Shades of Grey
Chapter 3-The Rules of the House
"You know, Mr. Higgins," the doctor continued, "it is usually considered polite to respond to greetings." His tone easily revealed that this was not just a criticism of Racetrack's social skills, but a warning as well.
"Evenin', Doc," Racetrack replied sarcastically. Sarcasm and wit had never failed him before, so there was no reason for them to start now. Or so he hoped anyway.
"Sit down, Mr. Higgins," the doctor said, gesturing to the plain, wooden chair that was positioned next to his desk. Noticing Racetrack's hesitation, he continued sharply, "That was not a request. It would not take very long to have the orderlies move you by force. Rule number one of the house, Mr. Higgins. You cooperate instantly when a member of the staff requires that you do something. Anything spoken by a staff member is an order. We do not like to ask twice."
"Sure Doc," Race said with a grin, and remained standing.
"The second rule of the house, Mr. Higgins," the doctor continued, ignoring Racetrack's interruption, "is that you will treat all members of the staff with the respect that they deserve."
"Well some of them don't seem to deserve my respect,"
"Each member of the staff deserves your respect. They are the authority, Mr. Higgins. Society demands that you show the utmost respect to all those of a higher status than you. And those rules of society are heavily enforced within this institution. Any disrespect that you show towards those in authority will cause you to be severely punished.
"This," he continued smugly, "means that you will refer to me as 'Doctor' or 'Sir', but not as 'Doc.' That term is slang, and slang is not at all encouraged within these walls. Our duty is to turn you into a productive and functioning member of society, and we will do so, at any cost."
Racetrack opened his mouth, a sarcastic reply at the ready, but he was interrupted before he had the chance to even begin.
"I would think very carefully before you speak, Mr. Higgins. Your sarcasm may have helped you survive on the streets, but here all it will do is cause you great harm. If you break too many of the rules, you will be placed in Iso, and I assure you, that is not something that you are likely to enjoy, let alone survive."
The threat wasn't lost on Race. But he refused to listen to his common sense, which was telling him to keep his damn mouth shut. He just had to get off at least one wise ass remark. It was after all, what he did best.
"So, that's your standard cure-all in this hospital, eh Doc? If your patients fight you, you just kill them? Wow, that's the best way of helping heal the sick I've ever heard. Just kill 'em all."
The doctor's frown deepened greatly, and Race suddenly realized his mistake.
"What was rule number two, Mr. Higgins?" the doctor asked, his voice as cold as ice.
"Don't disrespect the Doctah," he repeated, allowing just a bit of defiance to show through in his tone.
"Rule number three, Mr. Higgins, is that all infractions of rule's number one and two are to be punished immediately, as to ensure that the patient makes an immediate association between his disobedience and his punishment. I had hoped that the association between your disobedience and the pain that it has caused you, would prevent you from being so defiant in the future. Most of our patients learn that lesson rather quickly. Yet you've already been beaten and forcibly sedated once, yet you still try to defy us."
"I'se a Newsie, Doc. It takes more than the likes of you'se to beat me."
"Ah, and there, Mr. Higgins, is the root of your problem. I must remind you that this is the reason why you are incarcerated within these walls. You are not a Newsie. There are no Newsies anymore."
With this pronouncement, the Doctor stood up from behind his desk. Reaching into a drawer, he pulled out a long rod, and advanced menacingly towards Racetrack.
"You will learn your place, Mr. Higgins," he continued. "Let me assure you of that."
Flicking a switch on the rod, he thrust it at Race, who dodged the strike with ease, due to years of practice as a Newsie.
"If you make this more difficult than it has to be, you will regret it." The tone only had slightly more emotion than Racetrack had come to expect from the doctor, with a slightly harder edge to it than before. He lashed out quickly with the rod, and this time, Racetrack didn't have the time to dodge the blow. He winced in pain from both the sharpness of the blow, and the accompanying jolt.
"Each time you disobey, Mr. Higgins, the electric volt will be increased. It is not meant to cause you permanent damage, but just give you a sharp reminder of your place in society. Now sit down."
Racetrack sat down, rubbing his arm as he did so, where the blow and shock had landed.
"I'm glad you're learning to cooperate, Mr. Higgins. Now, we must discuss your future within our fine institution. First of all, your diagnosis."
"I ain't crazy," Racetrack began, but was quickly interrupted by the doctor.
"I'm afraid, Mr. Higgins, that you are. But, we will cure you of that. It is our job after all. Now, you have been claiming that you are a Newsie from the late nineteenth century, I believe?" He paused, evidently awaiting some response from Racetrack. "That is what you claim, is it not?"
Racetrack nodded sullenly.
"Well then, Mr. Higgins, the first thing that we must do is correct your assumptions. The year is certainly not 1899. You're off by nearly 70 years. It is currently 1967. Newsies no longer exist. I must admit," he said with a chuckle, "that you are the first Newsboy that our fine institution has encountered. Most people who operate under the impression that they are someone else at least believe they are someone famous, not some worthless street rat."
"You're lying," Racetrack said in a broken whisper, struggling to keep up his infamous poker face. This was a feat which was becoming more and more difficult, most likely because of whatever drug they had given him before. 1967? That isn't possible. It's 1899. I ain't crazy, I ain't making this up. I'm one of the Manhattan Newsies. I was a striker, I sell papes for a living. I ain't making this up.
"Not too sure about yourself, are you now, Mr. Higgins?" the doctor asked, a small grin crossing his features. "Perhaps this will convince you to see things my way." Returning to his desk, he withdrew a newspaper from the upper right hand drawer. Beckoning Racetrack forward, he motioned to the date. "Now, Mr. Higgins, do you see it clearly? September 27, 1967. Certainly not 1899."
"You're lying," Racetrack said, his poker face cracking completely, along with his voice. "This isn't real, you're lying." It was all he could manage. He needed to hold onto what he knew as the truth. He was a Newsie. Nothing could ever change that.
"You will soon learn the truth, Mr. Higgins. That you are what you are. What we found on the street – a worthless street rat. Just a young boy. Most likely a runaway or an orphan, who was trying to sell non-existent papers to elderly ladies in an attempt to take their money, or belongings. Your violent tendencies, and paranoid behavior suggest that there is most likely some sort of schizophrenia involved as well. We will cure you of your delusions, and then help you. You will not have to return to life on the streets once we are finished with you. You can enter the workforce, and become something much greater than you are now. But that will have to wait until we rid you of this foolish belief that you are a Newsie."
"I am a Newsie," Racetrack said in as steady a voice as he could muster, and he silently thanked all his years of poker playing, which helped him keep control of his emotions.
"That remains to be seen, Mr. Higgins. Now, it is time for you to be returned to your room. Tomorrow, you shall start our rehabilitation program. You will meet your fellow inmates then. Until that time, Mr. Higgins, you shall remain incarcerated in your rooms. Try not to antagonize the orderlies any further. They are getting rather upset with you, and they will ensure that you are properly disciplined if you even think of another escape attempt."
The doctor pressed a red button on his desk, which buzzed loudly. A door opened, and the two orderlies walked in, and reached for Racetrack's arms. He didn't fight them as they roughly returned him to his cell.
~*~
Author's Note-Not much to really report this chapter, except that it was a lot of fun to write. Next chapter, we're going to meet some of the other inmates in the asylum, so the casting call is closed. I also have to give a really big thanks to B, Leah, Carrie, and Glimmer, for encouraging me this chapter. You guys rule. And especially Carrie, who has beta read the last few chapters.
Shout-outs!
Shot Hunter-Glad you loved the Slashy Goodness! There will be a lot more of it later on, I promise. :D
GLimmer Conlon O'Leary-Yay for the reviews! You're like, the first person who I've directly "met" through this fandom, which is awesome. Luckily, muses are cooperating now, so this chapter is done. :D
Dreamer110- The Doctor is only going to get creepier, just so you know. And Race torture is just too much fun for its own good.
Sock-free-No, but I got your profile, and you will have a fun place in my asylum, I promise. I'm really sorry if you've met someone like my doctor before, because he's really creepy.
B-THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT. I hope you're happy. :-p No, seriously, thank you for getting me addicted to Newsies. And then Newsies fanfic. I'm so addicted, its scary.
Oxymoronic Alliteration-I'm glad you're enjoying, and its just going to get stranger.
Aura-Glad you're enjoying so far. J
Falco Conlon-Oh god, now I have a vision of the nuns flying around like Superman. I didn't even realize that before.
Til next time!
~TSB
