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.
