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AN HOMAGE TO VINCENT VEGA

 

SCENE 9:

 

AGAINST THE WIND

 

“Let me guess,” Rita said, nodding in the direction of Ian's briefcase.  “You need a quiet place to work.”

 

Ian nodded in return.  “Blue books, blue books, and more blue books.  I see blue books in my sleep.  But Vix says that, short of becoming a patient and getting a room of my own, the chances are slim to none.  Apparently, however, you have a solution for my little problem.”

 

“Possibly.  This ward is physically divided into two wings, one for voluntary admissions and one for involuntary.  The latter in turn consists of two distinct groups-- the first being those who are referred here for observation, typically by the police but also by staff in other hospital departments.  We can't hold these individuals for more than seventy-two hours without notifying the Court, after which they must either be released or we have to petition the Court for a six month committal, which is indefinitely renewable in six month increments.  And that's the second group.”

 

Rita gestured at the various mounds of paper scattered across her desk.  “On Tuesday next, I'll be in court all day, testifying at five different hearings-- two to get a court order for people that we want to keep beyond the seventy-two hour mark, and three to have the clock reset for a fresh six months.  Indications are that two of these cases are going to be litigated, which means additional hearings and a lot more paperwork.  Frankly, this job sucks.”

 

“You have my sympathy,” Ian offered, thinking of his own stack of blue books.  Tuesday was his deadline as well.

 

“As you've seen, security in the voluntary wing is close to non-existent, but security in the committals wing is the tightest we can make it.  I can give you work space in either, although normally I would not even consider the secure wing because there are no toilets there; everyone is in diapers 24/7.  But of course in your case this is not an issue.  Still, there is one slight problem, and I can't make it go away.  Since you are not staff, you can only be here as a patient.  So, I've filled out a voluntary admissions form in your name.”

 

“As you can see,” she continued, turning the paper so that he could examine it, “I've filled in REASON TO ADMIT with something so commonplace that it won't raise any eyebrows with your insurance provider.  See?”  Rita pointed at the relevant box.

 

EVALUATE SYMPTOMATIC DEPRESSION, ALCOHOL DEPENDENCY.

 

“As it happens, Ian,” she added very, very quietly, “in my professional judgment, neither would be far off the mark.”

 

“You think that I'm depressed … AN ALCOHOLIC?”  The disbelief in his voice was palpable.

 

“It's a preliminary finding, but yes, all indications are that you are suffering from chronic depression, and using alcohol to excess to masque the symptoms.”

 

“Ian, listen to me.  I'll say it again.  If you are here on a voluntary basis, you can reach out for help, or push it away.  It's your choice.  No one is going to treat you against your will.  So, if you want, you sign the paper, and I'll take you to a work space where you can get to it.  Later, you can decide whether you want to stay here overnight, or come home with me.  Either way, there is no alcohol waiting for you … not until Sarah gets back, and maybe never.  Did you know,” she laughed, “that by state law there is no alcohol for sale within five hundred yards of this hospital?  So, if you want to stay here overnight and still have a drink, you've got quite a hike ahead of you … both ways!”

 

“I don't believe this, Rita, I just don't.”  Ian couldn't stop shaking his head, couldn't stop wondering if this was all just a bad dream.  “We've known each other for what … for sure, less than a week.  And you've already psychoanalyzed me, concluded that I'm a drunk and off my rocker?  Give me a fuckin' break; I thought that we were friends.”

 

“We are, and that's why we are having this conversation.  Think, Ian, think!  I'm sorry, but if I've seen enough to draw preliminary conclusions in four days, what do you think other people are seeing?  Sarah?  Vickie?  Amy?  Your colleagues?  Your friends?”

 

“Jesus!”  Ian covered his eyes and began rubbing his temple with both hands.  “I just don't believe this,” he repeated.

 

“The one thing we have going for us is time.  Frankly, Ian, your problems are so manageable that any competent psychiatrist should be able to treat you with a high probability of success.  For us, you would be a low priority admission because you are a fully functional, gainfully employed adult.  Let me give you a concrete example.  Your diaper service … they pick up and drop off on Wednesday, right?”

 

“In the afternoon, yeah, usually around three to four.”

 

“Have you canceled this week's delivery?”

 

“Yes, I called them on Monday, first thing.”

 

“Did Sarah instruct you to do this, or did you do it on your own initiative?”

 

“Rita, what are you on about?  It was on my 'to do' list, so I damn well picked up the phone and did it.”  Ian was getting more and more exasperated by the second, and he wasn't in the mood to hide it.

 

“Just bear with me, okay?  Now, on Monday afternoon, you will be going home with Sarah.  What are you going to do about the diaper service?”

 

Ian ran the figures through his head.

 

Let's see.  I used, what?  Six of their diapers on Thursday and Friday, but the rest of the time I've been in these heavy duty hospital diapers … which reminds me that I need to go buy some new dress pants, jeans, the lot, to handle the added bulk … some of the students are giving me really funny looks … and I'll use another half a dozen on Tuesday and Wednesday, so I can get by with …

 

“I'll call them Monday to resume service, but short the order by an even dozen.”

 

Will Sarah take me shopping, help me choose stuff that's reasonably fashionable?  I hate shopping …

 

“And there you have it,”  Rita concluded as she drummed her fingernails on the desk.  “Ian, I have an entire ward filled with patients who can't do what you just did; they can't function, can't look after themselves.  Some of them can't even feed themselves.”

 

“So the point of this sermon is … what?  My stubborn pride?”

 

“Well, it is certainly blinding you to the fact that I'm trying to do you a favor... two favors, really.  You can work here without interference, and you now know that you have issues that you need to address.  More to the point, if you sign this paper, you and I can start addressing them together.”

 

Hesitating, but only for a moment, Rita laid a pen on top of the form.

 

“You want to become my shrink,”  the light finally dawning in Ian's mind.  “But wouldn't that be a bit unethical, considering that we slept in the same bed last night?”

 

Rita sighed, not at all sure whether she should tell Ian the truth.  But he was right, and that left her very little choice.  “Everything that happened last night was planned … the spanking … my comforting you.  However informally, it was your first treatment.”

 

Stunned, Ian rocked back in his chair, raising his arms to ward off an attack from some unseen enemy.  “The spanking was THERAPY?”  He could barely find his voice.

 

“Yes, but only Sarah and I knew.  The others … we kept them out of the loop, which turned out to be a big mistake.  Vickie was the first to figure it out, and she was understandably furious.  She dressed me down this morning, Ian, right in this office, and she didn't pull any punches.  She was really pissed.  But once she calmed down, she signed onto the program, although she wants Sarah left on the sidelines.  But I don't know where that leaves us because so far Sarah is the only person you'll confide in, when you choose to open up at all.”

 

Rita again leaned forward, deliberately closing the distance between them.  She looked him straight in the eyes, silently willing him not to look away.  “Is there any chance, after all that's happened, that you'll work with me … or maybe Vickie?  It has to be someone you know well enough to harbor at least some degree of trust, otherwise all the intervention in the world will get you nowhere.  Frankly,Vickie would be the best choice because your spankings are going to continue, Ian, and she's an expert at this particular therapy.  She will get results, and put a permanent end to your penchant for self-flagellation.  Vickie has no use for drunks, and even less tolerance for self-pity.  Think of her as a Marine Corps drill instructor who never bothered to enlist because she thinks the Corps is too soft.” 

 

“Unfuckin' believable,” Ian said with a long sigh.  “What does Sarah say about all this?”

 

“She doesn't know … I haven't talked with her since last night.  It's really Vickie who's taking the lead here.  Ian, Vickie is really hung up on you.  She's our resident queen of the one night stands, but not with you.  She wants you for the long haul, and she's willing to invest the time it takes to mold you to her satisfaction because she's hoping that Sarah will come to her senses and throw you overboard.  If that happens, believe me, Vickie will scoop you up so fast that you will never know what hit you!  And do I need to add that I'm good with this because Vic is trained for this work and Sarah isn't?” 

 

“I need to talk with Sarah … I need to know that she's okay, damn it!”

 

Oh, Ian, it's easy to see why Sarah loves you.  She dropped a boulder on your head last night, and your reaction is to ask whether she's okay …

 

“You will.  She's decent, Ian, decent and thoughtful; when she can manage it, she will call just to let us know that she's got home safely.  Anyway,” she finished, “you need to make a decision.  You tell me to fuck off, and you get up and walk out of here, or … you sign a piece of paper that I shall somehow misplace, but it will end up in your permanent record with your insurance carrier, who will also lose track of it unless you do something in future that draws it to their attention.  End of story, except for one other thing.  I need your help, and I need it rather badly.”

 

Now what.  That was Ian's immediate reaction.  What the fuck else is she going to lay on me?

 

He spread his arms, surrendering to the insanity of the moment.  “I'm listening.”

 

“Phil Kettering and Don Philips … two of your own, Ian, two young men about your age, who came home fighting the same ghosts you are.   The police found them … well, you know the story.  It's pretty much the same one every time, just minor variations.  Homeless, drifting, living out of shelters when there's space, problems with alcohol … we don't take drug addicts, we don't have the expertise and we don't have the resources ...”

 

Rita swiveled in her chair, and turned blind eyes to the glittering facade of the downtown Minneapolis skyline.

 

“They're not violent, and if you want to know how messed up this world really is, just consider that this works against them.  If they were violent, we could keep them here, or in another institution, for a long, long time.  But they're not, and we're going to lose them because we don't have the resources.  They're going back out into the streets, and they'll die out there … two veterans cast adrift by a nation that's moved on, wants to pretend that they don't exist, indifferent and uncaring.”

 

Rita stared at the gleaming glass towers, mirrored beauty in the shadows of which there was so much ugliness, so much avoidable tragedy.

 

“But we care, Ian; in this ward we care a very great deal.  We have to try, and we have no cards left to play.  None, except you.  I'm hoping that because the three of you live in constant fear of something that's destroying you from within … that maybe, just maybe … they'll talk to you when they won't talk to us.  But you can't do this without signing that paper, and going in there as one of them.  You can't be an outsider.  So I'm asking you … begging you, really … if you can't face your own fears, will you at least help them to face theirs?”

 

“This is why our Saturday nights,” she whispered, “therapy for the therapists.  They help us stay sane.”

 

Ian closed his eyes and shivered with cold in an office that was uncomfortably warm.

He didn't know how many times he had watched Willie Ross die, arms outstretched, reaching for the screaming baby that had been left staring up into the pitiless tropical sun, abandoned on a levee overlooking a rice paddy in a village nine thousand miles from home.  In slow motion, replaying it over and over again in his mind, he could hear himself screaming at Willie that there was a trip wire, but Willie hadn't heard, and a good hearted nineteen year old kid from Mobile, Alabama had been ripped to shreds in the explosion, Willie and the baby both shredded so completely that they had gone home together, in the same body bag.

 

And then Captain Ian Grady had written still another letter, to tell grieving parents that their son had died nobly, fighting to bring freedom to a land in which the very concept had no meaning.

 

Ian sat there in Rita's office, eyes closed, his wet but not yet uncomfortable diaper all but ignored, leaking silent tears.  There wasn't enough booze in the universe to dull the memories that played inside his head on endless loops, and he was so very, very tired.  Perversely to paraphrase the lyric, he was no longer young and strong, no longer capable of runnin' against the wind.  He just wanted to go home.

 

But home, it now came to him, wasn't a place but a person, and with each passing minute Sarah was getting farther and farther away.  All he could do was pray for her safe return, for the moment when she would cradle him in her arms and, for a time, make all the pain go away.

 

Duty, that most demanding of all mistresses, had long ago consigned Ian Grady to his fate.  Reaching out, the Major slid the paper a bit closer, studied it for a moment, then picked up the pen and signed where Rita had indicated.

 

SCENE 10:

 

THE HOTEL CALIFORNIA

 

“I feel silly.”

 

Ian was standing in the middle of a nondescript locker room beyond which, through the most highly secure door in the entire hospital, lay the quarters housing the involuntarily committed.

 

“And you look it,” Marge sheepishly agreed.  Studying him from head to toe, she nodded approvingly.

 

Ian was still clothed in his usual hospital diaper and vinyl pants, but in addition he was now sporting a thick canvas diaper cover-- and it was locked.

 

Marge ran her fingers around the waist and thigh openings, trying to force her way in so that she could yank them off.  But the pants weren't going anywhere until she unlocked them.  Everything the purchasing department was ordering from West Germany was turning out to be state of the art.

 

Marge gave his top a final check.  Ian was wearing the usual hospital gown, but it was short enough that his diapers were fully exposed, and instead of being open in the back, it was zipped up to his neck, where a snap lock secured it in place.

 

“Every patient in this ward is dressed in exactly the same way,” she added with a trace of impatience.  “Do keep in mind that the business end of a diaper pin is three inches long.  If a patient were to get his hands on one and straighten it out, he would have a six inch long weapon with a workable handle.  You can do a lot of damage with a diaper pin, Ian; believe me, we've tested them.”

 

“It's the shoes, Marge!  For God's sake, why am I wearing bright red boat shoes?”

 

These were also locked in place, and once again Marge had the key.

 

“Patients sometimes rage out of control, and attack staff or other patients for no apparent reason.  No one wearing these shoes is going to do much damage with their feet.”

 

“And the restraints?”

 

Ian's hands were both encased in heavy canvas mittens, identical to the ones that Sarah made him wear at home.  He was so used to them that they didn't disturb him in the slightest.  But there were steel O rings securely embedded in the lining of his diaper cover, and short leather straps tethered his hands to the rings.  Since these were also locked, Ian's hands were effectively chained to his side.  He had tried to locate his penis through the multiple layers of clothing that kept it out of sight, but the straps didn't give him enough play. 

 

Which means that I can't touch myself while I'm wearing this outfit.  Wonder if that's by design …

 

“Required.”  Marge's impatience was becoming more apparent.  “Committals don't simply waltz in here, Ian.  They are always heavily restrained.  Now, are you ready for the muzzle?”  Marge was holding it in her hands.

 

“Just get on with it.”

 

“All right.  But remember, if this interferes with your breathing, nod your head vigorously and I'll remove it.  Ready?”

 

Ian opened wide, and Marge inserted a thick bulb deep into his mouth.  A stiff plastic face plate that lay snug against his lips kept it in place, while heavy straps that Marge efficiently fastened behind his head made sure that he couldn't spit it out.  He already knew that a feeding tube could be run through the face plate into the center of the bulb, and that he could be given fluids and food though the holes that dotted its surface-- if you wanted to call the mush that came out of the bag left hanging on an IV pole food.  Vickie had delighted in showing him the tools of her trade, teasing him that only good boys got out of the restraints that he would be wearing when he made his debut performance. 

 

And she made it abundantly clear that she was hoping I'd turn out to be a very, very bad boy …

 

Ian was seriously beginning to wonder whether Vickie was the Devil incarnate.

 

“Oh … kay,” Marge said as she stepped back, admiring her handiwork.  “Just the leg restraints, and we'll be good to go.”  She knelt before Ian, and quickly secured his ankles in thick leather cuffs; the lead was so short that he would have to shuffle rather than take normal steps.

 

“What do you think, Victoria?  Have I missed anything?”

 

“Looks good to me,” Vickie laughed.  She found Ian's obvious discomfort highly amusing.

 

No need for him to know that I don't think all this melodrama is necessary.  Keep it light, which will make it clear to him that it's Miss By the Book here who's insisting that we follow the admissions protocol to the letter.  By all means, let her play the bad cop to her heart's content; then ...  if this experiment blows up in our face ... the ball will land in her court, and that will get Rita off  the hook.  Little Miss By the Book won't be running to the Director's office with the latest lurid tale of Psych ward misbehavior if I've got my fist well and truly shoved up her cunt ...  

 

“Though I do have to say that our baby would look really, really cute in a Scold's Bridle.  Did you see that episode of The Avengers...”

 

“The one with Mrs. Peel in the chastity belt,” Marge interjected.  “I never missed an episode, but that one was my favorite.”

 

“Mine, too,” Vickie said as she got up and walked over to give Ian the once over.  She ran her hand slowly over his crotch and then took her time carefully checking his muzzle.   “But I do wish that he had more stubble on his cheeks.”  Vickie lightly patted first one and then the other.  “Should we rub him down with some garbage to make good the difference?  He just doesn't smell like someone recently picked up out of the gutter.”

 

Oh, Ian … if you only knew what's in store for you when I get you inside room eleven …

 

Ian could hardly miss the mischievous twinkle in Vickie's eyes.

 

Are you having fun, Vix?  You wouldn't believe the things that I want to do to you … or maybe you would ...

 

“A good point,” Marge conceded as she in turn ran her fingers over Ian's cheeks.  “It is too bad that he shaved this morning; we definitely could do with a bit scruffier appearance.”

 

“Well,” Vickie suggested, “we could leave him like this for a day or two … give him time to get a little ripe.  It would definitely give him greater credibility.”

 

Trussed up and gagged, Ian could only roll his eyes.  Vickie was having way too much fun at his expense.

 

“Hmmmmmm.”  Marge dragged it out to let Ian know that she was seriously considering Vickie's suggestion.  “But no,” she sighed; “Rita's made it clear that there's a clock running, and that time is not on our side.  So for now, we'll just have to postpone our fun.”

 

Miss By the Book turned back to Ian.  “Now remember, when Don and Phil see you come into the play room, to them you will look just like any other new arrival.  We'll remove the muzzle first, then your restraints.  Next comes the usual song and dance about not acting out or the restraints go right back on.  Vickie will do the honors while I stand back and watch.  Don't move to the bench until Vickie instructs you to do so.  Phil Kettering is the one with light brown to blonde hair.  If at all possible, keep him between you and Phillips.  Don has shut down completely, which worries us because it's often the prelude to a violent psychotic episode.  If your presence sets him off, we don't want you in the line of fire.  There will be two male orderlies out of your line of sight; trust them to handle the situation.  Do not, under any circumstances, intervene.  Nod if you got all that.”

 

Ian nodded.

 

“Good,” Marge concluded.  “Don't worry about your diaper.  In fact, it would be a real plus if you could soil yourself in Kettering's presence because it will add to your authenticity.  But if it happens, just sit there and pretend that you don't know where the smell is coming from.  Now, let's get this show on the road!”

 

“I'll do the honors!”  Vickie punched in the door code, and stood aside to let Ian shuffle forward.  “Welcome to the Hotel California,” she laughed.

 

Ian could only look at her quizzically.

 

“You'll see, Princess, you'll see.”

.  .  .  .

 

Ian plopped on the bench, and looked around.  There wasn't much going on.  A couple of guys sitting on the padded floor, one of them making the occasional grunting noise … another guy standing in front of the heavily screened window, just standing there, staring into space … and, of course, to his left, Don and Phil.

 

The Everly Brothers, he decided.  Wonder if they can sing Bye Bye Love.

 

The moldy oldie was the first 45 that Ian had ever bought, all the way back in '57.

 

A lot of water under that particular bridge, he shrugged, watching Marge out of the corner of his eye.  In turn, Marge was watching him out of the corner of her eye while pretending to do her job.

 

Whatever that is ...

 

Vickie had already departed the scene, having given Ian chapter and verse.  He had pretended dutifully to listen, and he had followed her instructions to the letter.  He had seen the disappointment in her eyes.

 

She really, really wants me to be a naughty boy. 

 

Ian was methodically probing his diaper cover, trying to figure out if he could generate enough friction to wank off.  He figured that he owed Marge a cheap thrill, and it seemed like the sort of thing that a hard core, down on his luck boozer would do in a joint like this anyway.

 

His reward was another stream of piss, for which his diaper seemed appropriately grateful.

 

If diapers could talk, I wonder what they'd have to say ...and why the hell is Vickie still here?  She was already off shift when she picked me up …

 

Ian's fingers continued their exploratory probe over the hills and dales of his diaper cover …

 

Well guess what, Vickie, I wrote the book on bad assery.  Three tours in southwest Pacific … well, should I count the last one?  I mean, it was really pretty badly interrupted.  Anyway, I didn't pick up Khmer and Lao sitting on my ass in Nha Trang.  Hell, I spent so little time on the beach that I couldn't even get a half-assed tan.

 

Great beach, though.  I'd like to go back someday … hey, Marge, do I have to send up smoke signals or something?  Are you enjoying the show?

 

“Do we get chow in this place,” he muttered under his breath, his eyes still staring fixedly at an imaginary dot on the opposite wall.  He wanted Kettering to make the first move.

 

He sensed Phil turn his head a millimeter or two to begin the six million year old process of deciding whether he was friend or foe.  It took a lot of effort to defeat the hard wiring in human DNA, and Phil Kettering clearly wasn't up to the task.

 

“It's coming.”

 

 “Hope it's better than the shit they serve up over at the shelter.  That stuff's gross.”

 

With Rita's help, Ian had done his homework.  It hadn't taken long.  There wasn't much in the file-- a police report detailing a transient's passage through shelters around the downtown core, but nothing from the VA.  It was pretty clear that neither Don nor Phil had made use of their benefits.

 

“Better some days, worse others.”  Phil had gone back to staring into empty space, but at least he was talking.   

 

Staring at nothing's gotta be an art form around here … do they get gold stars if they can look at nothing without blinking for half an hour?  And fuck you, Rita!  I wouldn't be here if you hadn't hung your ass out to dry!  Giving me their files to read … the worst violation of patient confidentiality I've ever seen.  If this got out, they'd fire you on the spot … Jee-zus!

 

“My last decent meal was at the officer's mess in Quang Tri, and that was God only knows how many years ago.  Say, do you happen to know what the fuck year this is?  I've lost track.”

 

“Don't know, don't care.  Don did his tour in Quang Tri.  Were you 9th Infantry?”

 

Ian shook his head.  “Special Forces, 5th Airborne.  Out of Nha Trang.  Didn't spend much time there, though.  We resupplied out of places like Quang Tri all the time … just five klicks to the west, and you were over the line.”

 

“Laos.”

 

“Yeah … Laos.  Fuck, I need to jerk off so bad!”  Ian was still playing with his diaper cover, which he now reckoned had been invented by somebody in the Spanish Inquisition.

 

“Won't happen,” Phil whispered, “and if the Wicked Witch sees you trying, it's straight back into the mittens. And if you get too far out of line, they put you down for the night in full restraints.  I need to get out of here ...”  Phil nodded in Marge's direction; the Wicked Witch currently had the guy staring out the window dead in her sights.

 

She's overdoing it, Ian thought.  Damn it, Marge, surveille the damn room!  Don't make it so bloody obvious that you're play acting!

 

“What about you,” Ian queried.

 

 “3rd Battalion, 60th Infantry … outside My Tho.”

 

“The Delta.”  Ian spat it out.  “Word is that it got really hairy down there.”

 

“Yeah.  I went in with the lead elements in May of '67.  Ten months in a fuckin' swamp.  Skirmishes by day and sappers by night.  It never ended.  We fed Saigon the bullshit kill numbers that they wanted, but we never made a dent.  It was all bullshit and it was all hairy.  A lot of guys didn't make it home … wish I'd been one of them.”

 

Ian nodded.  After Hue, he had made the same wish on more than one occasion.

 

“Donnie's lost it,” Kettering whispered.  “A whole tour at Quang Tri, repairing stuff in the motor pool by day and walking perimeter by night.  Sappers in his soup.  When he went short time, he wigged out.  Came home in a strait jacket, got thirteened, dumped in the streets.  Pissing … pooping in his pants?  None of it reaches him anymore.”

 

Ian leaned forward so that he could get a better look at Don Phillips.  His first thought was LSD, the whole Haight-Ashbury to Woodstock scene, but Rita had been adamant that the druggies were screened out, never made it into the program.

 

Poor guy.

 

“Rank?”

 

“Corporal … just like me.  How about you?”

 

“Major … three tours … all the low lights.”

 

“Fuckin' A!  Should I salute?”

 

“Not hardly.  The army and I didn't exactly part ways on the best of terms.”

 

“Fuckin' A.”

 

“I wanted to go back,” Ian elaborated as he reached down to rub the ugly scar on his left leg.  “But the Pentagon said no, so I resigned my commission, told them to go fuck themselves, and I went back on my own.  I had debts to pay … still do.”

 

Out of the blue, he suddenly started laughing.  “Do you have any idea how hard it is to find adult diapers in Saigon?”

 

“You need them?”  Phil was looking at Ian's thigh, trying to figure out the caliber that had blown through it.

 

It's hard to believe this guy can stand upright …

 

“Yeah.”  Ian reached around to tap the small of his back.  He reckoned that it was just below the top of his diapers.  “The round must have been tumbling at extreme range … can't be any other explanation for why I'm still alive.  Shattered on impact.  Didn't put me in a wheelchair, just diapers.  No control at all … zip, zero and nada.  By the way, I'm sorry if I stink up the place.  There's no warning … I just … I just go.”    

 

 “Hey, don't worry about it, man.  When you gotta go, you gotta go.”

 

This is unbelievable, Marge fumed.  For fifteen weeks, all we get out of Phil Kettering is the thousand yard stare, and then Grady comes along and gets his whole life story in less than fifteen minutes!  Is it the uniform?  Then what the Hell, let's hire Hot Lips Houlihan and be done with it!

 

Marge hadn't caught every word, but she'd caught more than enough.  And she could get the rest later because every square inch of the ward was wired for both sound and video.  Still seething, she couldn't help but wonder whether Rita and Vickie were enjoying the show, and what Sarah would make of it when she listened to the tape.

 

Dinner was being served.

 

.  .  .  .

 

After dinner, it became readily apparent to Ian that there were far more patients in the ward than he had realized.  He had followed Phil to an adjoining room, where they had sat at a long trestle table to eat conventional hospital food with plastic utensils.  In contrast, a nurse had had to help Don to his feet, and then guide him farther down the corridor.  They had disappeared into a room to the left, not to be seen again until after dinner, when they returned to the main hall.  The nurse steered him back to his perch before leading still another patient into an adjoining chamber.  Nurses and orderlies were escorting patients in and out in a steady stream before leading them back down the corridor to their individual rooms.

 

 Must be diaper changing time, with beddie bye just over the horizon.  And it looks like Marge is in charge of the whole shebang.

 

Marge was standing more or less in the center of the chamber, with a clipboard in hand.  As each nurse or orderly came out with a freshly diapered patient in tow, Marge made a note on her form, and patient and attendant promptly set sail back down the corridor.  Gradually, the main hall began to empty.

 

 Wonder who goes where, and why …

 

“To restrain or not to restrain, that is the question!” Vickie was giggling in his ear.

 

Badly startled, Ian jumped to his feet, pee gushing into his diaper, his thoughts perversely turning once again to Pete and Toby, the python and the elephant, forever bound together by the torrent of pee that his drunken python would unleash on a hapless world.

 

“Where the hell did you come from?”  Ian wanted to shout the question out at the top of his lungs, but Marge was glaring, and something in the way she was looking at them took the air out of his sails.  “Where,” he whispered again.

 

“Oh, I've been around,”  she giggled “no, seriously, I just went down to the cafeteria to grab a bite to eat.  Rita's still hard at it, so she's asked me to stay on and keep you company.  I think the word 'babysit' came up at some point.  Would widdle baby Ian like his aunt Vickie to babysit him for a while?  Hmm?”

 

“Is she your girlfriend?”

 

“Huh?”  Ian whirled around, having completely forgotten that Phil was sitting just a few feet away.

 

Fuck …

 

“I like her … I like her a lot.” 

 

Then, inspiration struck.

 

“What about you, Phil.  Is there a nurse on the staff that you really, really like?”

 

“I like Becky.”  A wistful smile creased Phil Kettering's features.  “I like her a lot.”

 

Ian looked at Vickie, and Vickie looked at Ian, big smiles on both their faces.  And they both turned to look at Marge, who hadn't missed a thing.  She made a note on her clipboard.

 

Vickie walked over, and bent over the clipboard.  “I'll take care of Ian personally,” she whispered.  “Rita wants him in room eleven.”

 

“WHAT!”  Marge took a deep breath, struggling to lower her voice.  “He doesn't belong in eleven … that's maximum security!”

 

“Oh, come on.  Aren't you a tad curious to see how little baby Ian is going to react when he sees a crib large enough to hold him, and all of those Segufix restraints?  He didn't put up a fight when we prepped him, so Rita and I are really curious to see where this might lead.  Aren't you?”

 

“Yes, but ...”

 

“No buts.  Ian has gone the extra mile for Rita, and he deserves a reward.  I'm going to see that he gets it, but first I need to find out what will give him the hard-on to end all hard-ons!”

 

“And Sarah?”

 

“She's not here.  I am.”

 

Marge shrugged, and made another entry on her clipboard.  Wordlessly, she handed Vickie the key to Ian's diaper cover.

 

“Take your time.  I'll see to it that surveillance is turned off.”

 

“Already done,” Vickie noted, before retreating to Ian's side.

 

SCENE 11:

 

VICTORIA'S SECRET

 

“So, this will be your room if you want it, for the whole holiday weekend.  Sarah probably won't be back until very late on Sunday; I can drop you at work on Monday morning, and she can pick you up in the afternoon and take you home.”

 

Vickie's hand was gripping the doorknob, but she had yet to open the door.  “You'll find the furnishings a bit unorthodox, but the upside is that it's very quiet.  You should be able to grade all your tests with time to spare.”

 

Vickie opened the door, and stood aside to let Ian pass.  She slid into the room behind him, and eased the door shut.  Ian did not know that he was now locked in.  It required another six digit code to unlock the door.  Ian did not have it, and Vickie was not about to give it to him.  Staff had firm instructions never to share any codes with patients-- and Ian was now a patient, the necessary paperwork safely locked away in a file in Rita's office.

 

Ian gawked at his surroundings.  Although there were no windows, in many respects he was standing in an ordinary two bed hospital room.  There was a desk and swivel chair, with cabinets overhead-- the design ubiquitous in doctor's offices worldwide.  There was  a bathroom cubicle, but he immediately noticed that there was no toilet.

 

Ah, but there's no need for one, not with all the patients in diapers.  Hospitals aren't famous for spending money on nonessentials …

 

Ian ran his hand over the examination table.  It was virtually identical to the ones on which he had been laid out literally dozens of times in Japan and Hawaii, with one glaring exception: it featured open shelves, and the shelves were lined with what appeared to be dozens of diapers-- the same, large hospital diaper that he was now wearing under his diaper cover.

 

Vickie will need to change me pretty soon.  Hope she's got the key.  Now, where's the diaper pail …

 

Ian looked around, but couldn't spot it, so he presumed that it was out of his line of sight in the bathroom.  He also couldn't figure out where they were storing his baby pants, but since there was no closet, they figured to be in one of the cabinets, along with the oils and powders that were his main line of defense against diaper rash.

 

Vickie continued to hover in the doorway, watching him like a hawk.  He had lingered over the changing table, and he was studying everything in the room-- everything except the pediatric crib that could easily house him, and the elaborate set of restraints neatly decorating its surface.  It dominated the room.

 

So he really is a baby, she decided.  Pretending not to see it is such a giveaway.  Now, if only he'll fondle the restraints, pretend to examine them.  Do it, Princess!  Do it!

 

Vickie fought to keep her pulse from racing out of control, her breathing suddenly harder and more shallow.

 

Ian hesitantly approached the crib, taking in the scale of it, realizing that it would hold him easily even if he was fully outstretched.  He stood an arm's length away, trying to make sense of the latticework of leather restraints that covered its surface. The materials seemed to be identical to the restraints that he had been wearing when he entered the ward, but these looked much more formidable.

 

Do it, baby!  Do it!  Vickie could feel her nipples harden, the heat beginning to flow through her body.  She was already wet, knew that she was flooding the room with her pheromones.  Would her scent enslave Ian as it had so many of the men she had picked up in bars and lounges over the years?  But no man had ever excited her the way Ian Grady did, not even remotely.  She still didn't understand the attraction, but she wasn't about to deny it.

 

Ian reached out to finger the ankle restraints …

 

Get in the crib, Ian!  Go ahead, try it out.  For God's sake, just do it!

 

He was studying the waist harness, not quite sure what the crotch piece was for …

 

Get in the crib, Ian!  For God's sake, get in the crib and lie down!  I'll start at your ankles and slowly work my way up, watching your eyes, watching you accept, as the locks click home one by one, accept that you're just a helpless baby, accept that you belong here … accept that you exist to please me …

 

The most curious feature of all, Ian decided, was the elaborate head restraint.

 

Why would they go to such trouble to keep a guy from turning his head?

 

And I'll finish by immobilizing your head so completely that all you'll be able to do is stare up at me … at my naked body … sliding ever so slowly in on top of you … mounting you … inviting you … commanding you to eat me and eat me and eat me.  And if you're really good at it, maybe I'll return the favor, or maybe I'll just tease you endlessly, make you beg for what I really don't want you to have …

 

Ian turned away from the crib, facing her.

 

“Vickie, could you change my diaper?  I'm really soaked!”

 

.  .  .  .

 

“Upsy-Daisy, baby,” Vickie cheerfully said, patting the well padded top of the changing table.  Her game face had already slipped neatly into place, but she was still watching Ian closely.  His seemingly genuine lack of curiosity about the crib and its state of the art restraints was a crushing disappointment, but Vickie was far more worried about the immediate consequences of her near orgasmic blowout-- or rather, the lack of immediate consequences.

 

Am I losing my touch?  Why isn't he pawing me?  Damn it, the only thing he can possibly smell in this room is my pussy juice!  He should be all over me like white on rice!  What gives?

 

Ian hoisted himself onto the table and stretched out, getting comfortable.  Gracefully entwined fingers supplied a makeshift pillow at the back of his neck.

 

Will I have to finger fuck his ass again?

 

Vickie walked around the table, found the dangling strap, and casually tossed it across his chest.  Reversing course, she positioned the strap just beneath his armpits, then yanked it tight and secured it.

 

It's time for plan B ...

 

Ian wasn't going anywhere.

 

There were other straps at the bottom of  the table, but they would have to wait.  The next order of business was removing his diaper.

 

Clean his bottom, slip a new diaper under him … then finish tying him down … have some fun …

 

“It's way too tight, Vickie; is this strap even necessary?”

 

“It's standard procedure, baby; we can't have patients rolling off the table and breaking a bone or two when they hit the floor.”

 

“Oh, okay … makes sense.”  Ian yawned; he was emotionally exhausted, and ready to call it a day.  He closed his eyes, ready to nod off, surrendering completely to Vickie's highly skilled touch.

 

Vickie unlocked his diaper cover and, unbidden and with eyes still closed, Ian raised his hips so that she could remove it.  His baby pants came next, and Vickie had just finished removing his diaper pins and lowering the sodden fabric when another stream of piss came pouring out of him.

 

Vickie hastily raised the diaper and held it in place, waiting for the stream to slow to a trickle and then halt.

 

My nephew did that the very first time that I changed him!  But Ian's not a baby … well, not physically at least, and I really want to find out how he stacks up.  So, baby, you're not going anywhere until Mommy's ready to haul out her tape measure and record your … um … your vital statistics?  You'd be amazed at some of the things that go into a patient's chart!

 

Vickie gently tapped the top of Ian's thigh, and instantly he raised his hips.  She removed the diaper and tossed it into the diaper pail that he had failed to spot, in a recess that was directly beneath his navel.  Another tap on the thigh, another pair of raised hips, and a fresh diaper unfolded beneath him.  Ian settled into place, only to feel Vickie pushing on his knees.  This was his cue to raise and hold his legs so that she could clean his bottom, and he did so without conscious thought.  When Vickie finished, a slight push in the opposite direction was all the instruction Ian needed to lower his legs.

 

We make a good team, the fleeting thought bubbling up in one of the few corners of his conscious mind that was still alert to his surroundings.

 

He's so docile, she thought, marveling at his lack of resistance, the ease with which she could get him to do her unspoken bidding.

 

Vickie stepped decisively to the bottom of the table, and with a deep sense of satisfaction surveyed her helpless captive.

 

Not helpless enough, she grinned.

 

Quickly and efficiently, she secured his ankles in heavy leather shackles, and then just as quickly pulled the straps taut that anchored them to opposite sides of the table.  Idly giving one of his ankles her now customary pat, she slid up to look down upon her true prize-- her captive's still flaccid penis.  She touched it with an outstretched finger, caressed it.  Then she looked up, wanting to gauge his reaction.

 

Vickie's eyes opened with astonishment, and her jaw all but hit the floor.

 

Ian was sound asleep.

 

Ian was in point of fact gently snoring.

 

Shaking her head in disbelief, Vickie snugly pinned his diaper, but without the added protection of  his vinyl pants, she knew that it was just a matter of time before he leaked all over the changing table.

 

I'll deal with the mess later … and he looks so cute lying there, sleeping away, wearing nothing over his widdle diapee.  Thank God I've stashed a Wand in my locker!

 

.  .  .  .

 

Vickie stormed into Rita's office and, without waiting for the invitation, dropped into the only chair that wasn't covered with files.  It was transparently obvious that she was well and truly frustrated.

 

“Spare me the denials, Rita; we all know that you can control the feeds from in here, so just turn the damn video on!”

 

Rita looked at her blankly, her mind still focused on the paperwork that was far too slowly making the journey from desktop to filing cabinet.

 

What is it this time, she wondered.  And then she remembered room eleven.

 

Shrugging, she reached over and flipped a switch on the elaborate console that occupied a permanent spot on the right side of her desk.  A second switch accessed the feed from the chamber, and sure enough …

 

Rita burst out laughing.  She kept repeatedly shaking her head, looking back and forth between Vickie and the screen.

 

No wonder she looks so frustrated …

 

“Vic, are you losing your touch?  I mean, really.  You've got him trussed up like a chicken.  He's totally at your mercy … every man's secret fantasy.  No baby pants … no cover ... nothing but a diaper.  Where's the old fire down below?”

 

Still shaking her head, Rita slapped the desktop with the palm of her hand.  Then she reached up to wipe the tears out of her eyes.

 

“No, I mean, come on!  His cock should be standing to attention, the diaper doing double duty as an umbrella!  But he's sound asleep!  What gives?”

 

“I DON'T KNOW,” Vickie wailed.  “He wasn't interested in the crib … the restraints didn't turn him on … WHAT THE HELL IS THE MATTER WITH THIS GUY?”

 

Rita leaned far over the desk.  “Can you keep a secret?”

 

“No,” Vickie protested, “but tell me anyway!”

 

“Sarah says that he has a limp dick, so don't feel too bad.”

 

“Huh?  If Sarah said that, then she's the one who's losing her touch.  Oh, I don't mean to say that, lengthwise, Ian's another Johnny Wadd, but trust me … trust me … Ian's a tree trunk!  I swear, you could stack a roll of quarters on his dick, and it wouldn't droop!”

 

“No way!!!!  Wait … wait … what do you know that Sarah doesn't?  What's Ian's dirty little secret?”

 

“I finger fucked his ass twice.  He really gets off on prostate massage.”

 

Rita snapped her fingers.

 

“Now I get it,” she exclaimed.  “No wonder you looked like the cat that had swallowed the canary when you waltzed out of her earlier.  No wonder, indeed!  But ...”

 

Rita leaned back in her chair, and stared at the ceiling, running the implications through her mind.

 

“Interesting … in the immortal words of Sergeant Schultz, “very, very inter … esting.  Is there any possibility that our little prince is in point of fact a little princess?”

 

“Well, the thought has crossed my mind.”  Vickie leaned back in her chair as well, a huge grin lighting up her features.  “Armed with his measurements, I paid a visit to one of my favorite boutiques a couple of days ago.  Now that the cat's out of the bag, let's just say that I have something in my locker that we can use to test his responses.”

 

“So we may have been barking up the wrong tree from the get go,” Rita concluded.

 

“Are you going to tell Sarah,” Vickie smirked.

 

“I don't know … I really don't.  She's not like you, Vic; I get the impression that she's not all that adventurous in the bedroom.”

 

“Just a good, hard spanking to get his attention, then roll him over … mount … ride … dismount.”  Vickie grinned maliciously.  “That's what I call foreplay!”

 

“And all I want to do is breast feed the poor bastard,” Rita lamented.  “Seriously, my maternal instincts are totally out of control and I'm so frustrated that I could climb the walls!  I'm planning on going out and buying a breast pump next week.”

 

“Get me one too,” Vickie screamed.  “You can feed him breakfast, and I'll give him lunch!  Saturday nights will never be the same!!!”

 

“Hey, I know,” she added as she stood up to pull a bright yellow tape measure out of her pocket.  “Look!  I was going to take measurements for you to note in his permanent file.  Why not include my report on his response to prostate massage, and hint at the implications?  Just keep to the usual bureaucratic style … but make sure that Sarah sees it next week!”

 

“I like it, Vic,” Rita said as she mulled it over.  “I like it a lot.”

 

“Then it's a plan … but what are we going to do about Ian right now?  I don't want to leave him like that, damn it!  I want him in the crib … in restraints … but I want him semi awake and watching while the locks all go clickety, click.  If he doesn't object, then it means we're doing it with his consent!”

 

“Agreed.  But unfortunately, we don't have a fourteen foot tall Amazon on the premises, who could just pick him up, lay him in his crib, and leave you to get him ready for beddie-bye.  It's a nice fantasy, but …

 

“She wouldn't fit through the door anyway,” Vickie sulked.  “Hey,” she went on, “did you ever see Attack of the 50 Foot Woman?”

 

“So, what are we going to do about Ian,” Rita asked, trying to bring Vickie back to the ongoing problem in room eleven.

 

“I don't know.  If you're going to get out of here anytime soon, I suppose we should wake him and get him dressed to leave with you.  That is the plan, right?  You're supposed to take him home, keep him away from the bottle, and put him to bed?”

 

“That's the plan,” Rita admitted, “for the whole weekend.   But frankly, I'd rather leave him here for the night.  I need sleep, and I'm not going to get it if I'm worried that he's going to sneak out to the kitchen and start boozing it up.  Besides, I want him to continue interacting with Kettering.  We're learning so much about both of them … we need to keep the relationship going.”

 

“And Becky?”

 

Rita laughed again.  “We really owe Ian for that one!  Yeah, I'm going to task Becky with babysitting both of them.  She's got first shift tomorrow, and it's tradition that staff and patients eat turkey together ...”

 

“Which brings us back to Ian.  How are we going to get him into the crib?”

 

Rita and Vickie looked at one another, and then burst out laughing.  They had both had the same thought …

 

“Amos and Andy!”

 

SCENE 12:

 

GHOST IN THE MACHINE

 

Vickie entered the six digit code, and quickly stood to the side as the door buzzed.  She didn't want to get trampled when the behemoths charged in.

 

Andrew McCullough was a living legend.  Twenty-four years old.  Able to bench press a school bus.  Six foot three inches and two hundred and twenty pounds of wall to wall muscle.  The only man in the history of Minnesota high school football to rack up sixty yards in penalties on a single play-- but then he was also the only man in the history of Minnesota high school football to pick up a line judge and throw him over a fence.

 

Andrew didn't like it when you blew the whistle on him for being offsides.  Andrew had come close, but in the end he'd fallen a few credits short of earning his diploma.  It was clear to all parties concerned that Providence had singled out Andrew McCullough to be a hospital orderly.  The Personnel Office congratulated itself on beating out every other hospital in the Twin Cities in the free for all that occurred when it became clear that Andrew was not college bound.

 

Amos Waring was a bit different.  If Andrew was a gentle but somewhat ill-tempered giant, Amos was a walking fire hydrant with a mean and nasty disposition-- but then guys who walked around with forty six inch shoulders on a five foot eight inch frame couldn't exactly buy their clothes off the rack at J.C. Penney's, and that tended to make them a bit truculent.

 

Amos had been in his element in Viet Nam.  He had eagerly signed up for his third tour in return for being cut loose from the stockade.  The army had been equally happy to have him-- soldiers who could out wrestle a fully grown Komodo dragon were, after all, a rare breed.  At twenty-eight, he was persona non grata in three Asian countries, and known to inspire road blocks to keep him out of the state of Wisconsin.  At the end of his shift (Amos and Andy always worked the second), he generally ventured off to terrorize the seedy and sometimes violent bars that lined Lake Street for miles.  This was organized crime territory-- or rather it had been until Hubert Humphrey kicked the mob out of Minneapolis during his stint as Mayor, a herculean feat that catapulted him to the Senate and ultimately to the vice-presidency.  In the aftermath, there was really no one to keep the lid on, and Amos had been known on more than one occasion to send it sailing.  He had, for example, once lost his temper and taken it out on an unlucky pinball machine, picking it up, carrying it outside, and contemptuously hurling it in front of a passing Lake Street bus.  The Third Precinct had a holding cell with his name on it, and the Personnel Office counted itself lucky to have him on the payroll.  On busy nights things could get a tad out of hand down in the ER, but Amos and Andy never seemed to have any trouble restoring order.

 

“You wanted to see us, Ma'am?”  Since Amos was a man of few words, it always fell to Andy to learn the score.

 

“You two are always welcome to break bread with us, Andrew.  You know that.  How are things down in the ER?”

 

“Quiet, Ma'am … they're always quiet on the night before a big holiday.  But they'll liven up a bit come the weekend.”

 

“I'm sure,” Rita agreed, in her best deadpan voice.  “So, are the two of you free right now to help me out with a little problem?”

 

“Anything for you, Ma'am.  We always meet the most interesting people up here on Seven.”

 

“Thank you.  Vickie and I need the two of you to move a body ...”

 

“Dead or alive,” Amos interjected.

 

“Alive, Amos … and don't look so disappointed.”

 

Amos was visibly crestfallen.

 

“It's a patient in the secure ward, in room eleven.  He's fallen asleep on the changing table, and we would like you to pick him up and deposit him in his crib, but gently … without waking him overly much.  A bit groggy would be ideal.  Think you can do that?”

 

“Yes, Ma'am … not a problem.”

 

“Good.  Vickie will lead the way.  And guys, try not to break anything.  Our supply budget is a bit strained at the moment.”

 

“Bummer,” Amos whispered as he walked through the door.

 

Rita returned to her paperwork.  She was hungry, and if Amos and Andy could get Ian settled to Vickie's satisfaction, she was planning to call it a night and head home.  Glancing at the screen, she noted that Ian was still sleeping peacefully.

 

.  .  .  .

 

Vickie entered the six digit code, but stepped aside to allow Andrew to enter the room first.  Amos went second, and Vickie brought up the rear, the door clicking shut behind her.

 

The two orderlies casually scanned the room before allowing their eyes to come to rest on the sleeping figure on the changing table.  Both noted that the patient was well restrained, although his arms had not been immobilized.

 

“What's his problem,” Andrew barked.

 

“Ex-military,”  Vickie answered.  “Three tours in Viet Nam … badly wounded … brought a lot of ghosts home with him ...”

 

“How many medals,” Amos cut in.

 

“Four Purple Hearts that we know of ...”

 

“Fuckin' A!  You are dealing with some serious shit here.”

 

“Don't we know it,” Vickie sighed.  “Have you guys heard of PTSD … Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder?”

 

Both looked at her blankly.

 

“It's a new term kicking around out at the VA-- a tag for the mental health issues that are plaguing thousands of Viet Nam vets nationwide.”  Vickie nodded at Ian.

 

“He's one of three that we have in the ward as we speak.  The VA people are hoping that if they give the problem a fancy medical-sounding name, then Congress will sit up and take notice, pass an appropriations bill and give us the resources that we need to fight back.  Right now, the problem's overwhelming, and this poor guy has it worst than most.  He came home fully incontinent, diapers 24/7, and there's little reason to think that things are ever going to get better for him.”

 

Amos was staring at the ugly scarring on Ian's left thigh.  “This didn't put him back in diapers,” he muttered.

 

“No,” Vickie agreed.  She was unfastening Ian's restraints, getting him ready for the transfer.  “You can't see it, but there's a lot worse.”

 

“Fuckin' A,” Amos repeated, this time more softly.  He knew all about the ghosts.

 

They chased him nightly through the bars down on Lake Street.

 

“I'll take his shoulders,” Andrew nodded; “you take his feet.”

 

They were a well practiced team, and it helped that the changing table and the crib were at the same height.  The transfer went smoothly, but Ian's eyelids rapidly fluttered as he started to come awake.  He didn't spot Vickie, and he was unaware of the crib that had become his new home, but through the cobwebs he did catch a glimpse of Amos and Andy.

 

“What's up, gentlemen,” he asked in a voice that seem to rise up out of thick fog.

 

Later, Sergeant Amos Waring would have a hard time explaining why he had suddenly come to attention and thrown a crisp salute to his fellow veteran, lying there in the crib.  It wasn't so much that he was an officer, although that part was screamingly obvious.  It was the wounds.  This man had gone down into the trenches and fought side by side with the men under his command.  He was definitely not some rear echelon desk puke.

 

In Amos Waring's universe, four Purple Hearts bought some serious respect.

 

.  .  .  .

 

As soon as Amos and Andy were out the door, Vickie rushed back to the crib.  Ian was still only half awake, but he was struggling to sit up inside its close quarters.

 

“No, baby, for now, aunt Vickie wants you to lie back down.  Someone … probably Becky or me … will teach you how to use the pull-up line in the morning.  But now it's time for you to go nighty-nites.  Shhh.”  Gently, but using both hands to make her point, Vickie forced Ian to lie down.

 

“Where's Rita,” he sighed.

 

“Still hard at it.  She thinks it would be best if you slept here tonight.  And I'm sorry, but we have nowhere else to put you.  But don't worry; there will always be a nurse keeping watch, making sure you're safe.  Are you comfy?”

 

“It's okay.”

 

“Now, I'm going to change your diaper, and get you back inside your baby pants and diaper cover.  I want you to work with me just like before, okay?”

 

“Okay.”

 

With Ian's help, Vickie quickly changed him.  Hearing the soft click of the lock closing on his diaper cover sent a jolt of electricity surging through her body.  She could feel the tension building inside of her.

 

“You are such a good baby,” she whispered, her lips grazing his.  “Now, give me your hands; its time for your mittens.”

 

Silently, Ian offered her his hands.  He had grown so accustomed to the thick canvas that prevented him from biting his nails in his sleep that he felt uneasy without them.

 

Vickie reached below the crib, found the two mittens that she had left dangling there earlier, and efficiently placed them on his hands.  One by one, she tightened the bands at his wrists, and then closed the locks, a second and a third gentle click the reward for her efforts.

 

She could feel the heat building; she silently swore that she could feel it coursing through her veins.       

 

 Now for the moment of truth … the waist belt …

 

Glancing up at her captive, she saw that his eyes were half closed and his arms now lying loosely at his sides.  He was already lying on the waist belt, which was firmly anchored to the crib's steel frame.  It was a simple matter to take the two loose ends of the top strap and cinch them tight, bring up and tighten the crotch strap, then insert the lock …

 

Click

 

Ian did not react.  If he had, he would have discovered that he could roll neither to right nor left.  He had been very scientifically pinned to the mattress.

 

Vickie moved on to his ankles, and then to his thighs.  She no longer expected any resistance, and she did not meet with any.  Four more gentle clicks, and Ian could still flex his muscles, but he could no longer move his legs.

 

Vickie nodded to herself.  He is truly submissive.  It's almost like he wants this … wants to be completely helpless, totally at my mercy.  And yet it's not kink, so I wonder what he would say if Rita offered to let him stay like this indefinitely.  Would he agree, or leave it to Sarah to make the decision for him?

 

There was one last task to complete.  Vickie laid his wrists inside open cuffs that were attached to the waist belt.  She cinched the bands, inserted the locks, and listened to the last pair of clicks that sealed his fate.  Little Baby Ian now belonged to the Circle, a body of seven nurses whose agendas overlapped but did not always agree.

 

Vickie quietly raised the crib side, heard it lock into place.  It could only be lowered by stepping on a lever mere inches off the floor.  Even if Ian somehow escaped all his restraints, he would never be able to escape the crib.

 

Vickie dimmed the lights, and prepared to leave.  She glanced up at the camera, double checking that it was monitoring little baby Ian.  Yes, the light was still on.  She knew that the thick plastic cover that was all but welded to the top of the crib was as clean as it was transparent.  Ian was now just one more fully restrained patient in the most secure ward in the entire hospital.

 

.  .  .  .

 

Vickie retreated to Rita's office, an oasis of bright light in a ward otherwise dimmed for the night.

 

“I know,” Rita said as she looked up from her paperwork.  “I've been watching the feed.  That went far more easily than I thought it would.  He really does want to be our little baby.”

 

“Were you joking earlier about breast feeding him?”

 

“Not at all.  I'm looking forward to it.”

 

“Me, too,” Vickie grinned.  “Our very own little baby.  But where does this leave Sarah?”

 

“She works down on Three, and I can deny her access to this wing at any time.  She's a pragmatist; she'll agree to share.”

 

“That's harsh.”

 

“I would prefer the carrot,” Rita shrugged, “but at the moment a stick is all I've got.”   

 

“So, you've finished Ian's file?”

 

“Just about … and there's more than enough here to warrant involuntary committal.  Oddly enough, I think that Sarah will agree with just about every sentence in the assessment.  Willfully self-destructive … alcohol abuse … a danger to himself … a textbook case, really.”

 

“You must be hungry … ready to call it a night?”

 

“Yeah.  Just let me shift Ian's feed to Julie.  She's already got the rest of the ward up and running on her console.”  Rita's fingers flew over the keys.

 

“I know a 3/2 joint on Lake Street that does great cheeseburgers and hash browns.  It's not too far out of your way ...”

 

“Give me the address and I'll meet you there.  I'm too tired to go home and cook.”

 

Together, Rita and Vickie exited the ward, and took the elevator down to the floor that connected directly to the parking ramp.  Tomorrow was another day.

 

.  .  .  .

 

In room eleven, Ian Grady turned his head slightly to the left, away from the camera.  A light smile creased his lips.  More than one therapist had cautioned him that you could run yet never quite hide from yourself.

 

Ian flexed his arms and legs, testing his restraints.  He was pleased to discover that Vickie had done a first-class job.  She really was a very good nurse, not just bar bait.

 

Ian could feel his diaper getting wet, the hot pee far too quickly turning cold and damp against his skin.  He wondered if someone would come to change him if he started to cry like a baby.

 

I'll need to practice, because messy diapers are really no fun at all …

 

In her office, Julie Neymar noticed that the new patient in room eleven was fidgeting.  She was the third shift charge nurse, and she knew all the signs.  She noted the time on a chart, but they were short staffed on the eve of one of the most celebrated holidays of the year, so if he needed his diaper changed, he would just have to wait.  Perhaps until morning. 

 

But the shrinks all missed the point.  You run, but it's other people who hide you-- if you can find them.  And now I have.  I'll leave it to Sarah and her circle of friends to make all of my decisions for me.  Just deal me out.

 

I'M DONE WITH MAKING DECISIONS!!!  

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