Thank you so much for reading Within White Walls! This is my first published fic and I'd love to get feedback from anyone and everyone in regards to the story idea, writing, structure, etc. and maybe some tips? (This being my first time writing/publishing and all...) Thanks so much! Enjoy!
White.
White lights, white lab coats, white sheets.
White towels stained crimson.
"Mr. Jane? Patrick, can you hear me?" a deep voice taunted him. He fluttered his eyes in a struggle to keep them open to their entirety. His ears were inundated with the sharp sounds of beeping machines and muttering voices. In an attempt to move a midst the blur he felt constrained.
"Patrick, I'm Doctor Hansen. You're in the hospital. You've lost a lot of blood from the stab wounds but we're going to fix you up, okay? Just hang in there."
The blonde middle aged man was thrust into a panic. This meant he was alive. This meant he didn't succeed. He shook his head, trying to keep the heavy weights of his eyes open in an attempt to plead for them to stop.
He didn't want any help. He didn't need any help.
He had wanted to die.
"N-No..." was all he managed to sputter before succumbing to the darkness.
Patrick Jane blinked his eyes open, taken slightly aback from the bright white light lit above him. His head throbbed and he felt a heavy burning sensation on his torso and forearms. He shut his eyes, hoping and praying this was all some sick version of heaven that he could simply wake up from.
He reopened his eyes to no avail.
Patrick Jane wasn't one to act on impulse, per say. As an educated analytic he naturally thought out every aspect and consequence to every situation and action.
This suicide attempt was the one exception to that analysis.
"Patrick?"
Female. Approximately 42 years of age. Some sort of authority, but not police. Doctor more likely. Psychologist by the tone of her voice. Jane's mind raced in analysis before seeing a glimpse of the blonde haired woman from the corner of his eye.
Directly following their eye contact, the woman rushed out of the room. Jane rested his eyes once more, hoping and praying to the God he didn't believe in that he could die at this very moment. Returning with her was a tall doctor who repeated the same word.
"Patrick?"
Male. Approximately 56 years of age. Authoritative, yet sensitive and cautious. Emotionally invested in his patients.
"Patrick? Can you hear me?"
Jane slowly nodded his head in response, opening his eyes to witness the sight of relief on the face of the tall man.
"How are you feeling?"
Fantastic! Just tried to kill myself and didn't succeed. I'm feeling great! The angry sarcasm poisoned his brain.
Jane stared at the man. He had no desire to speak. His words felt meaningless. Thankfully, Dr. Hansen read into Jane's eyes. Nothing was coming out of his mouth any time soon.
"Can you talk, Mr. Jane?"
He nodded.
"Do you want to talk, Mr. Jane?"
A gentle shake of his head answered the question.
Dr. Hansen proceeded to perform a gentle check up on Patrick as he spoke. "You lost quite a lot of blood. Luckily the police found you in time so we could patch you up good as new. You'll be sore for a while and have to be careful to change your bandages frequently and be careful to not open your stitches. Dr. Shayat will also assist you with that as well."
The doctor looked down at Patrick, optimism vomiting out with each word. "You're going to be just fine."
Wonderful.
"Patrick, I am Dr. Elizabeth Shayat. I am the consultant psychologist here at Sacramento General. It's required that I ask you a few questions if you don't mind."
Her peppy and optimistic yet somewhat condescending tone was dis-interesting.
"It's perfectly acceptable that you aren't in the mood to talk. You've had quite the day. If you feel the need to chime in at any point, please feel free to speak up."
Jane tilted his head back, shutting his eyes as he felt the burning pain in the entirety of his being.
"Now, with the recent tragedy of the murder of your wife and daughter most people have failed to see your presence at your usual appointments. You've failed to meet with your clients for the past few weeks and have failed to contact them explaining your absence. You've isolated yourself inside your house with these tormenting thoughts and memories trapped with this sadness and potential guilt. We've had some neighbors and close friends express concern to the police which was what lead to your discovery last night. Upon entering your house, the police found the famous symbol of Red John-a smiley face drawn in blood-on the walls of the room you were found in. After some DNA tests, we've found the blood on the walls to be your own. It has been speculated that an intruder may have done this to you, however authorities believe the faces to be drawn by your own hand and your wounds to be self-inflicted."
The exclamatory silence that filled the room was ear piercing.
"Mr. Jane, is this true? Are your wounds self inflicted?"
Eyes shut and head remaining against the warm hospital pillow, he nodded.
"Patrick, we feel that it might be best to take you somewhere for a little while. Just somewhere that you can get help to get back up on your feet. There's a mental institution across town-Heritage Oaks. We feel it may be best for you to stay there for a while. Does that sound okay?"
Yes, toss me into the loony bin. His self pity and enduring shame was getting the best of his thoughts. He nodded just as before.
She smiled, resuming to her seat in the corner of the room and began filling out some paper work. As she finished, she gathered her things and rose toward Patrick's bed.
The woman placed her hand over his, a reassuring smile on her face. "They're going to take great care of you there, Patrick. You'll be back to yourself in no time."