FicWad

A/N: I haven't posted a story in a long time, and this just came to me...So it's probably full of mistakes. Not beta'd. Expect erratic updates. Please read and review, much love.






I woke with a throbbing headache; feeling like my temples were going to burst. The lingering memories of a nightmare flashed before my closed eyes. White. Needles. Pain. Humiliation...the feeling of cold steel on my back and rough cloth chafing my wrists made me let out a groan. It was no dream, only recent memories of this place, and I didn't need to open my eyes to know how real this really was. I shifted, hearing someone unlocking the door. Footsteps...


"Mr. Cryztol, you're awake..." that familiar voiced droned, "We'll just have to fix that, now, wont we?" he asked, not expecting an answer. I never answered, he was a creepy old dude and he smelled like...hospital. This whole place did. Today however, I did have a question.


"W-why," I cleared my throat, my voice sounding hoarse, "Why put me to sleep?" I managed, my throat feeling scratchy and dry now. I struggled slightly against my restraints, not having any energy to make a real go of it. I opened my eyes slowly, waiting for them to adjust to the blinding white-ness that was my hell...or cell. They called it my cell, but it's been hell since I set foot into it. I squinted, watery eyes finally adjusting. I didn't think he was going to answer me.


"You are dangerous Mr. Cryztol, to yourself and everyone else." Pause... "This is for your own good, a sort of detox for your mind. You're almost through," he finally answered, adding the last part almost robotically. Besides, I wasn't dangerous, was I?


I had to crane my head to see the 'doctor'...just in time to see him flick his needle, already headed my way. When he touched my arm where an IV was sticking from I tried to jerk away from him. My body felt weaker and I felt more delirious than I ever had before.


"Hold still now boy," I heard the doctor's strange accent but not his words and I closed my eyes once again. I could see splotches of white, even with my eyes shut. It just wouldn't leave me alone.


The table that was my bed was so hard I felt almost like I'd become a permanent part of it. Sometimes I'd have myself convinced that I'd become the table itself...delirious, remember?


My head started to get heavy, and too late I realized I'd gotten my sleep 'aide', I could hear docs footsteps heading out the door. "Hey! Fuck you!" I yelled, as loud as I could, which was like my regular talking voice only hoarser. The door slamming shut was my only response, and I was a victim to sleep yet again.








The next time I woke up, I had my familiar headache but it was accompanied by a strange nauseating feeling that I wasn't used to. I wasn't used to feeling much of anything since being here, besides tired...and maybe a little scared.


I abruptly turned on my side and vomited, or tried to at least, I was mostly dry heaving. When I finally got a hold of myself, I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, not appreciating the sour taste and stabbing pain in my throat.


Only then did it hit me. I wasn't the table! I mean...I wasn't strapped to the table. If fact, I wasn't in the white room at all anymore. This room was plain brick, slate grey. It was smaller than the white room, but had a small cot with a mattress, and a toilet in the corner like a jail cell. Except there were no bars; only the metal door with a small window, letting in a square of fluorescent lighting.


I examined my wrists and ankles, which were red and bleeding in spots from rubbing at the too tight restraints. I noticed I had no clothes on and suddenly became cold. I touched my head, feeling wet hair. They must have bathed me or something. I guess I needed it, those fuckers just left me there to soil myself and starve, occasionally coming back to drug me.


I pulled myself onto the cot, wrapping myself in the only sheet and curling up into a fetal position. I was shivering uncontrollably and cursed at myself for becoming such a weak little bitch. These people had done something to me, and I barely knew myself anymore. The me I remember wouldn't be cowering and licking his wounds...I'd be, well I don't know, but I'd do something besides wait for these bastards to come back and mess with me some more. Mess with my head.


I wasn't crazy when my parents insisted I be institutionalized, but I think I might be crazy now. The white room is enough to make anyone crazy. I was feeling bitter, and hating myself, but I mostly hated my family. I still couldn't believe they'd sent me here, thinking there really was something wrong with me. I think there's something wrong with them, abandoning their youngest child.


They'd never send my brother Kieran away; he played sports and had a girlfriend...or so he pretended. He wanted to be an airplane mechanic and strived in school and always gets straight A's. The perfect son. I wasn't anything like Kieran. I failed all my classes, skipping school mostly to avoid anyone wanting to pick a fight, which I got a lot. I defiantly didn't want a girlfriend and I wanted to be an artist. I smoked weed and listened to heavy metal and my parents hated it. Maybe they just hated me, so they got rid of me altogether?


I believe they really hated me. It wasn't hard to believe, the way they treated me compared to Kieran. My brothers adopted. My parents tried for years to get pregnant and finally they were told they were unable to conceive, and so they adopted Kieran at birth. They were, of course, thrilled to finally have a child. That is...until a year later my mom got pregnant with me, and for some reason they've always resented me, favoring Kieran.


Don't get me wrong, I love my brother. We're unalike but very much on the same level; we understand each other. That's why we were both shocked when my parents finally listened to the psychiatrists, and agreed to send me away...to this shit hole. Because they hate me, of course...and they think I'm bonkers too.


It was logical but still hard to believe. I didn't have a problem. I wasn't depressed...really. Not the way they made it seem. When my mom first saw the cuts on my arm she nearly fainted, grabbing at me, ripping at my clothes and looking at my self-inflicted wounds. She slapped me weakly, crying and asking why over and over again.


Personally, I didn't think there was anything weird about cutting myself, it made me feel better when I'm upset. And because I found nothing wrong with it, I refused to talk to any of the shrinks my parents took me too, eventually ending up here.


At the West Wood Sanatorium of Mental Health.


I was so wrapped up in my thoughts that I almost didn't hear someone unlocking the door. As soon as I heard the metal door scrape along the concrete floor, I was on my feet, clinging to the sheet wrapped around me but still ready to put up a fight. I wasn't restrained anymore, and I promised myself I wouldn't let them put me to sleep again.


I was surprised when a petite blond nurse, in her thirties, with a smile on her face no less, stepped into my room. I stared at her, not knowing how to react. Besides, I couldn't fight a woman. She stepped closer, still smiling.


"Salem Cryztol?" she asked her voice quiet and high at the same time. I nodded to her, unconsciously taking a step back. "Follow me please," she said, and abruptly turned around, leaving me to gape after her.


I quickly found my senses and followed after her, into the blinding white hallway. She led me through a maze of passages, which I tried to remember, but couldn't. Finally we came to a large wooden door with 'Dr. Don Savage' in nice gold lettering right in the center.


I felt nervous all of a sudden. The nurse must have noticed because she gave me a reassuring smile. Then she knocked on the door, turned around and winked at me, then walked away, down another hallway. She left me? Bitch. I was shocked.


I was left alone, and I didn't like it. Who was this Don Savage asshole anyways? I held my sheet around myself as tight as possible and waited for the door to click open...