Pendulum

4. Carry (Izuna)

Patient name: Izuna Uchiha

Date of birth: 13/09/1985

Journal entry: 25/11/2022

Currently: Patient who has been in the acute psychiatric ward since 5/5/2022. Home staff found him trying to hang himself with a towel on a hook in his bathroom 24/4/2022. When found also severe rashes on wrists that caused septic shock, treated in intensive care and then medicine ward before admittance to the acute psychiatric ward under the Compulsory Psychiatric Care Act. Currently affirms suicidal thoughts daily with plan. Does not want to communicate plan. Self-harm in the form of head-banging. Currently very agitated due to co-patient taken in under the Compulsory Psychiatric Care Act two days ago. Refuses food for the last two days. Compulsory Psychiatric Care deemed necessary for patient as he affirms he will try to end his life if he is released from the ward. No admittance outside even with staff due to high risk of deviation.

Psychological examination: Lacking formal, no emotional contact. Patient answers questions accordingly, sometimes with latency. No eye contact. Patient picks his nail polish and jumps his leg up and down during conversation. Confirms suicidal thoughts.

Planning: Every meal with member of staff. Consult medicine doctor. If patient doesn't eat for three days requirement of nasogastric tube. Belting if necessary.

It was years ago anyone touched me.

I couldn't even remember when the last time was.

Even when I had screamed after the moon-man, I hadn't allowed anyone to touch me. The staff knew how much I hated physical contact of any form, and so had just stood in front of me with their arms out to prevent me from intervening. I was ashamed to admit it worked to prevent me from helping the moon-man.

Not counting the times I'd been belted and force-fed, I believe the last time anyone touched me was the last time my father had fucked me. I had been sixteen. It was twenty-one years ago. I hadn't even touched anyone on accident. Not even myself; all sexual desires had evaporated in my teens. If it was because of what my father did or my own personality, I could never know. It didn't matter. It didn't bother me that much. It was just the way things were.

So it was with great surprise I woke up in the middle of the night, two weeks after the moon-man's arrival, in a cold sweat, panting.

I didn't know what was wrong with me. I didn't feel the cold dread of having woken up from a bad dream. I didn't feel out of breath the way you did when you'd held your breath in your sleep. Instead, I felt a sensation that was terribly unfamiliar to me, yet so familiar it was like a punch to the face.

Desire.

I was a dressed sleeper, hating the sensation of sheets against my bare skin, preferring to wear loose trousers and big T-shirts. My T-shirt was now drenched in sweat, my trousers drenched in something sticky sweet.

I leaned my head back, moaned, shoved my hair out of my face; night-time was the only time I allowed it to be loose. I snaked my hand down, bit my other hand to prevent any sounds from being emitted through my lips; it was a long time ago so I didn't know how well I could handle it. As I grabbed myself, I gasped, bit down hard on my hand. The sensation was cold, sickly, exciting. I moved my hand, let it slide over my wet skin as I imagined, imagined him, imagined us. I didn't know why it was him. I hadn't had any thoughts like that about him but in the moment, his imaginary arms around me felt good, so good. He just lay in bed next to me, held me, his muscles playing beneath his skin as he tried to restrain from hurting me in pure desire. I saw him watch me with intent as I gave myself pleasure, not demanding eye contact from me, just accepting me the way I was, telling me to carry on with his body language in a way I could understand.