Title: Institutionalized v.2

Author: Jake

Pairing: 1x2

Genre: AU

Rating: R

Warnings: yaoi, violence, mental instabilities and psycho-babble, language

Author's Note: This is a rewrite of "Institutionalized." I'm doing it because I think that the story itself isn't so bad, it's just suffering from a severe lack of talent, from being written so long ago. I've been told that this story reminds people of the movie "Girl, Interrupted." My response: The story was started before I'd ever read the book or seen the movie. I began it, incredibly enough, during my second stay in a mental health facility, and many parts of it are inspired by the patients, doctors, and nurses I met there, and the setting was greatly taken from it as well.

When I was a kid, I used to have trouble seeing myself in the future. It was a strange thing, really. I couldn't picture myself as a doctor or a fireman or any other kind of profession. I couldn't look in the mirror and imagine the kind of person I'd be in the future, once I'd gotten out of my lanky, knees-and-elbows stage and moved on to being an adult.

I grew up in an orphanage. My parents died so long ago that I can't recall a shred of memory of them; a shred of time when I actually had a real family that included blood bonds instead of simply living under the same roof. I was a ghost, actually. I wasn't born in a hospital. I had no birth certificate, no social security number… nothing. My lack of family and, in a word, existence, was where the trouble started, though. At least, I think it is. People just deal with things differently, and I dealt with the fact that I had no parents and no life and lived in a stinking, poor neighborhood in a stinking, poor orphanage by bottling it up inside. And when I was asked, as a child, what I wanted to be when I grew up, I'd let my imagination stare into that blank, empty place that tended to reside inside my mind, and I'd hopelessly say, "alive, I guess."

Since a fairly young age, I'd had an imaginary playmate. He lived inside my mind and occupied my imagination with extraordinary ideas. I'd even carry on conversations with him. Needless to say, I wasn't incredibly popular. My only real friend, back then, had been a boy about my age, named Solo. He didn't think it was weird that I had an imaginary friend that only lived in my mind. Solo had cancer. As time wore on, I had to watch the only friend I had slowly wither and die, before my eyes.

The day Solo died was the day that the voice in my head took a strangely unexpected turn. Even at the age of fifteen, the voice hadn't gone away, but now it was getting more insistent. It was telling me what to do. The childhood fantasies were shoved roughly aside, replaced by flashes of violence and gore, appearing before my eyes. I would see the church I called home burn to the ground. I watched Father Maxwell and Sister Helen get murdered before my very eyes.

Somehow, I'd wake up from those horrendous day dreams, and everything would be okay. Then, one day, things weren't okay. I was eating lunch with the rest of the orphans when Solo busted through the door. Everyone else went along happily eating their meals as I watched Solo's corpse—his fucking corpse, for God's sake—walk through the dining hall, jump up on the table, and promptly come to stand right on top of my plate, sending food everywhere.

It was only Sister Helen's calm voice that finally brought me back to reality and I realized that I'd thrown my food all over the place and screamed like a madman, curling up on the floor in a tight ball. It was then that I decided things had to stop.

I ran from the room, embarrassed and scared for my life and my sanity. Somehow, I ended up in what we called the "clinic." The church may not have been well-off, but they at least had a few fully-stocked bottles of pain killers and other various pills that I can't for the life of me remember the names of. The last thing I remember from that day was popping open a few bottles and practically drinking the contents.

And when I awoke the next day, I was scared out of my mind because I was in an incredibly unfamiliar room. There was a huge mirror to my left, a bland white wall to my right, and a fluorescent light that buzzed loudly above my head. I was lying on a thin brown mattress with no blanket or pillow, wearing nothing but a white gown with some black stains on the front. There was an IV needle in my arm, attached to nothing. Staring at the mirrors, and myself in turn, I wondered where the hell I was and how long I'd been there.

My head felt like it had been smashed in with a hammer and quickly put back in order. I stood in the small room, putting a hand to my forehead as if it would help stop the pounding. The floor was cold under my bare feet. I slowly approached the mirrors, assuming that it was a two-way and there was someone watching me on the other side. I pressed my hand to it.

I heard a loud buzz and the door to my left swung open. A tall woman with brown hair and professional-looking spectacles stood there, holding a notebook. I stepped back from the mirrors and wrapped my arms around myself, still feeling incredibly confused and, I'll admit, scared shitless.

"Duo Maxwell, my name is Doctor Taylor." I tried to stop myself from shaking. I was suddenly very cold. The woman took a few cautious steps towards me. "Why don't you have a seat so that we can talk?"

Warily glancing from her, to the bed, to the mirrors, I cautiously returned to the bed. Something inside me was nagging. A voice in the back of my head was trying to remind me what I had done, trying to tell me that I should be dead. I silently wondered if, just maybe, this was heaven.

"Duo, you've been asleep for two days." My mouth fell open. So this wasn't heaven, after all. "I imagine you're a bit disoriented."

"You can sure as hell say that again." My voice was a mere croak, a wrath of what it once was. I rubbed at my eyes irritably. The light in the room was practically blinding. I suddenly wanted to go back to sleep.

The doctor seemed unaffected by my comment. "You were taken to the hospital, and they brought you here. Do you have any idea where you are?"

I took another quick glance around the room. Absolutely nothing gave me a single hint as to where I might have been, save for the fact that there was a doctor standing in front of me, looking like she had her shit together. My first guess would have been that I was still in the hospital. "No."

"This is the Vista Mental Health Institute, Duo."

I stared at her, feeling rather unaffected about this realization. I was just so tired. "What does that mean?"

"You tried to commit suicide. You've been put in our care."

"I didn't try to kill myself," I lied, hugging my arms around my stomach and feeling suddenly sick. "I'm really tired right now, okay? Not to mention a little freaked out. I went to sleep in my home and woke up in this freaky room, and you come in here and tell me I've been put in your care. I don't even know you. And who the fuck is on the other side of that glass, watching us?"

"They're just doctors, Duo. Please calm down."

I tried to settle my nerves, struggling to lower my voice and appear calm. It wasn't easy. I felt like I could have jumped up off the bed and strangled that woman, right then and there. "Can I please just go back to sleep for a little while?"

Doctor Taylor seemed to consider it for a moment, glancing at the notebook in her hand. "I'll get someone to show you to your room." Abruptly, she left, leaving the door open just a crack. I stood from the bed and went over to it, peeking out.

A plain white hallway greeted me, and I stuck my head out to peer down the corridor. To my right was just a line of white doors, all of them closed, with a small grated window towards the top of each one. To my left was a large door with a large window, followed by a row of what appeared to be glass windows. A man stepped out the door beside me, wearing a white uniform. I frowned at him. He stared down at me.

"Follow me, please, Duo."

And just like that, I was being taken to my room. I wasn't liking the fact that I was already on a first-name basis with these people whom I didn't even know. We walked past the windows I'd seen before and I glanced inside. A few men and women were in there, all wearing white. "This is the nurse's station," the man told me. "Need anything, you talk to someone in there."

Turning a corner, the hallway spread out into a large, open room. There were chairs set along the wall and a couch in the center of it, right in front of a small television set. I caught a quick glimpse of a few people, some of them staring at me strangely. "The common room. Self-explanatory."

He gestured to the left. "Bathrooms are down there. If you need to shave, just let one of the nurses know; she'll get you a razor." He turned around to look at me. I stared at him with wide eyes. "Doesn't look like you'll be needing one."

Silently wondering if I should take that as an insult, I followed him down the hallway to our right, leaving the television room. I suppose he had a point, though. Shaving was pretty pointless. I didn't really have any facial hair, at that age.

When we reached the end of the hallway, where there was nothing more than a thick window with metal grating on the outside, the man in front of me gestured to his left. I peered inside the room. "That's yours. Take whichever bed you like. A few of your clothes are already in the dresser. We don't allow belts, shoelaces, jewelry, drawstring pants, pants or shirts with large holes in them, anything sharp, pens, pencils" he said, counting off the items on his fingers. I only half-listened to him as he continued, stepping inside the tiny room. Flicking the light on, I took a good, hard look at the room that I would occupy for however long they planned to keep me caged up. It was small, with two beds and two dressers, all of which were bolted to the floor. There was a window on the far wall, covered by blinds. I pushed them open and peered outside at the dull gray daylight. There was metal grating on this window, as well. Tapping on the glass, I had a feeling that it was more like plastic and less easy to shatter. Of course. They wouldn't want you breaking a window and cutting yourself, now would they?

"Laundry is picked up every other day. Anything you need washed, just set it outside your door. And that concludes the tour." He smiled at me—the first smile I'd seen since being here. "Enjoy your stay."

And then, just like that, he walked away. I was left alone with my thoughts, suddenly feeling very angry about the fact that I was here. I wondered who on earth could have signed me over to the care of these people.

Stepping over to the dressers, I pulled open the top drawer of the one on the left and peered inside. There was a bundle of my clothes, none of them folded, stuffed inside. I decided I'd take the left bed, seeing as how my clothes were in the matching dresser.

I sat down on the mattress, which was too thin and too hard. The blanket was an itchy blue thing that looked like old women had crocheted it in their free time. Lying on my stomach, I glanced up at the headboard. There were a few things carved into it. Names, dates, curse words, warnings about the staff. I sighed and sat back up, noticing that the IV was still in my arm.

If I had given more of a damn, I could have yanked the thing out and used it to slice my wrists open. It was, after all, a sharp needle. Instead, I just pulled it out and put it in the tiny trashcan on the floor between the dressers. I pulled the blankets back on my bed and crawled under the covers. I didn't feel like doing anything. My world had been completely taken away from me; everything I knew and loved. I felt like someone had pulled a rug out from under my feet, leaving me helpless and stunned, lying on my back. Above all, though, I felt rather angry. My freedom, most importantly, had been taken away me. Pulling the blankets over my head, I settled down into the hard bed and the thin pillow, and closed my eyes, waiting for sleep to come over me.

It seemed like I'd just fallen asleep when I heard voices. "We don't allow belts, shoelaces, jewelry, drawstring pants—"

The orderly was cut off by a fairly deep, nasal voice. "You must be new. I've been here before. I didn't need a fucking tour." Pulling my head out from under the blanket, I stared at the two people standing in the doorway. There was the same man who'd showed me to my room, and standing right next to him was a short guy, about my age, looking pissed off. The first thing I noticed was that he had bandages all over his body. The second thing was that he had what can only be described as a very intense stare.

I sat up in bed. He turned to stare at me, and then stepped into the room, slamming the door closed. In his arm was a pillowcase stuffed with something. He threw it down on the bed beside mine. I watched him dump out his clothes on the bed.

"I'm Duo," I said roughly, voice still croaking.

"Heero Yuy." He gathered up his wad of clothes, walked over to the unoccupied dresser, and stuffed them inside.

"What happened to you?" I asked, indicating the bandages on his arms and face.

He turned around and glared at me. "None of your fucking business."

I opened my mouth to spew out some biting retort when a scream interrupted me. It was coming from outside. I heard an announcement cut through the air. "Code pink, Code pink. South wing."

"What does that mean?" Heero sat down on the bed, ignoring me. I stood up and went to the door, peeking out. I stepped out into the hallway and peered into the common room. There was a girl throwing a complete fit, being hauled away by two very muscular men. They pulled her down the hallway I had originally come from, practically dragging her past the nurses' station. I stepped back into the room. "Code pink?"

"It's a thing they have. Pink means a patient is causing trouble and needs seclusion. Red means they've already hurt someone and need to be taken away immediately. And white, well, that just means all hell has broken loose." He started picking at one of the bandages on his arm, eventually pulling the tape and the gauze away from his arm. It was crusty with dried blood, and underneath was a rather large gash. He wadded up the gauze and tossed it at the trashcan. I sat back down on the bed.

"Really… what happened to you?"

Heero sighed, yanking off another bandage and revealing what appeared to be road rash on his left arm. "I got in an accident."

"I'd gathered that much."

Heero's eyes shot up to me, glaring through a mess of dark brown hair. Those eyes were an intense, magnetic dark blue. I bit my lip. "I fell over on my bike, trying to get away from the cops."

"Why were you running from the cops?" I asked, suddenly entranced.

"Would you stop asking so many fucking questions?"

I frowned, pulling my legs up under me. Then I thought better of that and went to the dresser, grabbing some clothes. I glanced over at Heero, who was still picking at his bandages, then shook my head and pulled the hospital gown off over my head. Privacy, I quickly realized, was something you couldn't have here. I pulled on some clean underwear, followed by a pair of black jeans. It was then that I noticed I still had other remnants from the hospital. There were sticky white pads stuck all over my chest, used for keeping track of my heartbeat, I surmised. I peeled them off and threw them away. There were still splotches of glue and fuzz all over my thin, bony chest. I pulled on my black t-shirt, and then I wondered where my shoes were, glancing around the room.

"You don't wear shoes unless you're outside," Heero said distractedly, not even paying attention to what I was doing. I wondered if he was psychic or something. "They wouldn't want you hanging yourself with the laces."

I rolled my eyes and left the room, dragging myself down the hallway and into the common room. A clock on the wall proudly proclaimed that it was 2:30 in the afternoon. I frowned, knowing I'd missed lunch. I was starving.

There were quite a few people sitting around the room. I hesitantly stood at the end of the hallway, watching them warily. There was a nurse sitting nearby, reading over some charts. The room was relatively quiet, save for the television. A nature show was on. I gathered up my courage and stepped into the room, practically sticking to the wall until I came to a seat in front of a small wooden table. I sat down and watched the television.

A pale, blonde guy was watching me from the sofa. He sat up and made his way over to me. He was so thin, he looked like a skeleton. His eyes had a dark rim around them. "I'm Quatre," he said cheerily, sitting in front of me.

"Duo," I replied, smiling weakly and slumping down in my seat.

"What are you in for, Duo?"

I shrugged, not really knowing, myself. "I guess it's 'cause I tried to kill myself."

Quatre waved a dismissive hand at me. "That's just what you did. Like, I'm in here because I don't eat, but it's all a mental thing, all about control. Or at least, that's what they tell me."

"In that case, I don't know. I hear voices. Sometimes I see things."

"Sounds like you're a schizoid, but I'm no doctor. Oh, hey Trowa!" Quatre waved a hand at someone behind me. I turned around to see who it was. He was tall and thin, though not as thin as Quatre. His expression didn't change when Quatre walked over to him, pulling on his shirt sleeve.

I sighed, slumping back down into my seat. A girl in front of me was talking to the television. The nurse left her seat and went to the nurses' station. A window slid open and the nurse put her clipboard on the counter. "Time for meds," she said pleasantly. Everyone quickly formed a line in front of the window as she called out their names.

It was only when she loudly called out "Duo Maxwell," that I finally stood up. I pushed through the line to get to the front. She held out a small plastic cup. Inside the cup were three pills, all tinkling around happily. I peered at them. "What are these?"

"That's your medication, dear."

I held out the cup to her. "I'm not taking these. I don't even know what they're for."

The nurse's pleasant face quickly became unpleasant. "Everyone has to take their meds, dear."

I slammed the cup down on the counter. "I'm not taking those fucking pills." I walked away from the window, feeling incredibly angry. How could they already feel the need to drug me up? I hadn't talked to a doctor yet, so there was no way they could know what was going on in my head. How could they already prescribe medication, if they didn't even know what they were prescribing it for?

I'd only taken three steps from the window when the door flew open and I was grabbed about the waist and lifted up off the floor.