IAN
The corridor stretched out before me, cold and indifferent. My hands were bound behind, chafing against the restraints, and a uniformed officer kept pace behind. I kept my gaze fixed on the floor, but felt the weight of eyes – assessing, predatory – along my back. These men, these inmates, they were trying to gauge me, to measure the threat I represented. And the truth was… I was diminished. Hollowed out. But they couldn’t know that.
Maddie’s voice echoed in my head, a relentless loop: “You have to act tough in there.” It was a mantra, a desperate prayer against the rising tide of fear. “Or else you’ll get eaten alive.”
“Name?”
I looked up. A woman in crisp white stood before me, clipboard in hand, her expression impatient. She tapped the board, a subtle demand for a response.
“Uh…” I hesitated, the name catching in my throat. “Ian Becker.”
“Welcome to St. Patrick’s Psychiatric and Behavioral Institution, Mr. Becker.” Her smile was brittle, sickly sweet. “You’re going to hate it.”
A dry, sardonic observation. I found myself appreciating it, if only slightly.
The officer wrenched the handcuffs free, the metal clicking open with a sharp, final sound. He nudged me forward, toward the nurse who turned and walked ahead.
“This is going to be your room.” She gestured toward a heavy, steel door scored with deep scratches. “You’ll sleep now. Breakfast tomorrow, then sessions start soon after. Make friends if you can. The sane ones, at least. If you can find any.”
She unlocked the door and I stepped inside. Two beds, stripped to the barest necessities: thin sheets, a single, flat pillow for each. The room was dark, stained with neglect. Scrawled across the walls – obscenities, crude drawings, a desperate, screaming graffiti of madness.
“Roommate?” I asked, glancing at the bedspread, a chaotic mess of clothing and debris.
“That would be Draven,” she sighed, her voice flat. “Good luck.”
She turned to leave, but I caught her attention. “What does that mean?”
She hesitated, her gaze darting nervously around the corridor. She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Let’s just say he doesn’t have the greatest reputation here.”
My mouth went dry. The words caught in my throat. She abruptly shut the door, leaving me alone with the stale air and the lingering scent of decay. I stared at the stains on the floor, crimson smudges like spilled wine, and collapsed onto the unforgiving mattress.
Maddie was probably weeping now, huddled in her bed. Or maybe she was screaming at our mother, or even worse, at our father. I couldn’t imagine her visiting him after what had happened.
They’d forced me out of the house, stripped of my clothes, and then brought me here – St. Patrick’s. They’d changed me into an itchy, pale blue shirt and trousers that barely fit, then subjected me to a humiliating pat-down to ensure I had no weapons. I’d thought I was going to jail, but considering my age, they’d brought me here instead. A mental hospital for the damned.
A place where I didn’t belong.