Chapter Text
Catatonic, that was the official diagnosis given by the doctor to you. Watching as they discussed, you sat in that office chair while they flashed a light in your eye and snapped a finger in your face. You didn’t respond to a single thing, you sat staring straight ahead with a dazed, dead gaze. They sat and talked right in front of you like you weren’t even there. Which was particularly infuriating, you like to be acknowledged for your presence, when you're in a room and the topic of conversation. “He can only really find growth here. In his state it wouldn’t be safe for him anywhere else.” Your mother sobs into a handkerchief, it’s blue. Blue with daisies on it, the same she’d use to wipe your eyes when you came crying on to her about every little thing. You feel like a child, yes, you felt like a child in that prison, on E block. Being the youngest naturally came with that feeling, but you liked it. It sort of added to your ego, that you could get away with any little thing. That you were innocent of every action you committed. But here? You hate that feeling. You feel as if you're unable to be taken seriously, as an equal. People talk at you, not to you, when your mother grabs your shoulder and sobs: “Oh Percy, oh my sweet Percy!”
“Mrs. Wetmore, I can assure you, we will take the utmost care of Percy. He truly is under the best care here.” She nods before wiping her nose once more. She sobs as she leaves the room, you can’t tell if you hope if this is the last time you see her or not, honestly? You never want to see anyone ever again, really. You’d be content finding your space in a corner or crack of the wall and hiding it for the rest of your pathetic, meaningless life. Once she exits the room, dreadfully, two institution workers grab you by the arms and drag you out of that room. Of course, after your mother is out of sight. Your feet drag and stumble underneath yourself as they bring you to a room, where they leave you standing while they change you into the standard paper gown and slippers out of your button up and tie that you were wearing before the accident. You remember fashioning it the day before, when your fingers could still move in accordance, that is. Due to your current state, they help you into it, heaving each limb into its place on the paper. It feels embarrassing having these asylum workers seeing you naked, bare, and helping you into clothes. Something you could’ve done yourself just a few days ago. A few days ago you should’ve been on the other side of it, helping little boys into white gowns.
You stare, helpless at the wall. It’s a white brick, something you’d find quite common here. Your brown eyes stare off into a distance of a better place, far away from all of this, as they grab your arms again and start to usher you out of the room and down the hall. There’s other patients there, one being wheeled away in a chair, as their feet in slippers face two separate directions on the stand, a sign of helplessness. Another patient being held by the hand as a worker lines their way down the hall. Stumbling and tripping over themselves while they rub their eyes. They all need guidance, they all need help. You wonder, if you had taken this job just a little bit earlier. How your life would be different. You’d still have a life. Your life would’ve been saved before those gnats and that ‘lugoon’ took it from your breath.
Maybe, something will be waiting for you another day. But now, the rest of your life is so useless, finding no source of joy in anything. You wish you could scream, curse, say anything. Go back to your old, usual self. Beat other people around, slick back the hair falling on your face. But you can’t, you just can’t.
You're dazed until the point they open a door for you, and they lead you into a room. It’s a room with white walls, two beds on both sides of the room, a window, and cupboards across the walls. They lift you up, and turn you to face that dreadful window, to give you something to look at. You see the outside. It’s cloudy. It sickens you, knowing this window will now forever be the closest connection you have to the outside world.
No more car rides where you watch your father puff cigar smoke out the window, no stone to kick across the road. Nothing. Percy Wetmore is a dead man. As dead as he could be.