Disclaimer: This is one of the darkest stories I've ever written. You might not recognize the characters used, but trust me: they're the same people. If you're a devotee of Butch Hartman and Nickelodeon, you might be a little shocked. Entertained, but shocked.

Okay, this is weird. I'm falling...no. I'm...flying through the sky. How did I get here and why are my arms stretched out like this? And the way I'm yelling...I can't be enjoying this. I can't even remember how I got here to begin with. There's only one way to describe this:

"EXTREME"!

Whoa! What the hell was that? If my eyes weren't open before, they sure as hell are now. I wonder what it means. I know I wasn't falling. I heard many times as a kid that if you fall in a dream, it means that you fear failure. Nah. No way that was it. After all, how can you fear something as inescapable and inevitable as snow in the winter? All you can do is survive and endure it. Maybe I can get back to sleep. I just need to get...comfortable...

Damn. I may as well get out of bed, 'cause I know there's no freakin' way I'm going back to sleep.

God. Every day when I wake up, I feel just...stiff, like I've been in a coma. Maybe it's a side effect of sleeping so well. I don't know. I just need to get to the bathroom before I fall over. Why is this hallway so long? And why does the sun have to be so...bright? It's always brightest at the beginning at the day. Just need to get my eyes adjusted to the light.

Huh. Thought I saw someone out the window just now. Okay, so I didn't see someone, but I did see the ragged curtains move a bit. I know it wasn't the wind; it's supposed to be a clear day out. Eh, it's probably nothing. Besides, who the hell would have any interest in me?

I rest my hand on the tile of the shower as the water washes over me. Even in the morning, there are some things that you just can't understand. Why was I flying through the air? And, more importantly, why did I yell out "Extreme!"? Uhhh!

If ever there was a word ruined by popular culture, it's this one. I was leaving a convenience store one night when I saw them: about a half-dozen of those so-called extreme sports jerks, drinking beer, doing skateboard tricks and shouting that hated word. I even saw them hassling a couple of guys who were just minding their own business. 'Extreme'. Extreme retardation is more like it.

Well, I'm dressed and ready for work. Plain white overshirt and pants. I once heard a saying: "Beware of enterprises that require you to wear new clothes." That guy must've had my job in mind when he first said that. Whoop. Almost forgot my keys. Don't want that to happen...like it did a couple of weeks ago. The landlord was not happy to see me. That guy is never happy to see anybody, unless they pay the rent on time. For one day a month, he's Mr. Rogers. Farewell, crappy apartment. We'll be seeing each other again.

XxXxXxXxX

Damn, it's cold. Damn sun tricking me again. Why am I out here waiting for the bus? Right, because my rustbucket, piece of crap car felt like dying on me the other day. The cost to get it fixed is way more than I have right now. Ah, driving is overrated, anyway. It's a good thing the stop is right outside the building. You can never be too careful with some of the whack-jobs out there. Always at you about something or other.

Oh. The bus is here. I tend to get lost in thought whenever I wait for it. So much so that I'm always a little surprised when it gets here.

XxXxXxXxX

And here I thought I wouldn't get back to sleep. I've been nodding off for the last twenty minutes. I don't know. Buses seem to have that effect on me. It most likely goes back to school; a nice little preparation for the day's activities. Get some winks in, then fake interest if someone tries to talk to me. Except for the winks, very little has changed.

Not that I have too much to worry about on this bus. It's a forty-minute ride, and where I'm heading is the last stop. I've seen people fall asleep and miss their stops. The crying, the swearing, the moaning...it's kind of entertaining, in a way.

"Last stop! Everybody off." The driver growls at me, the one person left on the bus. The way he sounds makes it seem like he's two mishaps away from camping out in a clock tower with a Remington rifle for company. As I get off, I notice the irritated look on his face. I have to thank God a thousand times over that this town doesn't have a clock tower.

The vehicle speeds off, and I head toward the building. After all this time, I can't get over the way this place looks from the outside. The architecture gives it a gothic look, like you expect to be broken on some old torture devices, or, at the very least, have your blood drained. Those architects must have been psychic.

I go in and give a wave to the receptionist behind the desk. A heavy-set woman who's on the phone. She's always on the phone, even when it's not work-related. Outside of her rudeness, I have no real reason for a grudge, so I'm willing to let it go. I head down a hallway past a number of rooms. The moaning gets louder with each step. In the course of a year, it's funny how used to it I've gotten.

The gauntlet is cleared. It's 8:59. I punch in.

"Turner!" I turn around. It's Ralph. "You almost didn't make it."

"I do what I can." I offer him a shrug and walk away. He's been here for a good ten years. Every week, he pulls that 'you almost didn't make it' crap, all because I get here a minute before my shift starts. I always make it.

I pass through the halls of the building. It's a pretty good job...all things considered. The pay is decent and the actual work is easy. Now, I'm not what could be considered lazy; to end up where I am now is because of a lack or abundance of laziness. It's all in how you look at it. It's just that my duties are...

"Turner to 216 with fresh bedding. Turner to 216 with fresh bedding."

...interesting.

Got a fresh load of bed sheets with me. Of all the things they could be needed for: blood from cutting, getting ripped apart, sudden bowel expulsion. God, why is this elevator taking so damn long? Screw it. I'm taking the stairs. And there's the ding. Shit.

There's Ellis, a crooked smile on his face. Everyone says he still wets the bed. A man in his 30s? Fat freakin' chance! I say he stands over the bed pissing on it. This happens every couple of weeks. The son of a bitch does it for attention. We both know that. The others think I'm making it up. Why I would make something like this up, I can't imagine.

Whoa. One thing's certain: we're gonna need a new mattress in here.

It's a good twenty minutes before a new mattress arrives. I set it on the base and put on the cover. Next goes the sheet and the pillowcase. This looks like a nice bed. I don't recall making my own bed this neat when I was a kid.

I walk out of the room, an annoyed grunt from my lips. Man, every one of the rooms on the floor looks the same: same ugly paint job, same Plexiglas windows, same type of clipboards. These show the diagnoses of each of our residents. In the end, all of them tend to bleed together. To me, they're just people with mental problems...just like the people allowed to roam the streets freely.

Just a matter of time before I get called for something else. Huh, that's weird. The name on this one clipboard looks familiar. 'Denzil...Crocker'. I think I know that guy. He was a teacher at my school. He believed in fairy godparents. Can't believe I never noticed him here before.

A woman walks by, no older than my m... she's pretty for her age. Let's go with that.

"Hey, Dr. Yancy."

"Yes?" She turns around, a friendly look on her face. Don't get too many of those around here.

"About this guy, here. Crocker, I think his name is. How long has he been here?"

"Oh. This is a most unusual case. He's been bounced from institution to institution for the better part of a decade. Suffered from paranoid delusions: fairies or some such nonsense. He arrived here sometime last week."

"Huh. He's not dangerous, is he?" Maybe he's not, but why don't I let someone with a psychiatric degree make that call.

"Gauging the patients here, on a scale of one to ten...six."

In the time I've been here, I've been attacked by two patients. In both cases, they thought I was someone who had wronged them in their lives. I know how to handle myself, but I really shouldn't have to. I'm not a violent person. I wonder if he'd even recognize me.

"Well, that doesn't sound too bad."

"You just let me know if you need anything else." And off she goes. I don't think I'll need much else from her, but it was nice of her to ask.

Still...damn my curiosity. I look through the Plexiglas window embedded in the door. I see him lying on his bed. The weird thing is that he looks like he's...smiling. He really does belong here if he's smiling.

Whoa! I duck away from the window. His head turned toward it. Memories can get pretty fuzzy the further away you are from them, but I do remember this: he did not like me at all. Good thing that no one's around. That'd be just what I need...me scared of a mental patient.

I walk away. This isn't worth thinking about. Unfortunately, the rest of the day is.