A deafening ring ripped through the peaceful atmosphere as wall-mounted bells all over the building screamed. The building's occupants on both floors, some with frustration and others with resignation, covered their ears to wait out the intolerable length of their shrieking report. Only those who had lost an unfortunate amount of their hearing were spared this expense as they carried on with their activities in apathy. After having woken, startled, or annoyed everyone inside, the bells, satisfied with their work, stopped to rest for yet another hour. Before silence could regain its hold, the sound of heavy footsteps appeared and climaxed as a man clothed in white parted the double doors to the recreational room with purpose.
"Lunch time!"
With that short statement he left with haste, making his rounds throughout the floor with equal brevity. Taking the chance that the majority the patients were in the recreational room, and not caring if they weren't, he quickly finished his chore by reporting the news to no more than two other places before returning to his preoccupation of relaxation; the heavy footsteps slowly fading until they could be heard no more.
Receiving the news, many patients shuffled their way out in the direction of the cafeteria. Those who needed assistance were taken in hand by nurses or the rare friend and escorted with care; that is unless they resisted. The lanky, awkward march of the disheveled crowd as they emptied out the room would have never lead one to believe that these young yet old men were once in the military, just as the distraught and broken state of the more seriously ill would have left one wondering if they were even men at all. Only a handful of individuals were left in the room, caught up in their own little world as they continued with what they were doing, indifferent to the idea of sating one's hunger. Finally, there was quiet once more.
Filing down the corridor, Filicia Heideman swam with the school of hungry fish. Tormented incessantly from a lack of sleep, her stride was a more a result of muscle memory than coordinated thought as her mind wandered from thought to thought—the gnawing hunger and how to survive another day. Her dead gaze, expressionless face, and zombie-like walk all attested to her poor state. Her hair was a mess, her glasses missing; even she hardly recognized herself anymore. Even so, she didn't bother to make herself presentable. A look in the bathroom mirror scared her too much to make sure she looked nice in the morning, because when she looked in the mirror she didn't see herself; she herself had died at Vingt.
Gone was her humble green uniform, a savior in winter and a nuisance in summer. Though it was often a source of discomfort, she remembered it fondly with envy as she still tried to adjust to wearing a crudely made bathrobe and skim pajamas which would have done little to keep her warm except during the infernal summer. No elegant stripes adorned her arm, leaving her feeling as if she wasn't herself anymore. No trusty sidearm sat holstered where it always had been, the one which had saved her life on many occasions. She felt truly alone without any companions, alive or inanimate.
But all previous misfortunes were of naught when compared to what kept her awake every night, what bit at her heart and soul every conscious moment—her real companions, her squad mates, her dear friends.
They, too, were gone.
But how quickly she had mentally slapped herself across the cheek, reprimanding herself for letting such a thought enter her conscious. She wasn't quick enough, however, since it did enter her consciousness with crushing effect as her head visibly sunk lower as she formed up in the long lunch line, not caring to even estimate how far away she was from receiving another lackluster meal. Minutes past by as the line slowly moved up, and with each passing minute she struggled to contain her emotions as they whirled violently in her. Her throat burned with a peculiar string as she battled with her mind, trying to hold the tears in.
I can't let this happen. I need to get better. I WILL get better
Before she knew it she was heading to an empty table, a tray full of the same food she ate the day before and the day before that in her hands. As she slowly spoon fed herself, she reflected with lamentation on the past month.
It had been a little over a month ago since that tragic event happened, when she was saved by the Princess and brought to safety. A month since she had been put in L'Institut Tranquil, a military hospital specifically designed for mental patients. In fact, the only one in the entire country. Every week or so a couple of new cases would come in and be given their bunk. Filicia had pity on them, for they had no idea what they were getting themselves into, as if they even came here willingly in the first place. Filicia had pity on everyone in the building, at least the patients. They were the damned, beyond salvation. They were destined, unless by a miracle or through their own miraculous ability, to waste away here until their death. They were never again to feel the sunlight against their face, the wind blowing coolly in their hair, or the sound of chirping birds. This was the fate of most.
Her hand shook with anger as she brought another spoonful to her mouth. It wasn't fair, she thought, a cruel injustice. Whereas surgeons can be trained by the finest medical schools of the age and save lives through procedures and operations which defy the mind, how they can take a man with his guts hanging out and give him a hefty chance to live, it should be seen as a blessing. But how many people take it for granted as a simple expectation of the times? An angry expression formed which would have been all the more apparent if her eyes weren't closed to better hide the tears.
Where are our surgeons? Our specialists? Where are our miracles?
Her mind screamed out in envy as she reflected of the kinds of treatment she and her mates were given. So much of her time is spent in the company of her own kind, other patients like her, or those that are worse off than her. She has seen no operations, no doctors. The only thing anyone thinks to do is bring local priests in for local blessings and words of encouragement. Their healing can only be spiritual or from the divine. Every few days or so they come, say their prayers, and leave. While the wounded can be put on the table and made to heal, she lamented and how her wounds would be given no such mercy. They would have to heal on their own or she would die from them. She thought back to the priests that blessed her, those that had passed her thus far. She saw the looks they gave her. "What was wrong with her," they thought. They were told they would be tending to the sick, but they were hard-pressed to find anyone who fit the bill.
She had never felt more envious of the wounded, those with missing arms, legs, or those bleeding out on the cold ground. She would have rather been shipped home a quadriplegic and reduced to a street beggar than sent to this dull prison on that long, endless truck ride. She would have rather spent an eternity in a pine box six feet under her native soil than spend another hour in this suffocating cafeteria.
Why was she the first one out? Why was she the fastest? Why was she assigned her station and not someone else's? She looked up at the roof, hoping to peer through the ceiling up into the heavens and into the eyes of God Himself. Why did He mock her? Why did He give her the winning lottery ticket—a generous ticket to continue her life and take in its splendors? Her brow shot downward as her hands suffocated themselves in a tight fist.
What about me was worth saving?
Like when a weak and sluggish man wins the 100 meter dash, she asked herself with a raging curiosity how such a thing could be possible. Her captain was beautiful, kind, and always encouraging. She always knew what to say and when to say it. Yet, for such an optimistic individual, she always had a cool head that never expected anything but the harsh reality of the world. But she was not good enough? Her other best friends and crew mates, who made her laugh and smile, they were her only companions. They had that cherished ability to make her forget about the war and to allow her, albeit for a short moment in time, to think herself not a no-nothing but a girl living a carefree life. They were not good enough?
But herself? The one who had to be held like a child to make the shaking stop on the eve of battle, the one who needed to hear her captain's reassuring voice to make her heart stop pounding in her chest and allow her to do her job—she herself was worthy?
If the knives and utensils were not so intentionally dull by mandate, she would have proven the institution's point by ending herself then and there.
No, no. Those thoughts aren't good
In an attempt to calm herself, she rested her head in her hands which still violently shook despite being supported by two arms as they rested upon the cold table. She had to get herself to together. Self-harm was the last option. She had too much dignity left to resort to such a practice. Despite her sleep deprivation, fatigue, and overwhelming apathy, she still had enough willpower to not be the cause of her own death, to falter and give up.
It's not that she didn't want to give up; she wanted to give up. She wanted to crawl up in a ball and hope that her consciousness would fade away. She wanted to hope that she could close her eyes and open them up again to see herself surrounded by her friends. Every part of her body was crying out for rest—her bones, muscles, brain, and soul—but she could not be the one to deliver this blow herself. Despite hoping to see Death in his shrouded chariot descend and claim her as his next, she refused to be the one to make him come down here.
As she allowed herself a glance around, she realized that even Death would feel pity when coming down here to retrieve a soul, for both the dead and the damned—this place could double as a medieval prison. Although it lacked the fortified castle walls and torture chamber, this place shared the same dull visage. Everything about the hospital seemed dull. Although nearly every room was painted, the colors were horribly washed out. The vibrant and uplifting core of the colors were faded to somewhere on the verge of gray. Faint blue, faint green, and bleak gray were the most prominent ones colors one could see around the institution. Simple hardwood floors and, in certain rooms, dirty white tiles found themselves were trampled upon every day by the patients. The outside was no better—cracked and chipped bricks formed the thick walls to the institution. Heavy gray iron bar doors separated the detainees from restricted areas or areas that could only be entered with supervision. All the windows had on them a layer of the same iron bars to prevent patients from escaping. This place was indeed a prison, and Filicia felt akin to a caged animal. Thin hallways suffocated the patients when they passed by in a mob, where only two men abreast could manage to squeeze through. The only exception was the main hallway which ran down the middle of the floor and out on the sides in a giant plus, but it was always crammed with an assortment of wheelchairs, gurneys, and carts. It was common for patients to begin "the works" in their robes at the beginning of one of the thin hallways, sometimes shivering, flowing with the claustrophobic conglomerate of human mass until reaching the other side hot and sweaty. For a place designed for mental illness, this placed seemed to reinforce stress instead of alleviating it.
As she delved deeper into her thoughts, the ever present mantra echoed within her—caged animal. The mandatory following of routine and regime forced her to rise at a certain hour, made her eat at a certain hour, and made her retire at a certain hour. No longer did she have the liberty to decide these things for herself, but now these things would be decided for her, leaving her often times questioning the validity of her own humanity. The constant supervision by the doctors and orderlies, the latter much more numerous than the former, made her feel targeted. Her every move was watched, her every action accounted for. To them she was not a person, but another patient to exert their dominance over. To them she was just another crazy. The locked doors and iron jail bars spread across the building reinforced her paranoia of her own inferiority. Every time she eyed them, she couldn't help but feel that they were there because of her, to keep her and those like her away from the outside world. Why would she be in a place like this if there wasn't something truly wrong with her?
As she once again became restless, her mind held her by the throat, unwilling to let her sanity escape, whispering into her ear the heart-stirring motif—caged animal. Her room had a door and lock identical to those meant to keep enemies of the state in place for their execution on death row. The bed was made out of an infernal metal where thin bedsheets did nothing to alleviate its purpose as a near instrument of torture. It gripped her in ice during the intolerable winters when no one ever had enough blankets and it added to the humid, stuffy oven she was supposed to call home during the hot days of summer. In this ways the facility could save money by having each cell double as its occupants' own torture chamber. Her room was only big enough to provide the thinnest of walkways between her bed and the cold brick wall to the door. A heated bright light burned incessantly throughout the night, 24 hours a day, to ensure that the patients could be kept an eye on easily, driving many patients more insane than they already were.
As she reviewed all these things in her mind, she affirmed to herself that this place was just the intolerable hellhole she thought it was; perhaps she deserved it. Perhaps she should indeed get used to be a caged animal?
This flow of thought was quickly interrupted by the dropping of a lunch tray as the patients lined up in another long line to turn in their trays and retreat back into their cherished allowed times of freedom. The sound was near deafening as the acoustics amplified it. While everyone jumped or leapt to cover their ears as a reflex, Filicia did neither. Her awareness and her consciousness had regressed to a more primal state—fear.
Through a torturous illusion she saw an event that took place two months ago. No matter how hard she closed her eyes, straining her forehead as if brute force alone would save her, it was to no avail as she was forced to watch in her mind the scenes of that dark night play out once again. She saw the claustrophobic space of her mech tank and everything within illuminated by a red light which sought to preserve as much night vision as possible. She saw in her peripheral the faces of her friends, sweat dripping down their brows as they attended to their stations. She heard the god awful, deafening pings and bangs as bullets and anti-tank rounds were deflected, bouncing off harmlessly due to her captain's skillful angling of the craft. The smell of sulfur assaulted her nostrils as the loader expended spent shells and the smell of a thousands of discharging guns flowed in through the tank's ventilation.
Then, in an instant, she was outside. Night had long since yielded unto a blazing red day as small fires burned around her, trying their best to imitate the giant blazing torch that was the city of Vingt. The smells associating with a burning city combined with the sulfur to make a noxious odor which she had no chance but to inhale as she looked back towards her tank. Through the red fiery light which in which the city bathed, she saw three or four figures emerge clumsily from the wreck Walking like zombies, shocked and shambling, Filicia tried to look away from what was about to happen. Despite having re-watched this scene on replay before, its visage was still too much for her to handle—yet like a prisoner strapped into a chair, eyes forced open, she was unable to see anything else but this clip of the past.
A violent explosion startled her as she felt an infernal heat rush towards her. A blinding flash was quickly overcome by a quick rumbling of the ground as, despite still sitting down at the table, she felt her balance waver and her knees falter. Struggling to maintain her balance, she saw a charred husk of a tank through the thick noxious black smoke which surrounded it. Trying to take the opportunity and prove herself and her mind wrong, she tried to see past the rising black cloud, to see if her friends had somehow survived—if things weren't as bad as she had thought. But just as in her previous rehearsals, just as on that soul-crushing day, she saw nothing but the burnt metal and scrap that had once been a technological wonder. As the smell of fuel and burnt flesh began to waft toward her, her heart was reaching the climax of another ride on its emotional rollercoaster.
Patients which hadn't already noticed the shaking and catatonic woman were made aware when she flung herself onto the ground and into some offshoot of the fetal position, covering her tucked in head with her hands. As bright incendiary tracers bounced off the mech's shattered armor and enveloped her in a maze of light, she felt the paralyzing, nerve-racking whizz of bullets as they tried their best to find their target. Utterly terrified, she ran for her life, tears streaming in her eyes as she fled the red daylight into the shadow of night. There, she collapsed, exhausted and overloaded.
An orderly and a nurse had by this point arrived in the cafeteria. They walked calmly towards the shivering, disheveled girl. This was not done out of empathy or consideration but simply out of precaution. At any moment her fear could turn her into an angry and wild animal fending for its life. How easily she could grab a fork or a knife and make herself an actual threat. Even more importantly, this scene was a smoldering powder keg, a contagion which could spread to other patients and cause them to lose themselves along with her.
With a face that was displeased with today's mediocrity, the nurse primed a syringe as the orderly held her down with his body. Without the care that one would find in a blood clinic, she jammed it into her back. Five seconds went by as the needle slowly drained itself amidst the panting and incoherent rambling of the messy-haired blonde. So quiet was the atmosphere that if that syringe were to drop and fall to the ground, it would have been distinctly heard all the way from the first front row of tables all the way to the back of the kitchen. Some patients looked on in silence, while others used to such phenomenon or simply apathetic to it continued on with finished their meals. To Filicia, her fear and anxiety were slipping away. Her broken heart was being numbed by some magic. She felt sleep take over her—a welcomed gift to rescue her both from her exhaustion as well as the memories. In her feeling moments of consciousness, she wondered if Death was freeing her from this prison of confined misery.
As her body went limp, the two staff picked her up with little grace and carried her out of the cafeteria. The sounds of eating, the clanking of metal, and soft-spoken chatter slowly resumed.
