So, I had the idea for this story when I was sleeping last night. Yeah, I know, weird. But anyways, as soon as I woke up, I wrote this chapter in about 5 minutes and delayed posting it till now. It's a... strange topic but I hope you guys like it!
This is supposed to be a multi chapter story but if I don't get more than 5 reviews on the first chapter, I'm not going through with it. So you guys better review, otherwise I'll set the bogeyman on you! Jokes, but seriously, please do. It makes my whole day.
On with the story!
Mal had heard the words 'Paranoid Schizophrenia' only once in his life. He hadn't a clue about what it was, what it meant and what it entailed. They had told him that it was the most common form of schizophrenia, that the symptoms were hard to notice, that the illness could be diagnosed, and that 1 in a 100 people get it.
What he did know for certain, however, was that his partner, best friend, and love of his life was that single person in 100 that had it.
It had all started that late night three weeks ago. They had just finished wrapping up the loose ends of the Callum Murdoch case, and had been exiting the SFPD Precinct, joking and laughing merrily with each other while drinking cappuccinos out of paper cups. Natara had stopped dead in her tracks and shiftily eyed the empty parking lot and muttered darkly, "Good. Can't see anything here."
"What do you mean by that?" Mal had asked, slightly perturbed.
"You know, anybody could come out and attack us. They could just attack us and cart us off to the government, where they could do horrible things to us Mal. Horrible things." He had thought it was some sick attempt at sarcasm at first. But after nearly three weeks of hearing her argue hotly with herself, hearing her complain about her gruesome hallucinations and watching, helplessly, her paranoia grow darker and deeper within herself, Mal had dragged her kicking and screaming to the Mental Institute, fearing the worst.
And his worst fears had materialized.
Numbly, he sat by Natara's side and clutched her hand tightly as doctors and nurses bustled around busily, carrying clipboards full of spidery writing, their faces stony and set into hard frowns.
"Mal?" Natara whispered sorrowfully, "What's happening to me? Why are there so many doctors? I don't like them. They look shifty to me. Are they going to inject me with anaesthesia and send me off to the CIA so they can do some testing on me?" She bowed her head and took a deep, shaky breath and continued, her voice cracking, "Mal, don't let them put a chip in me. Please Mal, please, don't let them…" Holding back a choked sob, he replied as evenly as possible, "I won't, Natara. I'll make sure nothing will ever happen to you."
"Ah hmm." A nearby doctor cleared his throat and motioned to his clipboard. "May I…?" Mal nodded in mutual agreement, still too wracked by the news to trust his voice.
"Well, as we told you before, we believe Miss Natara Williams has a severely acute form of paranoid schizophrenia. This illness affects-"
"Sorry, doctor," Mal interjected, his voice low and hoarse, "But you already told me this. Can we just skip to the important information?" The doctor huffed loudly, and muttered, "Yes. Of course." He flipped a few pieces of paper on his clipboard forward roughly, and steamrollered on, "We think that Miss Williams will require at least seven years of treatment in this centre, and we have prescribed her…" Mal tried to focus on the sound of his voice, but found himself tuning out as the doctor droned on and on. He whipped his head around to face Natara, and heard her murmuring agitatedly under her breath, "Oh no, he's talking, he's talking, that's not good, what is he talking about? Oh no, he's sending me off to Africa for slave trade, oh no, no, no…" Tears stung his eyes and he forced his head downwards, willing them not to trickle down his face.
This Natara… It wasn't the one he knew and loved.
And the old Natara was never going to come back.
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