~ Lunch trays with a dash of razor blades ~
Insane: another form or category in society to group others against each other—it's that simple.
You don't have to freak-out in a super-market to be deemed insane—you just have to do something completely unjustified—speak/talk to yourself, attempt suicide over twenty times, tells a therapist you see spirits or hear voices—insanity has no limits. Ha, but human-beings… they do.
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Tray's~ Razor blades
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"Day 105," the male thought.
Sitting in his back-breaking white cot—a hand-me-down from tax-payers. Clad in the same clothes: white pants and t-shirt.
Day after day he does the same thing—lay on the cursive bed, staring at the ceiling waiting for the lunch bell or a nurse to come around to give him a needle. As he lays aimlessly he listens to the voices—not just any type of voice, but his own thoughts that ramble on-and-on about different topics—it's a sure way to keep him awake for more than ten-minutes.
A hundred and five days ago he would put up an unbreakable defense to prove he isn't crazy—he's innocent!
That was before he knew what an insane asylum: looked, smells, feels and taste like.
These bleach-white padded walls are making him believe the jury, his lawyer and the judge were right—maybe he is insane.
Is there something wrong with him?
No—no there can't be. He used to function perfectly-well in society before all this—okay, maybe he didn't speak much but that doesn't make him a nut-case, right? Then again, what does make you crazy?
Placing an arm over his bright-blue eyes he sighs for the shaggy black-locks of hair that tickle his tanned skin—if there was one thing he missed the most since being placed in this shit-hole, it had to be water – he loves water like it's another form of breathing.
Sometimes he'd pretend the ceiling was a watery surface playing with the light on its wavering seal. Even though the swimmer can imagine the water it isn't the same—he wishes to feel the liquid forming to his every curve. It still wouldn't be the same if he were to have the best imagination in the world—he needs to feel real water.
Suddenly a buzz comes from the white-metal door, instantly he looks over with his deep-blue eyes to see a nurse dressed in a white pair of scrubs. He greets her—it's too much effort—just watching as she walks into the room cheerfully.
"Good-morning!" the nurses greets with a smile—the male grunts as a response. At first he thought the medicine-hat woman was popping her patient's happy-pills when the cameras weren't looking—it made sense in more than one way. "Did you sleep well?" she giggles while rolling in a cart.
His dark-hues of blue look over to the wheeling drugs—the trays upon trays of different pills, plastic dishes the preppy-nurse would hand over on a daily basis, and the large water machine that's half empty by the time she gets to his cell.
The nurse sighs for her patients silence—he hasn't said one word to her in months and it's unsettling.
How's he supposed to get better if he won't communicate with the people who're supposed to help?
"You should be excited!" the nurse exclaims with a bright demeanor—he doesn't give her a second glance.
"They've released a patient from isolation today," the nurse continues with her hands fiddling with his medication.
He couldn't care any less for the psycho who's been released from isolation—aka: the straight jacket—if anything he's wondering what kind of sick fuck got placed in the suit. Since arriving the quiet inmate has only seen two people thrown into a straight-jacket—it wasn't a pretty sight.
The first person was a young boy—he was being picked on by the other nut-cases and snapped finally. He only remembers seeing the younger male leaping over a table with a spoon-end in hand, knocking his bully to the ground with a crazed look in his eye as he stabbed the other patient with the sharp plastic-edge.
Nut-case number two—he was an elderly man—placed in here for hearing voices and prostitutes for the lord. He landed in a hugging-jacket when he started talking to the cooks in the kitchen—calling them: whores, demons and preaching that God was telling him to kill every one of them.
Thanks to that freak, the whole ward went into some-kind-of-lock-down. Patients were ordered back to their rooms, guards on watch, staff went home and nurses provided powder-meals. All because one nutty Jesus-freak with an extra dosage of psychotic went off the rails.
"Maybe you'll become friends,"—not happening. He refuses to make friends with loonies—he doesn't belong here—it's only a matter of time till his lawyer brings his case back to court and proves to the judge he's innocent.
He's no murderer.
Taking the pills in the container from the unknown-nurse, he tips it back and the tablets fall onto his tongue like candy, which he quickly chases away with a gulp of water. There's a slight after-taste as he opens his mouth to the woman—she looks inside to see nothing is left—just in case he tried to fool her.
"Alright," she calls out as she wheels the cart to the door—her eyes contact with the guard outside before she nods. "He can go for breakfast now," the nurse tells the mute muscular guard.
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Tray's~ Razor Blades
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Silently he creeps into the cafeteria—not wanting attention from the other patients—even though he's still preferably new to the hospital, he knows that being noticed only makes trouble.
He steps into the silent line of patients, grabbing a tray from the lunch-lady with a sour-face and massive mole on her cheek as the hair-net barely covers her greying hairs. Thankfully he's never found a hair in his food—or so he hopes.
As the line moves the ladies behind the counter slop the usual breakfast onto their trays: toast, scrambled eggs (optional), milk or orange juice (depends on whether the women like you), one sausage, bowl of rice (optional) or oatmeal (optional).
Once his tray's filled with different food—mostly: eggs and rice—he makes his way to his usual table. In the back of the cafeteria where no one bothers to look or walk.
It was the easiest place to sit and avoid others, but he stops once he see's someone sitting there—back towards him as they causally sit on the bench.
His mind races with words he would like to say to this… this new-comer. It's on the lines of cursing, insults and drowning the person—he tenses for the sudden shock of rage; before coming here, he wouldn't get this angry so quickly, especially over something this minor.
It's the insane asylum—insanity is quite contagious it seems.
Groaning he walks over to the table, sits down across from the person and stares at the individual. Bright maroon hair—long and flat from the institutions cheap donations—her lips are bloody and cracked—eyes of red dull as she blankly looks down at the oatmeal in her bowl. In short the new-comer looks like shit.
The male peers at her baggy white shirt that dangles slightly off her shoulder—she seems familiar, but he couldn't put a finger on it—should he care?
Of course he doesn't give a shit—then he notices that she hasn't touched her food, even as he begins to eat his breakfast—her eyes only stare at the oatmeal as her fingers grasp the spoon; it's like she doesn't know how to eat anymore. Which isn't something he's ready to deal with—if the woman doesn't start eating the nurses and guards will take note, such notes will cause them to walk over—dragging everyone's attention to the table—and asking: if she needs help or wants someone to feed her.
It's small, indeed, but he doesn't want to take the risk—someone like him would be targeted within a glance.
"You should eat," he bothers to tell the strange woman as her fingers flicker on the plastic spoon—it's more of a twitch. "The nurses will notice and force you—"
The male swallows his words when the woman's cracked lips part as if she was going to say something. Listening closely he hears the crack of my tongue but, no words come out, which is unsettling to the male.
"What were you going to say?" he questions softly; her lips close and her dull eyes return to the oatmeal—whatever she was going to tell him had vanished. When the gut-wrenching feeling of being watched creeps up his skin, he looks over to the guard and nurse on duty—both were staring at his table, directly at the woman before him. They must've taken notice.
"You've got to eat," he sighs; reaching over the table he grabs her hand—it's cold like ice but soft like feathers. "Here," he whispers while helping the crimson-woman scope oatmeal onto the plastic utensil. "Open your mouth," moving the spoon to her cracked lips the sticky-syrup from the oatmeal glosses her flesh.
Due to the closeness he could see the dark-red stains under her eyes—the torture within her soul and body. She is a pain-filled beauty.
"Inmate!" the guard snaps; he's suddenly thrown back and the plastic spoon breaks against the wall. "No touching others," the guard spits.
The male's eyes lock with the guard before looking over to see a nurse by the woman's side—he could tell the red-head was breaking by the presence of authority. "Get up," the guard orders and the blue-eyed patient obeys.
"You have to eat something," the nurse whispers to the beauty. "You're weak from the isolation room."
The male patient freezes for the news—this was the person released from isolation…today? From his point-of-view she didn't look insane or murderous; just malnourished and weak.
Keeping his eyes on the woman he eats his food. She doesn't seem to be listening to the kind-nurse who's constantly trying to feed her oatmeal—but for the nurses presence the table is awkward. Not because of the woman doing her job, but the other patients staring at the red-head with smug expressions and giddy behavior. They weren't going to calm down anytime soon either since the guard was growing impatient—probably because he wasn't getting the attention he craved from the nurse by the newcomers side.
"Are you that fucked up, crazy?" the blue-eyed male flinches for the guard's words—the woman doesn't budge.
"Do ya' hear me freak!"—the guard slams his palms against the table, making it vibrate and the woman's oatmeal to shake. "Look at me when I'm talking to you!"—she does but with dead eyes.
The brute male is silent for the blackness in her eyes, the death lingering within her crimson hues and numbness from the insanity. 'She's definitely pissed, asshole,' the male patients thoughts chirp from his bowl of rice.
The red-head stands from the bench and wipes her body towards the exit before slowly leaving without saying a word. Such actions only create curiosity within the blue-eyed male on the other side of the table.
The winner of the HaruXGou fic idea is Lunch Tray and Razor Blades.
The other three idea's and polls will remain. Maybe in the near future I will continue them and finish the plots.
Enjoy.
~Bleachlover2346