There once was a king in a colorful kingdom where people he loved surrounded him.
Here, he is surrounded by scrubs, patient voices, and cool fingers on his skin. He still expects to see them pop around the corner, run towards him, take him out of this place. They always came for him, came to rescue him.
Wish fulfillment. Filling an emotional hole with vivid fantasies. Delusions of grandeur.
The pills are hard to swallow, and they have to be shoved under his tongue by rubber-gloved fingers, washed down by stale water. After he takes them, he can't feel more than dull impulses, can't think more than brief flashes. That is why he tries to flush the pills down the porcelain white bowl he barely grasps the function of, why he isn't trusted alone anywhere anymore.
The kingdom was often embroiled in battles between magical creatures and people and the king. He constantly fought for his life and the lives of his people.
He fights the people in scrubs—nurses—and white coats—doctors—as they pin him down, pierce his skin with needles, slow his brain with drugs, but he's never good enough to win. Occasionally, he escapes their grasping hands, but never can combat the strong ones with badges and weapons that send buzzing pain through his body. The doctors and nurses always push their needles into him after his escape attempts. The needles blur his vision, paralyze his muscles, leave his head hanging and unwipable drool trailing down his chin. They strap his arms to the wheeled chair or in a soft jacket that force his arms around himself.
Snapshots of picnics in the sunlight, hunts in the peaceful woods, biting banter backed by laughter and love. And happiness. In the far-away kingdom of magical battles and constant struggles for survival, he remembers being happy.
He doesn't want to be here, with the scrubs and the cold hands, the needles, the fogging, the strange fellow prisoners that surround him. He wants the colorful kingdom with its battles and friendships and happiness, but the drugs chase it away. If he can't live there, he doesn't want to live anywhere. His fingernails become stained with his own blood as he is strapped once again into the wheelchair, the cloth straps digging into his skin. They cannot silence his raging with their devices, but they can paralyze him with their needles.
Are you sure you know him? the workers ask. Are you sure you want custody of him?
He's too dangerous to be let out, they say. He's too delusional. He tries to hurt himself and others. He suffers from hallucinations. He cannot be let out.
A few strange words spoken and compliance is forthcoming. Records are easily erased, and the passage of the black-haired man goes unnoticed. He leaves with only one thing.
Erasing: Record:…the man who thinks he is Arthur Pendragon.