The office had a clinical feeling to it. Stifling, dark curtains over the window, contrasting with the bland, white-gray walls. Severe, pointed edges on the massive wooden desk. And beige carpeting that looked like either aged, cinnamon oatmeal, or cat puke. Either way, it was spotless and still had lines in it from when the janitor vacuumed it.

To match the sanitized feeling of the room, the man behind the desk loomed with a glowering gaze. Head shaved and polished clean, the only hair on his head was that of a sculpted and groomed goatee, haloing his lips with reddish brown hair. Glasses occasionally created a mask-like effect when the light above would catch them just so, hiding his piercing grey eyes from view. A mature man, his frown only emphasized the wrinkles on his face. Sitting forward, with liver-spotted hands lacing on the desktop, he cocked his head to the side and gave the woman sitting across from him a critical look.

"I think you'll be happy here... Ms. Skinner, was it?" he asked searchingly - although, Dr. Scott did not seem like the type of man to ask questions he didn't already know the answers to. "At least for the time being. The Binghamton Mental Health Center will be a safe place for you to get the treatment you need. I am certain that, when you're ready, you will have no problem getting your case approved for discharge." He gave her a brief smile that dissolved into a focused look. "That is, if you're willing to put the effort into your own mental health. Nothing gets handed to you on a silver platter around here and if you want to be taken seriously, then you have to apply yourself."

Satisfied that he'd made his point, he reached across the desk for the freshly signed paperwork and stacked the pages together, tapping them lightly on the desk before stapling them with expert ease. "We'll start you on lurasidone and see if we can't even you out a little bit. You're expected to be completely honest with me or any of the ward nurses about your condition, as it will help us determine if it's working for you or not. It may take us weeks to find the right dosage and we may have to try several different combinations before we figure out what works best for you. Okay?" He nodded at a brief look of acknowledgement from her, tucking his paperwork in a slim, army-green folder marked "Skinner, Ivy".

"Your psychologist will be Dr. Foley and he will talk to you once a week and even supervise a couple of group sessions with the other patients. If for any reason your symptoms intensify or you experience any difficulties, ask to speak with him or myself and we'll see if we can't get things sorted out for you. Do you have any questions before you are taken to get settled in your rooms?" Dr. Scott waited with an impatient air, blinking rapidly with a sigh before fixing her with an expectant and intolerant stare.



Where was Richard?

Andrew sat curled up in the day room chair, feet propped on the cushion right under his buttocks, with his knees tucked close to his chest protectively. Idly biting his thumb nail, he zoned out while on the TV played a performance by Lady Gaga singing over and over, Do what you want, what you want with my body! Do what you want, what you want with my body!" barely paying attention as the starlet gyrated obscenely onscreen. The TV sat in the corner of the room in front of a row of barred windows, with chairs lined up in rows in front of it. Against the far wall were 2 doors - one to an activity room and the other to the phone room - and in the opposite corner was a table with a half-finished puzzle on it.

He missed breakfast and morning med line. Richard never misses breakfast.

The normally punctual old man was Andrew's favorite toy to play with in the morning, since it was so easy to get him riled up. But THIS morning, there'd been no sign of the elderly schizophrenic. And there was still no sign of Richard now - he'd missed the Price Is Right! What happened? Did it have anything to do with those noses he heard last night...?

At the fourth recital of the very repetitive chorus on TV, Agatha, who sat slumped in the chairs against the adjacent wall groaned, "Dear, beloved Thanatos... Take me now!"

Not missing a beat, Andrew's jerky eyes zipped nervously over to her. "Hm? What was that, Aggie? Something to share with the class?"

"Bite me, Andy," she monotoned, running a hand through her greasy, black hair and leaning heavily on the arm of her chair.

Andrew's eyes swished between her and the tv, narrowing slightly. "Oh, I'm sorry. If we're not supposed to comment on your poetry, then maybe you should take to writing it alone in your room." Agitated by her rude interruption, Andrew readjusted himself, stretching his legs out and propping his ankles on the back of the empty chair in front of him. Folding his arms across his chest, he sniffed slightly and returned to mulling over the issue at hand.

This wasn't the first person to go missing. There was also that girl - the one with bullognia or whatever - who'd stopped showing up at groups. And yet nobody seemed concerned about it except for him. It wasn't a discharge. People got excited about leaving this hellhole. And since Dr. Satan - aka, Dr. Scott - didn't like to let go of victims unless he was absolutely sure they no longer had the crazy, it took all day of waiting for this and that approval before patients got to walk away to their long-anticipated freedom.

Maybe he broke a hip?

Andrew leaned up a little to crane his neck around to glance at the day room door but saw no sign of Richard coming in or out down the hallway.

"Seriously, where is he?" he asked Steve.

Steve appeared in the blink of an eye, leaning against the wall. He wasn't always there; sometimes he showed up when mentioned or thought of, and sometimes he showed up seemingly randomly.

"I told you when the last patient dissapeared, Andy?" He said, stepping towards Andrew. "Do you go by Andy at all anymore? Anyway, I digress. That 'Dr. Satan', as you like to call him, is up to fishy things. Does it sound so crazy anymore? Well, who are you to judge whether something is crazy. But all I'm saying, Andrew, is that Richard would never miss out on a pancake breakfast. Sure, maybe they're crappy hospital pancakes, but that never seemed to bother him."

The supposedly imaginary friend leaned in close to Andrew's face and widened his eyes. "You might want to watch your own back, Andy. For the sake of us both."

Ivy knew what to expect when she gave the call. She knew they'd try to give her another addicting bottle of whatever she needed, put her in a nuthouse for eternity then let her free so she could repeat it all again. She was sick of it. Nevertheless, she just couldn't stand staring down at the blazing lights below, thinking of the unsuspecting people who would have the worst of luck. She could've ended a dozen lives. And if she survived it? She could only imagine what nuthouse she'd be put in. Either way, she had an equal chance of ending up here. But even now as Ivy sat in front of Dr. Scott, waiting to be released into the jungle of crazies, she still pondered on why she didn't take the chance.

Ivy sat staring down at the papers he shuffled in his hands, tapping the tips of her fingers idly against the armrest. She was definitely bored. A theme from a movie she used to love kept repeating in her head, singing 'Crazy, bars in the window he is crazy, truly gone fishing...' and always seemed to repeat at the end of the chorus. She reclined on her left elbow and crossed her heels under the chair, idly watching his lips as he began speaking to her.

She felt like she was getting admittance into a boarding school for kids who couldn't behave. That's basically what an Asylum felt for her, save for the learning part. After a moment of speech, she took her eyes off and readjusted her seating to a more comfortable position. She let her elbow rest from carrying her upper weight, and now reclined farther into her chair. Her eyes glanced about like a child who was trying to pretend nothing was wrong. The song still played softly in her head.

Her eyebrows furrowed a bit at the part about silver plates. The song stopped, and she actually gave a thought to what he was saying; Of course she didn't expect to be treated like a five-star guest, but as much comfort as they could offer was usually stated instead. She began to feel... tested. Yet she unwinded her heels, and continued to listen to his practiced-sounding speech anyways.

Ivy nodded at his Okay to show she understood, not to show that she agreed. She went on to listen, and at the end of his rant, she answered with an irked "No, I understand perfectly" and pressed against the armrests to stand up as soon as she could. She stretched her arms above her, and prepared herself for a tiresome tour. The tune was still stuck in her head.

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

Ivy walked down the hall with her gaze fixed upon the oncoming floor, biting her index finger's nail off simply because she was bored. At least she was away from him now, but just like her previous visits to Asylums, she knew she'd remain this way until she fixed her act.

The pattern in her steps matched the beating of her heart, and she began being ushered by her own tolerance to speed up. To the left of her, a doorway became very close. It seemed to open up into a room brighter that the office, not much more friendly than it. By her own curiosity, she stepped though the doorway to check and see if it'd be a nice place to spend her free time. She wiped her saliva off on her scrubs before it was too late, and went to investigating.

The place reminded her of an old folk's retirement home, save for the explicit scene she could hear from half across the room. The light felt a lot warmer in here than it did in the office or halls, yet she could still feel chills. Homesickness was already settling in, and i was hardly noon. And although the pleasantly quiet scene of people sitting in chairs mumbling to themselves looked inviting, Ivy felt the need to bond. She had no other choice.

"Hi," She started with a soft voice, to keep from encouraging loudness. Her silvery eyes glanced at the television, then towards the man sitting with his legs up. Her eyes focused on his for a moment, then evaded. "What are you guys doing?" She ended with a statement of interest. Of course, she knew she'd get a tedious response, but at least there would be a little chit-chat to start off with. She spotted a vacant chair to the side of the man, and decided to rest there. Her eyes traced the outline of him, and once reclining, she crossed her heels again and sat staring at the barred windows for a few seconds, void of blinking.

The meds should be kicking in by now, she thought to herself. She began tapping her fingers to the theme in her head, feeling more at peace now.

Tap, tap, tap, the footsteps down the hallway echoed around the ward, seeping into the bright white lounge room. The noise bounced around inside May's head. Her posture was perfect, as she sat on the couch starring out the window lost in deep though. The tapping stopped, and all was silent once again inside her brain. She didn't have to be in group for another hour, which left her time her own.
As the time slowed, she began feeling depressed, there was no need for her to get out of bed, she had already failed by ending up in this place. May knew she could never hid the fact she spent time in an asylum from future employers, panicked ensued. Perfection was no longer able to gain, forcing life to be helpless.
Tears burned inside her eyes, and snot dripped. The back of her hand whipped the tears and snot, holding her breath trying to keep from letting anyone noticing she was crying. May's hand slipped into her pocket and felt the queen chess piece she had stolen from the only set they had. It calmed down her nerves as she breathed out and letting out a small sigh.
She twirled it around her middle finger and thumb. Her hands were sweaty and clammy, making the plastic slippery in the pocket. Her blond hair was sticking out all round, showing her split ends making May feel imperfect. So many thoughts swallowed inside, as she gulped down the lump inside her throat.
"I must be getting sick." May thought as her hand left the pocket and started playing with her dried hair, trying to make it more soft and silky. It was the price she had paid for watching her hair three times a day with scolding hot water.