Hey y'all. So, this takes place after Unwound Future while Clive is still in jail. It's technically a oneshot, but I am going to make several more "chapters" or oneshots that go with it. This one is an introduction of sorts. So, with that, let's get on with the story.
Clive sat back on his bed with a sigh. He was, for the first time, a bit concerned with how his meeting with the psychologist, consoler, doctor, whatever they called themselves, went. After this one, he would be lucky if they didn't put him in an asylum. He glanced out into the hallway outside his cell again. If they were going to anything about it, he hoped they would soon. Then again, this wasn't his first outburst.
He pushed his hand through his hair and slouched back against the wall. Worrying wasn't going to help anything. His mind wandered to the only meeting he had ever actually enjoyed, the one with Dr. Rossen.
For a while, Clive had been refusing to cooperate with his sessions. At the beginning he had tried. Really he had. They were a requirement for his sentence, and he understood why. But the people they sent infuriated him. They were all pretentious snobs who were only there to earn the honor of being the one to "cure" the madman. He could tell by their tone of voice that he was, to some degree, being talked down to as well. He hated the way they talked, as if they were simultaneously trying to avoid upsetting him while also trying to dredge up the most painful memories possible. Intentionally or not, he usually chased them off, either losing his temper or by being uncooperative.
However, one of them just wouldn't leave. She was a young woman, just out of school, and had apparently decided "curing" him was going to be the way she made a name for herself. She was seemingly oblivious to the fact that she was causing more pain and hurt for him by the callous way she approached their sessions. It didn't matter what he did. If he talked, didn't talked, lied, snapped at her or was extremely sarcastic; she just kept coming back.
He had thought their sessions couldn't get worse. But when she had given him that patronizing look and said in an authoritative tone, as if addressing a child, "Do you know why I'm here?" he had snapped.
Leaning forward, he had given her a menacing and crazed look, a deranged smile on his lips. In a low voice, he had said, "Because I'm the madman who wants to level the bloody city."
She had stared at him for a second, before quickly scooping up her papers, muttering something about that being all for today, and practically flew out of the room.
He knew it was a stupid thing to do. They already seemed to think he was mad. They didn't need another reason to throw him in an asylum. Still, he was glad he had done it. That was when they had called in Dr. Rossen.
He reminded Clive a lot of Professor Layton. He spoke with Clive as if they were meeting as friends for a cup of tea. He'd made Clive feel at ease. Rather than just asking him questions, Dr. Rossen had told Clive about himself. He had asked Clive about things he was interested in doing and any hobbies he had. Yet somehow, out of that conversation, Dr. Rossen had apparently learned everything he needed to know. What Clive appreciated most though was that Dr. Rossen had shared his diagnoses with him. He informed Clive that he didn't believe he was mad. He may have been overtaken by madness for a time, but it was something he could get past, with the right help.
He had then surprised Clive by presenting him with a book and a small case. Clive had paged through the book; it was a fairly thick notebook filled with lined pages. The case contained several pens. Clive was amused that Dr. Rossen thought he would write enough to actually use up pens. The Doctor had told him the notebook was for him to write in. He told him to write whatever he wanted, stories, journal entries, letters, or anything else that struck him. He said it could help him relieve his stress and give him an outlet for his emotions.
Clive had wanted to hand it back to the man. He was twenty-four after all. He didn't need a diary. Still, he remembered seeing the Professor write in a journal. Not to mention, Dr. Rossen probably had to pull some strings to get them to let Clive have the notebook and pens. Especially the pens. So, he had thanked the Doctor and taken them with him.
He glanced at them, sitting untouched on the bed beside him. He had yet to use them. He absently picked up the notebook and traced the pattern on the cover with his finger.
His session with Dr. Rossen had helped. The Doctor had told him to stop trying to chase off his counselors. Clive had rolled his eyes, but agreed to try. A part of him had wanted to continue to do so if it meant he could continue meeting with Dr. Rossen. But he knew it was a childish thing to do. After all, the reason Dr. Rossen wasn't able to meet with him regularly was because he was busy. Continuing to act up might just get him in an asylum, or get his sentence extended.
He had been doing better. He had still seen lots of different doctors, but he had figured out what the problem was. No one knew how to help him because he knew that his actions were wrong. The doctors came in expecting to have to explain to him why what he did was wrong, but he already knew. And he didn't plan to do it again. Yet the people they sent him were prepared to deal with a madman who needed to be talked down.
Today though, today they had really done it. They had sent her back. He didn't understand why. Still, he had tried to be civil. But then, she had asked him if he had any friends.
Clive had smirked. "Of course," he drawled. He gestured to the room, "Can't you tell? I mean, I have so many visitors."
She had given him a look like one would give a child who has to have something as simple as gravity explained to them, "Clive, you don't get visitors."
That had caught him off guard, "W-what?!"
Oblivious to his reaction, she replied, "You aren't allowed to have visitors unless they are blood relatives."
Clive snapped. It was as if he had receded back into his mind and was no longer in control. He was just there to watch. He reached across the table and jerked her towards him by the collar of her jacket. "I don't have any blood relatives! Didn't they tell you that?! Or are you just that much of an idiot?!" he shouted into her face, shaking her harshly.
She had gone pale, her mouth hanging open. Security had entered the room almost immediately. Two men had each grabbed one of his arms, dragging him from the room, and thrown him back in his cell.
He was there now, dreading what might come next. He had a few incidents in the past several months. They were sudden and rather unpredictable. But nothing had been this bad. The only time it had gotten close to this was when one of them had threatened to get his sentence extended. He'd gotten pretty upset about that too.
Honestly, he wasn't sure why it mattered. He had nothing to look forward to or go back to when he got out. The days flowed together. The one thing that had keep him sane was the thought of having someone visit him. It was his only potential link to the outside. Yet even then, he could only name two people who might come visit, though he didn't see any reason for them to come. But now, it seemed that link was severed. Even if they wanted to see him, they couldn't. It occurred to him that he might have received letters that were kept from him because they weren't from blood relatives.
He glanced at the notebook and sighed. Maybe it wasn't such a silly idea. He reached over and picked it up. He opened it to the first page and pulled out one of the pens. He stared at the page, unsure what to write. He thought back over what Dr. Rossen had suggested. Perhaps he could write a description of something. It was simple and would be fairly similar to the type of writing he had done as a reporter.
Again, he paused. What should he describe? His parents' flat? No, he didn't want to think about his parents right now. That ruled out a lot of options. Finally, he decided to just go with the first thing that popped into his head. Writing down the words the second they entered his mind, a bitter-sweet smile crossed his face when he realized what he was writing about. At the end of Midland Road, set back from the street, sat a small clock shop.
I hope y'all enjoyed this. I really like the idea of Clive being a writer and using that as a coping mechanism of sorts. Anyway, please let me know what you thought. Also, I would love to hear your thoughts on what Clive is writing in the notebook and what you think he should or would write in it. Thanks for reading.