Chapter 21: Drugs in the Asylum

Thursday, December 17th.

"You ready to talk to me, Miss Wells?"

Rebecca looked up, slowly. She didn't reply. Crane looked at her for a moment. She was weak, shaking slightly, her face a ghostly shade of grey, the grip around her knees very tight. He stayed still a moment, wondering on the pure affect fear could have on a person. Fleetingly, he wondered how far he could push the girl before she went into complete lockdown. But then he shook his head. That wasn't what she was here for. He jotted down a note on his pad and then moved over to her.

"Come on. Time for therapy. Up you get."

She didn't reply, but, when he took hold of her wrist and gave a small, gentle tug, she went without a fight. Crane felt something liquid and sticky on her skin and glanced down. She was bleeding. He frowned, and, despite her slight increase of grip, opened her hand, firmly. There were four crescent-moon shaped cuts along her palm, thin but deep, where she'd obviously dug in her fingernails so hard she'd broken the skin. He opened the other hand and saw the same malady. He sighed, shaking his head, "What have you done to yourself..."

"Doctor Crane?"

He glanced at her. Her voice was so quiet she may well have not spoken at all. "Yes, Miss Wells?"

She paused for a moment. "What's the collective name for a group of mice?"

He raised an eyebrow, moderately surprised that she was able to remember a question she had asked four days ago, but then just shook his head, starting to lead her out of her room, "A mischief."

A frown flittered over her face, and she looked at him, "You're making that up."

"No, seriously. A mischief or a cluster."

"A cluster of mice? Sounds like a really weird breakfast cereal..." she walked down the corridor without a fight, her head twitching round like a bird's, glancing at things in the empty corridor that he could only guess at, "D'you know what the word is for a group of caterpillars?"

"Can't say I do."

"An army. An army of caterpillars. And for crows it's a murder. A murder of crows..."

"Is that right." His voice was a little tight. He adjusted it, quickly, "You know a lot about animals, then?"

She shook her head, vaguely, "I know lots of random shit."

He raised an eyebrow. He wasn't unaccustomed to cursing during his therapy sessions, but Rebecca was the mildest patient he had ever known, save maybe Arnold Wesker. And her speech wasn't violent enough for it to be Eve speaking. This was probably some other voice showing through. He made a mental note to write that down when he had a chance.

She stopped in her place, abruptly, and paused for a second. Her eyes fluttered closed. "I think I need to take my Clozapine now, doctor."

He sighed, "Well, Miss Wells, that's what I'm here to talk to you about. Just through here, come on."

It irritated him slightly to have to follow this route. But her little friend was out of town, and wouldn't even be able to be contacted until the coming Saturday. He'd have to try a different route for now.

Her eyes locked onto the door they were approaching, "This isn't where we usually go."

"No, it's not." He tapped the code into the keypad, not bothering to cover it. Rebecca was glancing around her again, quickly, like a dog, her attention span completely smashed.

He stepped back so she could take the first step, "Please."

Her black eyes caught onto his. She didn't move. He sighed again, and then walked in first, leading her in behind him, "Come on. In we go."

She turned, inhibited a little by his hand still firmly on her wrist, and propped the door open with a chair.

He didn't argue, letting her keep it open as far as it would go, moving over to his desk, "Have a seat."

She sat down promptly on the floor. He paused, looking at her, and then shook his head again, setting the tape recorder to record, "So. Rebecca. How are you feeling?"

"What's the date?"

He glanced up, "December seventeenth."

"And the time?"

"It's... ten past three. Why d'you ask?"

She shrugged, silently. There was a long pause as he looked at her, and then she pulled back a little, pushing her back against the wall, "I want to go home."

"Home? Your home was destroyed. Burned. Do you remember that?"

Silence.

"Rebecca?"

"I need to take my tablets now."

"Your tablets." He paused, looking at her, and then shook his head, "Well. Let me tell you a little something about your tablets."

"What do you mean confidential, I work here."

"I only know what's written down here, Doctor Nowell, I'm sorry."

Andrea let out a low, frustrated sigh, kneading her forehead, "Look, could you just open the files for me. I just want to check something, that's all."

The receptionist shook her head, then perfected her blonde hair, "Look, I'm sorry, but it's not possible. The file's been locked."

"By who."

"I can't tell that from here."

"Where can you tell that from."

"I don't know. I don't think you can."

The doctor closed her eyes for a second, calming herself, "Ms Hoffman. Is there any other way of finding out Wells' current condition?"

She shrugged, "You could try going down there."

"I... I have. She was sleeping." Okay, a lie. She had tried to go down to intensive care, but had been stopped by an orderly before she could so much enter the door. She had tried her usual - a sort of cross between sweet talk and pulling rank - but no dice. This was starting to get frustrating...

The woman shrugged again, "So I guess that means she's okay, right?"

"Ms Hoffman, I really want to see her. I need to speak to her."

"Then talk with her doctor, that's all I can suggest."

"Her doctor is Jonathan Crane, and he's been busy for the last few days."

"That's not my problem."

At this Andrea leant further onto the desk, "Believe me, it can be." She held the woman there for a moment, and then shook her head, "When's her therapy. Can you find out that?"

The receptionist paused, as if trying to make some ridiculous point, and then tapped away at the keyboard with her stick-on nails, "One moment... here we go. She has daily sessions with Doctor Crane, saving when he is unavailable, and they are... well, about three o'clock."

"So, according to that, she should be in therapy right now."

"Yes. Unless Doctor Crane is unavailable."

"Have you been told to hold his calls?"

She gave a horrifically fake smile, "I'm sorry, I believe that's Doctor Crane business. I'm not allowed to discuss his location with staff."

Andrea had to fight the urge to launch herself at the woman. Instead, she gave an equally fake smile, and nodded, "Thank you for your help, Ms Hoffman."

"Any time, doctor."

She smiled again, and then turned her back. She cursed, silently, and shook her head, walking quickly back down the corridor. Right. Fine. If they weren't going to give her any answers, and Crane wasn't going to give her any answers, there was only one other person she could see.

This was going to be hell.

"Let me show you what you have been taking, Miss Wells." Crane motioned to her, towards his little chemistry set. Rebecca looked at him for a long moment, the surreal situation confusing her a little. Then she shook her head, and, cautiously, moved forwards.

Crane indicated a vial of white liquid, "This... is Clozapine in its liquid form. The medication you are currently taking. And this..." he took another vial, this one containing a much murkier liquid, "This is the toxin I have been using on you. Now. When you add them together, they create a chemical reaction. Like so."

He poured one vial into the other. The water fizzed and bubbled, mist coming off of it, and then cooled down to reveal a perfectly clear liquid. He passed the test-tube to her, "Try some." She just stared at him, and he shook his head, pressing the thing into her hand, firmly, "Did you hear me? Try some. Please. It's perfectly safe, I assure you. Try some."

The last two words had been said much firmer. It was obvious she didn't have a choice. Rebecca paused, and then brought the glass to her lips, and took the smallest possible sip. Then she frowned up at him, "It's... water."

"Yes, yes it is. You see, Clozapine is an antipsychotic, and my toxin is... quite the opposite. So, when mixed together -"

"They cancel each other out." She completed, slowly.

"Exactly. And this is what you have been taking."

She paused, looking at the vial for a moment. Voices chattered, excitedly, and she tried to keep her mind in the present, "Water tablets."

"Yes. Of course, they had a placebo effect for the first day; you'd have noticed that, no doubt. But schizophrenia is not just a mental disease - placebos only work so far. Bit by bit your body started realising it wasn't getting what it needed. And your hallucinations started reoccurring."

Realisation of just what he had done came over her, and she frowned again, "You... you switched my medication to make me think I was relapsing."

"Oh, you are relapsing. I just made it that little bit more obvious."

"But I wouldn't be relapsing if I were taking my medication."

He gave that small smile again, "You're sure about that?"

She looked at him for a long time. The voices were so constant now she couldn't really tell what was real. When with the normal, run-of-the-mill orderlies, it was easier to just not speak, whatever she heard. But Crane didn't seem to care whether she answered to voices that didn't exist to him, questions he'd never asked, or when she frowned a little and stared at him, a sign that she wasn't quite sure whether he had said what she thought he had.

He could have said 'are you sure about that'. He could also have said 'yes' or 'no' or 'you tell me', but, of course, he could have just as easily have said nothing at all.

He seemed to get her hesitance. He shook his head, "The loss of your medication was supposed to send you into complete psychotic breakdown. But... it didn't. Have you been hearing more voices recently?"

"More every day. Too many. Can't even name them all." She hesitated a second, and then shook her head, "They don't like that." There was a long pause, and then she shook her head again, "Psychotic breakdown?"

Psychotic breakdown.

Psychotic breakdown.

Psychotic breakdown.

He was speaking again. Or maybe he wasn't. Maybe all this was a hallucination anyway. To hell with it, like she could really care about what the monster was saying anyway. She went back to watching the walls. They swayed, warped, fluctuated, bright sparks moving across her vision. It was almost hypnotising. She looked for shapes in the patterns. She could see a dog. And a crow.

"Miss Wells?"

She looked up at him, "What."

Crane sighed. "I want to try you on a new sort of medication."

"Okay."

But you took away my medication.

"But you took away my medication."

"Well now you can have some back." He pressed some tablets into her hand.

Rebecca looked at them, "What are they."

"They... are Lysergic Acid Diethylamide."

She frowned slightly, a memory peeking up from long ago, "Lysergic Acid Diethylamide... That's... that's acid. LSD."

He looked surprised, "Yes. Yes, it is, well done."

She just stared at him, "You're... you're offering me drugs." She shook her head and laughed. For some reason, she found the whole situation hilarious, "In a hospital. I'm a schizophrenic in a mental asylum and you're offering me a hallucinogenic drug."

He nodded, thoughtfully, "Yes. Except it wasn't an offer. Take it."

She looked at him, the amusement fading fast. "No."

"Take it."

"No."

He sighed. Then he turned his back, fiddling with a silver case, "Did you know that LSD is one of the few solid, tabularised drugs that can also be administered via a hypodermic needle?" he pulled out a long, thin injection, and Rebecca's muscles automatically tensed, "The effects are far more potent, too, and quicker, almost immediate, as it can be injected near to the heart, or in the Subclavian artery, where it can be pumped round the whole body in little over a second." He drew up some liquid, and then stopped, looking at her, "Miss Wells. This can hurt if it has to."

She just looked at him. Her eyes moved slowly from the needle in his hand to his blank face. She tried to push past the fog of her brain, past the fear that was always there. She tried to force herself to recognise a plausible threat.

But she couldn't.

Crane sighed again, "Very well." He turned his back for a moment, brushing some imaginary dust from his desk, "Would you do the honours?"

Had he said that? She couldn't tell. Who was he talking to? There was no-one else here. Was there?

But, despite that fact, someone answered: "It would be my pleasure."

Then he turned back to her, and Rebecca's difficulty in recognising a plausible threat immediately vanished.

The man in front of her grinned. "Hey, Becks. Long time no see."