VIOLET
"And to make an end is to make a beginning"
I'd like to think we're all insane, one way or another. The people that have the most, so called, sanity are a little messed up, too.
I just know it.
Sure, two years ago I wouldn't think this way but working at a mental institution like I have for merely a year changed my definition of "normal" entirely. As a child, I always knew I wanted to work in the same profession as my mother. Clearly, not now because she's passed but, well, still.
Isn't that a little ironic? Someone that's supposed to help other people through their problems, couldn't deal with their own and turned to something as heartbreaking as suicide?
Yeah, I don't get it either. Whatever.
Being a psychologist sounds like something I've always dreamt of; to get into the minds of the stereotypical cringe-y people or not-so-cringe-y people. These average, everyday individuals that have supposed problems, causing them to be admitted into a hospitalized mental ward. I'm just desperate to find out what people consider psychotic.
But as of now, being a development assistant will have to do. In other words, the sitter for the fully-grown mental patients whom, I believe, are not so mental. I'd like to say they just need some help, s'all.
Dad owns this place. The Wemmington Hospice; the best hospice in London. This eerie, white walled building that has the overwhelming aura of disinfectant. Anyways, as of five years ago, my mum was the head psychologist here. It's quite obvious that she isn't anymore. I happen to have a distinct hatred for the newer doctors they've hired but what authority do I have over that? I deem the constant yelping and screaming patients aren't insane. But allegedly, that's why dad won't let me have a higher position. He thinks I won't take the job seriously and I'd be more of a companion to the people here rather than a clinical practitioner, so.
Maybe they want a friend instead of multiple people with a special title in a mental facility calling them crazy; making them feel like nothing. I know exactly what it's like to feel like nothing and to be quite honest, it isn't that amazing. I'm positive if I was locked up in this place for months, I'd want to scream, too. It also probably has to do with the fact that I'm only 20 but I can take care of myself. Hell, one time this intimidating, middle-aged man with a foot long beard pushed me against the wall and I smashed a yogurt cup in his face. It must've stung his eyes enough for him to release his death grip he had on my neck. Dad was right about the fact that I shouldn't have been checking on patients after hours but like I said, I can take care of myself. Maybe it wasn't the best defense attack but it isn't entirely the guy's fault that he got the elderly woman in room C47's pills. Obviously, the wrong dosage of the wrong pills will make you do some strange things. It has been a couple months since then; it's pretty much forgotten about now. Well, other then by my friend, Trace, who is still laughing at me for using a parfait as an attempt for safety. Trace is one of security but I've known him way before he started working here. We've been neighbors since I moved to London nearly 10 years ago. We had a fling going on when we were around 16, but we tried to forget about that awkward stage in our lives. He was the best friend I needed and the brother I never had when my mum died and I couldn't be more grateful to have him. He's an endearing person to me and a life savor, really.
And as I forced myself to get out of bed this dark, unearthly morning, I dragged myself over to my slightly indented window. (Long story short, Trace threw what he thought was a pebble at the glass but it decided to make a little more of a clash rather then a soft tap. Mindless bastard.) As I attempted to glance at the dreary scenery, the foggy glass was coated in a milky mist blocking me from seeing absolutely anything. Not like there was much to see, though. It was 5:30 in the morning and I lived in the middle of nowhere. I rummaged through my closet and pulled out my lilac colored scrubs. I stepped into the dimly lit hall, making my way towards the bathroom to do the common morning routine. I quickly pined my light bronze mop of hair into a bun on the top of my head before slipping on my uniform. Since I refused to wear those hideous nurse shoes, my dad approved of me to wear my white vans. (Close enough.)
