Hall of Infinite Doors
Despite the rumbling in your belly, you make a conscious decision to avoid eating. Your entire situation here makes you uneasy, and until you feel you can trust your surroundings more you don't think it's prudent to ingest anything they give you. You leave the food and medication where they are, and after a short period of time your door buzzes and opens again, revealing Shawn with a dishrag over one shoulder and a tray under his arm. He smiles when he sees you, but clicks his teeth disapprovingly when he notices your untouched food.
"What do you need to diet for?" he says, "You're thin enough already. And I don't think these are meant to be optional," he says, tapping the paper cup half-full with pills, "though what do I know, I'm new here and you seem lucid enough. Here, if you're not going to eat that I'm going to steal a meatball, I don't get off work for an hour yet. That okay?" You nod your assent and Shawn plops down on the bed beside you, stabbing at your uneaten food with the plastic fork and chatting amiably between bites. He's a friendly sort, interested in you enough to ask questions, but a strong enough conversationalist to be able to fill the gaps of silence when you won't or can't answer him.
You ask him about the facility. "I've only been here for a couple of days," he responds, "but it's been... an enlightening experience." He snaps open the tab on what was formerly your can of Sprite. "Out of all the many flavors of crazy I've become acquainted with here, you're one of the mildest sorts, actually. There are a lot of people here who will just never recover, never get better, and the best we can do for them is to give them a supportive home and medication enough that their mental states will at least approximate normal." He sips liquid sweetness from his can. "The grounds here are really nice, very well kept-up. I suppose you'll be seeing that yourself soon, though. Or maybe not, depending on how soon that injured brain of yours recovers." He taps you playfully on the head, starting a minor, giggling poke-war with you that continues for several playful minutes.
You ask him about Dr. Callo and Everard, and at the mention of that last name his face sours. "Yeah, I know Everard, though the good Doctor I've only heard of. The man's a humorless son of a bitch, though. Made no effort to try and get to know you, just shuttles you where you need to go, right?" He grins. "I wouldn't be surprised to find out he was a patient once... or maybe will be in the future. He's serious enough to be worrisome."
After finishing up his drink, he clears up your dishes and wishes you a friendly farewell, telling you that if you ever need him you can ask the nurse through the intercom if he's around, though he's gone at nights. When he leaves, the door clicks behind him.
Night falls.
The recessed lighting overhead keeps the room bright for an hour or two, but eventually shuts off on its own - lights-out, you surmise. You try to get to sleep, but are having a hard time of it. New beds always took some getting used to, you remember - disjointed scenes from somewhere deep in your memory dislodge and float free, empty of meaning or coherence. You do manage to drift in and out of consciousness, but you're awake when you hear the loud rumble of a heavy cart pass by your door - and see the crack of light spring into being when the jostling opens your door. It's only an inch, but it's open - Shawn must not have locked it when he left!
"What do you need to diet for?" he says, "You're thin enough already. And I don't think these are meant to be optional," he says, tapping the paper cup half-full with pills, "though what do I know, I'm new here and you seem lucid enough. Here, if you're not going to eat that I'm going to steal a meatball, I don't get off work for an hour yet. That okay?" You nod your assent and Shawn plops down on the bed beside you, stabbing at your uneaten food with the plastic fork and chatting amiably between bites. He's a friendly sort, interested in you enough to ask questions, but a strong enough conversationalist to be able to fill the gaps of silence when you won't or can't answer him.
You ask him about the facility. "I've only been here for a couple of days," he responds, "but it's been... an enlightening experience." He snaps open the tab on what was formerly your can of Sprite. "Out of all the many flavors of crazy I've become acquainted with here, you're one of the mildest sorts, actually. There are a lot of people here who will just never recover, never get better, and the best we can do for them is to give them a supportive home and medication enough that their mental states will at least approximate normal." He sips liquid sweetness from his can. "The grounds here are really nice, very well kept-up. I suppose you'll be seeing that yourself soon, though. Or maybe not, depending on how soon that injured brain of yours recovers." He taps you playfully on the head, starting a minor, giggling poke-war with you that continues for several playful minutes.
You ask him about Dr. Callo and Everard, and at the mention of that last name his face sours. "Yeah, I know Everard, though the good Doctor I've only heard of. The man's a humorless son of a bitch, though. Made no effort to try and get to know you, just shuttles you where you need to go, right?" He grins. "I wouldn't be surprised to find out he was a patient once... or maybe will be in the future. He's serious enough to be worrisome."
After finishing up his drink, he clears up your dishes and wishes you a friendly farewell, telling you that if you ever need him you can ask the nurse through the intercom if he's around, though he's gone at nights. When he leaves, the door clicks behind him.
Night falls.
The recessed lighting overhead keeps the room bright for an hour or two, but eventually shuts off on its own - lights-out, you surmise. You try to get to sleep, but are having a hard time of it. New beds always took some getting used to, you remember - disjointed scenes from somewhere deep in your memory dislodge and float free, empty of meaning or coherence. You do manage to drift in and out of consciousness, but you're awake when you hear the loud rumble of a heavy cart pass by your door - and see the crack of light spring into being when the jostling opens your door. It's only an inch, but it's open - Shawn must not have locked it when he left!