Cold Red
A fic about the sexiest man on broadcast television. This focuses on him being in the mental hospital, and it just tore me up inside so I made a psycho romance fic.
Disclaimer: If I owned the Mentalist, then Simon Baker and I would be taking epic road trips and being really stupid.
Red Thought of Them
I awoke in a hot sweat, shaking. I don't know where I am. I don't know the date. I don't know the time. I don't know who I am. It's hot. I take off this itchy cotton shift and look around. The walls are white, and it's good to know that I still know my colors. The bed is small, like a cot, and it's all white. It's dark outside from a high window, and I get out of bed and stare at it.
The moon. Silver and white, lustrous and full. It is so white it bleaches the inky black sky. I'm starting to hate this white. It burns beyond any heat in existence, melting my skin.
Where am I? I ask myself while sweating rapid-fire bullets. Where is the nearest bathroom? What time is it? Why is it so hard to breathe?
It hurts. My mind is reeling. I'm trying to faint (because some, who I don't for some reason know anymore) because it's good and relaxing but I don't have the will to do it.
Suddenly a door opens in the far corner open, and the dark white room becomes a bright white room. It sears my eyes and I tear up. I want to cry but I'm choked up. I'll focus on breathing.
It's a man in a lab coat with a clipboard. He seems cautious at my appearance but clears his throat as if to speak.
I want to ask where I am. Who I am. Who he is is this a dream? He reaches out towards me as if to shake my hand. Somehow I don't think I could trust this man and I cower.
He notices, clears his throat again and puts his hand away.
"Patrick?"
Is that my name? It sounds so distant, and it can't be mine.
"Patrick," he said it again." I'm Dr. Loweman."
"Where am I?" It comes out in croak.
"You might want to sit down for this."
Nothing registers. There is a chair in the corner that Dr. Loweman goes to sit.
"Patrick?" His voice has hints of sadness and remorse.
"Patrick, I'm sorry."
I'm afraid to speak.
"You are in Valley Grace Hospital."
It's not ringing a bell.
"Two days ago you came home late, and found your wife and daughter murdered."
It all comes back to me in a painful way far too fast and brutal, as if Dr. Loweman took the end of the clipboard and stabbed me in the chest with it.
"Yesterday a neighbor came and found you going into the throes of insomnia and destroying things in your house. He sent you here."
Everything that I knew and wish I'd known and wished I didn't came back and I froze in fright. My name is Patrick Jane. I am 36. I am a failed psychic yet a fantastic manipulator. I can cook. I am a terrible singer. I have a photographic memory. I have a daughter who was killed in her sleep and blood drawn on the walls into a smiley face. The same happened to my wife. Now I'm here in a psychiatric hospital and it hurts to think and the white is rushing into my skull and I don't know what to do except vomit everywhere. I stumble and throw up on the bed. I don't remember eating. It burns and I cry from the pain and from the loss. Dr. Loweman calls for help and I scream my daughter's name I scream my wife's name and I cry that hiccupy cry like a kid who doesn't get his way.
Soon there are nurses holding me down. I don't know why but I don't like it and I try to escape. It is futile and then I feel a pinprick. I know what it is. I scream.
