Title: Madly in Love

Summary: When Wendy came back from Neverland and started telling people about her experiences, they all thought she was crazy… literally. Can she convince anyone to believe her? And what if they don't?

Author's Note: This is one of the most fun I've ever had trying to write a fic. I'm actually getting a small response to it and it's encouraging. But it's hard trying to find information on the asylums back when Peter Pan was written. I suspect that it's not very different from not besides that they were meaner and dirtier.
In several different projects I've done, there's been SOME annoying or mean guy named Mr. Powell. His appearance keeps changing, but it's based on a teacher who I despised, and it shows in all my writing.

REVIEW

The door to Dr. Powell's office closed with a loud click and Wendy stood nervously in front of it and waited for further instruction from the doctor who sat scanning over his pile of papers. Without even looking up, he motioned for Wendy to sit in the chair in front of his desk (the one that Eliza had not soiled). She plopped down, already losing some of her manners, and noted how stiff and uncomfortable the chair was. The couch in Dr. Smith's office was much more comfy and welcoming.

Dr. Powell removed his reading glasses and set them in the desk next to the plaque with his name on it. He sighed and gave a very unconvincing smile before opening the session.

"Welcome, Miss Darling. You already know who I am so let's skip the formalities, shall we?" he said. "I'll be the one prescribing your medication so right now, we're just going to find out what you need. Sound simple enough?"

"Yes, sir," Wendy answered.

"Actually, it's very difficult. It takes a skilled doctor and a cooperative patient to determine what you need so do not give me any trouble," he said tersely. Wendy narrowed her gaze and he did the same. "You already have a black mark on your record because of the damage in the recreational room."

"If I may, sir, I'd like to clarify that the 'damage' done was an accident. I would never do something like that intentionally," Wendy replied very diplomatically.

"Don't take me for a fool, Miss Darling. I know how these patients are and I know that they will not readily take responsibility, but it's in your best interest that you do not patronize me. Any associate of Eliza Patrick is either someone like her or someone she has swayed to do her bidding. So which are you? The easily manipulated or another bad influence?"

Wendy was speechless. Eliza was not at all exaggerating when she had warned Wendy about this man. Everything he said was calculated and precise, like he knew exactly what he was doing and blew her away with his eerily calm execution. She knew he was attacking her, but she couldn't collect her thoughts in order to form an answer. It was just too fast. He took her silence as surrender and the smug look on his face made her frustrated. She wanted nothing more than to take his pen that he was writing with and stab him with it. Using some amazing self control, she restrained herself and only let her frown display her anger.

"Let me make this clear right here and now at the beginning, I am a force to be reckoned with so don't think that you can win against someone like me. You are not here because you are an esteemed member of society so you will not be treated as one. You think yourself to be very prim and proper but you're no different from the other lying, cheating, murderous inmates that inhabit this institution. I am not here to be your friend; I am here to give you medication so that we can fix you."

This was getting to be too much to handle. She had been in the room no more than two minutes and she was already under fire. Her brows furrowed together and she closed her eyes to try and compose herself.

"Deep breath," she told herself in her head. "He's baiting you. It's just like Eliza said, he's trying to get me to lash out and then he'll be able to justify what he's doing."

The doctor abruptly interrupted her thoughts. "Let's begin."

Two nearly unbearable hours passed while Dr. Powell interrogated her, and she breathed a sigh of relief when he announced that they were finished. He handed her a slip of paper, directed her to take it to the front desk, and then sent her on her way.

On her way to the front, Wendy squinted to read the scribbling writing on the paper but the handwriting was so messy that she could only make out one word.

"Psychosis?" Wendy sounded out, and then said thoughtfully, "Hm, I wonder what that is."

But she thought no more of it, because Wendy never seemed to dwell on things (except that one thing) and she walked up to Bridget's desk, glad to see a smiling face. Bridget saw and Wendy and her eyes brightened as she put down her paperwork to socialize.

"Well hello, lovely. What can I help you with today?" she asked as she rested her cheek in her palm like she was having a casual little conversation with a good friend.

"Dr. Powell told me to bring this up here," Wendy said, handing over her small scrap of paper. Bridget took it and looked it over quickly. She smacked her cherry red lips out of boredom and then pushed back her chair. She then bent over and opened a locked cabinet attached to her desk before muddling around inside it. Some clinking and sounds of pill bottles could be heard as she fumbled with the different canisters.

"Hm... nope, not that one... I think... ah ha!" she mumbled and then popped out from behind her desk with a glass bottled in hand. She handed it carefully to Wendy who wrapped her fingers around it tightly so she wouldn't drop it. Bridget fixed her thick-rimmed glasses and then sat back down in her chair. Hands folded on her desk, she leaned over and instructed Wendy, "You're to take one of those at every mealtime, with a good glass of water if you can. Now I know you're a bright young strumpet so I can trust you to not take more than 4 pills a day. Any more than that could be dangerous, do you understand?"

Wendy nodded. She liked Bridget because she was probably the only member of the staff who had an ounce of trust in her and seemed like someone to give her the benefit of the doubt. She would be a good friend in a dark place like the institute. Eliza was smart, resourceful, experienced, and strong but she wasn't cheerful like this young Irish woman could be.

"What is it supposed to do?" Wendy asked as she peered into the bottle and the pills clinked around noisily inside.

"It's just to slow your mind down a tad. You might seem a little tired at first but you'll become accustomed to it in a few days," explained Bridget.

"Ok, well I'd best be getting to lunch. Goodbye, Ms. Vonderbeck."

"Oh please, dearie, call me Bridget."

Wendy smiled. "Goodbye, Bridget."

The rest of the day seemed endless, but Wendy was finally back in her cell for the night and she'd never been so happy to be going to bed. She'd barely been here at Bloomsbury Institute but she'd already felt like she'd stayed too long. Everything seemed routine already and she went through the motions of the day as she was supposed to, as if she had always done it. She decided that the more feathers she ruffles, the slower her time here would pass and all she wanted was to get this whole ordeal over with.

After she had taken a pill at both lunch and dinner that day, things started to feel... even more boring. But this was supposed to good for her so she didn't question it. However, she didn't like the affects that the medication was having on her. She seemed to have a new found understanding of time because she suddenly started notice every minute passing, unlike before when she would often drift off and get lost in her own thoughts. During the reading time, she was more aware of the time than ever before and it went by at a snail's pace as each patient took their turn to read their chapter in a monotone or stuttering voice. Even Wendy had been less than enthusiastic during her turn because of her boredom and sudden lack of energy. Eliza had looked over at her with critical eyes several times during the day, probably wondering why she had suddenly become so lethargic.

That night, Eliza voiced her concerns. They were lying in bed when she all of a sudden asked, "Wendy, what's wrong with you?"

"What are you talking about?" replied a very sleepy seventeen year old after a moment's pause.

"You've been very sluggish most of the day and almost bland to talk to."

"Well thank you very much," Wendy answered, feeling slightly offended.

"I'm stating a fact here," Eliza said dryly. "Anyway, you never told me how your first time with Dr. Powell was."

"Not pleasant."

"Could you be a little more elaborate than that?" insisted Eliza, who had now sat up in her bed.

Overcome with annoyance, Wendy snapped, "Could you just shut up so I could sleep? I'm tired and it's been a very long day!"

Eliza said nothing in her surprise, just laid back down and tried to sleep. On the other side of the room, Wendy laid there with her eyes wide open and her heart racing with anger. She'd never been so easily provoked in her life and she knew it was unusual, but she was too frustrated to care.

"I just need some sleep," she reasoned with a yawn. "Tomorrow it'll be better. I'm just... so exhausted."

Sleep finally took her.