Chapter Nine: Starving Sanctuary
Voices cracked the security of my chrysalis, ripping me from my cozy home of hibernation. They seemed to come from everywhere, resonating in the very core of my being, chanting in my head like a mass full of somber parishioners. Their tones sounded that serious, mumbling to each other in a dialect I could barely understand. One of them resembled a scientific dictionary, droning on and on about concepts related to mental well-being. And the other…it differed greatly from the scholar's, guttural speech similar to a rap artist's lingo. Who were they? Was Daddy entertaining some guests at out estate tonight? Bewildered, I pretended to be asleep, straining my ears to eavesdrop on whoever was there.
"What's he doin' "
It was the weird little Italian accent, chopping words up like a butcher gutting a pig. A young male's voice, I was sure about that much, but there was something about it that seemed hauntingly familiar-
Just the, the teacher's tone cut in with an answer.
"He's probably dreaming."
I could tell that was a man talking, but the depth of his vocalizations was a dramatic change form the last person's. This individual was more mature sounding, enunciating his letters smoothly, the structure of the English language flowing from his mouth like wine from a crystal chalice. His words were so silky that I thought he had a master's degree in communications or public speaking.
Again, his velvety dialogue faded, and his counterpart piped up.
"You sure 'bout that?"
Pencil scratched on paper, filling the air of the otherwise quiet room. Who were they talking about? Mokuba? Maybe even Father? My uncertainties were solved with the next response, staggering information that stole the oxygen from my lungs.
"For the most part. Dramatic fasting induces moiré than just physical symptoms."
My heart stopped. Did I give myself away by accident to them? Do they know what I've done to myself, what I continue to do to myself when no one is around? Nearing a panic attack, I surveyed their words more closely.
"Like what?"
"Psychological dysfunctions."
"Oh." said the teenager dejectedly. He didn't hide being disappointed. "You tellin' me he's crazy or somethin'?"
Graphite scribbling on a pad resounded, shortly followed by an apathetic "Not exactly."
The boy heaved a heavy sigh. "I'm not followin'."
"Disorders such as his encompass far more than eating complications." explained the man coolly. "Many patients stricken with Anorexia Nervosa or its sister issue, Bulimia, are notorious for inflicting other problems on themselves."
"Meaning…?"
"Meaning people in his position may cause further dilemmas to their psyches, encouraging serious trauma to the brain by ways of starvation. Some have been prone to develop imaginary selves, invent fictitious friends, or claim to have had stimulating conversations with God." he paused, and the writing tool resumed its journey across the page.
I guess the pencil belonged to him, since it stopped only when he carried on the discussion, and was in motion while he stayed quiet. Pushing the lead tip hard against his project, he made several squiggly lines, then ceased momentarily in his work.
"I've seen cases where the subjects were so desperate for love and attention, they gave up on their health and lived their final days talking to alter egos."
"Jesus." commented the youngster. I imagined him with a worried look on his face, grimly shaking his head. "I mean, Jesus, Mother Mary."
"I've heard some of them declare that." the man muttered. "But in their mind, they really believe they are."
"No kidding."
"I wish I were." he said, genuinely sympathetic. "I really do."
An uncomfortable silence hung around us. The interval was almost too much to bear, pressuring me to leap from my location and start rattling off demands. Who the hell were these people? What gave them the right to analyze me? What were they still doing here? Who, what, when, where, why, how…all the interrogative words thundered through my head, livid with the evaluations heard, just pissed that the teenager seemed to have bought the psychobabble splashed on him. I mean, what the hell? What the freaking HELL? What the FUCK was going on here?
The Italian job filled the weird hush, picking up right where his friend and him left off at.
"So what're ya sayin'? That he's a born schizo?"
"Worse than that." replied Mr. Knows-Every-Goddamned-Thing.
"Worse?" sputtered the kid. "How much worse can he possibly get?"
"He could be so far gone that it would be useless to seek treatment for him."
"No. No man, no. I'm not doin' that."
"Doing what?"
"Givin' up on 'im. I'm not gonna do it. I'm not gonna."
"Look, I know how you feel, but-"
"No!" the boy practically screamed. "I'm not abandoning him like 'dat!"
Now it was the man's turn to sigh. "I don't think you understand how severe his condition is. I'm not trying to upset you-"
"Then what are you tryin' ta do?"
"Tell you the truth." stated the older male matter-of-factly. "That's it, nothing but the hard facts of life."
"Which are…?"
"Everyone arrives at a point where they either accept the help being handed to them, or rejects it to relapse harder into dangerous behavior. No one is an exception to that rule. No one. Not even our good patient here, Seto Kaiba."
Now I was at full attention. These weren't Daddy's business partners, investors, or just a couple of his co-workers. This was all about me, whether I wanted to be in the limelight or not.
I didn't want to be. Not for this.
Somehow, somewhere along the line, I royally fucked up, landing in a place that was, that was a-
"No," I rasped, "I don't believe it. I don't believe it."
"Looks like he's awake." one observed.
"Not in a good way, though." commented the other. "Sounds kinda freaked out ta me."
"Don't worry, I can call for restraints if this turns ugly."
Restraints? Like a straight jacket or a padded cell? No way! Not just no, but hell no! I don't give a damn who these bastards think they are, neither of them would lay a finger on me. Or touch me, for that matter. Any physical contact was clearly out of the question.
"Don't you fucking come near me." I warned, my tone low and menacing. "Don't you do it."
"Easy, Set." the Bronx twang soothed. "Nobody wants ta hurt ya."
"Who the hell are you?"
"Ya Fairy Godfather. Just lie still an' quit givin' us a hard time."
" 'Us?' " I echoed. "Whose 'us'?"
"The doc an' myself. Now will ya-"
"Doctor?" I asked, the stress lines cutting deeper in my migraine-ridden head.
"Yeah, doctor. The same guy who-"
"What doctor? Why am I being seen by a doctor?"
The New Yorker snorted. "Ya really don't remember a thing, do ya?"
"I do, too!" I snapped indignantly.
"Oh, really."
"Yes. Really."
"Then, pray tell, how did ya wind up here?"
"That's just it!" I exclaimed. "I don't know! One minute, I'm sharing a snack with my brother, and the next, I'm, I'm…"
Annoyed and scared, I shook my head. Why did I have to answer him? More specifically, why should I even bother to? I was about to protest against the mocking interrogation, but more questions were shot at me before I could squeeze in a word.
"Are you alright? Can you tell me your name, where you're from, anything about yourself?"
Dazed, my eyes traced the origin of the phantom limb. The arm belonged to a medical worker in sea green scrubs, sterilized to the point of obsessive cleanliness. He had sleepy brown orbs, matching dark hair, a pale complexion, the typical features reserved for stoic surgeons on hospital wards. There was even a nametag clipped to his clothes, a credit card-looking thing with a picture of him and his personal stats. The address of the place he worked at-or our present location-was typed on the bottom of the plate. And above that, bold font, centered smack dab in the middle of it all, was his full title. Donald Christopher Whitman, M.D. Not a janitor, nurse, or an emergency room assistant, but an M.D. A real medical doctor. The guy grilling me was a fucking medical doctor. I'm in the great care of American health services, stuck in what appears to be a cubicle, losing my grip on reality as some med school drop-out finishes his quals by experimenting on me. Lord, oh Lord, save me.
Or strike me dead.
Either of those divine methods of intervention would be fine with me.
"You're a doctor?" I mumbled harshly.
"Yes, I'm Dr.-"
"Whitman."
"That's right, but do you know who you are?"
"Who wants to know?"
Suddenly, someone disrupted our friendly chatting, throwing an unwanted opinion into the mix.
"Doc, let it go."
"I can't," claimed Dr. Whitman, "its procedure."
"Alright, but you're wasting you time. Kaiba was born an asshole and just grew bigger."
My eyes widened to at least twice their normal size. Was that who I thought it was? Could it be? Could it be the same person I loved to hate?
"Joey?" I called, just for insurance's sake. "Is that you?"
I knew it was, but I had to check, had to make sure it was so I could-
"Yeah, what's up?" he called back. "Ya got somethin' ta tell me?"
A devilish grin twisted my lips. Wheeler. That flea bag was here all this time and I never knew.
"Helllloooo!" he bellowed obnoxiously. "You gonna spit it out sometime t'day?"
"Yes." I replied, my mouth still warped in a sinister smirk. "But of course."
"Which would be…?"
"Fuck you."
"Easy on the bad language." Dr. Whitman warned, coming between me and a potential problem. "I'll have none of that conduct here."
"Aw, let 'im be a jerk." Joey advised. "That's just his own special way ta say 'I love you.' "
I made a face. "Stop dreaming, Joe, I'd never say that to you."
"Gentlemen, please." the medical worker interjected. "I can't take his stats with you two bantering at each other like pregnant monkeys."
The simile was so weird, so off-the-cuff, that Wheeler and I actually kept our mouths closed. We scrutinized him as he let go of me, circled the bed, and made his way towards a group of machines. Some I recognized, like the POET Pulse Ox, the most common of all instruments and equipment. A blue line pumping every few seconds indicated that I had a good, solid heart rate. Nothing out of the ordinary there. Another standard device, used for checking blood pressure, stood beside the other monitor. Totally to be expected, so I didn't think anything of it. Close to my mattress, a slender pole resided, the blinding fluorescent lights shining off its dull, metallic surface. At the top of the rod, a plastic bag hung, filled halfway with a clear substance. Tubes snaked out from the pouch's seams, slithering over linoleum tiles, directing themselves up my bed and sticking its slick, forked tongue into my skin. As I gaped at the beast purging in my arm, reality gripped me by the throat, sinking its nasty canine teeth into my neck. An IV. An IV was ordered to be hooked to my veins without my permission. Needless to say, I began to lose it. I can't have that, can't afford it, won't stand for it at all. No! No, no, no! I need this stopped! Discontinued! This needs to stop NOW!
"What's this?" I cried, horrified and enraged.
"Glancing up from his clipboard, the man replied, "Intravenous feeding appliances. They're designed to-"
"I know what it does." I interrupted coldly.
"Then why did you ask?"
"Because I wanna know why the FUCK it's there!" I roared.
Arching a brow, he gave me a condescending expression, one that implied how thick are you? I wanted to jerk the IV from me and jam it down his esophagus, but I opted to bite my lip instead. He was, after all, the person I had to suck up to in order have the tubes removed. Besides, it wouldn't be so bad to let him win this tiny power play. Not so terrible because, ultimately, I know I'll easily triumph over him in the end. I know how to come out on top. In the end, I always do.
Making a little note on my records, he answered, "Your metabolism is in pretty sad shape. It runs at such a slow pace that I'm surprised your system has enough energy to pump blood through your body. Speaking of which," he said, tapping his pencil against my lifeline, "it's no wonder that you're dehydrated. At this point, I bet you could polish off a gallon of water without coming up for air."
"Alright!" I snapped.
It was all true, of course, but I didn't want to hear it. None of it. Stop, I just wanted him to shut up to keep his medical meddling to himself so I could be left alone. Obviously, he didn't can it. He just went on and let me have it, every nasty, gritty piece of information I had been circumventing since Mokuba foretold my funeral.
"It's not normal to have dangerously low glucose levels-"
"Okay!"
"Or weight that is a staggering one hundred pounds-"
"Enough!"
"Not to mention swollen glands, due to forced vomiting-"
"I said enough!" I shouted, distraught and afraid. How could he determine that much from a single examination? "I'm not like that! I'm NOT!"
A weathered finger pushed a set of bifocals higher on Dr. Whitman's nose. "No?" he questioned me, his deep, dark eyes searching the shadows of my own.
"No." I stated defiantly. "You can't prove it."
He smiled pleasantly at me. "I can't? Do you think that's so?"
I shrugged weakly, but remained an asshole. "Why should I believe you?" I snorted scornfully. "For all I know, you could've graduated from some foreign daycare in the swamp bottoms of Louisiana."
Still grinning, he shook his head.
"What's so funny?" I demanded.
"Not funny, just pitiful." he replied.
My upper lip curled back in a snarl. "The last thing I need is sympathy." I growled. "I don't want anyone feeling sorry for me." Shooting Wheeler a forbidding glare, I added, "No one should. No one."
"You're right," Joey threw in, "ya need a lot more than 'dat now."
"What the hell's that supposed to mean?" I charged at him.
"I'm afraid he's right." Dr. Whitman said. "We can't waste our efforts on coddling-"
"Who said anything about 'coddling'? I just want to-"
"Stay here until I permit you to leave." finished the man.
Shocked into silence, I stared at him with wide, terrified eyes. "What? You're not insinuating that I stay here, are you?"
"No, not at all."
I breathed a sigh of relief. "Good," I commented, putting a palm on my chest to calm myself, "that's good. I can't be here anymore, since I've got a company to run, bills to pay, a brother to tend to, a home to-"
"Be released to."
"Yes," I agreed, "once I get out of here, that's where I'm going."
"I don't think you understand what I'm saying." Dr. Whitman said, sliding his pencil into his breast pocket. "You'll be going to a home, yes, but not you're home."
My eyes narrowed at him. "What?"
"I'm transferring you to St. Mary's."
Smiling nervously, I said, "Wait, there must be some mistake. Isn't that a psychiatric hospital?"
He nodded. "It's located on the east side of the city, by a local park with surrounding apartment complexes. Nice place, from what I've heard about it."
My smile grew. "Right, that's a good joke. Very amusing." I told him, ejecting a chuckle. "That's great, you almost had me there."
The chortling turned into an outpour of laughter, jesting that I hoped he would join in with. He didn't. He just regarded me as calmly as a nurse in ER, his brown orbs fixed on me, his mouth set in a long, straight line that didn't move a muscle. My laughter, which began in a pleasant, happy wave, receded into the back of my throat and dried up. Was he serious about this? Did he really mean to send me to a psych ward on the opposite side of town?
Smiling nervously, I asked, "You aren't serious, are you?"
Wordlessly, Dr. Whitman walked in front of my bed, aiming for the exit to my room.
"Are you?" I repeated, more frantically.
He didn't reply. He just guided himself towards the door.
"Hey!" I cried, "Answer me! What the fuck's going ON?"
"Set, dude, simmer down." advised Joey. "I'm sure we can work this out."
"No! I want answers, and I want them NOW!"
"Man, what's gotten into ya?" he inquired, coming to my bedside.
Disregarding Wheeler, I continued to yell at the man, the person trying to place me in a mental clinic, the same guy attempting to vanish from my sights.
"Goddamnit, you quack! The fuck's your problem? Why the hell are you running away from me? Say something! Tell me! Tell me what the hell I did to deserve being shipped to an asylum for fuck ups!"
Dr Whitman peered at me over his shoulder. There was something about his face, the way his features were aligned, that quieted me for good. His eyes, once emotionless and serene, seemed more sinister now. They seemed capable of striking me dead with the bat of a lash. Gluing my lips together, I wrapped my arms around my stomach and hugged myself.
"I don't know if you can comprehend this, Mr. Kaiba, but you're a very sick young man." the man said at last, his voice unfeeling, robotic. "Yes, I will do my best to see that you are transported to St. Mary's, on account that you are in dire need of professional help. If you keep going the way you are-"
"But I'm fine, really, I'm alright." I meekly claimed. "I'll be okay, I don't need help."
"Like I was saying," he said, his tone as sharp as a scalpel's blade, "if you keep on doing this to yourself, you'll be the next life I'm trying to save in ER."
"But I'm not-"
"Going to get that far, because your life is in St. Mary's hands. Congratulations, Seto Kaiba, you've won a one-way trip to level C of that hospital."
"Level C? What's level C?"
"The eating disorders unit."
That was the last question he answered. Ignoring my begging and pleading, he disappeared into the corridor outside my cell, leaving me to dwell in the loneliness of a starving sanctuary.
"No..." I whimpered as a tear slipped down my cheek. "NO!"
