Sam Winchester (spiritusimmunde) wrote in spindlesend, @ 2009-07-23 23:46:00 |
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Entry tags: | july, lucy westenra, samuel winchester |
who: Sam Winchester and Lucy Westernra
what: Jadis needs to be more careful with her patients. The fun doesn't stop on the couch.
when: Thursday evening, after dinner but before curfew.
where: A hallway on the second floor. Location moving to the third.
warning: To start, none. Most likely violence.
status: complete.
Sam was in his own little world since his session on Saturday, and, although he was paying more attention to his surroundings as the week went out, his attention was still largely tied up in his own thoughts. He was picking apart the remains of the conversation, every word choice was suspected, debated, and dismissed to be dredged up again later. It hadn't gone according to plan at all. He was still here, and no matter what he did or where he looked, the very walls were all it took to make him obsess over the first and prepare for the second. There were no positive suggestions.
He was drifting along the southern corridor of the floor. Sam had been feeling increasing trapped as time drug along sluggishly through the days, and he was trying to get a better feel for the asylum. What was where, who slept where, what - if anything - there was to do for entertainment. But it was hard, with his mind tied up as it was. He still couldn't decide if the coffee had been drugged or not. Sam didn't think it had been Haldol. An lesser upper or downer, but not a sedative. Doctor de Witte had remained far too keen, too alert, too sharp for a sedative. It might not have had anything, but, no, that was what she wanted him to think. She wanted him to drink whatever was offered in the next session.
Pausing when he reached the stairwell, Sam stared at it for a moment, confused. He'd thought that the library was on this floor. Maybe he'd missed it. No, he hadn't missed it this time. The cafeteria was on this floor. He'd been wrong the last time, thinking the second was the third. The third was the second. Something to that effect. The coffee hadn't been drugged.
He started up the stairs, wondering if the library had any medical books accessible to the patients. It probably didn't. They wouldn't want them to actually be informed. Knowledge was power. It was something to dangle in front of the ignorant, an obscene golden apple on a stick, always just out of reach. When they were bored, they'd throw a few crumbs. The discarded seeds. Just enough for the truth to take root in their minds and gnaw away, a misunderstood parasite destroying everything, because knowledge feeds truth and truth knowledge, and they never shared enough of it for a clear image to take shape.
Cheshire Crossings was a microcosm of humanity. The politicians, the rich, the doctors -- the powerful -- did everything they could to keep the masses ignorant, sedate, blind. They needed him here, because without patients there would be no hospital. They didn't care that there was nothing wrong. The human mind was a Magic Eye book. Stare at it long enough, and you can see anything in its depth. He reached the landing and stared through the length of the hall. They were going to keep him here until there was nothing left. He started down the hall slowly, resignedly, and paused here and there to stare at a door for no reason.