Green.
Green jello, green lettuce, green tray.
Green grass swaying in a light breeze outside the window.
That had become the common sight for Patrick Jane.
Since his breakdown on Wednesday, he realized that wherever he went, whatever he did, whomever he talked to, he would always be reminded of Red John and the horrendous murder of his family. So he had spent the past six days in his room lying in his bed. He only got up if he felt the need to use the rest room, shower once or twice, and turned over from time to time to gaze at the green grass dancing in the breeze.
Peter came and went as he pleased attempting to make subtle conversation but mostly minded his own business for fear he might snap at him again.
As he panicked through yet another dream where he failed to get to his wife and daughter in time for their dreadful fate, a few knocks came at the door.
"Patrick?" George whispered through the crack in the door. "Patrick, it's George. I'm coming in."
Patrick had no objection. He appreciated his politeness. He turned on his back and stared at the white ceiling. He brought his arm to his forehead to wipe the sweat and closed his eyes to help slow down his breathing.
"Another one, huh?" George had no idea what these nightmares were about. He had no knowledge of Patrick's past. Most patients choose to tell their watch nurse what they've dealt with so they can get to know them a bit more. But Patrick has remained silent and somber, no knowledge of his past or of what had happened. "Is there anything you can do to stop those night mares from happening?"
Patrick shook his head slowly. Each time he went to sleep he relived that fateful night over and over. If only he had gotten there sooner. If only he hadn't said all that information. If only, if only, if only.
George brought a tray of food in with him and set it down on the night stand beside another untouched tray. Patrick usually nibbled at certain bits throughout the day, but otherwise hadn't had a full meal in six days.
"Dude, seriously? I've brought you three trays each day for the past six days and you haven't touched a single one. I could turn you in for this and they could force you to eat."
George received no response from Patrick, who was still staring at the ceiling.
"Hello? Earth to Patrick?"
He rapidly waved his hand in front of his eyes. By this time, Patrick had brought himself back down again from the hype of the previous nightmare. With a straight face, he met George's glance.
"Are you hungry?"
Patrick turned over on his side facing the wall and clung the blankets to him as he shook his head. No.
"C'mon, man. That's a total lie. I can tell."
Yes, because someone like you can tell the difference when someone is telling a lie and when they aren't. He smiled slightly to himself.
George allowed there to be some silence between them. He collected the trays and took them back to the kitchen. When he returned he opened the window its complete two inches. A comforting autumn breeze blew in.
"You know what that's called? That's called fresh air, Pat. C'mon. Get up and let's go outside or something. It'll do you some good."
Patrick remained with his eyes closed, trying to sleep. Not that he found sleeping particularly enjoyable when memories played over and over again. He wished he could take that small wing of the memory palace and destroy it.
"Can you at least get up to go see Sophie for your evening session tonight?"
The curly blonde haired human shook his head once more. For the past six days, Sophie had been coming inside Patrick's room and sitting with him for the entirety of the hour they were required to have together. She would say simple phrases or ask how he was, if he was hungry, if he wanted to get up, go outside, play a game, things like that. Patrick had stuck to being vocally unresponsive.
"Fine. Whatever, I don't care anyways. Look, I'm going to go now and if you decide you want to do something you know where to find me."
George reached across the bed stand to shut the window, accidentally knocking over the orange journal that had been thrown during his tantrum a week ago on his way back. A week ago only a few pages were filled out. At this point every page was filled out with some sort of writing.
George's curiosity got the best of him.
"What are these?"
Patrick remained in his mold, eyes either shut, and failed to respond.
George flipped through a few of the pages. They had seemed to be letters of some sort.
"Who's Angie?"
The lump's eyes flew open. He turned his head toward George and sat up in his bed.
Those aren't yours. You can't read them. Give them back! Patrick wanted to yell. But something kept him from his outburst. His eyes stayed on George as he read one of the papers aloud.
"Dear Angie, I'm missing you today. I miss you every day. The flowers outside are a constant reminder of your bright and colorful personality that I fell in love with..." he trailed off with realization. "Is Angie your wife?"
Patrick took a moment, then nodded. George proceeded to flip through more of the letters.
"...and Charlotte. Your daughter?"
Another nod. Tears would have filled his eyes, but Patrick was too exhausted to cry any more. His heart hurt heavily more than anything.
A few more minutes passed, then he furthered the interrogation.
"Why don't they come visit you? Did you get a divorce?"
If only it were that simple. Patrick laughed slightly inside his head. He shook his head.
"Do you know Angie's phone number? We can go out and give her a call at the patient phones if you-"
George had turned to the pages covered in the infamous red smile. A good twenty or so pages were covered with various sizes of that marking.
All color vanished from George's complexion. He found himself speechless. Silence fell between the two for several minutes as George sat down next to Patrick, his eyes glued to the pictures.
"Patrick," he began in a hushed voice. "I... I am so sorry." George would never be able to comprehend what Patrick was going through. Even though he didn't know the whole story, he knew enough to feel more sorry for Patrick than he'd ever felt for any patient at Heritage Oaks.
Jane looked down at the floor, his heart heavy with the common pain he'd become accustomed to over the past few weeks.
Neither of them spoke for a while. A faint chirping of birds was the only sound heard every so often. George closed the journal and placed it in Patrick's lap. After a few minutes, George placed a hand on Patrick's shoulder and raised himself from the bed.
"Look, you...uh..." George was flustered and at a semi-loss for words. "You can...just take as much time as you need. I'm sure Sophie will come meet you for your evening session."
"Patrick," Sophie started. "This is our twenty fifth meeting and you still have yet to say a word to me."
The middle aged man stared down at his forearms, specifically at the self inflicted wounds that had been progressively healing.
He had come to feel more comfortable around Sophie. She had a comfortable presence to her and wouldn't mind sharing, but he didn't think he was ready to talk. Not yet.
"We can't get anywhere if you don't talk to me, Patrick. You realize that, don't you?"
The corner of his mouth lifted in a slight smile, little laughs escaping his mouth. Who says I even wanted to 'get anywhere'? Maybe I'm happy like this. he wanted to say (even though he knew it was a lie).
"What's so funny, Patrick?"
He shook his head, the smile escaping from his face.
Sophie leaned toward Patrick, placing a comforting hand upon his. She locked eyes with him, refusing to lose contact.
"I know you're feeling powerless right now. But you're in control. You have a choice. You can choose to let people defeat you, or you can fight back. You can fight or you can give up and die. Your choice. No one else's."
Her words stung like a bee on a hot summer afternoon. It had been a while since anyone had been that brutally honest with him. This past week or so he had been looking for the right thing to get him back up and motivated a bit.
Maybe she was it.
She let their connect linger a bit longer before gathering her paperwork and standing up.
"We're done for tonight. See you tomorrow, Patrick." She stood up and headed towards the door.
Patrick let her words resonate with him as he brought a hand to rub his temples.
You can fight or you can give up and die. Your choice.
Your choice.
My choice.
Maybe it was time to take a risk.
"Wait." Patrick said, standing up from his mold in the bed.
"You're right."