First ever attempt at a Finding Nemo story, so of course it's going to be
strange.. I own nothing, except the concept of this A/U. Might continue
this, might not. I don't know for sure.
They called it a mental ward. And for all its pleasantries, expensive landscaping, and spotless showrooms, it appeared to be just that. However, it was the true interior that revealed it to be little more than a prison.
Large, padded rooms were crammed with up to ten individuals with varying diseases of the mind. It hardly seemed as if matches were made between the occupants, with the passive being shoved into the same quarters as the violent. Frequently, those suffering from claustrophobia were placed in the most crowded, cramped rooms, as if efforts were made to have them face the thing they feared worse than death. Cries declaring sanity, thirst, anger, and unidentifiable claims echoed down blank white halls. Once a week, the rooms were emptied for cleaning. During this time, the patients were taken to exercise, but not all of them returned to the sterilized rooms.
It was a place people were taken when the world wanted them forgotten, when all hope for salvation had been exhausted, and when all matter of familial relations had finally declined contact for the last time.
He had a right to be afraid. There was no logical reason for him to be here. No one had ever diagnosed him with a disorder of any sort, let alone one serious enough to land him in a place like this. Why hadn't his father come for him? He'd been standing right there when the vans had come. Of course, his father had been restrained. The school officials had stopped him from coming after him. Why was anyone's guess. He remembered the look of fear and uncertainty in their eyes as he'd been dragged away, begging for his father's help, though none had come.
No comfort came from the silent attendants that paced at his side. They were as pale as their uniforms, with jaws set in stone. Chill seeped into his bones from the very walls. There would never be any comfort in this place.
"This is your room," the attendant to his right said, dull eyes watching the one on the left move to open the door. "Schedule is on the door. If you can read."
He was thrust unceremoniously through the door, into the dim room beyond. Despite it being past noon, hardly any light came through the dingy, barred window set high against the far wall. Several forms drifted in the faint light. He crouched against the door, his heart pounding wildly, painfully aware his disfigured arm would be no help in case these people turned out to be violent.
"Who's the new guy?"
"Looks like a kid."
A few came forward, studying him with eyes that were strangely clear. There was a young man, barely older than he was, a woman, her hair in a complete disarray, and an older man, his girth overshooting the restriction an worn belt placed on it. Other figures darted in the background, indistinguishable in the gloom. Panicked, he pressed further against the wall, trying in vain to find an escape that wasn't there. Who knew their intent? His heart rate increased as the man put his thick-fingered hand forward.
"Name's Bloat."
Words failed him. More names followed suit. The disheveled woman was named Deb, and the other man had no recollection of anything resembling a normal name, but simply asked if he had brought the bubbles. "Never bring the bubbles," the man complained, shuffling stocking clad feet against the padded floor. "What do I do without the bubbles? Nothing to do without them."
The woman, Deb patted his shoulder with a hand manicured in blue nailpolish. "There there, you'll get your bubbles soon! Maybe Flo will bring them when she comes to visit us! She always brings presents, you know," she added with a smirk at the newcomer.
"She never brought me anything," complained the fat man, Bloat, taking a seat on one of the benches that lined the wall. It creaked.
"That's because FLO isn't REAL!" came a frantic cry. "If she WAS real, they wouldn't let her IN here. so many. she wouldn't be CLEAN!" The cry trailed off into a low murmur.
The newcomer turned, his eyes coming to rest on a dismal sight. The man had to be in his thirties, yet he hugged his knees and burrowed into a corner like a child. His hair had been dyed a mixture of purple and yellow, and his eyes were wild. A smaller, leaner man with a heavy moustache sat beside him, constantly reassuring him with almost inaudible words. He gave a curt nod to the newcomer, then resumed his duty.
Their problems were almost apparent now. He shrank away from them, his heart pounding in his ears. Yet they continued to crowd him, pressing him down with questions, advice, and bickering directed towards each other. He felt as if he were suffocating, drowning in their raucous voices.
"Knock it off, you're scaring the kid."
This new voice cut through the others with an air of casual authority. Almost instantly, the group scattered to various corners of the room, some muttering amongst themselves. It was then he was able to lay his eyes on the two forms beneath the window. The first was an older woman, slightly round at the edges, with a pleasant, dreamy face and small, dark eyes. Her hair was a pale shade of red, thick, and was pulled into a wispy bun behind her oval face. She was the most motherly person he had ever seen, and she smiled at him, the expression gentle, welcoming. She reclined against a tall, lanky form, who casually lit a cigarette and gazed at the newcomer with intelligent, cunning brown eyes. Pale, scraggly hair fell into his face, not obscuring the ragged scars marring his informal visage. Tattoos in the shape of black stripes wound their way up bare arms, one of which had been withered into a claw-like appendage barely usable for everyday activity.
The newcomer was stunned.
"Nice to see you face-to-face, kid," said the cigarette-man. His eyes calculated the newcomer. "Sorry about the peanut gallery. They don't know when to quit." He gestured at the woman leaning on him. "She's Peach. Sanest of us all. Best ears in the house. Ever need to know when we need to get the crew ready to head out, ask her. Same if you need anything." A pause as he took a drag on the little roll of tobacco.
"Who. are you?" the newcomer asked, hesitating on his words and resenting himself for such a show of weakness.
"Call me Ishmael," the man said, grinning devilishly. "Nah, just Gill. Like on a fish." Another pause as the nicotine took effect. "Who're you, kid?"
"I'm Nemo."
They called it a mental ward. And for all its pleasantries, expensive landscaping, and spotless showrooms, it appeared to be just that. However, it was the true interior that revealed it to be little more than a prison.
Large, padded rooms were crammed with up to ten individuals with varying diseases of the mind. It hardly seemed as if matches were made between the occupants, with the passive being shoved into the same quarters as the violent. Frequently, those suffering from claustrophobia were placed in the most crowded, cramped rooms, as if efforts were made to have them face the thing they feared worse than death. Cries declaring sanity, thirst, anger, and unidentifiable claims echoed down blank white halls. Once a week, the rooms were emptied for cleaning. During this time, the patients were taken to exercise, but not all of them returned to the sterilized rooms.
It was a place people were taken when the world wanted them forgotten, when all hope for salvation had been exhausted, and when all matter of familial relations had finally declined contact for the last time.
He had a right to be afraid. There was no logical reason for him to be here. No one had ever diagnosed him with a disorder of any sort, let alone one serious enough to land him in a place like this. Why hadn't his father come for him? He'd been standing right there when the vans had come. Of course, his father had been restrained. The school officials had stopped him from coming after him. Why was anyone's guess. He remembered the look of fear and uncertainty in their eyes as he'd been dragged away, begging for his father's help, though none had come.
No comfort came from the silent attendants that paced at his side. They were as pale as their uniforms, with jaws set in stone. Chill seeped into his bones from the very walls. There would never be any comfort in this place.
"This is your room," the attendant to his right said, dull eyes watching the one on the left move to open the door. "Schedule is on the door. If you can read."
He was thrust unceremoniously through the door, into the dim room beyond. Despite it being past noon, hardly any light came through the dingy, barred window set high against the far wall. Several forms drifted in the faint light. He crouched against the door, his heart pounding wildly, painfully aware his disfigured arm would be no help in case these people turned out to be violent.
"Who's the new guy?"
"Looks like a kid."
A few came forward, studying him with eyes that were strangely clear. There was a young man, barely older than he was, a woman, her hair in a complete disarray, and an older man, his girth overshooting the restriction an worn belt placed on it. Other figures darted in the background, indistinguishable in the gloom. Panicked, he pressed further against the wall, trying in vain to find an escape that wasn't there. Who knew their intent? His heart rate increased as the man put his thick-fingered hand forward.
"Name's Bloat."
Words failed him. More names followed suit. The disheveled woman was named Deb, and the other man had no recollection of anything resembling a normal name, but simply asked if he had brought the bubbles. "Never bring the bubbles," the man complained, shuffling stocking clad feet against the padded floor. "What do I do without the bubbles? Nothing to do without them."
The woman, Deb patted his shoulder with a hand manicured in blue nailpolish. "There there, you'll get your bubbles soon! Maybe Flo will bring them when she comes to visit us! She always brings presents, you know," she added with a smirk at the newcomer.
"She never brought me anything," complained the fat man, Bloat, taking a seat on one of the benches that lined the wall. It creaked.
"That's because FLO isn't REAL!" came a frantic cry. "If she WAS real, they wouldn't let her IN here. so many. she wouldn't be CLEAN!" The cry trailed off into a low murmur.
The newcomer turned, his eyes coming to rest on a dismal sight. The man had to be in his thirties, yet he hugged his knees and burrowed into a corner like a child. His hair had been dyed a mixture of purple and yellow, and his eyes were wild. A smaller, leaner man with a heavy moustache sat beside him, constantly reassuring him with almost inaudible words. He gave a curt nod to the newcomer, then resumed his duty.
Their problems were almost apparent now. He shrank away from them, his heart pounding in his ears. Yet they continued to crowd him, pressing him down with questions, advice, and bickering directed towards each other. He felt as if he were suffocating, drowning in their raucous voices.
"Knock it off, you're scaring the kid."
This new voice cut through the others with an air of casual authority. Almost instantly, the group scattered to various corners of the room, some muttering amongst themselves. It was then he was able to lay his eyes on the two forms beneath the window. The first was an older woman, slightly round at the edges, with a pleasant, dreamy face and small, dark eyes. Her hair was a pale shade of red, thick, and was pulled into a wispy bun behind her oval face. She was the most motherly person he had ever seen, and she smiled at him, the expression gentle, welcoming. She reclined against a tall, lanky form, who casually lit a cigarette and gazed at the newcomer with intelligent, cunning brown eyes. Pale, scraggly hair fell into his face, not obscuring the ragged scars marring his informal visage. Tattoos in the shape of black stripes wound their way up bare arms, one of which had been withered into a claw-like appendage barely usable for everyday activity.
The newcomer was stunned.
"Nice to see you face-to-face, kid," said the cigarette-man. His eyes calculated the newcomer. "Sorry about the peanut gallery. They don't know when to quit." He gestured at the woman leaning on him. "She's Peach. Sanest of us all. Best ears in the house. Ever need to know when we need to get the crew ready to head out, ask her. Same if you need anything." A pause as he took a drag on the little roll of tobacco.
"Who. are you?" the newcomer asked, hesitating on his words and resenting himself for such a show of weakness.
"Call me Ishmael," the man said, grinning devilishly. "Nah, just Gill. Like on a fish." Another pause as the nicotine took effect. "Who're you, kid?"
"I'm Nemo."