Heath randomly stalked around the sleeping village. The shadows stretched across the road, engulfing the lonely figure within themselves. Heath did not have a home; usually, he would stay a night or two at the dorms, but mostly he would stay awake. He did not like to sleep. It was a waste of time. Besides you could see more things in the dark.
Heath sharply turned the corner. The alley was pitch black. Heath continued walking, undisturbed by the blindness around him. He knew this alley by heart. His foot collapsed into a small hole in the road. Heath gritted his teeth to withhold the pain in the twisted ankle. Damn it, apparently not by heart...Heath stopped by a small cottage and arched his head up. The lights on the second floor were off. Shit. Heath quickly looked around and noticed some old crates and a stool lying around for garbage pickup. Thank god he has never suffered from the lack of creativity...
Margaret Houston was walking in the corridors when she heard some commotion in her room. Befuddled, she stopped. Someone was softly tapping on the window frame and calling her friend. Margaret was never of the coward sort, so she barged in right into the room.
"Who's here?" She cried. At the sight of her, Heath lost his balance and the stool, first crate, second crate toppled over and on him. He harshly hit the ground, breath sharply knocked out. Heath winced, lifted his head a little, before collapsing back again with a rough exhale. The window above him opened, and a red haired woman looked out of it.
"Damn it," Heath coarsely made out. Quickly rolling to his side, he staggered up and continued his way down the alley, not paying attention to the woman's exclamations. Obviously, Freddie was not in the mood of talking with him today. Oh well. Didn't she say that Johnny had a night shift today...
With the first step, Heath felt the world turn in front of his eyes. Breathing hurt his lungs and the ribs felt as if they've been hammered and pounded all over. Trying not to lose his consciousness, Heath reeled from one side of the street to another, if he did not know better, he would've thought that he's drunk. The cold wind helped him regain his senses. By the time he made it to the hospital, Heath fully recovered and was now confidently marching up the hospital steps. His confidence quickly snapped to displeasure when he entered the building. How he hated hospitals. God damn it, how he hated these bloody hospitals...
Heath quickly scanned the room, stopping his gaze at the reception desk. Behind it was a nice-looking young girl with dyed blonde hair. Perfect. Heath quickly tugged off his small pony tail and made an uncertain face.
"Excuse me...uh, I am not sure that I am correct, but does, uh, Johnathan Crane work here by any chance?" He started in a hesitant tone, approaching the receptionist. The girl lifted her long lashes and stared at him with her crystal green eyes.
"Johnathan Crane?" She repeated. The badge on her dress read Evangeline Clarke. Heath hastily turned his gaze away from it.
"Yes, I've heard he's a good psychologist," he stated and grinned. Clarke quickly looked away.
"I'm afraid you won't be able to see him, sir, he's just a intern," she stuttered, reddening in her cheeks and neck. Heath pretended to look utterly heartbroken.
"No? But, Miss Clarke," at this words the flattered girl smiled and looked down. "I need to see him, I have hallucinations due to...due to...due to my fear of...uh...clowns. I learned that Doctor, excuse me, Doctor To Be Crane particularly specializes in phobias. Please, Miss Clarke, may
I see him?" The girl was cracking, that was clear. Heath added some more drama to his expression. That should be enough.
"All right, but you'll have to sign in," she finally yielded.
"No problem, Miss," Heath easily agreed, whirling the pen in his hand and grinning with his entire face. He wrote in a sprawling handwriting, constantly glancing upwards at the embarrassed girl and laughing to himself.
"If you will," he gallantly handed her the form.
"Thank you," Clarke smiled more heartily. "No, if you please wait just a little..."
"There's no need, Miss Clarke," Heath eagerly turned at the sound of the familiar voice. Crane, on his part, did not look as uplifted. Wiping his hands on his aprons, he crookedly glanced at his grinning friend, then turned his attention at the squirming receptionist.
"As I happen to be free, miss, I would gladly take this man for an appointment." He might as well say that he would gladly cut me, thought Heath. The girl seemed to think the same thing, judging by the horrified expression she had on her face. But Crane was already walking away. Heath sent Clarke a reassuring wink and ran after the intern.
"Hey, Johnathan!" He called after his friend. For some reason, he was feeling especially giddy this night.
"What?" Johnathan did not even turn his head. Heath smirked.
"Do you know why the scarecrow received a noble prize?"
"Well?"
"Because he was absolutely out standing in his field!" Heath proudly declared.
"I'm flattered." Johnathan's voice did not sound flattered at all. Heath broadly grinned. Johnathan quickly unlocked a little door in the end of the corridor and nodded his head.
"Go inside. This is a room for mentally unstable patients. There's a bed and a washbasin. Should be good enough for conservatives like you."
Heath took a look in. Crap. He looked back at Crane.
"Mentally unstable?" He sneered. "Could've just said madmen. That's not how you treat a friend, Johnny, not at all."
"What did you expect, Heath?" Johnathan impatiently replied, tapping his fingers on the door's surface.
"Well, do be absolutely honest, I was hoping for some sort of conversation," Heath matter-of-factly confessed.
"Freddie was sleeping, and I didn't want to wake her up, and since you have a night shift and are seemingly free, I though I can make use of your company." Johnathan slightly narrowed his eyes, examining Heath. After a brief silence, he jerked his head in an invitation to follow him. Heath happily followed. Johnathan quickly led him to a small room, let him in, then firmly closed the door behind them. Heath glanced around. Four white walls, a recliner for the patients, a few cabinets and health posters. Heath came up to the recliner and jumped on it, still looking around.
"Well, can't say that this is a king's room," he whistled. "But no matter. I'm a man of small taste."
"Fortunately," Johnathan added, rummaging in the cabinets. He stood up and turned back to Heath, kicking the cabinet doors shut with his foot. In his hands were a bottle of whiskey and two small cups used for taking analysis.
"Here." He placed the bottle and the cups on the movable tray in front of astonished Heath.
"Since you came, I could use the moment to take a small break."
"Did you cut the wrong way or something?" Heath managed out, dumbly watching how Johnathan pours the whiskey first into one cup, then into the next one. Never, never in his life has Johnathan Crane taken a break on his own. Ever.
"What bloody happened?" Johnathan just smirked and shook his head.
"Your well being," he lifted his cup.
"Not," Heath grimaced, suspiciously sniffing the cup. "Just to clarify, what do you do with these again?" Johnathan did not answer. Instead, he gulped down the entire drink and made a wry face. When the eyelids behind the glasses opened again, Heath was already flipping through medical documents left on the tray.
"Let's see, Kyle Hemingworth, suffering from increased sense weakening...Clara Pitcher, schizophrenia third stage, god, I just imagine her, this mad eyed bitch, Marcus Capone, depression, borderline personality disorder, well, well, well...Ferguson...bipolar disorder, holy shit...delirium...more psychosis..." Heath glanced at Johnathan above the papers.
"Are you, by any chance, playing masquerade with your patients? Any mad doctors coming to mind?"
"No," Johnathan smiled, coming up to the window with his cup. The darkness outside seemed to lean on the windowpane. The bright hospital light flicked with a barely audible moan. Thunder rumbled outside, followed by rain. The two man drank their whiskey in silence, Heath flipping through the medical records, Johnathan staring into the darkness.
"It's very interesting to observe them," Johnathan finally spoke, tracing the raindrops on the pane with his blue eyes.
"They seem to lose any logical string which ties the humans together, and yet they are smarter than us all. Maybe because they see the human mind from a different perspective. Certain cases, of course. Other, less chaotic and unpredictable, cases just bring boredom to the specialist."
"What if I went mad?" Heath proposed, taking another gulp from his whiskey.
"Would I be a good exhibit to Doctor Johnathan Crane?" Johnathan turned around.
"I find you interesting enough in your senses," he said, walking up to the tray and setting his cup.
"It would be quite something if you indeed went mad." Heath smirked and returned to reading his records.
"Are you still developing your fear toxins?" he asked a few moments later, reminded by a patient who apparently suffered a nervous breakdown from chemical exposure.
"I try to," Crane sat down on the only chair and took off his glasses. Wearily, he rubbed his forehead with his hand.
"Not enough time, though." Heath nodded, resuming his activity.
"By the way, did you tell Freddie about my grandmother and high school?" Johnathan suddenly asked, sending Heath a loaded look. That one shrugged.
"You don't feel sorry, thus you don't feel ashamed. If you're not ashamed, then there's no wrong in telling about it." Heath gave Johnathan a pointed stare.
"Besides, our friend should know who is who." Johnathan sighed and closed his eyes. Heath turned the next page.
"Alright, time to go," Johnathan abruptly stood up. Heath hurriedly shut the documents together with a bang and hopped off the bed.
"Time to go," he repeated, mimicking a high, childlike voice. Johnathan just shook his head and lead him back to the room. It was the room where most patients experienced nightmares and hallucinations. Heath slept his soundest sleep there.
"Margaret! Margaret! Damn it, Margaret, what happened?" Winnifred walked in in her nightgown, hair disheveled, gripping a hairbrush in her hand. Margaret turned away from the window to look at her roommate.
"There was some guy calling your name," she explained. "He climbed on some junk." Winnifred came up to her and glanced out the window. The empty road was illuminated by moonlight. She whirled back to her friend.
"Well, whoever it was, he's gone," she passed by Margaret, who hurried to see for herself, and got into her bed, pulling the covers over her feet.
"But I swear, he was there," Margaret sounded offended.
"I'm sure you did," Winnifred patiently replied, rolling on her side and plopping her head on her hand.
"How did he even look like?"
"I...I think he had...long, blonde hair..." Margaret wrinkled her brows, trying to remember.
"In a ponytail..."
"Then it was probably Heath," Winnifred flopped back on her back. Margaret also got into her bed and was now curiously listening to her cousin.
"Heath? The one who always wins in cards? The handsome one?" Winnifred laughed.
"Handsome? Why, Margaret!"
"At least that's how Jennifer described him," Margaret embarrassedly tried to vindicate herself.
"And how did you find him? In those few moments you saw him?" Winnifred joked, merrily observing how Margaret turns a lovely shade of pink.
"Well, I don't spend entire days with him, so I can't say," Margaret crossly grumbled, pulling the blanket up to her chin.
"And I never judge my friends by their facial attributes, so I can't say either," Winnifred teasingly concluded and quickly reaching out, whirled off the kerosene lamp. The room collapsed into darkness in a quick flicker. For a while, the girls lay in silence, each in their own thoughts. Winnifred ruined it first.
"You know, I never thought about it, but Heath is kinda handsome." She heard her cousin give off an exasperated sigh.
"Winnie, you seem to never think about anything." Winnifred softly chuckled, then carefully turned the kerosene lamp just enough to see Margaret's features. The small kindle seemed to only dense the surrounding blackness around the girls, encroaching them up to their faces, illuminated by the lamp.
"Margaret," Winnifred gently called. Her friend patiently waited, resting her face on the back of her hand.
"You're also handsome," Winnifred suddenly noticed. Margaret scoffed.
"Thanks," she sarcastically snorted.
"No, really," Winnifred pressed, admiring her cousin. Margaret gratefully smiled.
"You see, I never regard my friends from a...you know, uh..." Winnifred grimaced, trying to find the right words.
"Girlfriend perspective? Is that what you call it?" She expectantly looked at Margaret, who indifferently shrugged, waiting for further explanation. Winnifred pressed her lips, desperately trying to convey her feeling correctly.
"I've known Heath since he first came to this town, which is when I was seven, an Johnathan since..." Winnifred suddenly lifted up on one elbow, intently staring into the space before her. Margaret silently followed her with her eyes.
"Since he came here eight years ago for med school, which means that I was...I was...fifteen! Yeah, I was fifteen, Heath was fifteen, and Johnny was eighteen!" Winnifred lowered back down, appalled by her calculations and abruptly turned off the lamp. Margaret heard her ruffling around in bed, then a muffled "shit". Suddenly, the shifting stopped.
"Winnifred?" Margaret uncertainly called. Winnifred did not answer. Margaret blindly groped around for the lamp, and, when she finally turned the bloody knob, saw that Winnifred's face was porcelain white and motionless. Two crimson rivulets of blood streaked from the corner of her lip and right nostril.
"Shit," Margaret swore and hastily jumped off her bed and to her dresser, jerking out drawers in search for a handkerchief. Pearls, gloves, hats, ruffles, fishnet stockings, perfume, powder...
"Shit, shit, shit!" Margaret flung the drawer closed. A small piece of cloth fell from the top. Double shit. Margaret quickly grabbed the handkerchief and ran up to Winnifred. Carefully sitting next to her, she diligently wiped away the streaming blood and waited. And waited. A minute later, Winnifred blinked, the pallor slowly faded away, and the girl heavily sighed.
"Stupid genes." Winnifred snatched the handkerchief from Margaret's hand and started to brutally wipe the blood from her face.
"You should really go to the doctor," Margaret worried. After Winnifred did not respond, Margaret continued to press on.
"Seriously, he'll give you some pills and you'll..."
"For God's sake, I'm fine," Winnifred angrily interrupted her, unsuccessfully swatting her hair from her face with one hand. The other one clutched the bloodied handkerchief.
"It's just a little short circuit I have every now and then, sometimes resulting in a bloody nose or something..."
"But what if the stupor continues for a long time..." Margaret attempted.
"It's congenital shit, and those doctors won't give me anything! I know, Maggie, my parents would drag me every bloody time I have this, and the doctors would just fucking scratch their head and send us home! Now, go to sleep!" Winnifred furiously slashed. Abruptly switching off the lamp, barely breaking it, she turned on her other side and pulled her covers up. Margaret stood a little in hesitation, then too got into her bed.
"It won't end well, Winnie," she tried one last time.
"Good night," was the gruff answer. Margaret sighed and turned around.