Ill Will

Author Notes: Thank you so much those who voted on who should die. ^_^ Couldn\'t have written this without you.

12. ILL WILL

It’s a very odd feeling being on the higher floors. Not so much that I’m at a higher elevation than what I was for the time that I’ve been here. Just, I get to meet some “interesting” people – a lot more than what I met on the first level. The orderlies are on call all the time. They also are hardly as nice as the ones downstairs. I never thought that I would call those guys nice, but compared to these fuckers, they’re saints. At least they answer you when you speak to them. Still, I guess I can’t expect them to say anything to me. I’m crazy.

Time also seems like a large difference here. Perhaps it’s all the medication in my veins to help with my “schizophrenia” but it definitely makes time seem like an alternate reality all together. From the moment I get up, to my forced pill intake, it seems like only a few seconds have passed before it is time to go back to bed. But, that’s mostly because I sleep a lot these days. I suppose that is the only good part about this upper level is that they let you sleep if you feel the need to. And here I thought they would regulate that too.

Still, the only frightening thing about being here is the fact that my general thought process becomes more and more sluggish. I believe it is the medication that does that. It slows everything down, or seems to. At first it was at a miniscule rate, but as I’m forced to take more and more pills each day, it’s becoming more and more noticeable.

-~-

“William, I wish you would stay with me during therapy sessions.” Doctor Augustine. Doctor Snow. Everything feels just so disconnected from my spectrum of understanding. Is this a result of the medication, or what?

“I have no friends.” Did I say that? It sounds rather far away.

“I don’t know why you say that every session that we have.” Do I say it every time we meet? “Simon is always asking after you. And your brother Patrick is always calling.”

“Do they?”

“I tell you this every time we – are your symptoms getting worst?”

“Are they?” I look up at the ceiling instead of looking towards him. He doesn’t have a bruise on his face anymore. Not even the make up to hide it. How long has it been?

“I’m not in the mood for games, William.” He’s tapping his pen on the side of the desk, not sure if he’s trying to get my attention or trying to keep his temper down. I wonder which it is. “We go through this song and dance every time – can we start the actual therapy session now?”

“I suppose.” My head lulls back and forth. I don’t know why. It just does. It makes me dizzy. I want it to stop, but I really have no ability to make it stop.

“Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome.”

White walls.

I only know they are white in the morning. It’s hard to tell now with only the fluorescent lights out my little window.

A vent on the left wall, high out of reach.

A starch bed.

It’s the same as the ones downstairs, only the doors are locked up here.

I’m back in my room.

I don’t know what happened at the therapy session.

I don’t know if I dreamt or hallucinated the therapy session.

What day is it?

What hour?

How cliché.

I don’t know.

Not sure why I care so much now when I didn’t care before. It didn’t matter then, but it matters now. I wonder why.

“You’re letting the medication get to your head.”

I jolt up in bed – staring, leaning towards the vent in my room.

HATTER!

“I really don’t know why I bother with you anymore. Not when it’s not going to help me at all.”

Huh?

“You can speak, can’t you?”

“…yes…?”

“Then please respond when I speak even if it is just a little. I don’t like talking to myself.”

That seems reasonable. But what doesn’t is the fact that I’m able to speak to him at all.

“When did you get up here?”

“A while ago.”

“When?”

“Does it matter?”

“I don’t know. I guess I wouldn’t know anyway.”

“You don’t need the medication.”

“Says someone who never leaves his room.”

I try to focus on it, but it’s gone before I can realize what I’m missing. I think it is something important.

“Don’t worry too much about it.”

“I won’t. I don’t really.”

“Is it frightening?”

“At first.” I shrug. It’s nice. I’ve missed these conversations that I’ve had with Hatter. I’ve missed conversations that I had with Simon. I wonder, if I’m better yet. My mouth is opening and closing, I become aware that I’m speaking. “But I can’t not take my medication, so I can’t not stop feeling afraid of my lazy mind.”

“Why can’t you stop?”

“Because, they would force it down my throat.” I tried that sometime or other. It didn’t end well. They don’t want some violent act from me. I don’t know why they have to be so violent.

“You sound stoned.”

“I suppose.”

I lift my hand up – stare at it. The fingertips tremble just slightly as I level it in the air. I hold it like that for a few short seconds before pressing it down into the mattress again. I think I’m hungry. I tremble when I’m hungry or cold. Not sure which one I am right now.

“Have you had any dreams lately?”

“No.” I don’t think I dream anymore. I can’t remember my last dream anyway.

“Did you ever find out if what you saw was reality?”

“No.” I don’t think it was though. Things like that don’t exist in the real world. I should have realized that before. Oh well, I can’t do much about it now. I don’t think anyone is going to believe anything I say now, anyway. So, it doesn’t matter.

“You should try to find that out.”

“Why?”

“Because it is important.”

“No, it isn’t.” The room shifts left to right in my direct vision as I shake my head. It leaves me dizzy; so I rest my head back down on my pillow. But my change of position doesn’t hurt the conversation; I can still hear him normally.

“Don’t you want to know if you’re crazy or not?”

“It doesn’t matter anymore.” I close my eyes, I’d rather sleep now. Mad Hatter is being far more annoying than usual. I’ll admit that I’ve missed talking to truly anyone who wasn’t either medicated or a pompous ass, but I don’t like this conversation.

“It matters. Even if only you know that you’re sane.” His words are quiet, thoughtful. It’s odd to hear it like this – even the harshness of usual voice seems to soften. I can barely hear the gravel turning. Still, the words are familiar.

“Didn’t you tell me this before?”

“Something similar I’m sure.” He laughs – the harsh laughter of a smoker that slowly turns to hacking in his overexcitement.

“Why are you laughing now?”

“No reason. I suppose you won’t believe me until later.”

“I believed you last time and I ended up here.”

My eyes are still closed, still bordering just a little out of sleep even though I am still talking. It doesn’t matter – my sleepy voice and my drugged voice most likely sound very similar if not completely the same.

“You don’t really care what I think anymore, do you?”

Now that I’ve started my journey to my usual dreamless sleep, I cannot stop the process. I mumble some sort of response back, gurgling in the back of my throat. I try to make coherent sentences, but it just doesn’t seem really worth it. While I can sleep in the morning, sleeping at night also helps to pass the time.

“Sweet dreams, William.”

-~-

I’m surprised.

I’m actually dreaming after who knows how long. Though, this is shaping up to be another weird one.

I blink as I look around the area – I’m standing in the middle of a bathroom. It is pristine and immaculately kept (even hotels don’t keep their bathrooms this clean) – marble bath tub with silver showerhead, matching marble sink and two large mirrors. It’s slightly disconcerting that I cannot see my reflection in them, but I don’t think much about it. Dream logic.

I turn to hear soft padding of feet against the tile floor of the bathroom. My eyes widen as I stare at Patrick – wearing some plain black pajamas rather than his lawyer suit. It’s odd to see him like this; even more so in a rather intimate setting. Sure, it’s just a bathroom, but it’s like being a voyeur or something. On my brother, no less. I really wonder about the psychological meaning in this.

Patrick keeps his head to the ground, lifting up momentarily to look into the mirror. I can see his face perfectly as it slowly fades in color, irises dilating in fear, mouth slipping open just slightly enough to blow air on the mirror before whipping his head around, staring directly at me. However, he doesn’t see me. At least, it doesn’t register on his face as he keeps looking around the bathroom for something, but I don’t see what it is.

Crisis passes, and I feel my heart slowing with Patrick’s – still wondering what freaked him out to begin with but deciding that I really shouldn’t think any more into it than I have to. His forehead crinkles in confusion before he shakes his head a few times, unsure, shoulders slump. He opens up the mirror-cupboard, probably reaching to take out his toothbrush but instead produces a razor. In the closed mirror, I can see a confused expression come over Patrick’s face despite his other hand coming up to close the mirror back up. It leaves him standing in front of the mirrors and me, holding the razor in his right hand.

My attention shifts directly to the mirror, I don’t know why for a few seconds until I see it. The lights in the mirror bathroom flicker for a moment, Patrick notices it as well. Mouth sliding open, he looks around his own bathroom to find that the lights are fine while the mirror lights continue to flicker sporadically. The word ‘what’ is clearly on his lips, but he doesn’t say it. The lights in the mirror bathroom shiver for a moment before it appears like they are being pulled from its placement, one hanging just a few inches behind mirror Patrick’s head, wires spraying everywhere like some broken spider web, casting odd shadows as it continues to flicker – barely alive.

Patrick just as I am is drawn to stare at the mirror, bringing his face close to the mirror’s surface as he constantly looks backwards to note that his real bathroom remains untouched in whatever is going on in its reflection. As the lights flicker, dimming finally, we see a humanoid figure walking into the room. It’s impossible to see if the person is male or female, but only can tell its silhouette. Tall and imposing, it stands behind Patrick’s mirror form as Patrick’s face squints and starts to pull away from the mirror to give another look behind him.

But he doesn’t.

Instead his gaze shoots down to his arms, staring at them while I continue to stare at the mirror as the shape slowly begins filling the entire surface of it. Only the top of Patrick’s head is still in the mirror.

“God, what is it?” I murmur to myself, unsure if I can be heard or not. It seems so odd to make sound now after so long in silence.

Screaming.

I become aware of the screaming instantly as I run over to the side of Patrick, trying to see what he’s screaming about. My eyes widen at the sight. I see his left arm pressed hard against the side of the marble sink while his right hand drags the razor down the arm vertically, slowly scraping off the skin. His face is contorted in agony, in fear. He doesn’t want to do it! His knuckles are white in effort to pull away, trying just to open his fingers up to release the razor, but it seems to do nothing as he tears away the first layer, bringing blood up to the surface.

I can only watch as Patrick tears layer after layer of his own inner forearm off with a razor. Slapping the razor at the side of the sink to get certain chunks of his flesh out of it, keep it sharp. Blood is oozing down the side of the sink, dipping into the sink,I it’s everywhere. His skin is starting to become white from blood loss. I don’t know what to do. Even though this is a dream, I don’t want it to end like this. I have to help Patrick! I don’t want him to die! Whatever I said, whatever belief you got, I don’t want him to die!

I run out of the bathroom, to try to do something, to try to get help.

I wake up in my asylum bed, legs flinging in all directions, sweat ruining my pajamas. I press my knees up to my chest, whimpering softly.

“Bad dreams?”

I don’t answer. I can’t answer. I remain silent and Mad Hatter seems content, going back to sleep or slipping off into his own silence, I don’t care. I continue to hold myself until morning. I don’t want to go back to sleep. Ever.