Holy Frick Beans!
A Scrubs Fiction
By
Sarah Maguire
Disclaimer: I don't own Scrubs. If I did, Dr. Cox would be my bitch.
Author's Ramblings:
Hey guys, it's your old friend (or enemy, depending on how you look at it) Shasta-Chan back after a two year hiatus in which hardly anything of interest happened. (Other than the fact I've decided to write under my real name and I'm soon to turn nineteen..) Anyhoo, I felt compelled to write a Scrubs fan-fiction after browsing through the surprisingly talented works on display at That and I love writing in first person perspective- I find it helps to get into the mind of the character on a more emotional level.
Before I begin with this tale, a few notes:
1: Italics denote thoughts and inner monologues
2: Bold text denotes who's POV it is
3: Angsty, emo-y, dark and melancholic themes, so if you don't like them, don't bother reading. I don't understand why people flame a fiction for a theme, characterization or whatever it is they hate when all along, they could've just clicked 'BACK' on the browser. Very strange.. Oo
4: Rated 'Mature' for the reasons stated above so again, don't say I didn't warn you.
5: Umm... KNIFE WREEEEENCH!!!
This fic is dedicated to my best friend Jen (aka SaintMe). Thanks for the Twinkies, hon!
Roll camera!
CHAPTER ONE
(Theresa's P.O.V)
Have you ever woken up one day and felt utterly terrified of your own emotions? Have you ever felt that your entire universe is one gigantic white cube, a room with no windows and doors, the walls padded to block out the sounds of your screams?
Imagine feeling this way every single waking moment of your life.
Hi there. The name's Theresa but my friends call me T.J.
Well, they WOULD... if I had any friends to bestow a nickname upon me. I'm the girl who's photograph can be found in the dictionary. Just look in 'O' for Outcast, 'D' for 'Delusional', 'F' for Fragmented or, like everyone who knows and judges me, the good ol' P for 'Psychotic'.
To say my life is less than perfect would be the biggest understatement since the dawn of time itself. It has been plagued with an eternal shadow that seems to block out the harsh light of day, drowning me in a turbulent ocean of raging emotions with no hope of David Hasslehoff and his manly, rippled, hairy chest coming to my rescue. Most days, I'm afraid to wake up, afraid to face the inner conflict each new day will bring as my mind struggles to decide if I should be happy or sad, angry or indifferent.
It's a struggle.
Like a see-saw ridden by cloven-hoofed devil children, my moods go up and down, up and down, up and down faster than I can blink.
It scares me to the core.
Now more than ever considering I'm all out of happy pills.
Groovy.
"What do you mean I have to leave?"
"I'm sorry, Terry-"
"T.J. My name is T.J. I've told you a thousand fucking times, Charlotte! Look, I didn't forget YOUR name, did I?"
"Calm down, ma'am or I'll be forced to call security."
"Whoop-dee-fucking-doo! Story of my life! "
"Look, your insurance dried up two months ago. Unless you can somehow come up with the $1000 a month fee to stay here, I've got no choice but to release you from our custody. I'd suggest you go and find a local counsellor to help you deal with your problems in a more pro-active manner. We can't keep pumping you full of anti-depressants. Your liver is shrivelling under the strain!"
"I don't CARE! For crying out loud, Charlotte! It's the only way I can drown out the voices- voices screaming over and over for me to take that knife and just put an end to this pathetic soap opera that is my life! I NEED this asylum. You throw me out into the real world, I'll die out there!"
But there was no reasoning with her.
Charlotte Grisholm, scourge of my entire existence within the white cube of Shady Acres Asylum. Forgiving walls, loving walls. Comforting walls where my troubles couldn't find me. For the past five years, it was my home, a sanctuary from the demons that plagued most of my teenage years. It was within these walls I got my first sickly sweet dose of lithium, shot deep into my veins three times a day, silencing the demons and replacing them with sweet, glittery faeries.
How I loved those faeries.
It was an easy way out, I admit, but I barely had the strength to fight through this storm after rampaging succubi choked the last of energy from me in those rare moments of clarity between meds.
I stared at Charlotte, hoping that the daggers I sent her way would somehow turn real and slice her up for denying me my sweet relief. How I loathed her, from her greasy brown hair scrapped back into a tight bun, her severe features and vulture-like nose right down to the way she chewed her pencils into toothpicks or constantly forgot my name. How I longed to just lunge forward and embrace her neck with my fingers, to snatch away her breath just as she snatched away my only chance of leading a semi-normal life.
I wanted to hear that wonderful snapping of vertebrae, to feel the bone break beneath my fingers.
"It's no longer my concern, T.J. Your doctor signed the release papers this morning."
Her voice was blank and unsympathetic as always. I wondered how she could sleep at night when she spent her days being such a cruel and callous waste of space. Probably on a bed of nails. I can barely hide my smirk, visualizing her lying on top of the sharp prongs, my foot wedging her down by the chest-
"All I can do is write you a prescription to see you through the week but after that, you're on your own."
She didn't look at me the whole time she sullied her fancy pink stationary with jagged, illegible scrawl. As I yanked the slip of paper free from her gnarled fingers, she stared at me with an all too familiar look- she was trying to get inside my head.
Begone, devil woman!
How dare you invade my private thoughts!
She continues to stare at me, as if trying to bore a hole into my skull. I try to spook her with one of my patented death glares, but after what feels like eternity, the strain became all too much. My fingers massage my temples, exhaling in a begrudging sigh.
"God! What now?!"
"Do you have a place to stay?"
"Not any more.." I grumble, glancing down the hallway to the open door of my room, currently being stripped of what few possessions I own by Dave and Bob, two tubby orderlies who occasionally sneak me the odd chocolate brownie. Oh, my room. My lovely, squishy room with its padded walls and bared windows, itchy bed sheets and drooping rubber plants. Not quite perfect, but after five long years living in a drug haze, it my home. God, I'm going to miss that plant..
"You could always stay with your family-"
"Dear GOD, Charlotte! Do you honestly expect me to go running back home to the people who so lovingly dragged me kicking and screaming into this hell-hole? Forgive me for being so blunt, but I'd rather slit my wrists- oh, wait! I already did!"
God, I love being sarcastic.
The vile woman looks at me with the thin-lipped, no-sense-of-humour stern face of Supernanny.
Super-BITCH more like it..
"It was merely a suggestion. You could always-"
"I'd say to shove your suggestions up that fat ass o' yours but of course, that proverbial stick just takes up too much darn room. I'm outta here."
My red Converse sneakers squeak faintly on the linoleum floor as they carry me towards the exit. I can hear Charlotte yell something or other about being 'an insufferable, insolent psycho' behind me but right now, I'm too aggravated to care. How dare she suggest such a thing. How DARE she! She just can't comprehend how much I hate that house and all it's occupants.
They drove me to this place, both literally and emotionally speaking.
As I raise the prescription to my face to squint at whatever it is that ice-crotch wrote, out of the corner of my eye, I see the reason behind my prolonged 'vacation'. Five years have done little to due the raging redness of the scar, shining up against the milky white skin of my wrist as clear as day. Further down my arm, trailing under my shirt sleeves, another scar adds to the canvas- this one was the worst of all to create and even now, after so much time to heal, it still stings to touch.
In a strange, morbid way, my scars tell my story better than any commemorative tattoo ever could.
My fingertips trace the length of the old gash, one long vertical line trailing down to the crook of my elbow. It stings like a bitch but I can scarcely remember feeling anything other than pain long before I dug the knife in. I guess I was trying to cut out the unseen horror on the inside.
To see the blood rush out of me, so thick it was black, it was a comfort.
That feeling of light-headedness, the onsets of shock that slowly began to take hold made me feel more alive than I ever thought possible.
I don't like to dwell on these feelings. Never did. They make me weak, make me hate myself.
They make me hurt myself again and despite the relief it brings me, I'd rather stick to taking out my frustrations on my poor, shrivelled liver. It probably resembles fine French pate at this stage of my life. So, the ol' bag's prescribed a week's worth of Lexipro, huh? What a crock of shit. She knows as well as I do that that crap doesn't work. I need something stronger, something that'll blow the demons straight out of the water.
Three days I've gone without meds, three fucking days.
I look up.
The sign of my salvation greets me.
"Joe's Drug Store".
Oh, yay!
I can't help but dance with glee.
I don't even care if I get caught on camera this time.
It'll all be worth it.
Sweet Betty Crocker, what's happened to me? When did I turn into a crazed drug addict? Did those assholes at the home slip something extra in with the lithium? My brain is whizzing about at a million miles a second. It's getting harder to breath as the minutes pass by. Oh, no! Here comes the screaming.
I shut my eyes and hold my head in my hands. I feel my back curve as I buckle under the strain.
The screaming grows louder, drowning out my pleas for it to end. Louder and louder until it's deafening, a huge roar like a jet engine. Holy crap, I think I just felt the ground shake underneath me! That's odd.
My eyes snap open.
The screaming wasn't in my head.
No, it was the roar of a diesel engine as it plowed straight into me, effectively smearing my brains across the street.
Figures.
My first day out in the real world and I'm hit by a freight truck.
Oh, cruel irony! Why do you mock me (?)
END CHAPTER ONE