Dragonfly; Phan

II

"And then I said 'So are you saying you know nothing?' and he said 'No, I just don't want to talk about that place'," Dan spoke with an exaggeration, leaning against PJ's locker.

PJ slammed it shut. "And?"

"And don't you think that's weird?"

"Dan, everything's weird to you. There's nothing strange about it, it's just a father not wanting to discuss a brutal asylum with his son. Stop reading into everything, it's one your worst traits."

"It's not just my father though, is it? It's everyone. Everyone that was old enough to remember. When you ask them, it's like—"

"Like they don't want to talk about it."

Dan nodded quickly.

"Maybe because they don't? Look, we kinda know that place wasn't the purest and people don't wanna talk about it because it's so close to home," PJ stuffed his books into his bag. "What's brought this on? You were fine on the way home from there last night."

"I just—"

PJ took a sharp breath. "Did you find something in the files?"

"No, I've only read one. I've just been thinking a lot about it, that's all."

"You think a lot about everything. Overthink. It's probably not good for your mental health."

"You know what else isn't? Reading files of dead mental institution patients. But I'm gonna do it anyway and so are you," Dan paused. "Have you read any yet?"

"Yeah, a couple last night. Probably not in as much detail as you, but I remember their names at least," PJ scratched the side of his head. "A Bobby Archer and a Jamie Pierce. Kinda ordinary, honestly."

PJ flung his bag onto his back and he and Dan started off into a slow walk to first period.

"Their files were ordinary?"

"No, Dan. They're kids in a mental asylum, how can their files be ordinary?" he sighed. "I meant their names. Just their names. Normal names for abnormal people."

"Damaged people," Dan murmured. "Why were they in there?"

"I don't remember much about Jamie, honestly. Some random reason, probably didn't deserve to be locked up."

"What about Bobby?"

"Murdered his little sister," PJ said slowly, a bit atmospheric, and Dan gave him a stare. "I know, right? He was nine, and she seven. They were still babies, really."

They reached their English classroom and Dan slumped himself against the wall, eyebrows drawn down in an expression of intrigue. "How'd he do it?"

"Drowning. They were in the bath together, you know like you do when you're a kid? Innocent and stuff and then, bam, he decides that's it. Pushes her head under and she's out of it."

Dan's eyes were wide. "Bloody hell."

"Yeah," PJ fiddled with some of the paper in is pocket. "What about your kid?"

"Elliot Harris. He was fifteen," Dan gave a momentary halt. "His mother was shot and they thought it was his father because he was abusive but then they found out it was actually him. The damn son. Schizophrenia, apparently."

"I didn't even look at the suspected illness," PJ admitted. "They're probably all wrong. They didn't know anything about the mind back in the day, they were just making guesses."

"Choosing the one that seemed the most accurate," Dan agreed, and shook his bag on his back. "I brought a couple more files in today, anyway. We're reading some Shakespearian shit so I though I'd do a bit of a replacement. I sit at the back, so nobody'll know."