Author's Note:
Freaky Fred and "Courage: The Cowardly Dog" belong to John R. Dilworth and Cartoon Network. Fred's last name and this whole story is completely fan made. I drew the cover myself.
This is an account from Fred himself about an incident at the chronic hospital. I'm not British, and I'm not psychopathic, so it was difficult to write in that way. I realize there's things about it that someone might not like, but please keep that to yourself.
Overall, I like this story and I hope you enjoy it, too!
They are very nice to me at this old place, the "chronic hospital," I was told it's called. They listen to me, they talk to me...
Oh, you think I mean the caretakers? No no, I apologise for the misconception. You see, I was talking to myself.
Cut it away.
My room is quaint and bland. But it's cozy, and the locked door is comforting at nights; although I suppose it is only locked from the inside. The nights here are just like any other night at any other place. Dark, of course, and sleepless.
And they don't believe me, but I know why they make me stay in this old building. I've simply been... naughty. They tell me running my own barber shop isn't safe, which I laugh at. I've gotten very talented in what I love best; they just don't know it. They don't understand a thing, and yet I'm still cooped up...
If you'll excuse me, I wasn't intending to be so unfriendly.
Despise this place. Cut it away.
It's relatively early in the morning. I'm sitting in a chair near the corner, and two empty chairs are next to me. My hands are settled in my lap, and I can feel a pleasant grin stretching my cheeks. I'm quietly watching the other patients. Some are roaming around the large white room, mumbling nonsense, some are sitting in wheelchairs being fed by caretakers, and two rather old gentlemen are trying to play cards on the table with violently shaking hands. Nurses and doctors are weaving through the room, periodically stopping to talk to one patient after the other. I continue to smile, observing from a distance every person's marvelously hairy hair.
Movement catches my eye—I watch as a nurse with long dark hair in a loose bun approaches me with a clipboard in hand. Her heels click rhythmically on the hard floor.
Long and dark.
"How are we doing today, Mr. Endsly?" She has a very noticeable American accent.
"I'm doing well, miss." I want to show her that I'm level with her in status, so I ask her back, "And yourself?"
"And you've taken your medication today, yes?"
I smile up at her.
"And yourself?"
"Now, Mr. Endsly," she begins, and her voice gets somewhat colder. "Please tell me if you have taken your medicine today. If I have to, I'll talk with Doctor Wicker, you know."
"First you tell me... how are we doing today?"
She's better than you. Cut it away.
"I'm doing very well, thank you," She replies stiffly. "And now...?"
"...Yes, I've taken it, miss."
She scribbles on the clipboard. I can't help but stare at her enticing, glossy hair. If I could only just touch it... She looks back at me and I quickly glance at my hands. I'll get in trouble if I'm caught looking at hair too long. I suppose it's just another pointless rule the caretakers slapped onto the ever-growing list. It's unfortunate though, because little do they know... it's a bit of a challenge for me.
"Mr. Endsly, the hospital is collecting a survey from a few of the patients. Would you mind answering a few questions?"
"Please, sit," I say, and gently pat the seat next to me. She sits, and rests the clipboard on her lap. I crane over to see what is written, but she moves her hand over it.
"You understand this is classified, Endsly?"
"'Mr.', if you would," I reply kindly.
The nurse ignores me and stares down at the paper. A few strands of hair fall over her eyes and catch my attention. As she jots down my name, I watch them swing back and forth.
"Alright, Fredrick Endsly," She says my name slowly as she finishes writing. "First question. Do you know why you're here?"
"Yes, ma'am," I reply. My fingers start to itch and my eyes lock on her black mane, all tied up behind her head.
Please. Cut it away...
"And why is that?"
"...Pardon?"
"Why are you here, Fred?"
"Oh yes. They call it... what do they call it...?" I look at the white floor and away from my distraction. "Trichotemnomania, first of all," I continue, "and... severe manic depression, with other, non-important things on the side, such as metromania and insomnia..."
"Okay, yes,"
"But... I call it a healthy passion, if you would like to know."
I see she checks a box and writes something next to it as I speak.
"Mhm," she mumbles. "And do you remember if you ever been categorized as 'violent' by the facility?"
"Oh, heavens, no." These are painfully easy questions; I continue to grin calmly.
The nurse makes an 'x' on the paper.
I lean closer, pretending to try to see the clipboard once again, but I'm sly in getting closer to her hair.
Be naughty... cut it away...
"Will you please, Mr. Endsly," She glares sideways at me. She's slightly uneasy, I can tell. What would she be afraid of?
Her eyes flicker back down to the clipboard. I lean back, but my hand slowly reaches toward her head.
"Next question. Do you feel—" With quick, shaky fingers, I move the strands of hair away from her face and tuck them behind her ear. She jumps considerably in her chair and faces me with wide brown eyes.
"What are you doing?"
"Just moving your—"
"I am going to call Doctor Wicker."
"Now, why would you do that?"
"You are very aware that you're not allowed to touch hair, Mr. Endsly. If you do it again there will be a harsh punishment." Her voice trembles at the end of her sentence.
"...Like the last...?" I ask carefully.
"Yes, exactly like the last." She seems serious, to me.
I don't fancy another bout of 'solitary confinement,' so I stare at the floor. She reads me a few more questions, which I answer quickly. If she would just get away, then I could stop thinking about her hair... But, being forced to continue, I feel sweat starting to accumulate on my neck, and I pull on my collar to try to cool down.
"When did you come to this facility?"
"I don't remember."
Cut it away...
"Have you felt a significant change since coming here?"
"I can't tell."
Cut it away.
"What do you remember of your childhood?"
"...Nothing of significance," I lie.
Now, cut it away!
"Have you ever..." I see her lips moving, but I can't hear.
Please, cut it away, cut it away, cut it off!
I hear a chair tumble to the floor... I see terrified eyes... I hear rather loud yelling... I feel nothing at all...
I'm standing now. The nurse is on her back on the hospital floor, clutching at her head and shouting something. Her chair has toppled over. 'Now that's not in order,' I think, and bend to pick the chair back up. That's when I see the gorgeous strands of black hair clutched in my hand. I stare at them for a moment.
The nurse has gotten to her feet—she holds her head in such an odd manner, and two even streaks of mascara line her cheeks. By the time I realise what has happened, I feel two tight grips on both of my arms, coming from the back.
"Gentlemen," I say, very politely, "If you don't mind..."
One of the caretakers behind me talks to me in a firm, low voice.
"Mr. Endsly, if you'll settle down, now, we can do this the easy way."
I pause for just a moment to collect my thoughts.
It's about time for a holiday.
I rip myself from their grip. Still holding the hair in my fist, I run to the door, the one that leads to the lobby where the main entrance is. I push past a few indifferent patients on my way, and a few bewildered doctors. Unfortunately, a doctor about as tall as I am appears in front of me before I reach the first door. I try to change my course, but he has hold of my shoulders already. I see now that it's Doctor Wicker. He has quite the head of brown hair, and I grin as I indulge myself to focus on it. However, I do try to wiggle from Wicker's grasp, but he keeps me there with a strong grip.
"Fred," he says to me; his voice is strangely calm as I struggle under his large hands. "Try to stop smiling like that. Can you?"
Am I smiling? I do so even wider just to bother him.
I feel those harsh caretakers' hands seize my arms once again, and they stop my squirming. Doctor Wicker stares intensely into my eyes from under thick, contemplative eyebrows; I stare back from under pleasantly furrowed ones.
"Please excuse me, I'm going on holiday," I say, once again very politely. "But I don't see how I can do that with you three being so bothersome."
"You haven't taken your medication, have you, Fred," says the doctor, frowning.
Of course not! I begin to chuckle at the absurdity of Wicker's question, which seems to surprise him.
Cut it away now!
I try lunging forward to touch Dr. Wicker's shaggy brown hair, but at the same time I feel a sharp prick in my arm. I needn't look down to know it's a sedative. 'How troublesome,' I think briefly, and my laughter slowly dies. As I fade away, I notice the doctor's tight expression, which amuses me somewhat. There's a moment of foggy pain. Then, once again, I feel nothing.
...
I wonder how many sedatives it would take to kill me.