Summary: After a failed suicide attempt and a refusal for help, Dougie is admitted to the mental hospital for treatment with his severe depression. There he meets some of the strangest people he has ever encountered, patients and doctors alike.
Pairings: Oh, many =) [Kinda unrequited PoynterJones and forbidden PoynterJudd]
Warnings: Depression, schizophrenia and various other mental disorders.
A/N: Hey, remember this fic?! It died… but then the lovely Athlete gave me inspiration and viola, it lives! And apologises to any m-preg writers/readers/appreciators, I couldn’t resist.
He was dreaming. At least, he hoped he was. The rising fear bubbling away in the pit of his stomach felt real enough, but the long dark corridors and gloomy atmosphere didn’t seem like anything he’d seen or experienced before in real life. It was almost too cliché, he thought.
He tried to laugh it off, but it came out as a choked sob.
He wanted to walk, not knowing which way to go as he looked each side and both looked identical. Something (someone?) told him it didn’t matter, it will all end up the same… all his fault, no matter what he does, can never get it right… shut up. The voice stopped. He took the left corridor and shakily set his pace.
Nothing happened. He kept walking; the walls and doors he passed all looked exactly the same on the continuous loop. He looked behind, and saw the same view he had when he’d looked a few minutes ago. He tried to gulp down the lump in this throat but found his mouth dry, his breathing hitched. Why am I here again?
He thought back to the previous day, the earlier untroubled dreams he’d been having. It seemed like a complete other lifetime, a dream world whereas this was his reality now. Stuck in the endless corridor that he wandered down so many times.
Only the first time it had been light, and he had a destination.
He looked down at his hands, expecting – yep, still there – blood. He scrubbed at them with his fingertips, his nails, trying to rub it off but he just left angry red lines on the skin you could see. He let them drop to his sides and kept walking, kept his head up and refused to show any emotion like he’d always been taught. Just bottle it up and don’t let it out where anyone can see you, like his dad always said.
He jumped when he heard a swishing noise behind him, spinning around just in time to see a flash of red dart into one of the doors way down at the other end (was there an end?). His head quickly turned to face the way he had been going, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to get his breathing back to how it previously was. Which, thinking about, hadn’t been all that smooth anyway.
Another sound echoed down the corridor, the soft click of the door being pulled shut. It felt closer this time, but he didn’t want to turn around and face whatever was working its way towards him. His pace quickened.
He felt it. The breath on his back, the brushing against his shirt, the whispers. Little voices telling him everything that was wrong, everything he’d done, everything that had brought him here time and time again. Always neglecting the first time. He couldn’t do anything now; it was too late. Useless, pathetic, worthless child, should’ve been you instead of… No!
He took off, sprinting down the corridor. He could see that single door; the one with his bloody handprints still clinging helplessly to the edge, could hear his own cries wailing down towards him. Got to get there, got to see her, got to help. There were still the voices, still chanting the same words. It was still too far away.
He tried to run faster, pace himself, check his breathing but all he could think of was getting through that door. Hands began to pull at his clothes and limbs, tugging him back and hindering his progress. They didn’t want him there, didn’t think he belonged. He didn’t, but then neither did she.
He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t move. The millions of hands were smothering him, choking him, tripping him up. He gasped for air but all he got was fingers clamping over his jaw as he tried to scream. They’re going to kill me. He passed out, and back into the black oblivion of sleep.
Dougie was awoken the next morning by Danny trying to free his arms as carefully as possible, without stirring him. Obviously, he failed. Dougie moaned slightly as he stretched, his eyes not yet open and so he didn’t notice the way Danny bit his lip and smiled.
‘Good morning, Douglas.’
Dougie opened one bleary eye at him and raised the corners of his lips sleepily, whispering back, ‘Hey.’
‘Er, yeah dude. You?’ He wiped one hand across his face as he yawned the last word.
‘Totally.’ Danny grinned. ‘You know you wriggle a hell of a lot when you’re asleep.’
‘Do I? Fuck, sorry Danny.’
‘S’alright, don’t mind.’ Another wide smile. ‘You hungry?’
Before he could answer, Tom burst into the room, clutching his stomach and looking like he was on the verge of tears. Danny shot up and raced over to his side, genuine concern pressing on his face. He guided him over to Dougie’s bed as his own was still occupied, sitting him down carefully and beginning to rub his back automatically. Tom sniffed and wrapped his arms around himself, leaning on Danny heavily.
‘Tom? Tom, what is it?’
‘Danny… I-I think I’m… I’m pregnant!’ He wailed. Danny opened his mouth but for a moment couldn’t think of anything to reply with. He looked over to Dougie, who took that as a sign to lose all self-control and burst out laughing, having to bury his face in the pillow to stop himself making any noise. The shudders of giggles going through his body were obvious enough, however.
Luckily Tom was too upset to notice. Danny took a deep breath and mulled over a reply, eventually settling on,
‘Are you sure?’
‘Well look at me! I’m getting fat and tender and my feet are swelling and I don’t know who the father is!’
‘Right. Erm, Tom. You know guys can’t get pregnant, right? Lack of womb and all that?’
‘I grew one.’ Dougie’s laughter doubled uncontrollably.
A half stunned, half amused pause from Danny then, ‘What?’
‘I grew one.’ He repeated simply, then for effect he added, ‘Duh.’
‘How?’ He asked, understandably disbelieving.
‘I don’t know! I just did. And then I got pregnant. Men are such pigs’ He finished with, as if that was a suitable explanation.
‘Well erm, maybe you should go see Nurse Brody… she’ll know what to do, I promise.’ Tom grinned and nodded, jumping up with considerably more flourish then he’d come in with.
‘Good luck with the baby!’ Dougie called as he left, but Tom was too focused on his quest to find Brody so he didn’t reply. Danny strolled back over to his bed and climbed in next to Dougie. Neither spoke amidst the occasional giggles as they thought of poor Nurse Brody’s reaction to Tom’s problem, not feeling a need for any conversation after that little interruption. Eventually, Danny decided to sum it all up.
‘Well... welcome to the nuthouse.’