Chapter Text
You half expected to hear "Good evening, Clarice," as you went to meet your new patient.
You had taken a particular interest in the mentally disabled when you were studying at [college/university]. Now, a few years out of graduate school, you earned the right to be called a doctor. Within the medical community, you were well known. Wesley Psychiatric Hospital took an interest in you, and you returned it, nearly curing patients with your, well, patience. Some say you connected on a deeper level than most doctors could. But that came with a price.
You were vulnerable to picking up their habits. One patient you had would tap both feet, right, left, right, like he was marching. The week after he checked out, you caught yourself tapping your feet like he did. Sometimes you acted out like them. You were lucky you hadn't been talked to or even fired. Actually, you wondered if you weren't crazy yourself.
Today, however, there was nothing to mimic. Your shoes clacked on the concrete floor as you walked to room 430. You spared a glance at 427, where one of your patients, a man named Stanley, muttered to himself in the third person with a British accent. You hadn't spoken to him as much lately, though you vowed to change your schedule and visit him. His stories were always clever and mind-blowingly cool. But now you had to greet your new patient.
Next to a glass wall sat a young man with black glasses, black hair, and big brown eyes. His room was mostly white, with a wire bed with covers askew pushed against the back wall and a toilet in the corner. You found these rooms akin to prison cells. Of course, you couldn't change current psychiatric practices.
You glanced at your clipboard. In addition to blank space for your notes, there was some standard information.
Patient Name: Mark Fischbach
Age: 24
Family/Associates: brother, Tom, friends Bob and Wade
Preliminary Diagnosis: hallucinogenic schizophrenia
Condition: highly unstable, borderline incurable
Date of Commit: 7/24/13
Reason for admittance: involuntarily committed by roommate Wade after incident with video recording
You cleared your throat, glancing at the security camera in the upper corner of his room. You closed the door behind you. "Hello, Mark," you greeted him.
From his slumped-over position on his bed, Mark turned his big eyes towards you. They momentarily searched for anything he thought could threaten him. He must've found nothing, because he glanced away again. You pulled up the only chair in the room and sat facing him.
"I'm Dr. [l/n]. But you can call me [f/n]." No response from your new patient. The hospital director had warned you that he would either be totally silent or scream his head off. You wanted to create a different reaction. Anything, really, other than the piercing look he directed at you. He remained totally still. You asked him calmly, "So, Mark, how do you feel today?" Another stare, not a word. You'd dealt with this before, several times, but not with that much staring.
You picked up your pen and were about to write 'unresponsive' when he spoke in monotone. "No different than usual." You recorded his answer.
"How do you mean?"
"I mean, I don't do much," the monotony left his voice as he sounded annoyed. "I stare at a white wall for hours on end. Sometimes I get visitors from colleges and such who ask me stupid questions." He stopped abruptly; you glanced up at him after finishing your writing.
"What do they ask you?"
"Same stuff you're asking me."
"I'm a doctor, Mister Fischbach, I'm not a student. I can actually help you."
A flicker of defiance passed through his eyes. "How? By asking me stupid questions?"
More than a little bothered by his tone, you responded curtly, "I'm trying to gauge your mental status so that I can track your progress and decide when you are fit to be re-integrated into the world." You changed your own tone to confidential. "Look, Mark. I know how you feel.”
“Like hell you do.”
“Wanna bet? You want to be fixed, or you want out, maybe both. Whichever you want, that can only happen by answering these questions."
He rolled his eyes. You were a little surprised. Usually, that encouraged patients to be more honest with you. But as you asked him more questions, his answers shortened drastically. You recorded them quickly - there wasn't much to write down.
Finally, noticing your watch, you got up. "Very sorry, but I have to go. Thank you for cooperating," you said hastily, moving to the door.
The key didn't even reach the lock when you heard him. "Stay."
You turned to face him again. The look of terror and anxiety in his eyes froze you in place. It was the most emotional he'd been the whole time you were in there.
"Stay?" you repeated, unsure of your own ears.
"I don't want to be here alone." You made a mental note: Mark possibly had autophobia.
"You're not alone," you replied, a little confused. "There are plenty of patients here."
"In this room. Stay," he commanded, more forceful this time.
"I have a schedule, Mark. I need to work with my other patients. You aren't the only person here, you know."
Smoke nearly came out his ears. He tensed and screamed at you: "Traitor! Traitor! I trusted you!" He jumped to his feet.
You wanted to console him, to stay in the room and calm him down, but you were genuinely frightened. Like, jump-scare frightened. Like the jump scare you expect, but not in that moment frightened. You hurriedly shoved the key in the lock and exited the room. Just as you closed the door, you saw his form slam against the other side. You sighed in relief, feeling safe. He couldn't open that door without a key.
As you headed for your next patient's room, you passed by the hospital director, a Brit whom you'd nicknamed Yami. "Hey [l/n]," he waved.
"When are you just gonna call me [f/n], Yami?" you wondered jokingly.
"When you call me Aaron."
"Never gonna happen. How're you today?"
"Good," he said idly. "You look shaken up. New patient?"
"Yes, that Mark guy," you lowered your voice. "He acted unlike any other patient I've worked with. Actually, no, he acted like all of them. He was quiet, then he wouldn't shut up."
"I figured you'd react that way. The guy before you couldn't even be near him without Mark going nuts."
"How many doctors, Yami? Before me?"
"Can't tell you. Confidential."
He walked briskly away. Surprised at his change of attitude when you mentioned Mark's past, you continued down the hall.
Still shaken, you found yourself much later in your office. The sun had set several hours ago, and most of the other doctors had left. You wearily checked your watch again. Well, it sure was late.
Time to research Mister Fischbach.
You snuck into Yami’s office with relative ease - perhaps with too much ease. But that was the least of your concern. You raided the files - A, B, up to F.
“Farley, Fenchurch, Finch, aha! Fischbach!” you muttered, pulling out his file.
You found absolutely nothing of use, other than more basic information about Mark.
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.” Confused, annoyed, and just plain tired, you locked up and went home.
You reached your apartment, barely able to stand up. You tossed your coat and keys onto the ground by the door and passed out on your bed, not caring to change into pajamas.
A scuttling by the door woke you. You glanced at the clock. Jesus Christ, 3:30? You had to leave in five hours, you couldn’t afford to get up now. But you knew you’d never get back to sleep without looking. You grabbed your phone and turned on its flashlight, roving it around your apartment. Nothing had changed at all.
A small silhouette passed underneath your feet. You exclaimed in surprise, but turning the light down to the ground showed nothing of what scared you. Probably just a mouse. You were going to be more than a little pissed when you talked to the landlord.
“[f/n],” came a creepy voice from the shadows. Startled, you whipped around. Nothing. Maybe you just needed to go back to bed. Yes. Back to bed. And you did.
Scuffle, scuffle.
Creeeeeeeeeee…
Thump, thump, thump.
Slam.
Growl…[f/n]...
“HELP ME!”