Dragonfly; Phan

IV

PJ's wrist was fractured. He had it wrapped up in a great bandage when Dan saw him that same night, around eleven, the time they snuck out. He let him sit on the back of his bike for the journey back down to the asylum and they spoke about what it felt like to have an X-Ray.

"It doesn't really feel like anything," PJ admitted.

Dan admitted he had never had one.

But he had the 'stolen' patient files packed neatly into his bag, ready to hand over. He'd agreed after earlier persuasion to give them back; it probably wasn't for the best to give people what they wanted, what they demanded, but he was going to do it anyway. Because PJ said it was a good idea and PJ was the one with the fractured wrist, therefore PJ was the one with the control.

"I don't even wanna go in."

"Don't then," Dan climbed off the bike. "Stay out here. I'll find them and give them their shit, then come straight back out."

"It's too dark to be alone. For you and for me."

And so PJ came along, ski-mask and all, forcing one on Dan for safety precautions and his newly adopted motto of 'bad atmospheres'. But even when Dan pulled the mask over his head, apprehension still gnawed at his mind. Fear was something that the piece of fabric could not prevent; fear lay resting in the folds of his brain.

"Let's not call for them," Dan said, when they got inside. The walls were the same sick grimy splattered in darkness that he was used to. "Let's just look. Maybe making a lot of noise is gonna make us more vulnerable."

"Yeah, okay," PJ agreed quietly. "I'm all for reducing our vulnerability and potentially increasing the length of our lives. I don't fancy dying at fourteen."

"We won't die—Are you scared of dying?" Dan flickered the torch up to PJ's face.

"I don't know. Isn't everybody?"

"I don't think so," Dan answered. "I think it's more a fear of the unknown than a fear of legitimate death."

"I'm more scared it's gonna hurt."

"Exactly," Dan nodded. "The unknown. You don't know if it's gonna hurt or not and that scares you. For some people, it's the most terrifying thing ever. And for some people, they crave it. They think the pain that stems from no longer living is minuscule in comparison to just living."

"That's suicidal people though, no?"

"I mean, I guess. You can call them that if you want. But they're just people at the end of the day and I doubt suicidal is what they call themselves. That word is quite looming. And people throw it around like it doesn't mean anything; like they can ridicule it because they don't feel it," Dan let his eyes stutter of the rubble on the floor of the ward, head buzzing with thoughts. "Psychological terms are just words, too. Some people don't—they don't want to label themselves and that's fine. That should be fine. What isn't fine is when suicidal becomes a synonym for weak."

"No offence but," PJ glanced at him. "Surely it is? No—No, wait that came out wrong. I didn't mean it like that, I just meant it surely means someone isn't as strong in comparison to another."

"It has nothing to do with being weak. It has everything to do with being sick, however. Would you ever call someone with cancer weak?"

"No."

"Well, then. It's just like saying someone who has cancer isn't as strong in comparison to someone who doesn't. It's just—It's the same. Do you know what I mean?" Dan paused. "It's like a little storm in your mind and it's worse than physical pain because physical pain isn't mental pain."