He just left the sun behind.
It was shining through a dirty window, last window on the way. It was bright - painfully bright for his unaccustomed eyes, but also refreshing and somehow alive, and reminded him of all these things which belong to some other, ordinary life, the life he used to be a part of.
Sam doesn't have a strength to fight, not anymore. His body is weak and sore after all the lashings he's received in last few days. He's exhausted, psychically and mentally; his mind is blank, eyes empty, breath shallow. Long, shaggy hair is falling into his eyes; he barely feels his cuffed hands.
The whole place is unpleasant and cold, both in terms of temperature and atmosphere. It looks and smells a little like a regular hospital - the walls have this odious green colour, the air is filled with the smell of mendicants - but there's also something else, almost tangible fear and desperation all around him, getting into his eyes, ears, nose, into his mind.
There's extreme quiet. He hears the scraping of pen at paper as the man marks the next boxes on the form. Aggressive. Dangerous. That kind of bullshit. Suicidal. Sam doesn't even care anymore. He doesn't have anything to care about anymore. Homosexual tendencies.
He feels a strong pull, or maybe a push; he doesn't even trust his own senses anymore. The point is, he's moving forward, he sees the halls, people sitting in these halls, people who seem haunted or empty like himself. Some woman is talking to herself. Some man looks like he's trying to eat his own hand. Somebody's foot hits the ground over and over again, faster and faster; their knees are shaking as they are trying to fill some documents.
And, as far as Sam knows, these are not even patients yet. He starts to wonder how much worse it gets, and his mind crosses the thought that it's only a while until he finds out.
He passes some office. With the corner of his eye he notices a big, heavy desk, in which kind, he imagines, are bought by people who have an inferiority complex or maybe just small dicks, with huge map right behind it, hanging on the wall like some kind of trophy.
Another door closes right behind him - this time much heavier and better guarded, supported by grating. The part of the asylum they just entered is available only for special patients and staff. Everything starts to look less like a hospital, more like some kind of a prison, with dark corridors, stuffy air and the echo of their steps on the tile floor.
Sam blanches at the memory of a cell, still fresh in his mind.
He looks up from the ground for the moment, only to notice that the man who brought him there is talking to some big, masculine guy, looking not much older than Sam himself. His guess is that it was his office they just passed, not because the guy looks like office material, but because there's no one else to who it would belong to.
He looks at Sam, up and down, down and up, with a little, barely visible smile on his lips and Sam doesn't like the way his eyes stop at his mouth and crotch at all.
"Such a handsome, young man," he says, and Sam hears malice and mockery in his voice. The boy's fists clench slightly as he continues. "Who would have thought. Isn't it just some boyish insanity? Something that few good punches and a nice girl would resolve?"
"Insanity, yes. Boyish and harmless… Seems like he passed that stage long time ago." The man shakes his head in disgust. "Besides, it's not only that. This case is complicated."
They - whoever they are, Sam still has some problems with noticing things he's not focusing on - finally take the handcuffs off. The guy - Sam thinks he heard someone calling him Karofsky, or something like this - opens another door. They enter another room, a common room, Karofsky informs them, and Sam finally sees the patients, male and female, most of them close to his age. Some of them stare blankly through the window or mumble to themselves. Some of them talk to each other; some of them play board games; two boys are fighting and the nurses are trying to separate them.
But all of them have one thing in common - they seem like they were all alone, hidden deep down in their own crazy heads.
"They spend a few hours a day like this, having their free time. Doctor Shuester believes it's healthy. In my opinion, they could use this time for working, but I'm not going to argue with the specialist."
There's something like a stage, the rise, on the opposite side of the room. Nothing spectacular, but it catches Sam's attention right away, mostly because of the boy standing in the middle of it - dark-haired and pale, with a delicate apparition and porcelain complexion, breathtakingly beautiful. Sam swallows hard and looks away - it's not the time or place for thoughts like this. It never is.
"His parents were exemplary people," he hears the voice of the representative explaining the situation to Karofsky. "Rich Christians, with high morals and reputation. He had a sure, stable future right in front of him. They even the picked his wife-to-be - a beautiful, pious girl. What a shame… It all fell apart when he got caught messing around with some boy in the barn."
This one man - Sam assumes it's the Doctor Shuester Karofsky was talking about, he's definitely different from the patients; he's older, calm and doesn't seem like his mind was a piece of barely-conscious shit - is standing in front of this weird, inappropriate stage, talking to the boy, who's listening carefully.
The boy stands still, he stands straight, with his chin held up in a provoking gesture, like a beautiful statue. He simply doesn't belong to this place, full of fear and ugliness. Maybe he's not real. Maybe the whole stage isn't real. Maybe nothing is real. Sam is insane after all, isn't he? That's what everyone is saying.
One of the patients starts to cry all of a sudden. Desperate howling that chills Sam to the marrow, especially because no one seems to care. It's hard for him to imagine what this person must feel to let out sounds like this; it's hard for him to believe that no one tries to quiet them down as soon as possible.
He realizes it must be something completely usual here.
"He got sent away for some time, so people could forget, the case could quiet down," the man continues. Sam closes his eyes. Again, they talk about him like he couldn't understand a word, like he had no mind or maybe like he was an animal. He probably is an animal, at least to them. As a disgusting deviant and lunatic he shouldn't expect anything better. "Kid got lucky, because while he was away his family's house burned down. Everyone died in the fire - his mother, father, little brother and sister. He's an orphan."
Suddenly Sam hears singing. It's beautiful, like an angels' chorus, like nothing he's ever heard before. He doesn't know the song; he isn't sure if he even fully understands the words, his mind is in too big mess for that right now. He's pretty sure it's rather sad, though. The melody is slow and he can hear some kind of pain and maybe nostalgia in the performer's high-pitched voice. Longing. Shivers go down his spine; he has a lump in his throat. Sam manages to take a deep breath and then he opens his eyes.
The boy on the stage sings.
Sam wishes he could lose himself in the beautiful sounds, but he can't help hearing them, Karofsky and representative, talking with superiority about his so-called mental breakdown and madness, like feelings like this weren't perfectly normal for someone who lost literally everything and everyone he has ever had.
"His legal guardian, whose identity I can't reveal…" the proxy says as Karofsky nods (yes, yes, that's obvious, the whole case is deeply embarrassing, of course) "wants the boy to be cured. From all his problems. Even if it takes drastic methods."
As boy keeps singing, two or three patients look up at the stage, then go back to their activities. Sam doesn't understand how everyone can be so indifferent to all this beauty right in front of them. Sam doesn't understand a lot about this place.
He can't really force himself to look away, so it's just the matter of time for their, Sam's and the boy's, eyes to meet, for Sam to feel paralyzed once again.
He wonders for a second if this boy may possibly be like him and then he realizes it wouldn't change anything at all. They brought him here to cure him. They brought all of them here to cure them.
"We have a really great program," Karofsky assures. "Very high effectiveness. We use all possible methods known to medicine and psychology, because every case is different; different therapies work for different patients."
Sam isn't sure if the rustle of cash he hears in this moment is only his imagination.
"My client wants this case to be resolved quickly and for good," the man's voice goes down as he speaks. "As quickly as possible."
Karofsky scratches his head and it would be almost amusing, if it wasn't so tragic; it doesn't take a scientist to notice he doesn't know much about mental illnesses. Sam's mind crosses the thought that maybe he had no preparation, or maybe very little of it, and it seems unpleasantly possible due to the fact that probably there's not a lot of people who would like to work in place like this.
He reminds himself of Karofsky's heavy sight on his body. The idea of the reason why Karofsky would like to work here is even more worrying.
"We might start him on electroconvulsive therapy in few days."
Sam hears something which seems like pleased humming and for the moment he thinks he'll burst out laughing; he's pretty sure this laugh would turn after a second into crying, though.
They start discussing money again - Karofsky mentions how putting anyone into things like electroconvulsive therapy isn't easy, that the method seems to slowly die, that there probably will be forgeries, since Shuester is way too understanding when it comes to homosexuals (both men don't approve of that, of course they don't, where is this world going, a few years ago they would just kill without a doubt and the case would be resolved; well, things change), suddenly they start mentioning lobotomy, but they quit the idea quickly; it's obvious they have no idea what they are talking about at all; meanwhile Sam's eyes search for the beautiful boy, who has already stopped singing and walked off the stage. He notices him with the doctor. The physician has a hand on his shoulder; the gesture isn't intimate enough to seem inappropriate, but Sam wonders if it means that the singer has been here for a long time.
"Kurt," Karofsky says loudly, so it seems like the deal was made. Sam lets out a deep sigh and notices that this boy who he was looking at, turns out to be, in fact, Kurt; he looks in their direction and, encouraged by Karofsky's gesture, comes closer.
And with every step he looks more and more impressive.
"Kurt is one of our bigger achievements," Karofsky explains with some kind of satisfaction. "Fully cured from homosexuality. It took only medications and psychotherapy… And time, of course, the factor we don't really have when it comes to Sam."
Sam flinches when he hears his own name. He would rather so much more to never hear it again; it makes things real, places him in the middle of all this mess. Reminds him who he used to be just few months ago, maybe even weeks, emphasizes the contrast between then and now. Sam doesn't belong here. He's not Sam anymore; he barley remembers who this Sam used to be.
"If he's cured, what is he doing here?" the proxy asks, giving Kurt a judgmental and unsure look, which for Sam starts to seem like his regular look.
"Even if he's cured from this terrible main disorder," Karofsky explains quickly, "he's still not fully ready to live in society."
Kurt stays silent and calm the whole time; he just stands there, not looking at Sam, even if he seems aware that he's staring at him. His hands are behind his back, his chin is (again, or maybe still) up, his eyes - beautiful eyes, a little green and a little blue - definitely aren't empty like a lot of other eyes out there. Yet Sam isn't able to tell anything from them; whatever is going on in Kurt's head, it's going to stay in Kurt's head.
"I want you to show Sam around," Karofsky says.
"Why me?" He speaks finally, raising one of his eyebrows softly. His voice is quiet, but sure. Sam swallows, he feels incredibly nervous and he has no idea why; it isn't even about the attractiveness, more like something about the general impression Kurt gives - it's not clear for him what kind of impression yet, but for sure a very powerful impression.
"Haven't you heard? Sam is going to be cured from the same thing you've had," Karofsky grins maliciously. "You have a great opportunity to show him that the future is bright."
The last word sounds in Karofsky's mouth almost like irony. Kurt doesn't bother to answer - he just turns around and walks away gracefully. Sam, rushed by Karofsky, follows him. In that moment he realizes that he just left the proxy - the last element of his life behind the asylum - behind. That he's all alone now.
On the other hand, he has been all alone for a long time.
Still, it's a new place, place much more complicated than boarding school with everyone plotting behind his back or the hideous cell he had been kept in for some time after his family died. Sam swallows hard at the memory of the funeral - four coffins disappearing in the ground, the priest side-eying him in the most terrible moment of his life, neighbours and far relatives treating the whole event like some big entertaining show.
With keeping like Karofsky's Sam might be dead soon, too. Or maybe he might become a vegetable, just a shadow of himself. His mind crosses the thought that maybe being a vegetable after all this pain he has been through wouldn't be so bad; but something inside him immediately refuses to even think this way.
Something inside him wants to survive, in harmony with the most basic instincts.
They walked out of common room and they are on the hallway again, still dark, still unpleasant, still bringing back the memories of time spent in arrest.
Sam takes another look at Kurt, who does a great job ignoring him, and he realizes this boy makes him feel a little like a regular teenager again, despite the circumstances; he's slightly excited, impressed, shy - maybe even blushing and it's the most ridiculous thing of all.
"Uhm, so…" he starts, wondering how's the right way to go through this conversation, and that's when Kurt suddenly turns around and stops right in front of him.
Sam's heart skips a beat.
"I'm not going to babysit you," Kurt hisses right into his face. "Trust me, I have better things to do and definitely no desire to hang out with the newbies." His voice is cold, expression serious; still, Sam likes it so much more than Karofsky's fake smiles. "Is that clear?"
The blond opens his mouth to speak, but closes it right away; he just nods meekly.
"Good," Kurt answers and opens one of the corridor's door, marked "gym". He calls for someone named Finn.
Finn - who walks out after a few seconds, all sweaty, with shallow breath - turns out to be incredibly tall boy around their age, looking - what Sam takes with small disappointment and some kind of relief - completely healthy in his body and his mind. The asylum is full of surprises, crying instead of screaming, stages instead of straitjackets, gyms instead of rooms with no hangs in their doors, Finn and Kurt instead of aggressive lunatics.
"What's the matter?" Finn asks. Sam immediately decides that he likes the way he speaks; there's something nice in its timbre. It sounds like brotherhood; Sam used to talk this way to Stevie and Stacey. Before they forbid him to ever speak to them again.
"Sam. New. Fag," Kurt introduces him with blank voice. "Could you take care of him?"
The boy nods and Kurt walks away without lingering, never looking back. Sam looks after him for a while, unsure. Then he turns to Finn, prepared for the worst. But Finn smiles and his smile is friendly, genuine.
"And that was my brother, Kurt," he says and shakes Sam's hand. "Welcome to the nuthouse, Sam."