By straitjacketkwf2

Seeing those two new orderlies coming toward us in the dayroom, all I could think of was football linebackers. These guys’ muscles were massive, and the pair of them looked as if they spent half, if not all, of their day in the gym.

“Jim, Dave, it’s time for your medication,” the blond orderly said.

Almost in unison, both Dave and I said, “What medication?” Dave continued, “Dr. Clarke did not mention anything about medication.”

The blond with the nametag Boris towered over us. “Dr. Clarke is no longer managing your cases. Your new psychiatrist is Dr. Erickson. He has reviewed your charts and has prescribed a mild sedative. Now drink this.”

I tried to avoid the paper cup with the drugged juice, turning my head any way I could while at the same time trying to get up from the chair. Boris forced me back down into the chair with one of his massive hands on my right shoulder. Then he pinched my nose with his thumb and forefinger while holding me down by pushing his knee against my crossed arms. When I gasped for air he poured the thick, overly sweet liquid down my throat with little effort, letting me know that he had indeed done this many times in the past.

“You need help, Mitch?” Boris asked the other orderly who was forcing the juice down Dave’s throat.

“No, everything’s fine,” he answered.

Dave started fighting with his straitjacket, pulling his arms and twisting right and left. Mitch looked at him and laughed. “No use trying to get out of those jackets,” Boris said to both of us. “Not unless you are able to dislocate both your shoulders,” Mitch added.

I tried to stand up again, but the mediation had started to take effect and I fell back into the chair as the room started to spin. I was suddenly very tired and just wanted to close my eyes and drift to sleep. “What’s happening,” I managed to say, but my speech was slurred. I looked at Dave. His head was leaning to the left side, resting on his shoulder and he had a blank expression on his face.

“Better get them to their rooms,” Boris said as he grabbed the front strap loop of my straitjacket, pulling me up to a standing position. “Come along, Jim,” Boris said as he guided me to my room with his hands on my shoulders. Mitch did the same with Dave.

“Jim, your restraints are too loose,” Boris commented in a sarcastic manner as he started tightened the four leather straps of my canvas prison so that it hugged my body with greater force. He pulled the crotch strap so that it pressed harder against my penis and balls, causing the leather strap to ride up my ass crack. Standing on my left side, his stomach braced on my left arm, he pulled my right elbow toward him. At the same time, he jerked the strap that connected the closed sleeves, pulling my arms closer to my stomach so that I was hugging myself with greater intensity. The jacket compressed my ribcage, and I found it difficult to take a deep breath.

The sedative fogged my mind, and I could not react quickly enough as Boris sat me on my bed, turning me and lifting my legs so that I lay on my back. He placed one pillow beneath my head; then moving to the bottom of the bed, and he locked leather cuffs that were connected together by a short strap around my ankles. Attached at a 90-degree angle to that strap was another leather belt that went between my feet that was secured to the foot of the hospital bed, pulling my legs straight down. Next, Boris pulled two nylon-reinforced belts across my body, one over my crossed arms and the other over my thighs. These were pulled tight and secured by a locking buckle. Before Boris left my room he placed an oxygen nose tube just under my nostrils and secured it behind my head. “We must be sure you do not have any difficulty breathing,” he said with a mocking smile as he left, locking the door behind him with the sound of what I thought were two deadbolts sliding into the metal door jamb with a key.

I was unable to move more than an inch or two in any direction except for my head. Even in my drugged stupor I knew something was very wrong. Why would Dr. Clark turn over my care to another psychiatrist? No, that did not seem right; only he knew of my undercover assignment. Who was this new Dr. Erickson? I never heard of him before. As I repeated these questions to myself the sedative took advantage of my forced immobilization and I fell into a dreamless sleep.

How much time passed before I opened my eyes I am not sure, but my stomach was rumbling and I was hungry. The sky outside my window was black and the room was dark except for a narrow shaft of light coming in from the hallway. The sedative had worn off and I evaluated my situation. Both Dave and I had agreed to be “involuntarily committed” to the mental health clinic by Dr. Clarke who, it appeared, wanted both of us to investigate rumors of patient abuse. He was to be our protector, but now, somehow, he was incapacitated; he would not have voluntarily given up control of our care. Both of us had undergone a series of psychological exams and the results were to be reported to Dr. Clarke, not this Dr. Erickson.

I had been lulled into a false sense of security today, allowing myself to be placed in restraints in moving from one part of the clinic to another to exercise. At first the straitjackets were strapped on without being tight, and Dave and I were caught off guard when George excused himself for a moment before releasing us from the restraints. That is when the two “goons” appeared, drugged us and placed us in high level restraints.

I tried using deductive reasoning to figure out what had happened. I have been here for less than two days before being discovered. Or had I been discovered?

Could this be the beginning of the patient abuse that I was investigating?

Why did Dr. Clarke suddenly shift our care to another doctor?

Was George part of this, or Nurse Reynolds, for that matter?

Dave, the college student, his being here did not make sense. Why would Dr. Clarke involve one of his students in the investigation?

There were too many questions and no answers.

I was hungry and thirsty. I yelled for help and eventually I heard the door being unlocked. The light was turned on and there was Boris carrying a tray and I smelled food.

“Jim, you finally woke up,” he said with a half smile. “If you behave, I will feed you dinner.”

I agreed. He placed the tray on the patient table and raised the top half of the bed so that I was sitting up but still strapped down. The oxygen tube was removed from my nose.

“Is this food drugged?” I asked.

“No, it is not.” And Boris took a taste of each item on the tray to prove it. He placed a napkin under my chin and over chest. As he fed me, Boris talked about the news and sports, not that I was really interested. After the meal, he moved the tray away from the bed.

He sat in a chair next to my bed. “Jim, you were committed to the psychiatric clinic here under the Baker Act that allows a minimum 72 hours of confinement for evaluation or longer if, in the opinion of your doctor, you need treatment. Dr. Erickson has reviewed the results of your tests. He believes that you need extensive therapy and has called your supervisor to have you placed on extended sick leave.”

“No, no, you can’t do this. You are holding me against my will. I demand to be released immediately,” I screamed. I pushed and pulled on the straitjacket and straps that held me immobile in the bed.

Boris stood up and pulled something from under my bed. “I was afraid you would react this way, and now I am forced to gag you. I continued to scream as he proceeded to strap a leather muzzle on my face. He locked a collar around my neck then moved the padded leather covered muzzled over my mouth and secured the strap that was attached to the top of the muzzle in two places to allow room for the nose over the top of my head and buckled to the collar. Next straps attached to the upper corners of the muzzle that went over the crown of the head were secured. Lastly, a strap over the forehead was locked behind my head. I could not open my jaw, and the padded leather sealed my lips. I grunted and tried to shout out, but only a muffled mmmmffff came from my throat.

The therapy you need cannot be done here at this clinic, so, Jim, later tonight, you and your friend Dave will be transferred to a private, high-security asylum for the insane owned by Dr. Erickson,” Boris told me.

With a satisfied smile on his face, Boris took the tray from my room put it on a tray cart in the hall, then came back into my room. He picked up the buzzer and signaled the nurse’s station. “It’s time to bathroom our two patients before transferring them to the asylum,” he stated as a matter of fact. “OK, be right there,” was the response. Mitch showed up with another set of restraints in his hands.

“OK, Jim, we need to allow you to use the bathroom. You cannot be released from your restraints, so we are going to take you to a special toilet.” The T strap ankle restraints were released first and replaced with ankle hobbles, leather cuffs locked on the ankles connected by a nine-inch long triple thickness leather belt. The belts over my legs and chest were removed, and I was lifted to a standing position. Mitch and Boris seized the side loop straps on the straitjacket and half walked, half dragged me from my room and, turning right, down the hall to a door that was already open.

This room, about ten feet square, was tiled on the floor and the walls. In the middle of the back wall was a steel toilet. Mitch put his left arm around my neck in a chokehold as Boris released the crotch strap and the lower strap on the back of the straitjacket. Next, he pulled the white inmate pants with elastic waist and the jockstrap down to my ankles in one motion. I was turned around and eased to the toilet seat and a leather strap was placed over my chest and pinioned arms. Due to embarrassment, it took a few moments to start, but then a strong stream and, much to my horror, a bowel movement. When finished, I looked up and grunted. The strap holding me to the back of the toilet was removed. With Mitch holding onto me, I was moved to my feet, bent over at the waist and Boris, wearing latex gloves, cleaned my penis and ass. The jockstrap and pants were pulled back up and the straitjacket straps were secured just as tightly as before. As Mitch led me out of the room, I heard the toilet being flushed. I cringed with humiliation.

I was not taken back to my room but led to a door stenciled “Seclusion.” The door was opened, and I was horrified to see a small room, about six feet square, with canvas-covered padding. This padding was attached to the walls and floor with large buttons that pulled the padding into pillows of soft mounds. I was pushed into this cell and fell forward, unable to block my fall with my canvas-covered arms locked to my chest. I landed on my knees, then on my arms and lastly on my face that bounced off the padded floor. I somehow managed to turn over on my back and watched fearfully as the padded door closed. I heard a muffled sound as the latch was locked. Pulling my legs under me, I worked myself to a seated position, my back resting in the corner of the left and rear walls and my legs straight out in front of me.

It was frightening being locked in that cell, The only sound was my breathing: even that was barely audible, the padding absorbing much of the volume. I never felt so alone in my life. I stayed in my position, shifting my weight with great difficulty, as the padding seemed to surround any movement preventing me even standing up. I would push my feet on the floor, only to have them slip and slide rather than hold in place for leverage. I waited for what seemed like a long time alone in that cell.

With a sense of relief, the door opened, and Boris and Mitch had Dave strapped and muzzled exactly as I was, between them. They lifted him and placed him in the opposite corner.

“We’ll let you two grunt at each other while waiting for the ambulance to take you to the asylum,” Mitch said as he left the cell with difficulty as the padding made even his steps difficult. The door was closed and, a muffled sound that I learned to fear, the latch locking the door.

I looked at Dave and he looked at me. There were tears and terror in his eyes. I wanted to comfort him, to reassure him by holding him close to me with his head on my chest. I never had these feelings before and was uncomfortable with them, but still Dave needed help. Falling over several times, I managed to move next to him, our straitjackets rubbing against each other. He leaned his head on my shoulder and I could feel his body shake as he cried. Finally, his tears stopped and he lifted his head, looked at me and sighed. He then put his head back on my shoulder and closed his eyes. He was calm now.

Little did I know that all of this was being viewed and recorded on videotape. I only learned this later, but I am getting ahead of myself. I must have fallen asleep as well and was startled back to awareness when Mitch came into the cell with a tray.

He looked at Dave lying on my shoulder with a hint of a smile on his face. “Well, isn’t that special,” he said in a perfect imitation of the church lady. “OK, boys, it’s time to move you two,” he said. I have even arranged for you to be in the same cell. Now it’s time to go to sleep. He kneeled in front of us and placed the tray with cotton balls and two syringes next to him.

I looked at him and shook my head no, but he only laughed. “Don’t want to let you see where you are going,” he said. He pushed up Dave’s pant leg, located a vein, cleaned the site with the alcohol-soaked cotton ball, and injected him with the sedative. His eyes went glassy, and he slumped against me. I tried to shift my legs to avoid the needle, but, with precision, Mitch held my legs still and pushed up the material of the left pant leg. After finding the injection site, I felt the coolness of the alcohol and then I felt the sting of the injection, followed by a slight tingling in my leg and then blackness.

***

I heard a voice in the distance telling me to wake up. I opened my eyes to see Dave standing above me, shaking my shoulders. “I thought you would never wake up,” Dave said as he helped me sit up. “I don’t know what kind of institution we have been moved to, but this looks like a jail cell.”

“That’s exactly what it is,” said the orderly who suddenly appeared standing outside the cell bars. “The building for Dr. Erickson’s private psychiatric asylum was part of an old prison. He took it over, remodeled the building, but retained several cells for difficult patients. From now on, when you see an orderly come to your cell, both of you are to face the back wall, with your noses touching the wall, until you are told to do otherwise. Now move.”

Dave and I did so. I noticed then that we were dressed in two-piece white jail uniforms with “Asylum Inmate” printed in large letters on the back of the shirts. The same was printed in smaller letters on the pants just above the right knee. White canvas slippers completed our incarceration clothing.

“Place your hands on top of your head,” came the barked order. OK, Jim, step back to the cell door. Take this belt and put it around your waist with the buckle in back.” The belt was leather and had two leather cuffs attached to the belt. I placed the belt around my waist and felt hands thread the two ends together very tightly. Next, I felt the pressure as the lock was pushed through one of the holes in the belt and heard the click as the lock was secured. “Move your left wrist to the cuff,” the orderly directed, and the cuff was placed around my wrist, a lock was placed over the locking pin and pushed closed. My arms were secured to my waist after the right wrist was secured. “Step back to the wall. Now, Dave, step back to the bars,” the orderly commanded, and I heard the same sounds as his waist-wrist belt was applied. “Step forward, both of you, noses to the wall.”

The cell door was unlocked, and the orderly entered the cell. Blindfolds were placed over Dave’s eyes and then mine. I felt my right arm being pulled, and I was escorted from the cell and guided through several hallways and doors. I was moved to a chair and pushed down onto it. The blindfold was removed. Dave was seated next to me, and we looked at each other as our ankles were chained to the legs of the wooden chairs. We were in a small room, empty except for three chairs. The walls and floor matched the previous jail cell.

The orderly sat down in front of us. “I am Mr. Johnson, and I am the lead orderly here at the asylum. You are to address me and my staff by their last names or Sir. Is that clear?”

Yes, Sir,” Dave and I replied in unison.

“Very good, I see you learn fast. You are in a high security lockdown ward of the asylum. When not in treatment you will be confined to your cell. Supervised exercise will be one hour a day, followed by a shower and change of uniform. You will not be allowed outside of your cell unless you are in restraints. There will be no visitors, no one knows where you are except for Dr. Erickson, who has contacted your employer, school and parents. They have been told that you are very ill and that it would be best for treatment purposes that you not have visitors. When you have completed your treatment plans you will be sent back to the clinic to be released. But that is a long time from now. There are a very few simple rules you must follow while incarcerated here.

One: You are not to speak to an orderly unless you are asked a question.

Two: Failure to obey an order will result in punishment.

Three: You will cooperate with the staff in your treatment program. Failure to do so will result in severe punishment.

Four: As you have been told, you will address all staff as Sir.

Do you have any questions?

“Yes, Sir,” I responded.

“One question, Jim.”

“Sir,” my police academy training kicked in, “with all due respect, Sir, why are we being held here against our will?”

“Because you are very sick,” a voice from the intercom speaker crackled. “I am Dr. Erickson, and you are both very ill. Your test results revealed just how ill you are. You both showed latent homosexual tendencies, and your treatment will be to release these pent up feelings.”

“No, no, you can’t do this,” Dave yelled.

I followed, “I demand to be released immediately. This is illegal, you can’t do this!”

Before Dave or I could say anything else our mouths were taped shut with tape.

The voice from the intercom instructed, “Mr. Johnson, both of these patients should begin their treatment with level one punishment, start with total exhaustion. Jim, Dave, we must break your spirit.”

“Yes, Doctor,” Mr. Johnson replied. A second orderly, a Mr. Roth, entered the room and grabbed Dave and pulled him to a standing position as Mr. Johnson did the same to me. The chains holding our legs to the chairs were removed.

“Take that one back to his cell and leave him in restraints. I’ll take this one down for his first treatment.”

I was apprehensive now. I realized that there was nothing that I could do to stop Dr. Erickson and his staff from doing anything to Dave or me that they wanted.

A third orderly met Mr. Johnson. I was pushed and shoved down the hallway to an elevator that went down to the basement level. I was dragged off the elevator to a door that opened into a room that I would learn to fear. On the door a sign in large red letters:

HYDROTHERAPY Level Five

To be continued …