Brooks grabbed the cup, his attention shifting back over his shoulder, and threw the meds back dry. After countless years of the same routine, you learned to complete the task without the fuss of water.
Had it been years? He couldn’t remember.
He slid the empty med cup back through for inspection and opened his mouth, waggling his tongue. The orderly gave him a bored nod and waved him away with a swift flick of the wrist.
“I know what your profession was before you landed yourself in the psych ward,” she laughed.
“Shut up,” he huffed, out loud this time. “You wish you could swallow even half as professionally as I can.” A smirk lifted the corner of his mouth at her resulting chuckle.
Brooks was ushered by another faceless orderly to his first activity. His skin prickled as nerves raced down his spine, his hands clenching and releasing.
Therapy time.
Some days it was a sedative and hours in the sunroom where patients were encouraged to soak up the vitamin rich rays. Rocking chairs were placed in a line in front of a large protruding wall of glass facing the rising sun. If Brooks got to choose a therapy route, he would pick that one. Typically accompanied by a session with the psychiatrist or hydrotherapy, he would count it as a good day in the asylum.
Hydrotherapy was another favorite. It could get a little steamy, but a box filled with hot water and healing oils was a walk in the gardens compared to other treatments.
It was when the voices were too loud and orderlies overheard his whispers in the dark that therapy became something to fear.
Then, he and the other schizophrenics would be taken to the gymnasium and lined up, their backs pressed against the wall as they stood silently. Black privacy screens littered the wooden floors hiding everything but the orderly’s feet as they worked. Muffled screams echoed to the tall ceilings along with a spine-shivering buzz as patients were shocked into compliance with nothing to protect them but a rubber heel between their teeth.
The asylum kept electroshock therapy down to twice a week, but if you gave them any reason to up the dosage they wouldn’t hesitate to take you to a separate treatment floor.
And if electroshock therapy failed too many times? You went to the door at the end of the treatment hall. The thought alone made him sick to his stomach.
Brooks couldn’t remember when he arrived at the asylum. As a matter of fact, he couldn’t remember how or why, either. He assumed that the multiple rounds of electroshock therapy wiped his long-term memories as it so often did his short-term memories.
One thing he did recall was the initial treatment. Anger curled in his stomach as he recalled praying to a benevolent god for mercy. He begged his gods to stop his eyes from closing, to keep the needles out of his arms. But no one listened.
No one helped him, and no one ever fucking would.
The idea of trust was a ghost story, an illusion spun by others for comfort. In most realities, one could only trust themselves. But for Brooks? Trust was an unfathomable concept.
How does one trust a mind as broken as his?
Brooks couldn’t keep track of the passing of time while in the insulin-induced comas, but when the voices finally quieted he was allowed to open his eyes and reallyseefor the first time.
What he found wasn’t hope or freedom, nor was it the promise of a quiet mind.
It was desolation.
He lost something then. Maybe it was the willpower or energy to fight. Maybe his soul, beaten and tortured as it was, left him that day. Or, perhaps, it didn’t just leave. Leaving would indicate it was somewhere to find.
No. It died that day.
From then on, events were so blurry that time was incomprehensible. Voices were hushed and ambient sound was nearly non-existent. It was as if St. Dymphna’s was in its own little time bubble sequestered away from the world around it. Maybe it knew that one sound out of place could send the residents into a frenzy. One solid bump into their small loop of time and chaos would ensue.
He started going through the motions, a shell void of emotion, and the steady flow of insulin administered by doctors made sure of it. The drugged haze kept him unaware and complacent.
Brooks thought back to his first few days coming out of the coma induced from insulin shock therapy. His faceless nurse walked him through the greenhouse attached to the asylum and encouraged him to pick a bouquet of fresh flowers.
“Idle hands make idle minds, Brooks,”she tsked. A slight nudge on his shoulder urged him forward, and she said,“Pick a few of your favorite colors. Sheer it at the stem and we will find them some water.”
Vibrant reds and yellows dotted the large pots on the floor as lush vines spilled from hanging pots overhead. Lily of the valley, daisies, carnations and other species he couldn’t name decorated the muggy enclosure.
But it wasn’t the bright blooms that caught his attention. It was the dark-as-midnight petunias hanging in the corner and the black dahlias growing up a wall of lattice, their dark petals bleeding red in the sunlight. Most of all, it was the thorny bush lining the back wall with the silkiest black roses his fingers had ever touched.
Brooks had trouble focusing his eyes and mind, and when he went to pick one of the bloomed roses his finger caught on a thorn. He jerked it back and sucked the wound, pain lancing up his hand as drops of blood speckled the leaves surrounding the black rose.
