FicWad

“Warden Horley,” the guard said as he opened the door to Simmons’ office without knocking.
“We’re in the middle of a confidential…” Horley began, his eyes blazing. Already furious from the discussion he was having with the psychiatrist, he was in no mood to suffer insubordination from one of his junior guards.
“I’m sorry, Sir,” he interrupted. “There’s been an incident.”

The disagreement with Simmons forgotten in an instant, Horley turned his attention to the guard.

“What is it?” he replied, his voice clipped and efficient.
“It’s Way, Sir, he’s badly hurt. It looks as though he’s been beaten up.”
“How?” Horley asked, a profoundly puzzled expression adorning his face. “He’s in solitary.”
“I don’t know, Sir. We just found him; he’s unconscious.”

Horley sighed irritably; this he could do without.

“Have you called the doctor?”
“Yes, Sir, he’s with him now,” the guard confirmed. “An ambulance is on its way. The doctor said his shoulder was cut and dislocated and he took a nasty blow to his head too.”

Horley shook his head. “I want to know who got in there to do that and I want them in my office within the hour!”
“Sir,” the guard replied as he turned to leave.

Horley turned an angry scowl towards Simmons.

“Are you certain you can deal with this?” he asked sarcastically.
“Probably better than you think,” Simmons replied evenly. “If my assumption is right, you won’t find any evidence of anyone going anywhere near that cell.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Horley snapped, infuriated by Simmons knowing expression.
“Way was seeing one of the men he killed, when he was in my office.”
“Yeah, sure he was!” Horley jeered.
“I know you don’t believe he’s disturbed, but…”
“No, Doctor Simmons, that’s where you’re wrong. I absolutely believe that Way is disturbed, crazy, insane… whatever you want to call him. But I know that he knows that what he did was wrong, but he did it anyway. He’s totally able to accept responsibility for his actions and he belongs on Death Row!”
“He’s seeing his guitarist, I believe that without question. And despite what you think, yes, I’m inclined to believe that he knew what he was doing. But I do want to investigate this further.”
“Research?” Horley frowned. “You’re taking Way off Death Row and the punishment he deserves, for research?”
“No, not research. Like I said there are some very unusual aspects to this case and I need to study his paranoia and motives closely to get the answers I need. If he really deserves his sentence, then he’ll still get it. You won’t necessarily be denied, Warden.”
“Like I said, I’m holding his cell. He’ll be back.”

*

“Do you need to get back to the office?” Bob asked glancing briefly at the clock on the wall of the busy coffee shop.
“Well…” Lisa blushed and concentrated her stare on her almost empty mug.

At first concerned at the hesitation, Bob soon noticed the flush in her cheeks as she looked anywhere but at him.

“What?” he finally asked, a hint of a laugh colouring his tone.

Lisa looked up, still her eyes unable to meet his for longer than a few seconds.

“Come on, out with it,” he smiled, gently raising her chin with a finger so that she looked directly at him.
“I don’t have any appointments this afternoon. I… I kept it free… just in case.”

Bob’s smile widened. It was the first time she’d seen him truly relaxed and appearing genuinely happy.

“So, how long have you been planning this?”
“Well, I… I wouldn’t say planning. Maybe hoping?” she replied shyly.
“And?”
“The moment I saw your eyes.”

Bob laughed, suddenly, but not unkindly. It was a surprised, but gentle laugh, bubbling under with unassuming reserve.

“Quite a while then! I had no idea,” he admitted. “No idea at all.”
“Well, I’m actually glad about that, it means I was acting professionally. Well, up until now, anyway. I’m sorry Bob, I’ve ruined your therapy; you were doing so well too.”
“How have you ruined it? I’ll just find a new therapist. Maybe you can recommend one?” Bob replied, nodding to emphasise that he believed it would all work out.
“But today, you really opened up, like you never have before. You may go back a few steps with a new therapist.”
“Well, it’s possible, or it could just be that I’m ready to talk now. It took me a while to build up that much trust…”
“And you’ll have to do it all over again.”
“Yes, maybe?” he nodded, reaching for her hands and taking them in his gently. “But if you recommend someone, someone you know will understand, then I’ll be okay. I’ll trust them, because you do. I’ll be fine, really.”
“You’re really quite strong, aren’t you?” Lisa smiled in admiration.

Bob shrugged; it felt like a difficult question to answer.

“Part of me is, part of me isn’t. I guess you’ve only seen the part that isn’t so far.”

Lisa lifted Bob’s hands to her mouth and kissed them both before shaking her head in absolute certainty of her disagreement.

“No, I told you that you were handling it astonishingly well. I meant it. You are strong.”

Bob stared thoughtfully at his hands, still in hers.

“Well, that’s someone else’s problem now, eh?”
“I’m not going to stop caring about you just because I’m not your therapist any more,” Lisa replied with mock indignance.

Bob cocked his head to one side and raised an eyebrow at her.

“I like that,” he smiled broadly, “but you have to stop analysing or you’ll get into trouble.”
“I’ll call a friend of mine; he’s in a different practice. He has a lot of experience with violent crime trauma. I’m sure he’ll be more than happy to take over.”
“What?” Bob teased. “Not already arranged?”
“Don’t!” Lisa shook her head with embarrassment. “This was difficult enough!”
“Then let’s make it easier.” Bob leaned forward and gently brushed her lips with his in a tender kiss. “Come on, it’s a beautiful afternoon, let’s enjoy it.”

*

Gerard groaned softly as the pain flooded his body and the bright light hurt his eyes. He was lying down. It would almost certainly have been comfortable but for the grinding pain in his arm, chest, back and, above all, his head that almost brought him to a state of violent nausea. As he lay, he was remotely aware of his right arm being strapped across his chest in, what felt like, a sling. He didn’t try to move, he didn’t want to move, it hurt too much.

“Doctor,” he heard the sound of a man’s voice nearby. “He’s waking up.”

Gerard’s eyes fluttered open at the statement. Slowly adjusting to the light, he continued to squint as he looked up drowsily.

“Where am I?” he asked finally.
“Parkview Psychiatric Hospital.”

The voice belonged to a man in his late fifties of stocky build and greying hair. Approaching the bed, he introduced himself.

“My name’s Doctor Willis, I’m going to ask you a few questions,” the doctor asked, holding up a clipboard. “Name?”
“I don’t remember,” Gerard replied quietly.
“Name!” the doctor snapped. “I’m not above dosing you with sodium pentothal, you know.”
“Gerard Way.”
“Better! Now, what happened in that cell? Did someone attack you?”

Gerard rolled his eyes. He felt certain that they both knew that he hadn’t been attacked; no one had been near the cell. It was unthinkable to him that he would admit that Ray Toro had tricked him; he had a reputation to uphold and being tricked into attacking a ghost did nothing for his ego or status.

“I fell.”
“You fell?” the doctor replied, unconvinced by the reply.
“Yeah, why is that so hard to believe?” Gerard closed his eyes; it was so hard to concentrate. “Can I have some painkillers? I feel like someone tried to crack my skull open.”
“Someone did! I want to know who!”

Gerard sagged as his request for pain relief went ignored.

“No one did. I fell. Look, even some Tylenol, anything!”
“Tell them what really happened,” a cheery voice piped up from across the room.

Gerard groaned at the sound of Ray Toro’s voice mocking him. Having not seen or heard from him since waking, Gerard had been hopeful that he’d seen the last of his irritating ex-guitarist. Tricking Gerard into attacking him, only for the former singer to run straight through and collide at speed and with great force with the wall had been painful enough without him returning to gloat.

“What are you still doing here? You got what you wanted.”
“What do you mean?” Willis asked, puzzled by the statement.
“I’m not talking to you,” Gerard snapped, sighing unhappily as his headache grew steadily worse.
“I brought someone to see you,” Ray answered, still obscured by the doctor and nurse.
“I’m not interested!” Gerard growled, his eyes half closed as the bright lights above bore into him.
“Who are you talking to?” Willis prompted.

Gerard closed his eyes fully and sighed deeply.

“Look, I’m in a lot of pain here without even so much as a Tylenol and you’re expecting me to have two conversations?”
“Three if you include me?”
“Fuck! That’s it! That’s enough! I want painkillers and I want you to get those two jokers out of here! Do you understand? Leave me the fuck alone!”
“You know, Ray told me that this would be fun. I gotta tell you, I didn’t believe him, not after what you did. I didn’t want to even look at you! But now? I can totally see what he meant, and this really is fun. Are you having fun too, Gerard?”
“Get out! Get the fuck out! Leave me alone!”
“Give him fifty milligrams of Thorazine,” Willis ordered.

Gerard’s eyes widened as the nurse raised a syringe and drew in a clear liquid from a small bottle.

“No!” he shouted, terrified, only now realising that his left hand and ankles were secured with thick straps holding him securely to the bed frame.

From the other side of the room, Gerard heard footsteps approaching the bed, but he didn’t care. Only one thing had his attention, and that was the syringe held by the nurse. Breaking into a cold sweat and rapidly paling, Gerard visibly shook, appearing on the verge of passing out as the nurse approached.

“Well, Gerard, you can't complain. You wanted this,” Frank grinned at him from the foot of the bed.

Gerard turned his head, wide-eyed, toward the foot of the bed and gaped, mouth open, as the pair merely laughed at him.

“You wanted to get off Death Row and into the hospital,” Frank continued. “Did it not occur to you, even once, that here it would be one injection after another?”

Gerard turned back as the nurse grabbed his forearm and jabbed the needle into the flesh before depressing the plunger.

“No! No, no! This isn’t… I… I’m not crazy,” Gerard announced, hoping in vain that it would make a difference.
“You’re hearing voices…” Willis began.
“No! No, I’m not. They’re here; they’re really here. Right now, two of them. They’re trying to drive me crazy, so you’ll think I need help. But I don’t. Don’t you see? They’re really here. I’m not imagining this!”
“Yeah,” Frank grinned. “That ought to have convinced them!”

Gerard’s agitation began to dull, his thought processes becoming slow; the mind’s equivalent of swimming through treacle. Resting his head back on the pillow, his struggles and frantic movements dwindling completely.
“The Thorazine seems to be working, doctor,” the nurse commented on Gerard’s enforced relaxed state. “What do you think of his condition?”
“Hmm,” Willis took a deep breath and stared at Gerard thoughtfully. “Delusional, hallucinating; possibly schizophrenic or some sort of psychosis. We’ll know soon enough.”

Both doctor and nurse exited the room leaving Gerard restrained and subdued on the bed. Looking up at his two ghostly visitors, Gerard could only stare; all the fight in him suppressed by the high dose of the antipsychotic drug.

“Lethal injection’s too good for you,” Ray smirked. “This is much more appropriate. Welcome to your own personal nightmare, Gerard.”