SANATORIUM : Bugs.
Allen told his master many times where he did NOT WANT TO WORK!!! Was that SO hard to understand? Was it? He looked at the note in his hand. Oh, the joy… NOT! Why, why in the whole cosmos was he going to work in a nut house? WHY?? Being in the mood he whimpered like a kicked puppy, feeling a deep, deep pity for himself. He felt old, oh so ancient.
He sighed grabbing a glass with water from the cheap table. He was twenty and this was the philosophy of his awesome and prolonged experience on this sinful earth: Life sucks and then you die.
Yup. And his life was the VERY essence of these words. He looked around. A cheap sofa, a cheap table, the cheapstains on the cheap carpet, and even the cheap smell of his hair, washed by a cheap shampoo.
Ah, life sucked. He studied like crazy for six years to become a professional psychologist. It's not like he liked to hear people's sob odes dedicated to their own lives. He just knew, no he KNEW! that professionals get paid a lot, and he meant a LOT!! Fifty bucks an hour! Fifty! He drooled, putting the cheap glass filled with tap water back on the cheap table. Cheap. He hated the word.
His master was a happy-go-lucky bastard that didn't know what clean and honest LABOR was. He acknowledged the said word only in its second meaning, as in giving birth. He didn't know what WORK meant. Of course he didn't, that bastard! And now that walking turd of a teacher (without Allen's knowledge) filled out an application that sent him TO THE PITS OF HELL!!!!
Yeah, it was that bad. The nut houses had usually violent patients that needed care twenty four/seven. And Allen couldn't (didn't wanna) do it. Being a bit on the thin side (muscles absent) and petite (extremely short) he shuddered at the thought that he would have to care for some demented drooling dude. It wasn't what he wanted. Plus they paid only forty five bucks per hour! The difference was five dollars. A HUGE difference!!!
He stared at the cheap glass on the cheap table. Well, they accepted him. It couldn't be helped. He'll just have to go to the crappy work. Maybe SOMETHING good could happen. Maybe.
_____
"There." The guard pointed at a huge, gray door. "That's your patient, dr. Walker." Allen simply stared, stupefied. There was DEFINITELY something wrong with this asylum.
Instead of showing him around, or meeting him with other doctors, he was "invited" to this …this STUPID room with cheap table, strikingly similar to the one he had at home. He was told that he'll live here, taking care of one "special"—as they put it—patient. SPECIAL HIS FOOT!! What the hell? Did they want to give him some vegetable man who wet his bed and sang "We are poor little lambs, Baa, Baa…" in his sleep?
Allen was trained to do another kind of job: Suavely ask how s/he is doing and then offer a cup of coffee. Then sit in the huge leather chair and inquire what seems wrong right here—he patted his chest—and then gingerly tell the patient that that is certainly an issue. Allen stared at the door, feeling miserable.
"Here I come, vegetable man!" The door opened and Allen pocked his head inside, like a dandelion. It was white. The room, of course! And a narrow bed was there, with strange leather straps tied to the margin. A lump covered with white covertures lay there like a huge, fat maggot, too big to be real.
Allen tiptoed inside. The vegetable man did not move, or sing "We are poor etc", or wet his bed. At least that was what Allen assumed.
He looked around startled by the uneasiness that clasped his throat.
This room looked strikingly similar to a prison chamber. There even was the small, dirty toilet bowl, and a table next to it. The only window was small and protected from the insiders by steel bars that seemed new, even sparkly. One wall was dirty as if someone had poured soup on the wall and then urinated on the spot, to add more…style.
Allen shivered. This was unnatural. He had been in mental institutions before. Usually, people put their "loved ones" there, to be looked after and be treated. The relatives usually paid all the expenses, choosing the room, diet, clothes quality, and other essential things. Then, what the heck was this?!
Allen approached the bed, noticing that the leather straps were new. He touched the closet one, and its end hit the floor, heavy. Allen squatted in front of the bed. He looked at the straps more carefully. Some places were stretched and worn out. Strange. Only a bull could do that. Or Hulk. He glanced at the patient. His head was covered with a bed sheet. Allen gulped, feeling a strange nervousness in his knees. It wasn't Hulk, right? Oh god. It was just a patient, for god's sake! It's not like he's dangerous or anything! Right…? He clasped the bed sheet with a trembling palm. On three he will pull it, discovering Hulk— no, the patient.
Three.
Two.
ONE!!!!!!
Allen blinked. The lump was something far more amazing than Hulk. It was a plain roll of pillows and blankets. There was no one in it. No one, just the bed. The patient wasn't here.
"Hehe! … Is his some kind of a joke…?" Allen let the sheet fall. It had to be a joke. Hehe! This institution wasn't so bad after all!
He paced outside, closing the door. The guard stared at him, gingerly clasping the gun.
"Is something wrong, Walker?" Allen ruffled his hair. He was smiling, confused.
"W-well, my patient…he's not there." The guard didn't even blink. He just took his walkie-talkie out and reported:
"Boss. He did it again." Again? What was that? Allen felt panic sneaking on him. This wasn't a joke. Something was definitely wrong!
"E-Excuse-m-me…" The guard glanced at him coldly. The man had black eyes. They were hollow and somehow acidic, even if that wasn't possible. Allen gulped, pulling his papers and graphs tighter to his chest.
"W-what happened?" The guard glared.
"That's not your business, Walker." Allen's face started slowly to heat up.
"What do you mean 'not my business'? That's my patient we're speaking about! Of course it concerns me!" The guard eyed him, amused.
"Ah, you are that type," he laughed out loud, baring his teeth like a gorilla. "So they didn't tell you, boy, where you are." He leaned on the door, preparing to say the story. "This is the Saint Noah's asylum. They keep here the worst people, those who never had a chance of recovering or never will have. So," he smirked, getting to the best part, "'cause protocol requires for of top ten worst patients a personal doctor, we invited a bunch of medics whose responsibility is just to take care of the loons, kinda like nurses." He spat on the floor and lit a cigarette. "Of course, everyone here is pissed off with that law, but there's not much we can do. I mean, why try to treat something that is not even human anymore?"
"N-not h-human?!" Allen felt the same trembling in the knees. This was too much.
"Well, they're like animals, out of their minds; you get it, right?" He blew a ring of smoke directly into Allen's face. The boy coughed.
"Please! This is NOT a place to smoke!" The man grinned.
"Ah, you're a stupid one. You still don't get it, do ya?" Allen frowned. He didn't like the man, nor his manners.
"You're a straw doll, a figure head. You're here just to wash that bastard—" he pointed at the room with his thumb— "and make sure he's not wet." Allen gritted his teeth. How can he talk about a sick person like this?!
'V-1, V-1. Report to the second room. The subject is caught."
The man shifted.
"Well, there you go cutie. That bastard is caught. Now he'll see some therapy. Therapy! Hehee!!" He suddenly broke into a hyena-like laughter. Allen shuddered.
"Can I see him? It's my patient after all!" The man lazily threw the cigarette on the floor.
"Ya sure can cutie. It's your patient after all," he repeated, grinning provocatively. Allen sighed. What a jerk. He dragged his feet behind the man, feeling depressed, blue, and tired.
The whole hospital was painted in a dark gray, like the inside of a cheap coffin. Allen stared at the clean walls, passing clean doors that gave the illusion of a clean room inside. The guard turned left, disappearing in one moment. Allen stopped his tired march, glancing through the door-window in one of the rooms. It was clean. There was a woman inside, her hair short and yellow. Another person, apparently the medic was sitting next to her, showing her picture books. No dirty walls, handcuffs, leather straps present.
Suddenly, hearing a screeching sound of the iron door opening, he ran left abandoning his observation point.
Ah, there it was. The guard waived to him, making him move faster.
____
"There he is. Our precious escapee." The V-1 guy pointed at the screen. Allen caught his breath. He put the papers on the floor, making a mental note on picking them up when he'll be finished. He curiously stared at the reverse-glass screen. The next second the guard was restraining him.
"What are they doing?!?! Stop them!!" The guard pulled both his arms at some weird angle.
"Nah, we can't do it. Just be a good boy and watch. This is what that idiot gets for running away." He pointed at the screen.
Allen could see five men that strangely were the same model as the guy behind him: huge football players in black robes. On the floor, there was another person. He seemed to be minuscule comparing to the men around him. His shirt war ripped to shreds lying in one corner. The only thing that covered his back and chest was the hair. He was spasmodically jerking on the floor, gasping for air. One of the guards poked his chest with the tip of the boot. And then the hell broke loose.
The man shot his entire body up in a sudden spear-like movement. He hit a guard in the face with his knee then jerked away from an electric gun. He jumped to the door and bent to the handle, biting it. Only now Allen saw his arms, trapped in leather strips so high that the elbows touched.
When one guard grabbed him by the hair, peeling him away from the door, he cried out like an animal, madly biting anything that was around. One gun shot in the stomach and he stiffed, trembling and curling like a hurt snake. His hollering became a barely heard whimper. He fell on the floor and pulled he knees to his face.
A guard grabbed him by the hair, pulling his torso up. Allen could see his face. His eyes were dead. The left part of the face was swollen and one cheek cut, letting a bloody trail down his neck.
"Aw, don't cry cutie. That's what escapees get for running away." Allen snapped out of his daze and looked at the guard. He wiped his eyes with the sleeve.
"Let me go to him. They'll kill him. I need to go to him." The guard raised one brow.
"No, he won't die. This is his sixth time." He lit another cigarette and pursed his lips, letting the rings outside gently. "That is one tough son of a bitch. If you're not careful he'll kill you." He took the cigarette out, scrutinizing it. "Idiot. The fatty gave me Marlboros."
____
Allen put his hand in the bucket. The water was just right. He put the shampoo bottle next to it. Towel, scissors, clean cloth. He even found a clean shirt. Maybe it was too big, but…oh, who cares.
The man was unconscious. He lay there like a sack of potatoes. His abdomen was blue and green combined. Those bastards beat the crap out of him. Allen carefully washed his head, getting more amazed by the moment. That hair was never combed, or at least it didn't feel like it. It was long, going past his butt. Strange. The personnel usually cut the patients' hair as short as possible. Allen pulled his fingers through the strands, feeling the lumps of dirt. He cut them out one by one.
Done.
Next: face.
He looked at it with mixed feelings. The eyes were half open, slanted. He looked oriental. Allen took out a bottle of ether.
"This is going to sting a bit." The man didn't respond. Allen cautiously wiped the raw wound, pulling the margins closer. Thank god. He didn't need to sew it. Wetting the cloth in the hot water he wiped the neck. He could feel the pulse. It was faint and lazy, but it existed.
A few hours passed. Allen got up and stretched, yawning. His ass hurt like hell from sitting so much time on his knees. Plus the ground was pure stone, cold and dirty.
When he was dressing the man he saw a cockroach getting under the bed. Allen sighed. Somehow his life turned from bad to worse.
He finally put the man on the bed, slightly hitting his head. That should do it. He took a few steps back, admiring his work. Yup. The subject was clean. Subject, huh… He bit his lip. Seeing the scene with the guards made him realize that they saw this man as a subject, not an actual person. Subject. Allen called him that too. What was his name, anyway?
He picked up the file and started glancing through it. God, he wanted to eat something. Something as in vegetables. No meat today.
Ah, Kanda. Kanda Yuu. Twenty years old, male. Japanese. God, another cockroach disappeared in the corner.
He'll need to bring some kind of bug-spray.
Ah, the story I promised. I have no idea how long it'll be. I still plan to update Tales of the Roadkill once or twice a week, so this one...Oh, well.