Gift Horse [narrative] "They said you were asking for me -- now what seems to be the problem?"
Beauty had been waiting for the last two hours in a small room with white walls and strange cushions tacked as high as her hands would reach above her head. There was a mirror taking up the entire north wall. The chair she was sitting in was bolted to the floor. So was the round, metal table. This is where they'd stashed her once she'd insisted on talking with a doctor in this unfamiliar place.
"I don't believe I'm meant to be here, Doctor," Beauty said to the man with the strange white over-jacket. He'd entered not five second ago, and he apparently was a doctor, but she thought he looked nothing like doctors she was used to. Then again, she could barely recall what had happened in the last 24 hours -- and she'd certainly been in this place for longer than that. She didn't know why the man didn't seem like a doctor to her; it was simply a feeling.
Nevertheless, the rules here said that he was, so she called him by the title a doctor should be called. She gave him the respect that a man in charge of other lives should receive. And she did her best not to seem anything other than agreeable. It seemed unlikely that her insistence would make any difference, but.... it was the truth, wasn't it? She was sure it was the truth, regardless of how fuzzy her thoughts were.
To her surprise and delight, the disinterested man -- doctor -- checked a flat board with paper clipped to it, flipped up a chart, then nodded. "Agreed. We have set up your discharge paperwork. Go to the desk down the hall and to the left, and they'll get you taken care of."
She didn't question. She didn't try to understand. She just went.
Thirty minutes later, Beauty stood blinking in the afternoon sun. There was a beautiful sable horse waiting just outside Arkham gates and an attendant, yawning, handed her the reins. "Your effects," he said, before ambling back behind the gates. Beauty eyed the reins, wholly unaware of having ever owned a horse. Regardless, it seemed she was to have it. Him. It was a 'him.' And he was nickering quietly, muzzle butting up against her shoulder.
"Yes," she agreed, rubbing the warm velvet nose. "It's past time to leave."