I'm a terrible person. I have too many ships. It's hard to write so many fanfictions at once.
HOWEVERI ship Vauseman so hard it's an issue.
I also like insane asylum movies.
I know nothing about Psychiatric Hospitals, so it'd be cool if someone could give me a little help *hint hint*
Anyway, I got bored after watching Sucker Punch (my favorite movie) for the thousandth time, so I accidentally wrote this little gem :D
I hope you all enjoy it!
You look in the mirror across from you once more. The same image stares back at you. Ghostly pale skin, deep purple bags beneath your eyes, crackled lips, thin, almost skeletal, body. Nothing is different from before. So why are you here of all places?
Mom says you'll be just fine. That you're just here to "get checked on" or something. You don't believe a word of it. She's always worried too much over you. She says something has changed inside you. But nothing's different. You're still you, aren't you?
"Chapman? Piper Chapman?" A strange man calls and you feel your stomach drop.
You don't belong here. You turn to your mother, and she smiles sadly at you as she leads you behind the man. She knows you don't belong here, doesn't she? She has to know.
But the look in her eyes that she's had for quite some time now – about a month or so – tells you that she might actually be serious about this. Her eyes are dead, that's the best way you can describe them. They're dull, lifeless, sad. Like there's no hope in them at all.
And it scares you.
It scares you half to death. All in all, you're terrified.
You don't belong here, you remind yourself as you settle down on a brown leather couch in a plain-looking office. The walls are wooden – oak, perhaps – and the carpeting is a dull beige. The chairs and couch are all brown leather, and the desk in front of you looks like it's mahogany.
But, then again, you know nothing of furniture. Larry had to pick most of it in your house because, honestly, if it were up to you, you'd have picked gray for everything. He doesn't like gray, you suppose.
Behind the desk is an older man with gray hair.
"Welcome, Miss Chapman," he greets politely.
You smile a small, toothless half-grin and let your eyes drift to the hung up certificates behind him on the wall. They're all proof of his "doctor-ness" as your best friend, Polly, would say.
God, what will Polly think when you tell her about this? What will Larry say? Hell, what will anyone think about this?
"I'm Doctor Healy, the lead psychiatrist here at Litchfield Psychiatric Ward." The man explains to both you and your mother.
"I don't belong here," you blurt suddenly.
Your mother sends glares at you, telling you to shut up, while Doctor Healy just smiles at you.
"Nobody belongs here," Healy states. "We like to believe that the people here have a chance to being cured."
Cured? Like they're sick?
No, no no no. They are sick. Why are you telling yourself that they aren't? These people are nuts. That's why they're here, in the looney-bin.
But you? No, you're not nuts. You're sane. Normal. You don't belong here.
"Your mother tells me you haven't been sleeping well. Is that true?"
"Yes, but-" you begin, but he cuts you off.
"And that you tried to commit suicide. Is that also true?"
Yes, but... but it was an accident. A misunderstanding. You just accidentally took too many Seroquel pills and your mom merely thought you were dead.
Instead of waiting for your answer, Healy continues to talk.
"We're just going to perform a few tests on you, alright?" He asks, taking out a piece of paper from a manilla folder. "Let's begin..."
The tests were awful. They were so boring that you almost considered attempting suicide again. Even though the first time wasn't on purpose. It wasn't! Healy said you might have a few more 'illnesses' and that it's too early to make assumptions, but so far you've been diagnosed with extreme clinical depression, anorexia, and (this last one was diagnosed mostly by your mother, and you made a mental note to thank her very sarcastically in the future) bi-polar disorder.
You thought your mother would believe you when you said you didn't belong here. You even thought Doctor Healy would understand. But they didn't. She didn't. And she is sending you away.
"Mom!" You hiss when you're left alone to 'talk things out'. "What the hell?"
"I just want you to get better. We just want you to get better." Mom exhales calmly.
"'We'?" You echo.
"Larry, Polly, your brother, your father and I." She sounds so sure, like you've done something wrong. "Sweetie, we're worried about you. You're only here to get better."
"I'm not sick, mom!" You whisper-shout. "These people are sick! They're the ones who need help, not me!"
"Piper-"
"No! I'm not staying here! Forget it!"
Doctor Healy comes back and smiles at the both of you, seemingly oblivious to the tension in the room between you and your mother.
"Alright, Chapman," Healy looks down at the piece of paper from before. "We're gonna keep you here for about fifteen months, and we'll see how you are after that. Alright?"
"F-Fifteen months?" You sputter disbelievingly. "I-I thought people usually stayed here for, like, two!"
"In some cases, yes, but your case is rather... erm, difficult."
"Difficult? I don't fucking belong here!"
"Piper!" Mom scolds like you're not a 24 year old woman, but instead, a misbehaving 16 year old. "Language!"
"Sorry," you mutter, crossing your arms and sitting back. That outburst probably didn't help your case of not being insane.
"A nurse will be here in a minute to take you to your room." Healy says as if you didn't just scream at him.
Your mouth opens and closes for a moment as you scrape your brain for something – anything – to say that will change their minds, but in the end you just look like a strange fish.
Suddenly a nurse is in the doorway. He has a ridiculous mustache – one that reminds you of a cheesy porno you and Larry watched once – and he's looking you up and down like a piece of meat.
"Chapman?" He questions. You nod pathetically. "Come with me." He shoves white clothes into your hands.
"Mom," you croak, your voice hoarse with the tears threatening to escape, "this is a mistake."
She looks away and you feel your heart shatter into a billion pieces.
"B-But Larry-" you try, but she cuts you off with a scoff.
"Larry knows. So does Polly. You'll be fine. They'll be fine." She smiles and you seriously can't believe this is happening.
As Nurse Pornstache leads you down several halls and corridors – all securely locked down in case a patient were to try and run – you mutter "this can't be happening" over and over.
Because seriously.
This can't be happening. You're Piper Chapman. You are 24. You're engaged to Larry Bloom, a successful(ish) writer who is going to be in the Times. You are not depressed, bipolar, and whatever else they just labeled you. You are normal. You don't belong here.
"Alright, Chapman," Pornstache opens the door to a plain room with gray walls, white tiles, two dull beds, and a desk with a wooden chair. "Your roommate should be here in a few. She'll show you the ropes."
The ropes? Oh god, you're in prison.
"Tell her you need to be at the infirmary in ten minutes. Got it?" When you don't answer, he rolls his eyes. "I said, got it, Chapman?" You nod in understanding. "Get dressed."
When the door slams shut behind him, you crumple onto your bed. Emotion overwhelms you, suddenly. You hate this place. You hate it all. You don't belong here.
A sob escapes your lips and you bury your face in your hands. Everything is falling apart beneath you and you can't do anything to stop it. You're falling, falling, falling and you can't stop. You don't know where you're going to land, but you're falling. Into what? You're not sure. You're just falling.
The door opens again and you jump slightly, looking up to see who entered.
A girl with wild hair – that you honestly can't tell whether or not it's brown or auburn through your tears – is standing in the doorway with a confused frown.
"Jesus fuckin' Christ who died?" She asks and you wish you could tell her to fuck off, but you can't because you're just imploding.
You feel the bed dip beside you and a soothing hand on your back.
"Well, newbie, I'm Nicky. Nicky Nichols. Most people call me Nichols around here." The girl introduces.
Nicky Nichols? Who names their kid that? You wonder.
"P-Piper," you reply when your sobs calm down enough for you to talk. "Piper Chapman."
"Alright then, Chapman, looks like you're under my wing for now. Get dressed and fix yourself up." She gets up and walks to the door. "I'll be outside. Come out when you're ready."
Ready? You'll never be ready.
But, once she leaves, you find yourself doing as she says. The uniform is baggy on you, and it feels too big. You decide to just deal with it and trot out into the hallway, where Nicky – Nichols – is waiting for you.
"Don't worry, once you've been here for a week, they give you these tan ones." She motions to her own baggy tan sweats. "Follow me."
She takes you to the right of your room, where you walk through two hallways and suddenly you're in a large room with sofas and couches and tables.
"This is the Lounge, where we relax." Nichols explains. "We interact with other patients without a therapist up our asses the whole time." She motions to a window where a nurse – Pornstache – is watching them closely. "'Course there're always nurses on duty. They don't bother you much though."
She starts walking once more across the Lounge to another corridor. You turn left and there's two double doors. She motions to them.
"Through here's the cafeteria. It opens from 8 in the morning to 10 for breakfast. Lunch is 12 to 2. And dinner's 5 to 7." She explains, then leads you a little further through the halls – all filled with strange doors that are marked with doctors' and nurses' names.
A small booth with a cage inside its windows and a counter on both ends comes into view.
"This is where we get our pills and such. Here's a little advice: save the blue ones they give you before bed. People'll do anything to get more of those."
"What are they?" You ask when you begin walking once more.
"Sleeping pills." Nichols shrugs.
"Oh," you murmur.
Soon, a bright white door comes into view with a window in it.
"This is the infirmary. I'll be in the Lounge when you come out." Nichols leaves without another word and you slowly twist the knob.
A cranky-looking woman in light blue scrubs looks up at her from a small wooden desk.
The infirmary is bright – too bright. The walls are a very very pale blue – a nice change from the white walls and white floors of the rest of the place – aligned with pretty pictures of flowers and wildlife and farms. The floor is a simple white tile with streaks on it.
In the front is a large desk, but beside the door all along the wall are chairs for waiting people. Behind the desk are hospital beds separated by sea foam green curtains, and beyond those are a few doors with signs and labels that you can't quite make out.
"Name?" The woman calls impatiently.
"P-Piper Chapman." You stammer.
"Follow me," she stands up, grabs a clipboard, and points to a space between the desk and the wall where there's a cute little flap for you to walk through.
You do as you're told and she leads you to one of the back rooms that's secluded from the rest of the infirmary.
Once you're inside, you note a metal table, a scale, and other medical equipment.
"Age?" She asks.
"Twenty-five." You answer.
"Step up here," she motions to the scale and you do.
She takes a moment to move the little things around. "121 pounds..." she mutters with a click of her tongue.
She then points to something you're sure is used to measure height.
"Five foot eight..."
You watch her closely as she writes things on a paper.
"Have you had all your shots?" She asks, like you're some sort of pet in a show.
"Yes," you murmur.
"Alright. Drop 'em and cough."
Your stomach drops. "I'm sorry, what?"
"Drop 'em. And. Cough." She growls.
Is this really necessary?
"Oh, they do that to check you for any smuggled goodies," Nichols explains when you meet her back in the Lounge.
"'Smuggled goodies'?" You echo, confused.
"Y'know, drugs."
"Oh."
"So, 's about time you met the group, huh?" She grins and a girl with short black hair trots over and sits down in Nichols' lap.
"Chapman, this is Morello." Nichols smirks. "She's here because she's got a mad case of schizophrenia. I'm not talkin' your average 'see shit' schizophrenia. I mean the 'holy shit I think I'm engaged' kind."
"I am engaged!" Morello defends, jutting her red bottom lip out into a pout. "You're the one who's crazy."
"I'm not crazy, I'm special." Nichols winks.
Morello rolls her eyes and turns to look at you. "So, you're the newbie, huh?"
"I-I guess..." Your voice is quiet.
"Well, it's not so bad once you get used to it." She smiles gently.
"The cook here is named Red. She's apparently not crazy like the rest of us. Somethin' about pissing off the Russian Mafia." Nichols shrugs.
"Don't mess with her," Morello adds. "She can snap you in half like a twig."
Just then, a crash followed by a loud yell makes you nearly jump off the couch.
"There's no fucking way I'm taking that fucking medicine again!" A harsh voice snarls.
"Miss Vause-" another voice tries to soothe the woman, but another crash tells you that there's no way in hell she's going to calm down any time soon.
"Aaand there's Alex," Nichols singsongs with a wide smirk.
"Always getting into trouble," Morello rolls her eyes, but smiles.
The pit pat of footsteps tells you whoever 'Alex' is, she's coming closer to the Lounge.
"'Alex'?" You echo, confused.
"Yep. We don't really know why she's here. I think she's bipolar." Nichols watches the hallway where the infirmary is.
"I heard it was depression," Morello also turns to the hallway.
"Miss Vause, you have to take this-" a man orders as a woman comes into view.
"Fuck off!" The woman hisses.
She's tall, probably around 5'10". Her legs are long, and she stands confidently as she strides away from the doctor. Her gray eyes are blazing with fury behind her black glasses.
Her long, black hair is flicked to the side as she walks. Even though she's wearing baggy tan clothes, you can tell she's muscular and thin.
All-in-all, 'Alex' is gorgeous.
She glances at you and your eyes meet for a brief moment.
"Nurse!" The doctor yells.
Pornstache soon catches 'Alex' by the arm.
"Let fucking go of me you damn pig!" She snarls and struggles in his hold.
A needle is pushed into her arm and she almost instantly goes limp as her eyes droop sleepily.
The doctor puts a pill in her mouth and makes her swallow.
Pornstache drags her to a couch and sets her down. "Wake her up when it's time for Group." He orders, then leaves.
"That was... interesting." You note quietly.
"Hey, Alex," Nichols greets. "They find out you refused to take your pills again?"
Alex, still very sleepy and out of it, glances at Nichols with glassy eyes. "F'ck off." She slurs.
Nichols snorts, then glances at you. "This is Piper Chapman. My new temporary roomie."
"'Temporary'?" You stare at her, wide-eyed.
"Yep. I hear they're gonna switch you out with Morello." Nichols looks at Morello with a wink.
"What...?" You begin, but Alex laughs a lazy, sleepy laugh.
"Guess it's a step up fr'm Miss 'ngaged over there," she's slurring horribly, and she's going to pass out really soon.
"I'm engaged," you clarify. "He'll get me out of here. I know he will."
Nichols, Morello, and Alex all snort with laughter.
"That's what Morello said when she came here," Nichols chuckles.
"Vause brought me back to reality." Morello clarifies. "We're all stuck here 'til we're deemed 'sane'.
"I am sane." You huff. "Larry will know, and he'll-" you're interrupted by the loud cackling of Alex – who's, surprisingly, still awake.
"Larry?" She chortles. "You're marrying a guy named Larry?"
You feel heat rise to your cheeks, for some weird reason. "So?"
"That's fucking hilarious, blondie!" She snickers. "Fucking Larry. Well, I got news for 'ya: he's not coming to get you out. He let it happen, genius."
"No he didn't," you argue flatly.
"To get in, they have to have legal guardians' and parter's permission to accept you," Nichols explains.
You feel the couch beneath you crumble into a dark hole. A deep, dark pit where shadows consume your mind.
You often have episodes like this. Where you understand that there is nothing in the world.
Not even Larry, you realize.
You have nothing.
You are nothing.
Your heartbeat quickens and you feel it all around you. Pulsating. Like a drumbeat.
The drums of war. The eternal struggle inside you rages on, this time, the darkness is winning.
It's like that time you accidentally took to many Seroquel pills.
Because, honestly, you don't want the light inside you to win anymore.
"Chapman?" A voice in the distance echoes, but you're lost.
Lost inside, lost outside, you're just lost. You are nowhere. You cannot win.
"Chapman!"
A cool hand on your arm startles you so much you jump with a yelp as reality comes back into view.
"Christ," Nichols breathes. "You alright? You kinda zoned on us there."
You lick your dry, chapped lips. "Yes," you murmur quietly. "I'm fine."
You're not fine.
You're in a Psychiatric Hospital.
And Larry let them take you.
Literally I have little knowledge about present day Psychiatric Wards. So, pretty much a lot of this has been guessed.
It'd be great if someone could give me pointers!
Also, are there any disorders you think any of the other characters I have or have not mentioned (yet) have? Suggest some to me! (I don't know a lot about any other mental 'disorders' other than depression, anxiety, and stuff like that, so the help would be greatly appreciated!)
Thanks for reading!