FicWad

“The stars were falling.”


“Excuse me?”


Brendon narrows his eyes, and looks up at the balding man in front of him. “I said the stars were falling,” Brendon repeats, and exhales an aggravated breath. “God, how'd you become a therapist again? Honestly.”


The man known as Dale Williamson, his father's best friend from church and an accomplished therapist, sits in front of the boy, pen and paper in hand, and an unreadable look on his face in response to his client's statement.


“The stars falling, Brendon? That's a simply ridiculous claim,” Dale scoffs in a strangely polite fashion, and Brendon just continually stares coldly back at the older male.


“Ridiculous or not, it happened,” Brendon answers, and leans back into the not-so comfortable leather chair. He rubs his palm on the armrest.


“You know, they had to kill an innocent cow to make this leather. Doesn't that make you feel kind of bad?”


Brendon considers his decision to become a vegetarian one of the better choices he's made in his life.


There aren't many, he decides.


Dale takes a deep breath in, and completely shrugs off Brendon's last statement. “It didn't happen, Brendon.”


“What? The cow thing? Hate to break it to ya pal, but it did.”


“No, Brendon, I wasn't talking about the leather chair and the cow. I'm talking about the stars falling. The stars don't fall, and when there is a shooting star, it's simply a meteor and it's gone within a couple minutes, probably not even that long. There's no way the stars could have done what you claimed. Now, Brendon, would you please explain to me why you thought the stars were falling, and why you were scared? Did—”


Brendon suddenly feels this unexplainable urge to say something, and, head whirling, he snaps,


“Did I what? What am I supposed to explain to you, Dr.—” Brendon pauses, emphasizing with disgust the title of “doctor”, “—Dr. Williamson? Am I supposed to explain…”


Brendon suddenly gets up out of the leather chair, feeling and hearing the squish of the material as he does so. He begins to pace the red-carpeted floor of his father's friend's office and continues. “…Explain to a doctor,” he motions towards the older man politely.


“…Explain to a doctor that the laws of physics could be reversed? That, what goes up might not come down?” he continues, raising his eyebrows curiously. “That, time could move backwards and forwards and sideways and that stars could fall out of the sky at 100 miles per hour about to crash into me and my girlfriend?” Brendon finishes his little speech as his voice rises so that he's kind of shouting, and walks towards Mr. Williamson quickly. Forgetting all about personal boundaries, he leans close into the man's face menacingly and whispers,


“Is that what you'd like me to explain, Dr. Williamson?”


Dale simply stares at the boy before him for a few moments, obviously not intimidated by Brendon's strange, somewhat threatening behavior.


Then, he gets up silently, walks over towards his cluttered desk, and picks up the phone.


Brendon feels that loathed feeling of anger and frustration welling up inside of him again, because he's being ignored and his imperfections are rising to his conscience quickly now.


“Hey!” Brendon calls, angrily. “Hey! I'm talking to you; where do you think you're going? You can't do this! You're supposed to be sitting down in this freakin' chair of yours and listening to me vent and shout and rave crazily and you're not supposed to freakin' ignoring me! Hey, what are you doing?” he protests loudly, not caring that Dr. Williamson is on the phone conversing with someone and he's blowing this whole situation out of proportion.


“Hey!”


Finally, with that last shout, Dale gets off of the phone, and turns and looks at Brendon, who's still standing, hovering over his chair, glaring at him with fury burning in his eyes. The therapist takes a breath in, and then saunters back over to Brendon and calmly says,


“Sit down.”


Brendon narrows his eyes again, and points a finger in the man's face. “No. No, no, no. Absolutely not, not after you ignored me like that! Who were you talking to? What are you—”


“You need a rest, Brendon.”


Brendon's jaw drops open because, after all, what's he supposed to say to that?


The boy gulps, and slowly backs off from the older male. Looking at him warily, Brendon stuffs his hands into his lavender sweatshirt's pockets, and replies softly,


“Yeah. Yeah, I think I'll go home and take a nap or something.”


The therapist shakes his head. Before he can stop it, Brendon feels a rush of panic.


“No, Brendon. You need a longer rest than that.”


Brendon just stands there.


“W-what do you mean?”


“I mean Rockford.”


Brendon gulps.


“What are you talking about? You wanna send me to the loony bin three hours from here?” Brendon asks, his voice rising in pitch disbelievingly.


“It's not a `loony bin', Brendon, it's a psychiatric hospital that will help you work through your feelings of anger and rebellion—”


“Shut up! Just shut up. What are you saying? Are you saying I'm crazy or something?” His voice rises and breaks a little in the middle of his exclamation.


Brendon's hysterical now; that scares him because he's never really been hysterical before.


But honestly, crazy? Daring, clever, and maybe even a little reckless but not crazy.


“No, Brendon, I'm not saying you're crazy at all, I'm just saying you have some issues to work through that Rockford will help you with.”


Brendon feels his world spinning just a little bit. Spinning out of his control, and he can't stop it. He puts a hand on the top of the leather chair to catch his balance.


“D-Did my parents put you up to this?”


Dale is silent at that.


“I knew it,” Brendon starts. “I knew it. I just knew they hated me…”


Dr. Williamson shakes his head vigorously at that statement. “Brendon, your parents don't hate you. In fact, they love you. They love you so much that—”


“That they're sending me to a loony bin?” Brendon cuts in sarcastically and bitterly.


Dr. Williamson sighs. “No, they're sending you to get help so that once you get out you can go to college and live a normal, stable life,” the man finishes, his tone rising with frustration just like Brendon's.


Brendon glares.


“I don't want what my parents want,” he sneers, and the therapist doesn't look surprised at the comment, but only at the sincerely malicious tone that the boy says it in. “I don't want `a normal, stable life'…” Brendon pauses, “I want to do what I want.”


Dale Williamson stares at Brendon harshly, and swallows. Brendon's waiting with a sneer on his face for the doctor to say something, anything, but nothing comes and Brendon feels a bit of disappointment despite himself. Then, the older man walks towards the boy, and before Brendon can protest, grabs him roughly by his arm and marches him straight to the door.


As they walk out into the open air and Brendon catches sight of his mother unloading his suitcases from the trunk, Brendon feels light headed and sick. The therapist's hold on Brendon's arm tightens and he asks in a stern, annoyingly mocking voice,


“Does what you want include taking Ecstasy to get high and then mixing that with several alcoholic beverages to almost kill yourself?”


And once again, Brendon can't really say anything because what's he supposed to say to that?


--------------------------------


“My mother's right there, you know.”


Dale ignores Brendon for a moment, and then must mentally decide to give the boy a little peace of mind and replies curtly,


“We decided it would be easier this way.”


Brendon scoffs, because, oh, apparently his parents and the doctor discussed this earlier. The whole “sending him off to a mental hospital to help him sort through his problems” thing. Brendon can see from his seat on the porch swing that his mother is in the front seat of that disgusting mini van crying. Brendon feels like going up and screaming at her that she's the last person who should be crying right now.


As a matter of fact, as soon as Brendon sees the white van driving down the neighborhood's street and closer to the therapist's house, he does feel like crying. The tears trickle at the back of his throat but he swallows them down and just clutches the inside fabric of his jacket's pockets harder. Dr. Williamson sits up and begins walking down the porch to the driveway where the plain white van is now waiting. Brendon can barely see through the front window, but he does know that the driver is a man.


“Follow me, Brendon.”


Despite his automatic instinct to disobey, Brendon gets a feeling of hopelessness and simply stands up robotically and begins to follow the therapist down the creaky steps and onto the asphalt. He swallows as they approach the van.


“Brendon, this is the hospital van that will take you to Rockford. Your driver is employed in the men's ward you'll be staying at once you get there, so feel free to ask him any questions you may have on the trip there,” Dale informs, and Brendon nods almost unnoticeably.


Dale grips the handle of the back door strongly, and then yanks it open, and Brendon cringes as the loud noise booms through his ears. He looks at Dr. Williamson.


“Do I have to sit in the back?” he asks.


The man returns his question with a “don't even go there” look, so Brendon simply silently slips into the back seat. It's stuffy and smells like old leather, but overall, it's not so bad.


The door is pulled shut, and Brendon feels a feeling of hopelessness again as he sits alone in the dark backseat. He's really leaving.


Brendon hears the trunk being opened, and he hears the sound of fabric brushing together as his couple suitcases are plopped in the far back. Then, the trunk door is slammed again, and Brendon hears Dale walking up to the driver's window. The driver (who Brendon still hasn't seen or learned the name of) rolls down the window and Dale sticks his head in.


“Make sure there are no stops,” he instructs, and Brendon gets the urge to punch the therapist in the face. Then, Dale looks at Brendon with a blank expression, and childishly waves.


“Buh-bye.”


Brendon thinks that he hates the feeling of hopelessness more than anger, frustration, or being ignored.


--------------------------------


Brendon is afraid to say anything.


He wants music. He wants conversation. He wants to hear anything except his own nervous breathing or the mind-numbing sound of the car against the wind and the tires against the road.


Brendon is both utterly relieved, grateful, and slightly freaked out when the driver says,


“Do you like music?”


Dumbfounded, Brendon opens his mouth for a moment, looking like a dead fish, and then shakes his head quickly. “Y-yeah,” he answers, and clears his throat. “Yeah, I love it.”


The driver nods.


Silence again.


“Do you mind if I turn the radio on?”


“…No.”


The driver's hand reaches out and turns the dial on the control board. Static comes on at first, and then finally, Brendon hears the familiar riffs of guitar. Third Eye Blind's “Semi-Charmed Life” begins to play through the speakers, and Brendon can't help but let a smile break onto his face.


“Man, I love these guys.”


Brendon is shocked. This unknown driver likes Third Eye Blind. One of his favorite bands. Brendon opens his mouth, and then lets out,


“Seriously? Yeah, they're pretty awesome.”


A red light suddenly stops the car, and all of a sudden, the driver turns around and Brendon is utterly shocked to see that he's only a couple years older than himself, at most. His brown hair is not too short, not too long, and he has the beginnings of a beard dabbled on his chin. He's filled out in the way that a man of his age should be, not too skinny (like Brendon) and not freakishly buffed. His eyes are twinkling and welcoming, and his face has a small smile on it.


“Look, I'm not supposed to do this, but you seem fairly normal and kind of scared so I'll just go ahead. My name's Jon Walker,” The driver announces, and reaches out a hand.


Brendon's eyes widen, but he shakes it nonetheless.


“I'm Brendon Urie.”


The red light turns to green, and once again Jon is driving, his back to Brendon. But he still talks.


“So what's wrong with you?”


The question takes the younger boy by surprise. No one's ever asked him that before in that context, and he chuckles, because now he supposes he'll have to get used to it, considering he's “crazy” and all. So, smirking, Brendon announces,


“Well, I'm `rebellious' and `angry'.”


Jon snorts.


“Aren't we all?”


At that, Brendon lets out a laugh despite himself. He can see in the rearview mirror that Jon smiles. Brendon likes Jon's smile. It makes him feel relaxed. Like Jon's really just an old friend and not a driver he just met taking him to a mental hospital.


“How old are you?” Brendon asks.


Jon raises his eyebrows. Normally, patients aren't as eager to learn information as Brendon seems to be.


“Twenty,” Jon answers, and when Brendon nods Jon finishes, “How old are you?”


“I'm eighteen. So, why in your right mind would you ever, at twenty years old, want to work at an insane asylum? I mean, you could be off at college or whatever it is `normal' twenty year olds do nowadays,” he questions, and Jon shrugs.


“I guess I took some psychology classes in high school and my first couple years at college and really got into it. I live right near Rockford, so I decided it might be cool to work with some psychologically disturbed patients to get a first-hand look at the stuff I studied.”


Brendon coughs.


“Cool?” he repeats, utterly shocked. “Cool to work with a bunch of psychos? Yeah, man, maybe you should be in the hospital instead of driving me there,” he finishes, and Jon twists his mouth in distaste.


Well, Brendon certainly is an outspoken little thing, isn't he?


“Whatever, man,” Jon replies nonchalantly.


Brendon stares out the small window. It's tinted, so he can't see that well.


“Why are the windows black or whatever?”


“So people don't look in and frighten patients.”


“How would people staring scare someone? That's just pathetic.”


“Um, we're talking about mentally disturbed people here. `Pathetic' doesn't even begin to cover it. What was your name again?”


“Brendon Urie. And don't forget it, either.”


Jon has a feeling he won't.


--------------------------------


Rockford Psychiatric Hospital's sign was awfully beat up.


It was supposed to be a white sign, Brendon figures, but instead it's more of a yellow off-white. The letters were supposed to be neatly placed, big and bold and black, but instead the `R' is crooked and the color is more of a pale gray. The shrubs around the sign were supposed to be for d?r, but instead they look like a gardening accident. The bricks surrounding the sign are falling apart, and Brendon sighs.


Jon makes one or two turns, and as soon as a huge brick building comes into view, he turns off the radio. There's a moment of silence before,


“Don't tell anyone I had music on.”


It's a command, not a request.


Brendon thinks that just this once he'll be nice and listen.


Finally, Jon pulls into a roundabout and parks the van on the side of a sidewalk along with a few other white vehicles. Brendon feels sick as he looks at how neat and alike they look. Jon unbuckles, and opens the driver's door. In a few seconds, Brendon's door is being opened, and a burst of fresh air enters the stuffy interior and he inhales deeply.


The scent of his new home isn't so bad.


Stepping out, Jon closes the door behind him and makes his way to the back to get Brendon's suitcases. Brendon's a selfish little thing, so he doesn't feel the need to offer help to Jon with the bags. Jon goes up onto the sidewalk and begins walking towards a door with a small,


“Follow me.”


Brendon stuffs his hands back into his pockets, and as he trails after the older male, he takes a look up at the building. It's all brick; he sees windows, too, but they're slightly disturbing to look at because even from here Brendon can see the bars and metal safety gates that seal them.


What kind of people live here?


“This is the men's ward. I work here; you live here. Occasionally, you'll get grounds privileges, but for now, you're stuck inside, buddy,” Jon informs, and glances back at Brendon who simply stares at him unblinkingly and mummers,


“So it's like a prison?”


Normally, a smart remark like that would earn him a disdainful look or a shake of the head or a “No, Brendon”, but surprisingly, Jon just shrugs and replies,


“Sure. I guess you could look at it like that.”


Brendon thinks this is going to take a while to get used to.


--------------------------------


“Shouldn't my parents be signing this?” Brendon asks, staring at the last page of the huge packet of hospital “Rules and Regulations” sheets that the old lady behind the counter handed him with a pen twenty minutes earlier. At the very bottom, under italicized print, it says,


Permission to Enter Hospital Granted


Then it has a “sign here” line.


Jon sighs behind him, waiting now impatiently at the doorway.


The old lady glances at the paper, and then shakes her head. “No, honey, you're eighteen. You sign yourself in here; this was your decision.”


Brendon resists the urge to laugh as he writes his name neatly at the bottom on the line.