Author's Note: This fic is a sequel to another fic I couldn't put up here due to formatting difficulties. I recommend reading the first fic before reading this one, as this one may not make sense otherwise. You can read it at http www ashido com/ igtky / diary.html
Since is such a WHORE about line breaks FOR SOME REASON and it is driving me CRAZY AFIJGIAHJ you can read the original version of this at http www ashido com / igtky / hospital1.html without bizarre inexplicable spacing.
This fic does have slash at some points between several characters and some dodgy sexual situations. Proceed at your own risk.
Convalescence
(By "ACID TRIP AHEAD" Zarla)
(Warning: I am not responsible for any mental damage caused by reading this fic.)
"It's lunch...is Edgar still in his room?"
"Probably. He doesn't come out unless you force him to."
"Well, figures, considering. He's on unit restriction, it's not like he's got a lot of places to be."
"So why-"
"Can't eat in the rooms. He at least should get out into the main room to eat."
"So who's going to go get him?"
"I'm charting for Desir, so I'm out."
"You?"
"Nuh uh, I'm doing the peds group in like, five minutes."
"Sue! Hey, Sue!"
"Yeah?"
"Get Edgar Vargas to go to lunch."
"What?"
"He's still in his room."
"Why do I have to do it? You know what he did to-"
"Okay, that wasn't a nurse, for one thing-"
"I just don't feel safe around him, okay? He's really psychotic-"
"Ha ha, like that's unusual?"
"You know what I mean. He makes me really uncomfortable..."
"Heh, is it the eye? That's creepy as hell."
"Hey, I got him an eyepatch, Pam! Give me some credit for that."
"Let me get my golf-clap ready."
"Yeah yeah, fuck you. But last I saw he's still got the patch, so at least that's been taken care of. It's not so bad when you don't see it everyday."
"No, it's not the eye that makes me uncomfortable..."
"Then what, Sue? C'mon. You've worked with worse than that guy. At least he's quiet most of the time."
"No, it's just...I don't know, Jen. It's like...I don't think he's getting better. I think he knows he's not going to, you know?"
"Oh oh, wait, I know why she's freaked out."
"Okay Pam, shoot."
"It's-"
"It's that alternate personality, isn't it? Skree or whatever."
"Screebean?"
"Screeban?"
"Skeeball?"
Laughter.
"Guys-"
"Skippy!"
"Scooby!"
"Scruffy!"
"Sasha!"
"Sasha, what the hell-"
"Guys, shut up! You shouldn't do that."
"He can't hear us, lighten up."
"But it's that guy, isn't it? The other personality? God, I remember once I was walking along and I watched him shift, it was the fucking creepiest thing. He just completely changed his walk and posture and everything. Even the look on his face."
"Heh, and the alter is such a total bastard too. You wouldn't believe what he said about what I was wearing-"
"Is that it, Sue? Are you just creeped out by Scri?"
"Aw Sue, don't let that get to you. I know that one time-"
"No, I can handle it, okay?"
"God, that Scri guy can be creepy too though. I mean, at least Edgar is quiet most of the time. The Scri one just can't stop talking ever, and most of the time it doesn't even make sense."
"Heh, I swear, for all the quiet nervousness of that guy Scri makes up for it five times over. Ego the size of a fucking continent."
"Hey, do you think that Edgar hasn't come out 'cause he's in the Scri personality?"
"God, I hope not. You can't get Scri to do anything. Edgar at least'll listen. Scri gets all sarcastic and thinks he's clever or just starts fights. Did you see how many seclusion-restraints he's got racked up in his chart? Christ."
"Didn't he get an IMR at one point?"
"Shit, probably-"
"Edgar too, though. I mean, when he starts seeing things, he can get really aggressive."
"Well yeah, but it's not on purpose, mostly. Edgar's nice enough, when you get down to it."
"I guess, but still. Remember that one time he punched right through that window? Said something about butterflies?"
"God, did you ever get a good look at his fingers? I've never seen-, ugh! I can't imagine ever doing that to myself!"
"Well, they upped his meds and he's been quiet since, so..."
"Okay, I'll do it. What room is he in again?"
"Change of heart?"
"Someone's got to, right?"
"Okay, but be careful though, Sue, all right?"
"Remember what happened to that one guy? I mean, he looks safe enough, but he can get nasty real fast, and I couldn't believe that a guy as thin as he is could-"
"Yeah, you're not helping, Pam."
"All right, Room...204.The other two there already left for lunch, so he should be alone. If he doesn't respond, just go and look inside."
"Right. Hey, Jose."
"Hey. Goin' to find the stragglers?"
"You know it."
"Be careful."
All the other doors were open, rooms empty. Only this door remained closed. Sue knocked.
"Female staff."
Waited a few minutes.
"Edgar? Are you awake?" She pressed her ear to the door. "It's time for lunch."
Nothing.
Sue sighed and shook her head. She always hated invading people's privacy like this, and she had found that they, likewise, did not appreciate it. She had been on the receiving end of some rather nasty verbal (and once physical) attacks after entering someone's room, but if Edgar wasn't going to open the door, then...
"Edgar?"
Still quiet. That wasn't entirely unusual, considering. Edgar Vargas had proven to be one of those patients that said little when spoken to and nothing when left alone. He just withdrew into himself, which wasn't unusual by any means. There were dozens of people here who did just that.
Edgar also had an obedient streak in him; he would do what was asked of him without protest. It made him difficult to read, but easy to work with.
Mostly.
Well, if the room was quiet, that meant that he wasn't in the Scriabin personality for now. If that personality was currently present, she was sure that her knocking would have been greeted with anything but silence.
She turned the knob, inched the door open. She stood back so she could keep a clear view of the room, looking for a sign of Edgar anywhere. She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw him curled up on his bed in the corner.
"Edgar, it's time for lunch."
Edgar didn't say anything. Sue sighed and moved further into the room, kept a close eye on her surroundings.
"You've got be hungry. If you're tired, you can come back and nap later."
Still no response, although he did twitch at the sound of her voice. She stood by his bed now, watching him carefully. She had left the door to the room open, to make sure that if she needed help she would be heard. She didn't really expect Edgar to do anything, but there were rules she had to follow.
"Did Nny call?" His voice was very soft and a bit hoarse from disuse, and Sue felt a twinge of compassion. Whoever this Johnny person was (the docs insisted that he didn't exist and the chart stated the same, although Sue thought that Edgar seemed too convinced of his reality for him to just be an imaginary friend), he was always foremost in Edgar's thoughts. It was always the same question, no matter the time or activity or line of inquiry. He always asked, and Sue hated to do it, but she always had to answer the same way.
"No, Edgar."
A silence, and then Edgar slowly rolled over to look at her. When he had been admitted he just had a ragged, festering hole instead of an eye, and it made Sue sick to even think of what it looked like. Despite his protests (God, why would he protest such a thing?) they got him some real medical attention and the teeming mass of seeping infections was cleared up into something smooth and strangely shiny looking. It made the deformity no less disturbing. The fact that Edgar didn't even seem to notice or care that he had a hole where his eye should have been also made it rather unnerving. The other patients had felt similarly, and Jen had petitioned to get Edgar an eyepatch. No one expected him to accept the offering, as Edgar had refused all attempts to remove or hide his other scars, but he did take the eyepatch.
It wasn't pride that kept Edgar from hiding his wounds. Sue wasn't sure what it was. Apathy maybe. Edgar just didn't seem to care, or maybe he didn't even know they were there at all.
Scriabin, however, did know, and just mentioning the marks across his body when he was present was enough to set him off. Not that getting him started was difficult to begin with.
"Did he write me a letter?" His voice was soft and quiet, completely non-threatening. That was the easiest way to tell the difference between Edgar and his alternate personality. Scriabin always sounded angry, frustrated, violent, and he spoke loudly and clearly. Even the interns could tell the difference, despite their limited contact. Anyone who worked on or even dropped by Adult 1 was warned about Edgar/Scriabin, and most of the inexperienced were warned away entirely.
Still, it paid for them to know who was who, even if they never really interacted with him.
"No, Edgar."
She held out her hand, and Edgar took it quietly. His knuckles were white from dozens of small wounds that had never healed properly, and the tips of his fingers a ragged mess of scar tissue. She pulled him up into a sitting position.
"Can I call him?"
Sue sighed. She didn't like dealing with him because of Scriabin, surely, but Edgar himself was still emotionally exhausting. He wanted so little, and she could not give it to him. She felt a lot of pity originally, but you can't do that for long periods of time and stay healthy. Now and again a twinge returned to her, and she fought to keep it down.
Had to be honest, and she wondered if Edgar knew that her response was always and would always be the same. "Do you know his phone number?"
Edgar looked down, visibly crushed, and his voice shook.
"No."
He couldn't call him without it. Every time it was like she tore his heart out again. She'd never get used to this, and she sighed.
"C'mon, it's time for lunch. Aren't you hungry?" She tugged him to his feet, and he followed her directions without complaint.
"Why won't he call me?" He asked her as they walked out of the room.
Sue knew what she was supposed to say, that she wasn't supposed to feed his delusions about this imaginary person, but he sounded so distraught.
"I don't know."
"Hello there, my name is Jen. Sorry I'm running a bit late, I had a few things to take care of."
Blink, and something fell from the socket onto the table.
"Hello, my name is Edgar Vargas."
"Uh huh. Are you all right? Are you crying?"
"No."
"Just want to make sure. If you need anything, just ask me. Now, I'm here to just ask you a few questions so we can get a good idea of your treatment goals here."
Nod.
"Now, why are you here?"
Tilted his head slowly at her, almost smiled.
"I've gone insane."
A pen scratching on paper.
"Mmhmm. How so?"
No response. Long pause, and no response. Wasn't going to respond, ask him for clarification later, and the pen ticked down to the next box.
"Edgar?"
Twitch, had his attention.
"Edgar, it says here that it looks like you attempted suicide. You have scars on your wrists that suggest it. Did you?"
"Yes."
"What happened?"
Voice was completely calm. The pen marked "flat affect" on the sheet. "The first real attempt was when he tried to slit my wrists. I'm not sure how I managed to stop the bleeding, but when I woke up my wrists were bandaged and the bathtub was full of red water. One of my razors was missing. I assume, therefore, that he attempted to slit my wrists and was somehow foiled in one way or another."
Marked the advanced vocabulary box. "...Who attempted this?"
"Scriabin."
"And who is Scriabin?"
Eye twitching and fingers drumming continuously on the tabletop. A slight twist of the neck, a soft pop, and the motion ceased.
"That would be me."
Pen tapped on the table hesitantly.
"So you're both Edgar and Scriabin?"
Leaned forward on his arms, rough and raw with mangled wounds and letters that were still just legible. A knowing smile, a soft and confident voice, condescending and bitter.
"Oh, that is such a tricky question for us. There's a lot at work here. I have a feeling, though, that if I try to explain it any further that you won't believe me, and I wouldn't blame you in that case. The simplest explanation, until we find some conclusive evidence to prove otherwise, would be MPD. Isn't that what it's called?"
"It's called DID now. Dissociative Identity Disorder."
"I see." Quiet amusement, and hands folded behind his head. "Well, let's just go with that."
Pen scritching furiously. "And you say that you were the one who tried to kill yourself?"
A mocking pout. "Not quite so simple, my dear. Edgar is in a bit of denial. He may as well get a permanent home in Egypt. No, I didn't try to kill him. Edgar tried to kill himself, and I stopped him. I took control long enough to take care of the wounds. It wasn't the first time, or the last time."
Pen still moving. "You're both telling me different stories."
Leaned forward again with his chin on his hands, a broad smile, and the skin around the ragged hole of an eye crinkled.
"That's right, and I tell you now that the one you can, and should, trust in our demented little farce here is me."
"I should trust you?"
Slow incline of his head, and his fingers dug into the flesh of his cheek.
"Oh, you can trust me completely."
They took away his shoelaces. He hated how it felt, to have the tongue constantly falling out and beating against him, tapping and flapping and it brought so much attention. Or it should have. It should have and it didn't, that's what bothered him. The flap flap of walking and nothing. Some got rubber bands to hold the tongue in place, but he was denied them, not after what Scriabin tried to do with them.
Voluntary, he had always been and would always be voluntary in all aspects of his life obedient and supple and yet there was this resistance, this urge to fight. Not enough to be discharged but enough to make things difficult. Scriabin explained it to him several times, convinced each time he forgot, about how the staff were doing everything all wrong. He had promised Edgar that they would get help, help from someone else, and yet Scriabin couldn't bear to let anyone else do much of anything. No one was capable of taking care of him correctly as far as Scriabin was concerned, and Scriabin was more than willing to make that clear to anyone and everyone who was listening. They hated the question "why" so that was Scriabin's new favorite word.
Edgar found that he didn't care. No matter how hard Scriabin tried to goad him into caring, it didn't work. He found sleeping becoming more attractive, spent more time in the world of his dreams where things made a lot more sense and he felt happier there. That feeling he had that something was amiss, something was wrong, stopped when he dreamed. They regulated the time he spent though and he didn't sleep as much as he wanted to, or he had before according to Scriabin.
Scriabin often took control, to give him rest he said. Edgar still didn't care. He knew some time ago that once it did matter, once it was a matter of contention between the two of them, a constant battle, but now Edgar just let it go. He let everything go, and let hands guide him from one activity to the next without any stirring of emotion. When Scriabin took over, Edgar dreamed quietly. He so often dreamed of Johnny, but when Scriabin had his body, he mostly dreamed of him. That at least pleased Scriabin on some level, as he knew it would. Some old memory told him that it would, although he couldn't put it into words.
He wanted Edgar's affection, so Edgar gave it to him. It was required of him and he did what was required of him because he didn't know what else to do. He had no motivation to do anything anymore, anything more than try to spend his time in dreams. To take hold of those few moments where things seemed real and clear and things didn't keep falling apart in front of his eyes.
He lay in bed at night, listened to his roommate talk to him, to someone else, and he held the edge of the blanket in his hands and over time a small thread had come to his finger's attention and try as he might he couldn't stop running over it, tugging on it slightly, pulling on it occasionally to reaffirm that it was there, and it got longer and longer and soon everything started to unravel.
Everything unraveling, and his fingertips were missing.
"Okay, who wants to start with check in today?"
Silence.
"No volunteers? Edgar, how about you?"
Turned his head and the room kept turning when his motion stopped. It moved slowly, slow enough so as not to be truly alarming. Turned his head and stared with one eye and he felt her waver far away in the distance, the motion sending ripples through the walls and air and his chair.
"What?"
"Tell us your name, how you feel, and what your favorite type of cake is."
Someone coughed, mumbled, talked, stared and the vibrations through the fabric around him worked through, and Scriabin was singing to himself somewhere inside him, singing a song over and over and over and over until the words were mixed up and the melody became the meaning, until the way he sang the words was the reality rather than what the words actually were. Repeating and repeating and repeating and it solidified, made the motion outside meaningless because inside at least he had a pattern that wasn't changing, wouldn't change.
"My name is Edgar Vargas..."
"Mmhmm." She sat with her hands in her lap.
I like chocolate cake.
What kind of chocolate cake?
There's such a thing as devil cake, isn't there?
Did we have it?
I want to have it. Say that one.
Okay.
"Scriabin likes chocolate devil cake."
That minor look of displeasure, a visible sigh on her features and the room jerked around him, tendrils jabbed out from the walls at him and Edgar blinked slowly, found that his eyes felt heavy and natural when they were closed.
"What kind of cake do you like, Edgar?"
"Scriabin?" Someone new said loudly, perhaps incapable of understanding how the volume of their voice affected their relations with others. "But didn't he say..."
The woman next to him patted his arm, leaned close and whispered and the man's eyes widened, and he was silent. Edgar still stared at the therapist, watched as the walls around her melted and formed, hands and fingers swirling around her head and her hair and pointing, grabbing, but never really touching. That was why that didn't frighten him anymore, that couldn't touch him. The butterflies still could though, but he hadn't seen them lately.
What kind of cake do I like?
Scriabin stopped singing reluctantly, and when he stopped his voice was hoarse and weak. I don't know. Think about it.
Vanilla?
Didn't you have a cake on your birthday...? and now Scriabin's voice was shaky and he sounded on the edge of tears, and neither of them knew why. Not unusual, as while Edgar's moods had leveled into an unnatural kind of apathy, Scriabin had been hit with mood swing after mood swing without explanation, and the lack of control over his own emotions was driving him crazy. Driving him crazy crazy crazy he told Edgar at night, and Edgar said what Scriabin wanted him to until he could settle and it stopped, and he stopped wanting to weep for reasons he couldn't remember anymore. You had a cake on your birthday, didn't you? On our birthday, didn't you? Didn't you?
I did, I did have one...
"Edgar, what kind of cake do you like?"
"Just skip him."
"Just be patient, Michael."
What kind of cake was it?
I..I can't... Scriabin choked for a second. Vanilla? So desperate to be correct.
That sounds right.
"Vanilla cake."
"Okay." She wrote it down. "And Edgar, how do you feel today?"
The room had stopped spinning, although the long extensions of the walls and floor kept coming and stretching around him and everyone. The table's legs bent and moved and flowed into the floor, into colors that blurred into things he couldn't name, but the room wasn't moving at least and that was a plus because that meant he usually wouldn't get sick.
Back to singing again, his voice stuttering on words.
"Do you want how Scriabin feels too?"
A pause, and everyone fell into shards and fell together again, and nothing happened.
"Just you, Edgar."
My feelings count, Scriabin whined. You know they do.
I know they do. We'll tell her later.
"I feel..."
He stared at his hands, white lines that traced over his knuckles and he couldn't bear to study the damage done to his fingers, not anymore. He couldn't remember, couldn't think of any reason, how it happened and Scriabin's story kept changing, kept changing and whenever he started crying, Edgar lost his train of thought and he could never find the right car to get back on again and he was lost.
"I feel lost."
"Lost? How do you feel lost, Edgar?" She wrote it down.
"I can't remember anything that happened to me. I can't remember why I...or when I...or anything important."
"You feel lost without your memories."
"Something's moved on without me, something left and I never could get back on, find it again. I couldn't find where I was supposed to go and then the train pulled away, and I left my bag inside because I was in a hurry and I don't know where it is, I don't know where it went or how to find it...I don't have a claim ticket for it..."
"Mmm." She wrote it down. "I'm sorry to hear that, Edgar. How do you think you can find what you're looking for again?"
He ran a hand through his hair, and the room snapped back into four walls and a floor and ceiling and furniture and people. His hand caught the strap of his eyepatch for a second and jostled it and he could sense the hesitation from the therapist, not wanting to see it again and he touched it with his other hand and made sure it was still in place. He took a deep breath and it burned somewhere in his chest, and Scriabin began singing again. An old song that Edgar remembered from a few years ago. Played, burned into his memory regardless of whether he liked it or not, and he found that happened more than he would have liked.
If I want more peace in the world, I must make peace with myself...if I want more trust in the world, I've got to trust in myself...if I want more love in the world, I must show more love to myself...'cause I want to change the world.
I want to make it well.
At his response Scriabin's voice cracked, harshly and he didn't even try to stop it, and from what Edgar could feel he caught a maelstrom of sadness and despair and frustration and longing and regret and so many things that he experienced now that may or may not have been his to begin with. The lines got so blurry between them, so blurry and so defined in other ways and Scriabin's words were desperate and out of place for how little Edgar had cared for the song originally. How can I change the world when I can't change myself? I'd love to change your mind, capture your citadel, how could I change your mind if I can't change myself?
He seriously tried to think of the answer and his thoughts matched what would have come next anyway. Try again tomorrow...
Edgar remembered hearing the song while he was cleaning the kitchen alone and the radio was on blaring and staticy and occasionally one speaker would go out and he choked hard, and he hid his eyes because he knew he was crying but he didn't know why.
"Edgar, are you okay?"
He shook his head, and Scriabin made soft hushing sounds in his mind.
"Do you want to leave Group for now?"
He shook his head again, felt himself beginning to shake hard and his throat constricted, and the room was close enough to touch and it was breathing all over him.
"We'll get back to you. Richard, would you like to go next?"
Do you want to rest for a while?
I want my life back, he sobbed. I want, I want I want to see Johnny, I want to know that there's something left.
That soft, resigned sigh. I'll take care of it, I'll take care of you. He abandoned you but I won't. Go ahead and rest, I'll take care of it. We're going to get through this, okay?
Nnn.
We're going to get through this, aren't we? We're working to make it better, we're working to make it better, aren't we? We can fix it.
I hate this, I hate this I hate this
Shhh. Go ahead and rest. You'll feel better in a little while.
Someone touched his shoulder, to ask again if he was okay, and Edgar fell sleep.
"You said that wasn't the first attempt?"
"No. He tried again, later. He tried to hang himself in the shower."
Pen scritching.
"Who did this?"
"Edgar did it. I woke up later. The yarn wasn't strong enough to hold his weight, I suppose. Got some bruises for it."
"You don't want to die?"
"...I don't."
"So none of these attempts you think were your fault?"
"...No, I never attempted it."
"Did you ever think about it? Plan it out?"
"I..." A moment where he seemed temporarily lost, and then his composure was back. "Things get kind of hazy for me, dear. I'm sorry, but our memory isn't quite what it used to be. We've been through a lot, the boy and I, and I think we've suffered a bit of damage for it. More than physical, you understand. I don't exactly remember doing it, but I wrote down some things. I suppose I may have at one point."
Pen scratching against the paper.
"Did you ever feel homicidal?"
"Homicidal?" Quiet amusement.
"Did you ever feel you presented a threat to others?"
Leaned forward and the skin around his wounds pulled and stretched. "Oh, I'm sure I was. I possibly still am."
Stared at him and he smiled.
"Like I said...things get hazy."
Take this sheet of paper, and mark all the boxes that apply to you.
The pencil spun around his fingers, from one to the other and he could still do that, he could still do that even when it began to fly apart. He had to slow down at that point, but he could spin it fast and the fact that he could was so important, so very important because
Spinning and spinning.
Looking down the list of attributes, of little positive things.
Creative? No.
Natural leader? No.
Do I get to take one of these?
You can do it after me.
Okay, I'll circle mine. You check yours.
Brave?
He'd come back to that one.
Math skills? Enough. A checkmark.
Sense of direction? As far as he was aware. A checkmark.
Loyal? Check.
Compassionate? Half a checkmark, and then his fingers stopped moving. Moved on.
Sensitive? Not really.
Intelligent? A check, with the minor concern of egotism that was swiftly wiped away.
Calm? Check.
Friendly? No.
Social? No.
Independent? Check.
Energetic? No.
Athletic? No.
Talkative? No.
Musical talent?
I can play the piano.
I can't. No.
Loving?
The pencil sank into his skin, and at that point he started screaming and after that
"Do you think that if you were on your own, you could take care of yourself?"
A smile.
"Do you consider yourself gravely disabled?"
"My dear." Arms held high, twisted so each deep scar was clear. "It's become obvious to us both, me and my dear boy, that we cannot do that. Not anymore."
Checked the box for "insight regarding present illness."
"You're determined to get well then?"
"Of course."
Another check.
"But you don't consider yourself capable of living independently now?"
"No, I don't think so." Smiling still. Wrist showed in the light, and angry lines crisscrossed over long trailing tendons and veins.
"What are your goals during your stay here?"
Tapped his chin in an exaggerated fashion.
"I suppose I'd prefer to live without constantly mutilating myself. Is that-"
"You and Edgar?"
A pause.
"Yes, me and Edgar."
"Why do you think you keep hurting yourself?"
Single eye moved just slightly, focused past her head and past the wall behind her, and his expression changed.
"I see things."
"Both of you?"
"Both of us. Both of us now."
"What kind of things?"
"Edgar, this is your new roommate. His name is Kirk."
"Krik?"
"Kirk."
"Oh."
He stood by the water cooler and stared at the paper cups until someone touched him. He felt the fingers on his shoulder, and then they sank through his arm and started touching his bones. He didn't like being touched.
"Edgar, what are you doing out here? It's quiet hours, you should be in your room. How did you get past the nurse's station?"
He couldn't speak, there was something in his throat and it'd escape if he said anything. It was thirsty. That was why he was staring. That or it liked eating paper. Possibly one of those.
"Edgar, are you listening? Can you hear me?"
He nodded, and he wanted his fingers out of his marrow. People didn't do that in his dreams. The cup he was staring at fell through the stack and fell onto the floor, and he watched it drop and spin and do a lovely swan dive before it vanished into the carpet.
"Are you...Edgar, are you seeing things?"
He nodded again. The thing was scratching through the back of his throat. Maybe it was tired of being with him. It was going to dig through the back of his neck pretty soon. Then maybe he could talk again.
"Hmm, and you'd been making so much progress with that...you took your meds today?"
Another nod and he felt the thing push his spine apart and walk out of his neck, and there was his voice. He worried for a second it would have taken it with it.
"I did."
"And you're still seeing things?" Almost sounded concerned, but that wasn't allowed. If it was there it had to be quick and meaningless and obviously so or else it traversed boundaries into therapy and that was bad. Edgar learned that from a sheet Scriabin had stolen while no one was watching him.
"Yes."
"Are you hearing anything?"
"No. Just Scriabin."
Scriabin, at the moment, was saying syllables that weren't easily matching up into words. Edgar wasn't sure if it was Scriabin's fault or his own that he couldn't understand what he was saying.
"Who's your doctor?"
"I don't know." He stared at a different cup. The Styrofoam began to peel apart, and a small white worm fell onto the carpet. He watched it fall, and this one didn't vanish. It wriggled back and forth unevenly, too close for his comfort.
"Let's see..." They gently took his hand and looked at the wristband there. Brightly colored and it had letters, but he wasn't reading at the time. "Dr. Ramon. I'm going to talk to him about your medication, okay? When you meet with him tell him what you're seeing. You might need something stronger than you're currently taking."
"Butterflies come from caterpillars, don't they?" The little worm wriggled against the carpet.
"Yeah, they do. Come on, you should be in your room."
"Good. Maybe they won't come after me here."
"Who won't come after you?" Led away from the water cooler, and he felt a breeze going through his neck.
"I don't want to make any more butterflies."
"Is that what you were working on in activities?"
"No."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't want any more butterflies growing in my body. I've had enough of them."
"...Edgar, do you feel safe right now? In control?"
"No."
"Do you want to be alone?"
"I think so."
"All right, you can stay in the quiet room for now. Just tell someone when you feel safe again, okay?"
"That sounds reasonable enough." His head fell back and he watched the ceiling lights pass by one after another in his vision, and then they decided straight lines were boring and they were sliding across the wall, and he had to step carefully cause now they were on the floor and he didn't want to break any light bulbs or anything.
"I'll talk to Dr. Ramon. You talk to him too, all right?" Into the room and Edgar walked over to the corner and sat down, and he pressed his head against the wall and curled his knees against his chest and held onto his upper arms, and he shut his eyes.
"Scriabin...Scriabin, snap out of it..." He breathed quietly, and in his contained little ball with his eyes closed the world around him stopped shifting and things stopped moving around and the wall stayed put.
"Just call us whenever you feel ready." The door closed.
"Scriabin..."
Agha...what? What?
You were talking funny.
Were you listening?
...I don't know.
Did you need something?
I need you.
...Oh.
I'm seeing things again.
I know.
Just...just make things real for me.
Say it again.
I need you.
And...?
I want you.
He pressed his forehead against the wall and his hands shivered. Not the first time he'd done this, and his responses were almost mechanical, definitely expected and required and he did what was required of him.
And...?
I want you, I want you to hold me. Just, someone hold me, just anyone please, make everything stop moving around and just make everything, someone, I need to know, I need something real...
And I'm real to you...
Of course you're real to me. That's why I want you.
Me...
Please...help me.
Satisfied. Of course, Edgar. Of course I will. Soft whispers, and he felt himself fading again. Just fall asleep, and I'll do anything you want. It's up to us now, isn't it? It's always just been us, hasn't it? It always comes down to us...
So alone...
Shh. Come here.
Activities time, and Edgar had the chessboard again.
He didn't know how to play when he came, but he learned quickly. He found it suited him very well, the way he liked to think and how carefully he could calculate his moves and try to anticipate the future. He wished he had learned about it sooner, so he could have really gotten to know the game. Now he only knew what he learned from others, and something told him that there was so much more to this game than what he knew and could see. If he just had something to point it out to him, but...
He moved a pawn a space ahead, and folded his hands. Stared and waited, and he felt someone's momentary stare as they walked past him towards the table with the beads. He made a bracelet once, before he found out about the chess board. No scissors for him. Had to ask someone else to cut the string.
Stared at the board.
A-7 to A-5.
Edgar reached over and moved the black pawn accordingly.
Stared at his own white pieces, scattered but these at least he could control. He could put these back together again, when it was all done.
His bishop slid across the board, took Scriabin's queen.
People watched him play. They probably wouldn't have if they weren't aware of his disorder, as they called it. But they did. They knew there was more to this than just a man playing chess with himself, and he supposed that was what fascinated them.
That or they wanted a turn.
You left yourself open.
Thoughtful hum. Edgar at first worried that Scriabin would cheat, would read his thoughts to win, but apparently that kind of hollow victory did not appeal to him. It turned out that Scriabin was fiercely competitive.
Who knew.
It was a challenge at least, a minor one that both could deal with.
You've got to think ahead.
I always think ahead. Scriabin had some old hostility in his voice. D-5 to E-3.
The knight took a pawn, sat just two squares away from Edgar's king, that empty square between making it untouchable. Mocking him.
Edgar rested his chin on folded fingers and stared hard.
Minutes passed.
And you always take so goddamn long.
Maybe that's why I always win.
Scriabin grumbled, and Edgar's bishop again swept across the board, knocked away a rook. Just as he suspected he would, Scriabin would not let the attack go unreturned, and he swiftly countered with his king taking the offender.
Edgar moved his queen a few squares.
Checkmate.
A pause.
Shit! The genuine anger was enough to make Edgar smile. Goddamn it!
I told you, you take too many risks-
I know exactly what I'm doing, it's just your moves make no sense! It's a stupid game anyway!
Edgar tapped the battered tips of each his fingers. Three, two, one...
I could beat you, if I wanted to. I'm just letting you win.
Want to try again? He smirked, and before he responded he was putting the pieces back in place, and the people beside him stared.
"I don't know, I just feel...I felt so trapped, you know?"
"You felt trapped in your life, Henry?"
"I felt trapped everywhere, in my apartment, in- in everything-"
"Did you have someone to help you- Edgar, stop it please."
"Scriabin, thank you. And what am I doing wrong now?"
"You're being very rude to Henry right now, and I don't appreciate it. Could you please stop tapping your foot and listen?"
"Hmph."
"One more warning and you're out of here. Now, I'm sorry, Henry, what were you saying?"
"I just...I felt like I had no way out. I felt really...like I had no options."
"Did you have someone to talk to?"
"Not...not here. I just moved. I don't have any friends-"
"Oh, that's a big surprise."
"Scriabin!"
"What? I just said what we all were thinking-"
"That's it, you're excused from Group. I won't tolerate you being disrespectful to others."
"Fine, whatever. This whole thing is stupid anyway."
"He causing trouble, Mary?"
"He was just leaving, isn't that right?"
"Yeah yeah- hey! I can show myself out, thank you. I don't need an escort."
"...all right, now, you were saying, Henry?"
He was monopolizing the couch without a speck of shame, taking up as much space as humanly possible. One arm rested on his forehead, the other trailing on the floor, and he moved it back and forth slowly, let the fabric of his coat sleeve brush against the back of his hand.
They let him keep his coat. He'd gone to the hospital in it, after all. They pulled out all the straps and long pieces of it, and they wouldn't let him keep it in his room, but they let him have it when he asked.
Scriabin thought, with some pride, that it was because they didn't want him kicking up a fuss over it. He'd proven to be a nasty thorn in their side when irritated, and he found flouting their rules to be an amusing, harmless past-time.
He knew this place inside out, he knew everything they were trying to do, and he used that to his advantage.
Edgar in a dazed state, aware enough but not quite all there. Scriabin could talk to him now, if he wanted to, and Edgar would listen and maybe find the wits to respond, but he was mostly wrapped up in his daydreams. He did that a lot, recently.
Anything you want to watch on TV? Scriabin wasn't watching TV, but some side of him wanted to bother Edgar, an old and instinctual desire to just be perverse and annoying because that's what he did.
Huh? Edgar said sleepily. Scriabin still felt a strange kind of thrill, to hear Edgar's voice coming from where he usually spent his time. To know that they had switched places so thoroughly, and he had such control over him, over all parts of him.
Anything on TV interest you, my boy?
Edgar struggled to think, and Scriabin could still read him as easily as ever, even from the outside. Confused and tired. Edgar was always tired now, and Scriabin didn't exactly blame him, considering.
Uh...um, no...
What are you thinking about? Scriabin knew already.
Mmph...um... Edgar sounded so out of it. Maybe it was the meds. Scriabin doubted it though. Muh...you, I guess.
No matter how he said it, the tone or circumstance, that still made Scriabin feel so good.
Good to hear. He looked up at the ceiling, watched the tiles waver a little and he narrowed his eyes. Shit. He really thought they'd stop this time.
As if to mock him, the tiles kept moving, shifting and they formed themselves into patterns that vaguely resembled piano keys, something like that or music or something, it was hard to connect with words because although the connection was clear, it didn't make sense. How can you have piano keys without black? Yet that's what the twisting above him was.
"Hey, move over."
Scriabin closed his eyes and waved a hand airily. "No, don't think so."
"Move your feet! God, you can't just take up the whole couch!"
"But, I'm afraid I already am." Scriabin mock-pouted. "What a pity."
"Edgar-"
"Scriabin! God!" A flash of rage that burned hot and fast and unexpected, and Scriabin was on his feet in seconds. The unfortunate who had riled him backed away immediately. "God-fucking-damn it, is it that fucking hard to tell!"
Michael, he now recognized, just glared at him. Scriabin's fists shaking and an intense realization of frustration, of everything that he had been enjoying just a few moments before having been torn away, ripped away, ripped into shreds because some people couldn't get his goddamn name right
"Fuck!" He shouted and kicked over a chair, because it would make a lot of noise and it was there. The chair hissed at him angrily, warped and changed again and Chair whipped a long thin tail and scurried through the wall, and he stared at its passage with an intense sense of jealousy. "Fuck it! Fuck you all!"
"What's going on here?" Uh oh, nurse. Jose, that was his name. Scriabin turned on him but then the room conspired against him and he was pretty sure he was on his back again.
Don't cause any more trouble... Edgar mumbled somewhere, and Scriabin felt fairly sure that Edgar didn't even know what was going on.
They keep getting it wrong godDAMN THEM
Just calm down...
God fucking- why the hell do I always start seeing shit when something important happens-
"Edgar? Edgar, are you all right?" He caught something shifting above him and assumed it to be Jose. "Do you have to go to your room?"
"That'd be great, that'd be just wonderful. It's Scriabin you cocksucker by the way." He tried to move his arm and the window across the room moved instead. Wrong muscle apparently. "Why can't you people ever get one simple thing right-"
"Just calm down-"
The last thing he wanted to do at that point was calm down, and he tried again, different muscle this time and he was pretty sure he succeeded in doing something that Jose didn't like.
And, as was becoming more and more usual for him, it was back to the quiet room again.
He curled up in a plastic chair with a threadbare blanket around his shoulders, and bits of black showing between the edges.
"Are you cold, Edgar?"
He nodded slightly, kept his arms tightly wrapped around himself.
"Your blanket doesn't look like it's in good shape...want me to get you a new one?"
"I did this myself." Edgar stared ahead blankly, and he shivered. "I did this myself. I'll keep it."
"Hmm..." She tapped her pen against the paper. "Are you sure?"
"This is all my fault." He pulled the blanket tighter, kept his fingers curled tight and aching.
A moment for her to think.
"While it's good that you're taking responsibility for what's happening to you...it does no one any good if you don't have enough confidence in yourself to get yourself out again. You have to believe you can and will succeed, Edgar. You can't keep blaming yourself for everything. There are some things that aren't your fault."
"My f-fault." Knees to his chest. "F-fault."
My fault...
"You need to have faith, Edgar."
Stopped shivering, everything stopped and then he was staring at the ceiling in his room, and his coat was gone.
"Hello, Edgar."
"Hello."
"How are the meds working for you?"
"Hello."
"Yes, Edgar, hello."
"Hellooo..."
"Edgar..."
"Hellooo-o-o..."
"I heard that Dr. Ramon doesn't know what to do with him."
"That's stupid. Dr. Ramon's dealt with worse."
"I don't know, he's not getting better..."
Tapped the monitor, where a black and white feed showed a man lying on a stretcher in a locked room, asleep.
"The meds just haven't kicked in yet, that's all."
"You know, yesterday...we were in Group, and Scriabin started crying."
"Scriabin did? No way."
"He did! I was as shocked as you. I didn't know he could do that. Certainly doesn't act like he can. All that macho posturing bullshit, you know."
"Yeah, I know."
"But it was definitely him, he talked like him and everything. He just burst into tears. Said that what happened was his fault."
"I think it was, actually. I don't trust Scri for a second."
"Well, me neither, but still. He just wailed for the rest of the group, about how if he had just done something different, he could have stopped this. All this stuff that didn't exactly make sense. You know that whole waste lock story he's got worked up?"
"Still believes in it, huh?"
"Yeah...but still. I told him to take care of himself afterward, and asked some of the others to try and look out for him."
"I don't think the others would care about Scri particularly. It's not like he's tried real hard to make friends."
"Yeah, I know. But they're okay with Edgar, mostly...God, you know, it's hard not to pity the guy."
"Think his roommate will help him out?"
"Depends on who he is."
Tapped the monitor again.
"How long's he been in there?"
"Since breakfast."
"Think he can come out?"
"Depends. He was hallucinating pretty badly."
"God..." Searched for words, failed, shook her head. "God..."
Sue came in to chart, and she saw Edgar sitting on the floor, his binder in hand.
"Edgar!" She looked around and found that at her voice, a few others nearby raised their heads. She walked closer and held out her hand. "Give me that, you're not supposed to see that. How did you get in here?"
"You spelled Scriabin wrong." Edgar pointed at one of the sheets, his voice mild. "I'm not an unreliable source of information, either."
"Edgar-"
"And I do have someone, a friend I can count on." Edgar looked up at her, and the eyepatch had moved just enough so that the edge of the hole was visible. Sue shuddered, and she could hear Jose coming down the hallway. "Nny's my support network. You should fix that."
"Of course, just give me back your chart, Edgar..."
"What's going on here?" Jose seemed just as surprised at Edgar's presence. "How did you get in here?"
Edgar looked back down at the chart in hand, flipped through the pages. "I don't remember signing these..."
Sue didn't want to antagonize Edgar, inspire potential violence, so she stayed back. Jose, however, dealt with this fairly often, and he came close enough to put a hand on Edgar's shoulder.
"Give me the chart, Edgar, and come on. I still don't understand how you keep finding your way in here."
"Look at all these seclusions..." Edgar flipped through a large section of goldenrod papers, each checked and signed with date and time. "I don't remember these."
Jose looked at Sue for a second, then hitched Edgar up to his feet. "I bet Scriabin got those. Don't you think, Edgar?"
Edgar looked at him as if he just realized he was there, and he nodded gratefully. "Yes, yes I think you're right."
Jose pulled the binder out of his hand and set it on the rack behind him, and Edgar didn't protest.
"There. Now come on, Edgar, it's quiet hours. You should be in your room."
Edgar nodded, and Jose slowly led him away. He looked back at Sue before he was out of sight and shrugged.
Sue looked at the binder, Edgar's name written on the spine with large black letters, and she shivered again.
Harry was turning the bracelet around his wrist, around and around, and he was listening.
"No!" Edgar said suddenly, loudly, and Harry sighed. "That's not true-, you don't-...God, you're impossible! You're doing this on purpose, you're just being-...it's very simple-"
How long had Edgar been doing this? How long would he keep doing it?
"How can you say that? ...Of course I didn't, you know I didn't. Don't you remember when you-...nng. Don't shout. You do remember, don't you? Don't bring that up, that's not even...mine WAS related! God, if you'd just stay on topic- don't call me that! I hate it when you call me that."
He wasn't sure what to do. How helpful could he be when all he heard was one side?
"Stop...don't say that. Please don't say that."
Harry didn't like feeling helpless, and when he saw Edgar arguing so vehemently with himself, he didn't feel afraid, but concerned. Responsible.
Which is why he lasted longer than the others.
I can leave anytime I want.
I don't think you should...
I don't like it here anymore. They don't treat me right. They're doing it all wrong.
I don't think you should...
I'm leaving. They can't stop me. They won't stop me. They can't even see me. I'm invincible, invulnerable, invisible.
Narcissist...
Shut up.
They said that once.
Shut up. They're wrong. They're wrong about everything. DID, where the hell did they get that, we told them what happened and they won't believe us. I can do better. I can fix it, I can fix everything. I don't need them, I don't need anyone. I can do this alone. I can do it because now I know what to do. I learned what to do. I don't need to stay here anymore.
Maybe I should stay then...
Oh shut up. You can't. You're coming with me.
Oh...
You know that. Jesus, what'd they put in you today?
In us...
Whatever. I've got the key. I've got the keys, they dropped them.
You stole them.
Doesn't matter.
Very assured in his ability to escape. So confident that when he fumbled with the keys, got them stuck in the lock and tried to figure out exactly what position to put them in to have them work, he didn't notice who came up behind him. A short struggle later, and the keys were gone, and he was out for most of the day.
Woke up, and it was Edgar's fault.
Sometimes, Edgar sat in the main room, near the doors to the unit, and he watched people come and go.
He had been marked as an AWOL risk fairly early on, so one of the nurses always kept an eye on him to make sure he wasn't trying to make a run for it.
He just wanted to watch, that's all. Eventually he somewhat pacified them by moving his chair further away from the door, so that he could still see what was happening but wasn't close enough to bolt easily.
So he sat there and played with a piece of string they let him have, although they had made a specific note to take it away from him when he went back to his room. He wrapped it around his fingers, let it slide through the gaps, and made the first stage in Cat's Cradle before he let it fall again. The motion became consuming, and he stared at the glass doors without too much attention.
A woman walked through them, talking busily with someone who was hidden behind her. She was talking about something that Edgar had no interest in, and therefore her words became meaningless gibberish. Behind her, he caught a glimpse of black boots with silver buckles, stripes and dark colors, and as he stood up in his chair, he saw him completely.
"Johnny?"
Johnny turned to stare at him in complete surprise, which was an understandable reaction. Edgar found himself moving forward before he had even thought about it. Everything in his mind ground to a screeching halt except his body which moved without his knowledge.
Then arms circled around him, pulled him back and he started screaming, just saying his name over and over again.
Johnny stared, helpless, and the woman who was guiding him tried to explain, said something and held out a hand to keep Johnny where he was. Delusions, hallucinations, confused, dangerous.
"Johnny!" Stared. "Nny!"
Then Johnny looked horrified, and at that point Edgar strained so hard against who held him that something popped somewhere, burst and that was the end of that.
A very thick mist of dust, clouded hard and fast and he coughed harshly.
"Are you okay?"
Coughed and couldn't get out words, and someone pounded his back. He opened his eye and he stared at old stained wood floorboards, scratched messages and debris and litter, and he felt someone's hand on his back.
He turned and Johnny stared at him.
"There's a lot of dust in here..." With a great deal of awkwardness, hesitance. The distinct impression of saying something because that was expected.
Edgar stared at him for almost a minute, finally reached out a hand and touched his face even though it would probably get him smacked. That's what Scriabin said would happen.
"Are you real? Are you really here?"
Johnny sighed, deep and sad, and he pulled Edgar's hand away from him.
"We've been over this. Yes, I'm here. I'm real."
"You're real?"
"Yes, Edgar." A hint of frustration.
Edgar reached up and touched his face, and felt the eyepatch resting on his cheek and the lines beneath his eyes, and the uneven blunted sensation through his fingertips.
"Am I here?"
"Yes. Edgar...you were-, just a few seconds ago...did something happen? You were fine before...maybe you shouldn't help me with this."
"No no." Edgar rubbed at his one good eye frantically, felt it water against his knuckles and he reached out blindly for Johnny. "Don't leave, I didn't mean to. I'm sorry. I won't do it again. I didn't mean to. Just don't go."
"I'm not-" Every word made it clear how difficult this was for Johnny, and he reluctantly let Edgar's hand rest on his shoulder. "I'm not going to leave, Edgar, Jesus. You're just...a little...you're just not feeling...God, I don't know. You're not acting sane. There. I don't want to make this worse. I'm trying to help."
"Oh God..." Edgar tightened his grip on Johnny's shoulder, enough to prompt a surprised noise, and he drew Johnny close to him before he could resist. Edgar's body shook violently and he knew he was crying and he couldn't care less. "Oh God, you're here, you're really here, I didn't...you weren't, not after it all, it was all a dream, it was all some kind of horrible dream..."
Isn't this wonderful? Isn't this wonderful, Scriabin?
...where are we?
"I..." Johnny trying hard to quell his reaction, to keep his hands where they were and he let Edgar hold onto him, hug him like he had so long ago before. "God..."
He held onto him tightly because he was afraid and he had been afraid so long, and when he got something that he had wanted so badly, it only proved to exacerbate his fear. He shivered and felt those thin bones against his own, that chest rising unevenly, the claws on his back and he buried his face where Johnny's neck and shoulder met, and he waited for Johnny to take it away, to fix everything like he knew he would.
"It's all over..."
"There Edgar, it's all over now." Someone else ran a hand gently across his shoulder. "You'll just be asleep for a few hours, that's all. Just until you calm down."
He opened his eyes to find the neck had become a thin bed in a room too familiar, and if he had had the energy he would have started screaming.
Door closed and Edgar curled his body as tight as it could go, pressed until it hurt.