. (isconfetti) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2012-08-20 15:35:00 |
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Entry tags: | eames |
Who: Evan
What: Narrative
Where: Le Looney Bin
When: Last week into this week
Warnings/Rating: Drugs, dark images
Leaving Turnberry was a breeze, man.
The doctor had come and insisted Evan be placed under continual medical care, and Evan didn't fight it. He figured he'd be able to check himself out of whatever hospital they shoved him in. It would be easier than escaping from Louis or Cory, and it wasn't like he could be held against his will. He was a mentally sound adult, man, and he could decide to drink himself to death if he wanted to, despite what Louis and Cory thought. So, yeah, man, he didn't fight, and leaving Turnberry Towers was a breeze.
He let them sign him in at the hospital, just him and the paramedics, and he let the ER staff poke and prod and, eventually, he decided to get his ass up and waltz out the door - Well, after he found his pants. And that that's when shit got complicated, because the doctor came running as soon as he yanked out his IV and, everyone ignored his request for an involuntary release form, which he thought was completely bogus. The doctor was saying some shit about being a danger to himself, and Evan thought that was total crap, and he told the doctor so with a fist to the jaw. Yeah, well, he wasn't feeling so hot, and they were giving him bullshit. He wasn't exactly thinking clearly.
It didn't turn out like last time. They didn't give him a room upstairs and just strap him to the bed. Nah, that bad behavior was on his record, just like his mental instability and his stint for vehicular manslaughter were. They trussed him up like a Thanksgiving fucking turkey, man, and they moved him to the detox wing of the local public mental health facility. It was a testament to how not together Evan was that all he could think of was that the drugs they'd pump him with would make his dick not work again. Fucking shit.
The first day wasn't so bad, because he still had some booze from Cory's pity offerings in his system, but the next day was ass, man, and the day after that was worse. He wondered why they bothered with this bullshit. He told them he wanted to die. Why didn't they fucking listen, man? He was in isolation for that week, slamming himself against walls that quickly became padded and sleeping on a bed that was so lowered to the floor that he couldn't even hurt himself by rolling off it. It was ass, and he told every fucking doctor that walked in that he would just walk out and keep drinking. They had to let him go eventually. He wasn't a criminal, not anymore.
A week out and they had him sedated enough that he wasn't trying to bash his brains out at every turn, and it started feeling like prison then. Sure, man, the doors weren't bars, but it was the same shit and they locked all the same. Day in, day out, day in day out. The same shit. Someone else's schedule, and nothing that even pretended to be freedom. Group, breakfast, group, lunch, group, one-on-one, dinner, social, bed. Every fucking day, with nurses and doctors between it all. Like fucking jail, but with people who made you talk about crap you didn't want to talk about, and who drugged you against your will. Bullshit.
Fuck that. When he got phone privileges, he called his parents, but they were done, and fuck them too. He didn't need their help, their money, or their reminders that they'd paid out the ass to get him a reduced sentence, and all for what? What had he done with his life? Yeah, yeah, man, see you in Hell. He didn't call Cory, and he didn't call Louis, and he didn't come out during the one hour visitation that happened twice a week. Fuck them too.