Chapter Text
When Mike awoke under blinding LED ceiling lights and surrounded by loud beeping sounds, he'd thought he was in heaven.
That was a surprise for two reasons.
1. Mike had never believed in heaven.
2. If heaven did exist, he was pretty sure that he wouldn't have ended up there.
His mind was in a haze. He couldn't move his limbs. He only barely registered the voices of several people talking around him as he laid in a very cushy bed.
He blinked as a very blurry woman bent over him. She frowned and muttered something to him.
"What?" he tried to say, but it came out as more of a croak.
Then he felt a short, sharp sting in his arm. A shot, his brain supplied. Almost instantly, he fell back asleep.
The second time Mike woke up, it was different. There was no longer a beeping monitor, and instead of white, the room was gray. The lights weren't blinding. He could move.
For some reason, he didn't panic. His mind was still disconnected from reality, but there were no longer fragmented pieces of thoughts. Instead it was quiet. He just laid there, engulfed in silence.
Almost immediately, he noticed the cast around his right forearm. He lifted his sheets to reveal that his leg was also encased. He glared at the casts. He wanted to rip them off. But he figured that would be a bad idea.
He crossed his casted arm over his stomach and instead took in his surroundings. The small square window on the back wall shone the colors of a sunset into the room. His bed sheets were blue. There was a dresser. A nightstand. A metal folding chair.
The floor was made of tiles.
He could hear voices from outside the room. They seemed very distant.
Mike closed his eyes and tried to steady his breathing. He could feel a panic attack building in his stomach, and he did not want that to happen.
He wasn't sure how long he laid there before the door swung open and a nurse walked in. She was holding a tray and a clipboard.
"Hello," she said. She was smiling. "I'm glad you're awake, Michael."
She set the tray on his nightstand and pulled up the folding chair.
"I'm not," he grumbled. "And my name is Mike, not Michael."
His voice was chalky. He probably needed water.
The nurse - Nurse Vickie, her nametag read - must have read his mind, because she took the grabbed the plastic cup, evidently filled with water, off of the tray and held it out for him.
Hesitantly, Mike took it.
"Are there drugs in this?" he asked.
Nurse Vickie held up a small condiment cup. She shook it softly, and it made a sound like clattering pebbles. "The only medications you have are in here."
"What if I can't take pills?" he asked stubbornly.
Her smile shifted, becoming less plastered on and more endearing. "I bet you'll learn."
Mike gave in, and he took a sip from his water cup. Then another. And then he ended up chugging three quarters of the glass.
He let out a breath. He hadn't realized how thirsty he was.
"Careful," said Nurse Vickie, holding out her hand to take the glass. "You might upset your stomach if you drink too fast." Mike handed it to her and she set it on the nightstand.
"What happened to my arm and leg?"
"Wrist and tibia fractures. You should be out of the wrist cast in seven weeks and the wrist one in nine."
Mike crinkled his nose. That was a long time.
Whatever. He deserved it.
"Where am I?" he asked after a second.
"Roane County Regional Hospital," she explained. "The adolescent psychiatry ward."
He stared at her, his eyebrows furrowing. "I'm in a mental hospital?"
"Adolescent psychiatry ward," Nurse Vickie repeated.
"But I'm not crazy," said Mike, his tone defensive.
"You aren't," the nurse agreed.
"So," Mike asked, drawing out the 'o.' "Why the hell am I here?"
Nurse Vickie folded her legs on top of each other. She sat her clipboard on her thigh and clasped her hands together.
"Why don't you tell me?" she countered.
Mike didn't answer. He only frowned, looking down and crossing his arms like an irritated toddler.
As he did, his fingers brushed against his green hospital gown. He picked at it with annoyance. The fabric was covered in pilling. It rubbed against his arms and made him itch. He wondered when he'd be able to change into normal clothes... Or, if?
"You're here for a twenty-one day program," she told him. "While you're here, we're going to... see if we can help you."
A small surge of anger cursed through Mike. His cheeks burned with the sudden emotion.
"Help me with what?" he snapped. "I'm fine! I'm fine and there's no reason to be stuck in a fucking asylum!"
Vickie didn't answer.
But as fast as the anger came, it left again, and he was yet again succumbed by an aggressive feeling of numbness.
He closed his mouth and stared at the wall.
Everything around him felt... unreal. It felt like he was dreaming. Like he was seeing everything around him from the perspective of his dream self in its hazy dream state. Like the room was a dollhouse and Vickie was a little plastic figurine with a painted-on smile.
It wasn't a new feeling to him. It was the same state of mind he'd consistently endured for as long as he could remember. Numbness. Dissociation. Separation.
And he hated it.
Suddenly, his fingers felt sticky. He glanced down. His thumbs were red and raw from tearing at them absently. The wounds were down to his knuckles. Blood seeped from a spot where he'd gone too deep. The rest of his fingers were also torn, but with less fresh wounds. Vickie noticed the blood and handed him a tiny antibacterial wipe and a band-aid from her pocket.
"I was told you might need these," she said.
Mike glared at her, but took the supplies she handed him without argument.
A moment of silence passed. Nurse Vickie just stared at him, her expression full of empathy.
"It's late," she stated. "Tomorrow morning you'll visit with Dr. Owens, and I'm sure he will be able to answer more of your questions. But for now, I'm going to ask you some questions, and then you're going to take these pills, and go to sleep." She took her pen from her clipboard. "Just so you're aware, your answers to these questions will not land you in any trouble. This is a judgement free zone." She smiled again. "Sound good?"
But it was a rhetorical question, because Mike didn't answer and she started anyway.
"Have you ever smoked cigarettes?" she asked.
Mike rolled his eyes. "No."
"Have you ever used marijuana?" she asked.
"No."
"Have you ever used fentanyl, heroin, cocaine, or another illicit substance?"
"Every night before bed," Mike answered sarcastically.
Nurse Vickie sighed. "I'm a mandated reporter, so please answer truthfully."
He furrowed his eyebrows. "I don't even know where the hell I would get that shit. So no."
She checked the box on her clipboard.
"Have you ever consumed alcohol?"
"Does beer count?" Mike asked.
"Is that a yes?"
"...I guess."
She scribbled notes on her paper as she wrote. Mike watched as her pen moved. He was trying to decipher the words, but the paper was at an angle that he couldn't read and he was failing.
"Are you sexually active?" Nurse Vickie asked next.
The question felt extremely irrelevant to Mike. And uncomfortable.
"No," said Mike, pulling at his cuticles.
"Have you been sexually active in the past?"
"No."
"Have you engaged in any sexual activities with someone of the same sex?"
Mike felt himself getting angry again. He moved his hands around frustratedly. "Why the fuck does it matter? I'm sixteen. Even if I'd... done that before, which I haven't, it's none of your business because I'm a minor, and I could probably sue you for, like, pedophilia or something."
Nurse Vickie frowned for the first time. "I know it's awkward, but it's something I have to ask."
When Mike didn't answer, she took it as an opportunity to continue. She asked question after question, things like "How often do you eat?" and "Do you ever feel 'down' or 'unhappy?'"
After what felt like hours, Nurse Vickie was down to one.
"Last question," she said, and she sounded more enthusiastic than Mike thought she should be. She looked up at Mike. "Have you ever had thoughts of attempting suicide?"
For a second, they just sat there, staring at each other. Mike, trying to find a way to make Vickie's life difficult, and Vickie trying to decipher Mike's thoughts.
"No," Mike said, crossing his arms. "I haven't."
Nurse Vickie let out a breath through her nose. "Michael-"
"Mike," he interrupted.
"Mike," she corrected. "I know the answer, but you have to tell me. Truthfully."
"I am," he said. "The answer is: no, I haven't. Now do I get to go home now?"
Vickie sighed and stood. She handed Mike the cup of pills and the glass of water.
"Just... take these," she said. "They'll knock you out until morning."
Mike looked up at her, eyes tracing her features. She didn't look like she was trying to poison him, and if she was, he seriously doubted she'd go through this trouble for it.
So, somewhat suspiciously, he took the pills.
And he drifted off into a dreamless sleep only minutes after.