The Sight

Chapter 4

The thing with crazy people is that they don't know they're crazy. When an insane person picks up and acknowledges the fact they are once and truly crazy, they end up being even crazier, then there's the worse of the worst.... Only the psycho's of the psychopaths are in St. Leontuis'. Apparently I'm one of those.

I distinctly remember blackness, silence, blackness and more blackness. There might have even been a little bit of my ears ringing, the high pitch ringing that only dogs are supposed to hear. Either way, I couldn't see, and now I couldn't feel anything but a thin piece of cloth covering my body, then leather and metal that bound my wrists and feet to the very thin portable bed I was on now. Even prisoners get better beds than psycho's.... our bed's are basically a lot like a sheet of foam then a padded bed cover over it. No comfort, no support. I remember this feeling all too vividly, it meant a cold white, blank room. It meant no blankets, just a clean cloth every morning. It also meant my makeup would be whatever survives until I get out of here, and from the episode, hopefully the soonest I could get out was a month. Cold showers, cloths, bad food and monitoring. It also meant Spencer would be calling in everyday at some point. But there was no point in thinking about what would happen, I would only get myself worked up and have to go into an even deeper section of the mad house.

Then everything became lighter, it wasn't complete darkness, it was like having my eyes closed in broad daylight. Very slowly but surely sounds were becoming more apparent and less hazy and mushed together. I should be enthralled, excited as hell, jumping for joy, hope running through my viens. But I was here, in this looney bin again, being able to hear all the screams of the crazy people around me, having blank walls to stare at all day for the first couple of days. Having doctors ask me the same questions I had been asked a thousand times and me giving the same answers.

The doctor would come into the padded room holding a blue folder, inside that would have all my history in there, what I have been diagnosed with, my fears, my dreams, a detailed account of every single episode of mine, what could have caused them and what medication they have tried giving me and what I have now. They would have a friendly and nice smile plastered on their face, their badge with very little information hanging on the right side of their white lab coats. They will sit down on the chair opposite the bed and get comfortable before looking up at you and start to ask questions even though the answer is right in front of them. All the time trying to keep that friendly grin. All it managing to do though, is aggravate me.

"What is your full name?"
"You have my name on the piece of paper, its kind of what happens when you're a patient in a looney bin..."
"psychiatric hospital." They would say it very snappily as if I had insulted them, but you know whatever.
"Fine, but you have my name o.."
"Just answer the question." Once again they would cut me off, loosing the 'lovely and caring' tone and just trying to get out of my damn way, quick, which I wanted as well.
"Castiel Joan Elder." At this point I would feel the heat rising in my cheeks as I would silently curse my parents for being strict Christians.
"How old are you?"
"18."
"When is your birthday?"
"30th of October."
"Where are your parents?" This question got me every time, it said where they were in the folder, it said it for every time I had come in here, yet I was being asked it again. I saw no point in saying it because I knew the doctor already knew, they were just asking questions. Confirming my grip on reality. But if i'd had another episode, it meant I had lost the grip, so, why were they questioning me? I had no idea. With the next couple of seconds anger and rage would fuel my attitude and answers...
"You know exactly where they are."
"Where are your parents, Castiel?"
"It says it in the report."
"Castiel, if you do not co-operate we will have to sed.." I cut them off this time, they knew I hated needles, one of my worst fears. Blackmailing me always seemed to work with this lot, 'if you do this we wont use needles', 'don't do this and there's no injections', 'if you do that there will be one of your worse fears sticking out of your arm'. Cocky ass cows.
"No needles!"
"Then, where are you're parents?"
"In a coffin six feet underground!"
"What happened to them?"
"A car accident."
"Were you in the accident?"
"Yes."
"How old were you?"
"Six."
"So, you started coming to the hospital after your parents death?"
"Yes." Now that my parents were out of the way, quite literally, they would ask me if I knew my condition, if I knew I had medication, and if I took the pills.

"Do you know why you are in St.Leontuis'?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because I was diagnosed with psychosis when I was six years old after seeing things and as you put it, 'loosing sense of reality'."
"Do you know which medication you take?"
"Yes, Haldol, 10 Mg, tablet form, a light green/blue colour, I was to have it before my meal on a morning, preferably breakfast, and after my meal at night, desirably tea."
"Right... Have you been taking your medication?"
"No, I've been crushing it and selling it as drugs to elephants." I liked to see the panic on their faces as soon as you said no, it was amusing, but their fear turns to annoyance when they realise I'm being sarcastic. "Of course I've been taking it, I wouldn't dare risk having an injection."

Now they would jump back to where I am living and with whom:
"Where do you live?"
"In an apartment."
"With whom?"
"Spencer." I had only had this answer once before, a couple of weeks after my 16th birthday. We had moved down to London for my 16th, it was my birthday present from him and his family. I had been part of the family ever since I was six and the people were lovely, although their religion made them.... well I'm not sure, it didn't exactly make them worse people, but I guess I kind of held a grudge against religious people for what my parents were like.

So, yes, me and Spencer moved down to London, for the education and it was better than driving 4 hours every time I had an episode, only to be carted back up to Yorkshire once I was 'cleared'. Spencer liked the space from his parents the most, although I think we both know he just liked my cooking more than his mother's.

With the thought of Spencer flooding my brain, I felt a pang of longing and an aching feeling in my chest; I wanted him to be here, to have his arms around him while I cried, crying wasn't going to get me anywhere but I didn't want to be back here, at all, the shackles tying me down to the makeshift bed, the blankness of it all, white, white, white, white, white. It was everywhere: the ceiling, the walls, the tiles, the beds, the sheets, the clothes, the plates, the toilets, the sinks, the showers, the tables, the chairs, it constantly looked as if the place had been soaking in bleach for forty years. The most colourful thing was the food that is about as good as high school meals, and the doctors blue clipboard. All I could see was white, I've never seen people so plain, they all looked the same even though they were all different people with different features. I hated this place, really hated it. I wanted to be anywhere but here, with one main place in mind.....

I wanted to be back at the apartment, getting curled up in bed while Spencer was just getting up and ready for work, eating his usual of one slice of buttered toast, where he would rip off small sections of the left side of his toast before placing it into his mouth and simply just biting the right side. Then he would creep around the bedroom gathering his keys, wallet, spare change (just in case he didn't have enough in his wallet), and phone before whispering, "So Long and Goodnight, I'll be back in the morning." He did it because he knew I loved that song, I would constantly just randomly burst out into song, usually whilst doing chores. That's what would have happened tonight, it's what happens every night when Spencer is on the nightshift.

Then I got a warm, familiar feeling come over me, you know like a really good feeling... Umm, oh, like the first icecream in summer. That kind of good feeling. Then I heard the door open, which meant that another doctor was coming in, I wanted it all to be over, so I closed my eyes willing not to cry and for it just to be a callout for the doctor to go. So I could be left alone, in peace.
"Castiel?"
It was Spencer's voice, which only made my chest stab and ache with the pain of deflated hope. It was a memory of his voice, not him. Although now I felt a new presence and a hand in mine, it was Spencer's hand! Heck! You could call me a bloody roller coaster right now, hopes way up in heaven, then torn down to hell.
"Castiel? Please, can you hear me?"