MEnAce (peterick)

3 - Patrick

I have grown quite a liking to my new roommate, Pete. I know nothing about the young man, other than his obvious characteristics that make him stand out amongst the sea of socially awkward zombies. He has tattoos covering every inch of his arms, and he's almost as small as me, but not quite.

It had been a first name basis introduction, but other than the initial 'hello, nice to meet you' standoff, accompanied by the most uneventful room tour ever, not a lot had been uttered. Despite the quaint atmosphere, my new (and hopefully temporary) room is fit for two people, and it's a whole lot more luxurious than what I had been prepared for.

I do remember Pete complimenting my eyes, though. Arriving without a single pair of contact lenses to hand, all eyes had locked on mine. Pete had simply stared a moment in awe before saying: "Cool."

Pete is currently sitting alone at a table in the cafeteria, and when I approach him, the older boy glances up and smiles. I start up a casual conversation that will no doubt veer off onto dangerous roads. "Hey there, roomie."

"What's up?"

"I've been thinking, we should get to know each other. Isn't that what mental patients are advised to do here?"

"Yeah, but no one ever listens to that advice. The only things people ever talk about here are what kind of illnesses they suffer with."

"Right. I've met a few of those. That Beebo kid has ADHD, right? And his tall friend has an anxiety problem. They didn't ask about me. That's about it."

"Those two aren't interested in making friends. I think they're together, though."

"They are, are they? Now that's the kind of gossip this place needs to hear."

"Unfortunately, though, the extent of getting to know someone falls at the 'what are you in here for' mark. That's about as interesting as any conversation gets."

"What are you in here for?"

"Same as everyone else. I'm just here for the psych assessment."

"Fair play."

"Schizophrenia."

"Generic."

"I know, right? What about you? What'd you do to get yourself thrown into this dump?"

"I killed two people. Actually, stabbed the high school bullies with a pair of very sharp pencils. And I convinced the police it wasn't my fault."

"I heard about that... You're the one with manic depression, aren't you?"

"Yeah, that's what they're all calling it. Really, though, manic depression is just a side effect of the mania."

"Mania? Meaning obsession? Obsession with what, exactly?"

"When I was younger, my life sucked for all matter of reasons. No friends, no accepting parents, and all that jazz. I had this generic depression, you know? I was a cliché mental case, just another kid who wanted to die because his life was so goddamn miserable all the time. I started to cut myself regularly, and it actually lifted my spirits; I found pleasure in pain. I get this feeling of euphoria, this rush of power... there I am, hurting myself... And refusing to die for the sake of feeling that satisfaction all over again.

"The pain, the blood, the tears... it's all that matters. Then I started to envision inflicting that kind of agony on other people – the ones who bullied me, the ones who abandoned me – and visualising their torture puts a smile on my face. I don't know exactly what kick-started the homicidal urges, but they've been there, lying in wait, ever since the day I was born."

"Wow. That's insane."

"Damn right. No other word to describe it."

"So, you reckon you were just... born to kill? You know no one is going to catch on to that, right? No one can simply be born a killer."

"Oh, but I was. You see, my eyes... my entire world is tinted purple. The colour fades the lower my mood drops. The other end of the spectrum is different. The power strengthens, the colour deepens, shadows are darker than dark, blood is redder than red."

"I see... what's the colour like now?"

"Far above neutral. But don't worry, I'm not fantasising about murdering you or anything. I've only just met you. As far as I'm concerned, you've never done anything wrong. You haven't known me long enough to even consider hurting me."

My warning heeds unnecessary intimidation, which successfully completes its duty. From the look on Pete's pretty little face, I have proclaimed my ultimate dominance over every other person in this building, and I am pleasantly surprised as to why they hadn't chucked me into the psych ward on first instinct; I'd murdered two kids, after all.

In fact, the mental institution doesn't even have a psych ward. Detention cells for all the minor mishaps, perhaps, but no sign of any prison cells.

Where are all the psychos supposed to go?

I've heard the rumours, though, about the half-empty, seldom used facilities where all the crazies go. The real crazies, and I doubt they're called crazy for nothing. From what I've heard, the menaces are strapped into chairs in plain white rooms, and are interrogated.

A harmless nuisance on the surface, but the isolation, claustrophobia, and lack of self-control, I know, can stir your mind into such a frenzy, you start to see things and hear things that aren't really there.

Realistically, a dull, grey cell would do little to no good for any of the patients here, so the doctors ensure me that 'a friendly, social environment is the absolute best for every individual patient's recovery.'

Friendly and social my ass.

"And I wouldn't ever consider doing such a thing." Pete's chuckle is a nervous one. "And I'm sorry if I seem really clingy. You just... interest me, I guess. Don't get me wrong, I really like you, and I hope we can be friends. But you do... you interest me, very, very much."

"I am a curious specimen, Mr. Wentz."

He nods, mirroring my smirk. "That you are, Mr. Stump."