Head Case

by Kendra Moreno

  “Hardly,” the younger man huffs.

  I just shrug, turning toward them. Danny holds a hand out toward the door, like a grand gesture to my freedom. I make my way through the door and into the hallway. Everything is just as I left it.

  “Be good, now, little girl.”

  I flick Danny off over my shoulder with a laugh and jog down the hall toward the common room. Mitzy is probably freaking out without me. She’s never been good at dealing with this place. She’s a little crazier than most of the people here, if you ask me. Of course, no one ever asks me anything. Secondhand psychology experience doesn’t count for much when you get that experience firsthand.

  Skidding to a stop in the doorway, I scan the room for Mitzy. I don’t see her right away, distracted by the large crowd. Even the roomers are out today, must be a movie day or something. What day of the week is it, even?

  “Is she always like this?” Asshole Orderly—as I’d unaffectionately come to think of him—asks Danny behind me.

  “Sometimes. She’s been here a long time, but she’s a good patient if you show her the kind of respect you want her to show you.”

  “That’s bullshit, man. She’s just another sick freak. She bit me, for Christ’s sakes!”

  “Listen, Vic. If you want to get along in Whisperwood, you’re going to have to learn how things actually work around here.” Danny sounds impatient, annoyed even. I smile to myself as I make my way into the common area.

  Mitzy is seated at a table, surrounded by roomers, poor girl. We’d dubbed the ones who never come out of their rooms unless forced ‘roomers’ years ago. It’s one of those small things that makes this feel a little less like a prison sentence.

  “Hey,” she murmurs, clearly uncomfortable.

  “Come on, get up. Out. Go.” I clap once in between each word to get the roomers’ attention.

  Over-medicated eyes stare back at me, and I groan. Okay, fine. I grab Mitzy’s hand and pull her to her feet, determined to find somewhere more upbeat to sit on my first day back in civilization.

  “How are you?” Mitzy sounds more clear-headed than usual, and it catches me off guard.

  “I’m good, chick. How are you?” I peer around the room, looking for an empty table. Across the common area, a new victim is being escorted in by Danny—that man sure gets around fast. The new man isn’t too much older than Derrick. My eyes fall from his dark hair to his shoulders. He seems muscular underneath the long-sleeved shirt, but in a trim kind of way. I file that away later for inspiration, bringing my eyes back to his face. Steel-blue eyes lock on mine, and I feel my heart stall for a second.

  “Are you listening?” Mitzy grumbles beside me.

  “Mhm,” I lie, my eyes still locked with the stranger across the room. The lines around his eyes tell me he’s either older than I thought at first glance, or he’s had a hard time of it. Then again, everyone here has had a hard time, or they wouldn’t be here. I lick my lips, breaking the awkward—but extremely intense—staring contest to glance at my friend.

  “Uh-huh, not even a week—” She yelps when I flick her ear and point to an empty table. She scurries off toward our new haven in the petting zoo, and I follow, glancing over my shoulder as Danny ushers the fresh meat around the common room toward the entertainment area. I had to admit, the media set up here was decent. They’d even bought a game-system a couple years back, but we were only allowed to play it on special occasions.

  “Please don’t flirt with the spies,” Mitzy begs.

  I snort, shaking my head and take a seat beside her. “Not everyone is a spy, you know.”

  “Everyone with a dick is.”

  Fucking Mitzy.

  Chapter 3

  Crane

  I stare at the sign behind the counter with unease, my fingers twitching sporadically at my side. I don’t know why I’m here, not really, but I can’t shake the feeling that some shit is wrong, that something inside me is different now.

  It is. . ..

  I curse at the voice in my head, the new proper one that won’t go away no matter what I try. I googled it online and only came up with either mental illnesses or demonic possessions. Seriously, I found some weird-ass shit while searching for answers, and it only got stranger and stranger.

  I’ve never had a history of mental illness, and there hadn’t been any in my family as far as I know, but I wasn’t sure what else to do, so here I am.

  Whisperwood Sanitorium. I’m checking myself voluntarily into an insane asylum. Shit, maybe I really am insane, after all. The top rated “help center” is out of my way from the big city, located just outside the small town of Sleepy Hollow, but it was the first place that popped up and didn’t seem like a government-funded crazy house, so I made the trip.

  “You’re going to have to fill out these forms,” the lady behind the counter says, her voice so monotone, it would have been a recipe for disaster if she was a teacher. She hands me a clipboard with a large stack of papers and a pen with a giant fake daisy taped to the top. “Make sure to sign each paper or else you’ll waste both of our times.”

  “Uh, thanks, I guess.” I take a seat in one of the overly comfy chairs and settle in, holding the awkward pen between my fingers as I read the contract in front of me.

  I am voluntarily checking myself into Whisperwood Sanatorium and understand this stay is temporary, of my own free will, and will not be a permanent solution unless I am deemed a danger to myself or others. The Whisperwood Mental Health Awareness Program is billable to both private and public insurance programs.

  I blink at the words, hesitating. Am I really willing to give up so much control? It’s only for the month, but what if they try to turn it into a—my eyes skipped back to the sentence again— permanent solution? I’m not a danger to myself. I used to think I wasn’t a danger to others. Now, maybe I really am some psycho. But, do I want to risk being stuck in this hellhole for the rest of my life?

  Someone sits down beside me, an elderly woman, far too close for comfort.

  She has a nice head.

  I growl under my breath and initial next to the sentence. Hearing voices probably means I at least need to talk to someone about my new issues.

  I flip through the papers, the words starting to blur together as I initial and sign each one. Honestly, I could probably be signing my life away and I wouldn’t even know it. At this

  point, it feels a little like I need to be in this place, as if something is telling me this is where I’m meant to be right now. I never saw myself in an insane asylum, but hey, here we are.

  I stand and take the clipboard back to the woman who takes it without meeting my eyes. “Someone will be out shortly to take you back and sit in on your first session.”

  “What does that mean? Is it some sort of test?” I frown, wondering if I should ask for the paperwork back to read the fine print.

  “It’s the initial assessment, so our doctors can see where you’re at.”

  “So . . .” I squint. “It’s a test.”

  She sighs, the sound long and drawn out. “If it was a test, it would be a placement test. Now, please, take a seat and someone will be with you shortly.”

  I can tell she had a few other choice words she would like to say to me, but her job stops her from spouting them. I wonder if all the people here will be the same. It doesn’t bode well for me. I can already feel my irritation growing and I’m not even officially in the place yet. How long will it be before I accidentally on purpose hit someone? Who knows? Honestly, it’s going to be a surprise for me, too.

  “Mr. Woodward.” I look up at the woman who calls my name. “I’m Dr. Sylvia Yoon. You can come with me.”

  I stand, studying the woman closely. She’s exactly what I assumed a psychiatrist would look like, thick-rimmed glasses, pristine dress in a plain color. She’s not wearing a single color you can say evokes emotion. Instead, she kind of just feels calm, and that somehow sets my nerves on edge.

  “Are you the one giving
me a test?” I ask, just for shits and giggles. I have a feeling this place is going to skirt around the truth a lot, and I really can’t help poking and prodding.

  “We don’t give tests here, Mr. Woodward. This is an assessment.” She gestures for me to follow her through a thick door, her fingers nimbly press a code in to open it. I try not to let the metal grates on the small window get to me, but I can’t help but feel like I’m willingly walking into a prison, no matter how the words were spun on the pamphlet they kept on the pristine tables in the waiting room.

  “That’s what the lady at the front desk said, too. The thing is, I’m pretty sure an assessment is the same as a test except no one is giving me a letter grade. Or do you grade us based on like a scale of one to ten. Is ten certified insane? Have you ever graded yourself?” I can tell I’m rambling but I’m happy to see where my word vomit takes me. The more doors we pass through, the more white walls I see, the more my anxiety skyrockets. What the fuck did I sign myself up for?

  Dr. Yoon turns and looks at me over her shoulder, her eyes studying mine intently. “There’s nothing to be afraid of at Whisperwood, Mr. Woodward. I can assure you we take our role very seriously and we look forward to assessing your worries and finding solutions.”

  “Could you stop calling me Mr. Woodward. It’s not helping. Crane is fine.”

  Why are we here?

  I jerk my head to the side at the sound of the voice but try my best not to let it show. Unfortunately, Dr. Yoon is probably trained for that sort of thing, and when she zeroes in on the movement, I curse under my breath.

  “I can do that. My office is just right through here, Crane. Please, go inside and take a seat. I’ll be right in after I hand your paperwork to my assistant.”

  Yoon’s office isn’t quite what I was expecting. Where the hallways had been neutral, Yoon’s office is a calming beige color, the walls decorated with everything from a degree in a fancy frame to professional pictures of cats wearing different outfits. I raise my brows, amused, but honestly, the cats really do calm me down, and I take a seat in the cushy maroon chair in front of the desk.

  The desk is neat and tidy, no files lying around for curious eyes to check out. I look, hoping to get a better sense of the place, and I’m disappointed when there’s nothing there. A little golden nameplate says her name just in case I forget. A small clock sits on the corner, the ticking loud in the small room, and I try hard not to start marking out the ticks with my fingers against my leg. I fail.

  Dr. Yoon comes striding back into the room and closes the door behind her, a brand-new file in her hands. She smiles calmly at me as she takes a seat in the comfy office chair on the other side of the desk. The woman should really be some sort of yoga instructor. She forces me to calm down with her outward appearance, but instead of it making me happy, I actually get a little pissed off.

  “First, we’ll talk about what brought you through our doors, Crane, and then we’ll move on to a more in-depth analysis. There are a lot of questions we will cover, and I want you to know that if you at any point feel uncomfortable with my line of questioning, you can tell me to stop, or ask for a moment to collect your thoughts.”

  “I understand.”

  “Perfect. So, tell me why you’re here, Crane.” She braces her arms on the desk and waits for an answer, her eyes making steady contact with mine. I’m sure she means it to be reassuring, but it only puts me on edge, and I end up looking at the little golden nameplate again.

  “Things have gotten pretty weird lately,” I murmur. My fingers tap, tap, tap against my thigh.

  “When you say weird, can you explain what you mean?” Dr. Yoon picks up a pen and flips open the file to a lined page.

  “Uh, well, I think I’m hearing voices. Wait, one voice. It’s pretty distinct, proper even, and he’s a right asshole.”

  She nods, scratching at the paper. “So, it’s only one voice? When did this start?”

  “About a week ago.”

  “And has the voice told you to harm yourself or others?” She looks up at me again and I scratch my neck in nervousness.

  “Not myself.”

  “But this voice has told you to harm others?” she asks again. “I need you to be honest with me, Crane.”

  “There has been some mention of . . .” I trail off, unsure how to continue. The voice has told me to kill people, yes, but if I say that, would it get me locked up forever?

  “Mentions of?”

  “Yes, the voice has told me to hurt people. But I haven’t. I recognize I shouldn’t hurt the people he tells me to.”

  “Okay, that’s good. Knowing the voice is wrong is a good thing. You mentioned the voice is proper and distinct. Could you elaborate more?”

  “Well, he sounds kind of like some eighteenth-century aristocrat, but like he’s always angry. I don’t know how to describe it, but like I said, he’s an asshole.”

  Only because you are not listening to me, you fool.

  I grit my teeth.

  “Is he talking to you now?”

  “Honestly, he never shuts up. Which is why I’m here, so you can fix me.” The ticking inside the office gets louder, almost as if it’s echoing inside my eardrums.

  “I don’t think you understand how our program works,” Dr. Yoon says gently, setting her pen down. “We don’t fix people. We help them manage their afflictions, whether that be with coping mechanisms or medication, but you are not broken. There is no quick fix here.”

  “Yeah, but I’m not crazy. I just started hearing a voice is all.”

  “A voice that has told you to harm others,” she reminds me. “But I don’t think you’re crazy, Crane. We don’t use words like that here. We acknowledge some people struggle with reality and coping, that doesn’t mean you’re crazy. Can we talk about your life in general? It says here you work in a morgue. Do you spend your nights alone?”

  “Is this your way of asking if I’m single?” My eyebrows creep up my forehead again and I just barely resist the urge to laugh at my own joke.

  “Yes.” She doesn’t beat around the bush at all.

  “Yeah, I’m single.”

  “Have you been through any recent break-ups?” The pen comes out again.

  “My last steady girlfriend was over four years ago.”

  I can tell the information surprises Yoon but not because she lets it show on her face. It’s more like I can sense the surprise inside her mind. She has a killer poker face, though. She’d probably wipe the floor with me in a good card game.

  “Why is that?”

  “Uh, I might have taken a prank too far, and Paige ended up pretty messed up about it.”

  “Can you explain?”

  I sigh. Seems like this story is coming up a lot lately and I don’t really want to keep hashing up old bullshit. “Look, I work in a morgue. It scares people. I might have laid on a table and pretended to be a cadaver when she came to visit. She also might have fainted and had three years of therapy because of it. I never saw her again after the incident, but her friend reached out and made sure to tell me what a piece of shit I was.”

  A muscle in Yoon’s face twitches, the first crack I’ve seen, and I’m not sure if it is amusement or disgust there. Honestly, if it hadn’t happened to me, it would probably be funny. But I’m not lucky enough to be amused as she starts writing furiously.

  “And there haven’t been any serious relationships since?”

  “No.” That sounds bad even to me, so I immediately try to backpedal as if it’ll help. “But I’m not lonely or anything. Like, I have plenty of intimate meetings with women. I’m just not ready to have to buy presents for someone again. That shit gets expensive.”

  Yoon looks at me over her thick glasses, her calming brown eyes studying me. “I see.”

  I tense, realizing I dug myself a little deeper rather than making it better. “Do you?”

  She steeples her fingers in front of her and meets my eyes. “I think this is a good place to stop, Crane.
We will have daily meetings to assess your worries and symptoms. For today, I’d like to introduce you to Whisperwood and show you around. We’re a world class facility here, and we’re proud of our progress.”

  “Does this mean I passed the test?”

  Yoon smiles. “This wasn’t a test, Crane. Only an assessment.”

  “That sounds like I failed,” I point out.

  She hands me a pack of papers with a warm smile. "In here, you'll find our group therapy schedule as well as some coping mechanisms you may find helpful. The voice you've been hearing is angry, so some anger management might help you consolidate those feelings instead of isolating them to a separate entity."

  I stare at the papers with unease. That sounds awfully structured. “Uh, I’m not really a morning person,” I mumble as I see some of the programs start at the crack of dawn. Hell, isn’t there some sort of program that starts at noon?

  “I think you’ll find what you’re looking for, Crane.” The door opens behind me, and I turn to see an older man dressed in light-blue scrubs standing there expectantly. “Danny, here, will show you around Whisperwood. Your room has already been arranged. You’ll find we like to give our residents freedom here unless it becomes a danger. If you feel uncomfortable during your stay, please don’t hesitate to come to me or someone else with your concerns.”

  I stand, unsure if I should nod my head, bow, or give the doctor a few well-placed finger guns. Honestly, I don’t even know if I want to follow the orderly. He looks kind enough, but he also makes the hairs on my arm stand on end, reminding me too much of the old man from the bar.

  “You can follow me, Mr. Crane.”

  “No need for Mr. Just Crane.” I have a feeling I’ll be saying that far too often. I’m not used to the formality. No one even uses it when I’m working, but that’s probably because my living human interaction is pretty low.

  “Is this where I get put in a padded cell?” I ask, raising my brow at him.

  Danny grins. “It’s like floating on a cloud.”