PATIENT FILE REPORT
NAME: LESLIE WITHERS
AGE: 25
The doctor frowned, adjusting the glasses on top of his aquiline nose with his middle finger. The boy that was currently being presented to him, held in place by a guard that gripped at his frail arms tighter than necessary, did not look that age at all. The man was sure he could count his ribs under that blindingly white robe the mental ward had put him into. His face was hidden from the doctor's eyes, the boy refusing to look up from the floor beneath his bare feet; he held his hands close to his chest, wringing them constantly.
"You can let him go now."The doctor put the file down on his desk; he would finish reading it later. The guard hesitated, letting his hands hover on the boy's body for a few moments, as if expecting him to suddenly turn around and make a run for it. It didn't happen, and the doctor motioned for him to leave the room.
The boy's shoulders shook; his skin was as pale as the robe he was wearing, the only spots of color that broke the white expanse were purple, angry and fresh, and yellow, almost healed, bruises, and the red of his lips that he kept biting, probably unconsciously. The man frowned once more at the signs of aggression that marred the boy's skin. It was very unlikely that they were self-inflicted; whoever had him first did not handle him with much care.
"Hello, Leslie!" He sweetened his tone considerably, though he expected no answer from the boy. He's seen all kinds of reactions to his attempts to be friendly, and none of them were at least a little bit positive; some of them had gotten rather unpleasant. He knew what he must have looked like, in the eyes of all those poor souls to ever have crossed his threshold; the sight from the other side of his desk was frightening.
As he expected, he was met with silence. The boy tried hard to ignore him, but it was obvious he was unsuccessful; his shoulders were still tense and trembled slightly. Despite the fact that he kept his eyes glued to the ground, not seeing the doctor, he could feel his presence, looming over him, like a bad omen. Bad. Bad.
"Bad. Bad." He muttered under his breath and covered his ears with his hands, pressing as hard as he could. The doctor watched him intently as he raised his head, but kept his eyes screwed shut. So he hears voices; he's seen other patients try to muffle the sounds of voices inside their brains by clamping their hands over their ears. A futile attempt that only managed to swell their desperation as they realised the demons were inside them, and not out.
His hands fell from either side of his head, his eyelids trembled but he did not dare open them. Most patients didn't sleep at night, didn't even close their eyes, in fear of what they saw when the world around them went black; right now this boy must have been more afraid of him than of what was inside. It made the doctor even more eager to cut open his mind, see what made him lose grip on it. Instead, he cooed at him like he's a kicked puppy.
"Leslie." He didn't answer, not verbally, but he did flinch. At least now the man knew he was listening. He sure hated repeating himself. "My name is Valerio Jimenez." He announced, carefully avoiding his beloved 'doctor' title; it pained his ego to do so, but the feeling of safety he had to create for his patients was vital. This one was already damaged, spooked, and the doctor suddenly felt anger towards whoever treated Leslie before him. No one like fixing other people's messes, and no one like playing with broken toys.
"I will take care of you, for now." Still no reaction. He's had others that had unexpectedly started grabbing things from his desk and hurling them in his direction. He had then worn the gash from the scissor aimed for his head like a battle wound from a war he had won, gloriously.
This complete lack of a response was quite unnerving. "Could you please open your eyes and look at me?" Much to his surprise, watery blue stared back at him and for a moment he felt gutted. The sorrow swimming in them struck him the most, as if the boy had already accepted his fate. And damn, has she been cruel to him.
He grabbed the file on his desk hastily, pretending to be greatly interested in it. Some letters danced in front of his eyes but he could not place some meaning to them. When he looked at the boy again, he was grateful to see he had lowered his head once more. He sighed softly, scratching his forehead absent-mindedly. He's seen many pairs of eyes; he's seen furious glares, and blank stares. And he's seen sadness, but nothing like this.
"Very well, then." He concluded, closing the file once again. "Just follow me, I'll show you to your room." The boy followed, without hesitance this time, waddling like a duck behind him and muttering words to himself.
This one was something special, the doctor could feel that, and nothing made him happier than an unique piece added to his collection.