay for a while, realizing Jobe couldn’t understand them, got frustrated. One even went so far as to hit his head against the wall a few times. He didn’t stop. A few minutes later, caretakers came in and took him away. It was a long time before they saw him again.

With all this going on, Jobe rapidly got an idea of the sanity of his new roommates. It wasn’t a comforting thought. Frank seemed to be, in Jobe's estimation, by far the sanest of the lot. One day, Jobe asked him why he was here.

"What, you mean what's my problem?" He signed. He waited, drawing a blank look, then did it again. Jobe wasn’t very good, it had only been a few weeks.

Finally, Jobe, with a little pantomiming on Frank’s part, understood. (ÒYes")
Going slow, as to make it easier, he explained, ÒNothing. I’m here because I can’t go anywhere else. I’ve got no family, no friends. I’m black, and that doesn’t help. Being deaf only makes it worse. This is the only place, besides real prison, that offers me three meals, a roof, and a bed."

Jobe understood it all this time, but he didn’t reply, lost in thought. He pitied his friend. How much crueler could life be when one had to pretend to be insane just to stay alive?

After a few weeks, Jobe was fully integrated into the system. At 7:00 AM every morning they would be woken by either a bell, or, in Jobe and Frank’s case, an attendant , if they weren’t already up. At 7:15, they were herded into a general shower stall. Those who couldn’t wash themselves were scrubbed by the caretakers. Then they were led into a bathroom, which the caretakers made sure everyone used. After that, they were taken to a small cafeteria, where they fed breakfast and subsequently their medicine. Then, it was back to their common room for a few hours. During this time, they could read books they had requested (for those who could actually sit still long enough) watch TV, or play games. For some of them, these few hours of free time were crucial. To take away their UNO, even for a day, could cause massive trauma.

At about 12:00 PM every day, unless it was raining, they were let outside. A half hour of structured sports or exercise was followed by a half hour of free time. Then it was back inside for lunch. Afterwards, it was medicine and bathroom time again. Following this was another five hours in their room until dinner , medicine, and the restrooms yet again. Mondays, and Thursdays at 8:00 PM Jobe was taken in to a doctor’s office. There, they discussed how he felt, what he ate that day, and everything about the week so far in general. About half way through his hour, the doctor would ask about the voices; if he had heard any lately, and if he had, what they had said, what tone of voice they had used, which soldier had talked to him specifically, etc. Then the doctor asked him if he had any dreams, asking him to explain those he remembered. All the while the man was busy scribbling notes on a separate pad of paper. On Tuesdays and Fridays, Jobe was taken into a speech therapist, who taught him how to sign. He had been surprised, at first, to see how much Jobe improve, until he learned of Frank’s aid.

After each of these meetings, Jobe would be taken back to the common room and lights out was two hours later. The other nights, Jobe was left free to himself, or rather, to himself and the 12 others sharing the room. Most of this time was spent with Frank. Occasionally they would show a G-rated movie on the weekends, as a special treat.

The days went by agonizingly slow for Jobe. Nothing that he did could ever shake from his mind two basic thoughts. The first was the fact that he was in a prison. It was just as the doctor said on the first day. What else could you call it when he was confined under lock and key, his hours dictated, his freedom taken away? Stationary as he was, it was only a matter of time, most likely a short matter, until the voices found him. He could always tell, when they spoke to him, how close they were. The last few times he got the impression they’d almost found him. The second fact correlated to the first. He’d gradually grown aware that the doctors had no intention of ever releasing him. He was never making Òsatisfactory progress" they deemed it. The doctors treated him like a child, as if he had the understanding of a five year old. He was going to end his days in that common room, and it wouldn’t be long. He would eventually die by the hands of his demons, confined to that small, cramped room.

These thoughts filled Jobe’s mind. They wouldn’t put a sane man in here, unless, like Frank, he was pretending to be insane. They hadn’t thought him sane for a second. All the pills and shots, to Òrelease him from the voices," couldn’t ever stop that knowledge. That much determined, he had only one option, escape! It couldn’t really be all that difficult. The walls weren’t manned, and they certainly weren’t very high-a child could probably climb them given the chance. The only hard part was getting out of the common room. The only door was guarded 24 hours a day. Somehow, he had to unlock the doors and distract the guard. It would be difficult, but, with that done, he was home free.

In the meantime, Jobe buried himself in his lessons. He was improving drastically. Soon he would be able to sign quite fluently. His quick learning was born of need. He had to be able to communicate on the outside, and he didn’t have time to sit around there for years. His deafness came and went in his thoughts. He didn’t have time to lament the loss of his hearing. Everything focused on the voices. Nothing else mattered.

As days went by, Jobe began to think more and more of his friend Frank. Would he, perhaps, be willing to accompany him on his escape? Oftentimes, Jobe would observe him in a slump, staring out the window, a profound look of regret on his face. Some mornings he wouldn’t wake when told to. He would be forced to get out of bed, prodded along all day. It was as if, on these days, he had lost the will to live.

Following these observations, Jobe broached the subject late one night, just before lights out. "Frank," he signed.
"Yes, Jobe?"

"How do you sign "escape’"" Immediately, Frank understood. He saw the twinkle in Jobe’s eye, and the eager speed with which his fingers moved. He felt the hot, heavy breath, close to his face. Staring intently into Jobe’s large, hopeful eyes he signed, "I can't Jobe."

"But..."
Knowing Jobe could never understand what he had to say in sign, Frank withdrew the pen, and the last sheet of paper. Writing small, ÒJobe, I can’t. There’s no life for me out there, no family, no friends. I’d be out of place, a fugitive, without a job, without a home. It’s a prejudiced world, you know that. With my skin, I'm better off here."

Jobe, reading this, protested, "But it doesn’t have to be that way. Don't you see, it'll be different. We'll have each other. We can look out for one another. We can survive on the outside. Besides, I’ve seen you staring out that window. You can't bear just sitting there, knowing freedom is just 200 yards away. Freedom to be where you want, when you want. Eat what you want, do what you want. No walls, no guards, no bathroom three times a day whether you need to go or not. No locked doors or insane roommates. How can you stand to stay here, how can you bear the burden of being treated like an animal, talked down to, downtrodden? How could it possibly be worse outside?"

Angrily, Frank scratched out what Jobe wrote. Beneath it he scrawled, "You don't know what it's like, the pain, the frustration of being different. In here, we're all treated the same, like crazy beasts. Out there, I'm just as much a freak as I am here. You think being a black vet, and being DEAF to boot, helps me any? Hell no! I came back here, like you did, expecting a warm, caring welcome. What did I find? My job was gone, my house foreclosed, my whole life gone. I couldn’t get work then, I sure couldn’t now. Here, I’m safe. Here, I get three meals a day, a roof over my head, and the knowledge that I’ll get it tomorrow too."

Reading his words, Jobe saw their obvious truth. He wouldn’t have it much easier either. Perhaps he’d been wrong to ask. Perhaps Frank really couldn’t survive outside. He didn’t have the option of that choice, however, even if he wanted it...
 

The next day, during recess, Jobe began to decide on his plans. He figured the best place to jump the wall would be the furthest from any of the buildings, to minimize the chance of being caught. That meant a long stretch of ground to be covered, however, and a greater chance of being seen. But if he went over too close, he would be too exposed. With any luck, it would be overcast. He could at least decide to go on a moonless night. That much would help. Other than that, the only key element was breaking out of the common room. Somehow, he had to steal a key, then distract the guard long enough to get out unnoticed. That would be difficult. In the next few weeks, Jobe began to pound on his lessons. The more proficient he was, the better off he was outside. He would keep Frank occupied for several hours at a time, frequently the whole of the free time between lunch and dinner. He would practice during lights out, keeping Frank awake late. The guard caught them a few times, and forced them both to stop and go to sleep.

One day, out in the yard, they came, "Hello Jobe. Did you miss us? We certainly missed you."
Horrified, Jobe muttered to himself, ("No, no, no, no...") They found me...
"That's right, Jobe. We don’t appreciate your being here, either. Do you have any idea how difficult is was to get through? But rest assured, Jobe, we’re back for good. This time for good."

("No, please god no, please, just leave me alone. Give me more time, just a little more time. Please, you can’t take me now, not now, not yet, please, please God!)"

"Oh, don’t worry, Jobe. We wouldn’t DREAM of ending this now. We could have done it months ago, but this is too much FUN!It'd be too anticlimactic to kill you now. We'll be here awhile, sinking deeper and deeper into your thoughts, forcing you just to the brink of insanity. It’ll get so bad you’ll BEG us to end it...Yes, we"ve got to make the blood sweeter, the blood, yes, make it sweeter..."

("No, God no, oh no.") Breaking down, Jobe didn’t realize he had been speaking aloud for some time now. Collapsing in a heap, he rocked back and forth, repeating to himself over and over. Seeing him, two attendants came and picked him up, putting him back inside. Recess was over for him.

High up, a curtain closed. Yes, Jobe was not making progress. After several weeks of treatment, still no signs of recovery. Removing his glasses, the doctor sat down at his desk, rubbing his eyes. Yes, Jobe would stay for good. replacing his glasses, the doctor went back to his paperwork.
 

Back inside, Jobe was cooing to himself softly. He had to get away, there was no more time to wait. Any day now the voices would decide it was truly time. That would be the end. They would have what they
most desired--revenge.

The next few days rolled by in agony. With each passing moment, Jobe could hear them. They were right there, behind him. Turning suddenly, he could just see them fading into the shadows. They were watching him, relishing his torment. He had to leave soon, as soon as possible. Then, one day, his chance came.

It was three days after his breakdown in the courtyard. It began innocently enough. The attendants woke him, taking them all to breakfast, taking them into the shower, etc. etc. On the way back into the common room, however, one of the attendants stopped at the door, waiting outside the anteroom. The other man closed the door behind him and turned on the guard. He was black.

All of this was happening as Jobe stood there. The others had already filed into the common room, well used to being hit for lagging. Jobe stood there, completely unnoticed by the two men. Then, suddenly, the one attendant turned on the guard, pulling out a gleaming knife . He opened his mouth wide, in what Jobe assumed was a yell. ÒThis is for my brother you maggot white trash," Jobe read. Then, without any warning, he stabbed the guard. Just like that, he stabbed him. The guard slumped over, holding himself as blood spurted from the wound. His eyes were wide, his face pale. The attendant wiped off the knife, dropped it, and turning, calmly left the room.

Jobe, wasting no time, dropped to the guard and snatched the key from his waist belt. Standing, he hesitated. He could leave now, the door was open, the guard was definitely distracted, being dead....but he was torn, it was daylight, he didn’t have a chance. Once that they learned the guard was dead, they would assume Jobe did it. At least at night it would be easier to evade the police...

All these thought revolving in Jobe’s head, he decided. Popping the key into his mouth, Jobe stood and left the antechamber nonchalantly. He would wait until nightfall.
 

Night seemed to take an eternity to arrive. The police had come and taken the body of the guard. From what Jobe could tell, they were having problems deciding whether or not to interview the patients. They were insane, yes, but had witnessed the murder first hand. On the other hand, they WERE insane, and could say anything...Finally, they decided to interview the attendants and other staff first. If nothing came up, then the patients would be next. All in all, all the photographing and sketching and taping and everything else took a substantial part of the day. The patients were confined to the room the whole time, since the police had to interview the staff.

Finally, however, they had left. The doctors, after having argued with the police for some time, had the room cleaned. This was only after extensive work was done by the detectives and forensic men, to make sure they got all the necessary evidence. They staunchly believed the room should be left as it was, but the doctors argued that they had to ferry the patients in and out of that room. To change rooms could cause trauma, they further argued. Thus, the police had reluctantly given in, but, since they only had one chance, they weren't going to miss anything.

Night fell not too much later, and, to Jobe’s great luck, they opted not to leave a guard. They must have been understaffed, he assumed. He didn't stop to question his good fortune too deeply. Waiting long after the light’s out bell was sounded, he quietly raised himself from bed, and, tiptoeing over to Frank, gently shook him awake.

"I'm leaving," Jobe signed.
"I thought as much. You have the key I assume?"
"Yes, you saw?"
"Yes. I saw. Listen Jobe, I know you’re disappointed I’m not coming. I really want to. I just...I just don’t think it’s best for me. I’m sorry."
"It's OK. I know. I can understand."
"Listen, Jobe, you’ve been the only real friend I’ve ever had. I want you to know that. Thank you for everything. I’ll miss you, you and your persistent late night lessons." Frank smiled, "I suppose...I suppose I should be happy for you, but I can’t. I’m too selfish. Once you're gone, I'll be alone again. It was bad before you came, real bad."

"Frank, one thing, before I go. You, you don’t think I’m crazy, do you?"
"No, Jobe, you're not crazy. You never were." He stretched out his hand. Jobe grasped it firmly . "Good bye Jobe..."
"Good bye Frank. I won’t forget you. You know that. I’ll never forget."
"Neither will I. Now go!"
Without another word--a last look sufficed, Jobe left. Quietly turning the key in the door, he opened it and slipped out.
 

It was colder than Jobe had anticipated. It had been a long time since he had been outside this late at night, too long. He shivered. Standing there, though, he relished in the cold night air, biting at his skin. It was good to breathe free night air again. He almost though it had been lost forever.

Leaving the building had been easy. Once he was outside the common room and antechamber, it was a simple matter of evading the stray attendants here and there until he reached the door outside. Now, standing there, he stopped for a second and let it all flow in. He was free, he was free, he was free! The voices would never find him this time. He would go far, far away, somewhere they couldn’t follow, where they’d never get to him. There had to be such a place, there had to be.

Of course, before going anywhere, he still had the wall to climb, but that would be easy. Starting off in the blackness, he quickly covered the necessary ground undetected. Soon he was standing beneath the stone wall, gazing up at the top. It wasn’t high, only about 20 feet. Ascending it would prove no true task. Not wasting time, he set his feet to the wall and began to climb. It was easy, the age old cracks making more than adequate handholds.

Jobe was almost to the top and over when he saw Frank. Hurrying, but not running, he made his way underneath his friend. Straining his neck up at Jobe, he held his hands out in exasperation, as if to say, "So I changed my mind already, OK?"

Smiling, Jobe continued to climb. Before long he was at the top, straddling the wall, a leg on either side. In the distance, the city lights shone, awaiting him, beckoning him. He was truly free now. The trials of confined existence were over. He was free, and he would run, far and hard. He would be free from the voices too. No longer would they rule over his life. No longer would he fear their presence. Triumph filling his heart, he watched Frank climbing beneath him. It was then, when he turned his head to gaze at Frank, that he saw them, coming for them. At first it looked like the police, and the thought struck that the missing guard had been a trap. ...Jobe tried signing, but Frank, too intent on climbing, never saw. Where triumph had been just scant seconds before, panic filled Jobe’s heart as he watched them coming closer and closer. Soon they would be upon them.

Moments passed as Jobe watched in anguish. Frank still didn’t know what was happening. When the rock hit Frank in the side, however, he knew. Falling to the ground, he saw them coming, shrouded in white.

Helplessly, Jobe watched his friend. They hadn't seen him, but they would be upon Frank in just a second or two Anguish tore through his body. Just below him lay freedom, lay a new life, lay a REAL life, one not plagued by his demons. With just one sweep of his legs over the side he would no longer have to be afraid. Looking out at the bright lights, the buildings, the life he, once, long ago, had known, he saw the end result of both actions.

Pulling his gaze away, Jobe started back down the wall. Making as little noise as possible, he crept down the rock face. Stopping about half way, he looked over his shoulder. There were fifteen of them, all circling Frank. They were yelling and screaming, he saw, but it was too dark to see what. It didn't matter anyway. They began to close the circle, and suddenly charged his friend. Several of the white guards/police began to mercilessly beat upon Frank's already prone body.

Dropping from the wall, Jobe pulled some of the attackers off his friend. Shocked by his presence, they did nothing at first. That didn't last long, however, and realizing Frank wasn't alone, they turned their attention on Jobe. The group stopped beating Frank and Jobe helped his bloody friend up. Glancing at Frank, he saw the look in his eyes. "I'm sorry".

A cool, unnerving stare greeted Jobe from 30 eyes. Looking closer at his attackers, he saw them for what they really were. His face went pale, his hands clenching and unclenching. There was Jimmy, and Bill, and Tim, and all the rest. They had come in the flesh this time. This time, there would be no escape. This time they wouldn't go away, simply leaving him frightened. This time they had what they desired.

"Jobe, Jobe, Jobe, Jobe," they all chanted as they began to overwhelm him.
There was no other choice. He had only one way to save his friend. "I'm begging you, please, kill me know, Spare Frank. It's me you want. Please, kill ME, KILL ME!!!" he screamed. Slowly they pressed in upon him and Frank. No, not Frank, not him. He had nothing to do with this. It was between the demons and himself. Pushing Frank away, out of the semi-circle, Jobe backed away, drawing their attention away from his friend. They followed.

"We're here Jobe, here for you. This time, no hiding, no running. This time, it's over. We're taking you now. It's your turn at last...Yes, we'll kill you now, oh yes, now it's time." Overwhelmed, Jobe felt his back pressed against the damp, dark gray stone wall. It was his dream, his dream come true...

Despite his resolve, denial flooded Jobe's body. It couldn't be. He was so close to freedom, so very close. They began to close in upon him, reaching for him, beating him with their arms, with their legs. He never had a chance. It was simply time.
Jobe could only give in to them. Falling to his knees, it was the only way to insure Frank's safety. He'd never had a chance to escape anyway. "Please, please, kill me now. Please." Tears fell from his eyes as he pleaded with the figures, shrouded in white robes and tall hats.

The voices stopped.