Inmates

Chapter 3

A/N: Sorry! This chapter is SUPER long. Enjoy!

So, Pete was here. In this exact building. Because he had stolen money. For me. FOR ME. What was this Christmas? I mean, I guess it's good because I get to see him but he's now in prison. That idiot. At least I'll finally have someone to stay in a cell with. I've stayed in cells alone constantly, they don't wanna put a weedy, weak guy like me in with all those big, bulky guys. They're intimidating.

"Hey Patrick, how's it going now?"
Ryan smiled at me and waved.
"Okay, do you know when Pete's gonna be arriving?"
"I was coming to see you for that reason. They're telling me it's gonna be a day in isolation, just to check on his health and eating etc. but he's gonna be moved into your cell tomorrow 7.30am then."
Thank god. Only one day. Honestly, I'm scared but I can't wait. My mate, the guy who's had my back all the time.

"Look, Patrick, it's gonna be over faster than you think. It'll be alright. Just go in there and speak to them, and you'll be okay," Pete said, my phone pressed to my ear,
"Just phone me when you're done. I'll be waiting! Laters!"
I hung up, looking at the caller iD.
The picture was of Pete grinning at the camera, sitting in front of Niagara Falls. He was really a marvelous friend. His dark hazel eyes always sparkled with interest and happiness. His short, messy hair really suited him. He was beautiful.
"Mr Stumph?"
I looked up.
"Coming."
The nurse lead me to a consulting room. The name on the door was 'Dr. E. Green'.
The doctor was a lady in her sixties, her thinning, white hair tied up in a messy bun. Her folds were like the canyons.
"Ah, Patrick Stumph, please have a seat."
She pointed at the dentist's chair-looking armchair in the center of the room. When I sat down, I asked her a question.
"Is there any chance that I can change the name on the records on the system? It's not Stumph anymore."
"If it's marriage, dear, you'll need to go to the reception with your wife and register both of you again."
"No. It is not marriage. Purely an artist's name. Please, can you just change it to Stump for me? I'm tired of hearing the name 'Stumph'."
She looked at the computer screen, typed a bit, then turned back to me.
"Now, for what we're actually here for."
I could feel myself start to sweat. I didn't like doctors, especially not these kind of doctors.
"So, you already know we have been examining you for a few weeks."
"Yes."
"And that we are trying to conclude if there is any explanation for any of your problems."
"Yep."
"Stay seated please. From the last few appointments, your blood tests and other tests, we have concluded you have acute psychosis and severe anxiety."
"What?"
"Look, if you need to know more, I'll have to book you another appointment."
"No, I don't."
"Alright, and we've administered that you are going to be having medication. We will be giving you some Clozaril tablets, and you will have to take them every meal during the day, two 2mg tablets, and 4 2mg tablets before you go to sleep."
"Why? Why do I have to take these? I don't want them."
"You may not want them, but you need them dearie. It'll help. I promise that."
"No! You just want me to suffer! You just want me to take these so I can suffer and you can blame me for that!"
"Patrick, stop."
"Stop what? You need to stop hurting me!"
"Patrick!"
"I'm not doing anything. You are. You're trying to kill me! Stop! Please!"
Dr. Green picked up the phone and dialled a number.
"Please can we get some help here."

I can't sleep. I'm scared now about seeing Pete again. It's been so long. The air conditioning in my room is stuck, I can't switch it off. I'm always shivering cold in the winter. The duvets are also extremely thin, so in the summer it's good, but in the winter I feel like I'm an ice cube. I look at the alarm clock. The battery cover is glued shut- it prevents anyone using things to make fires. You name it, most things have been safety-proofed. Nothing at all can be used as a weapon. Our cups are paper cups, our cutlery flimsy and disposable. The beds were practically chained to the floor.

It's finally 7.30. I'm crazy frightened now, this guy who I have not seen in years, who is my best friend, IN MY CELL. I do feel bad for him though, he's been through this for me.
I hear a knock on my door.
"Hello?"
"Can I come in? Just need to run through a few things before Pete moves in."
I open the door. It was Mr. Sykes, well he asks me to call him Oli. People round here prefer you calling them by their first name if you're hanging around for a while.
"Hey there, gotta run through a few details. That okay?"
"Yeah."
He sat down at the dining room table and pointed at the seat next to him.
"How you feeling, Patrick?"
"Nervous. I have no idea how he's gonna react, it's scary."
"Alright. Well, Patrick, here are a few safety things I'm gonna run over with you. There is a key hanging in your room for the lock on your door, I guess you know that. You have permission to use the the key now, since you've got someone else in your room. There's also a help button at the front door, if you need help then ring that. Any aggressive behaviour from either of you and you will be quarantined. You've been warned. You okay with all of that?"
"Uh yeah, that's fine."
Oli hugged me.
"I'll check on you later, alright?"
"Yeah, that's fine."
"Have a good day then!"

Minutes after Oli had left, I was sitting in my bedroom, staring at the wall.
It's plastered with posters and Polaroids of all sorts, memories. It comforts me to see my musical roots, even if I cannot play guitar anymore (safety reasons). I loved my guitar, a pure white beauty. Like an angel. Its sound was perfect. I loved that guitar. Loved. They took it away and put it in some crappy storage locker somewhere when they moved me here from my flat. The centerpiece of the wall is map of the US, covered in stickers and pictures of the places I had travelled with Pete before I ended up here. The sunset above Hollywood Boulevard, the towers of concrete that made up New York City. The glowing signs and bustling casinos in Las Vegas. America was a beautiful, broken place. The presidency has mucked up this place real bad.

I heard the cell door open, and the patter of footsteps. Then the drop of a bag of some sort.
"Hello?" The person called out.
I crept to my bedroom door to peek at who it was.
Facing towards me was the guy I had missed so much. Just in prison gear, the usual plain t shirt and joggers with slip-ons. I went to switch on the light, and a Polaroid dropped from my hand. I forgot I had been holding it. It was of Pete, looking out over the mountains of Yosemite.
"Miss me much, eh?"
I didn't need to answer that. Before he could even blink, I ran into his arms.
"Pete."
"Patrick. I missed you, buddy."
"I'm sorry... I'm so sorry..."
I she'd a year, only for it to be wiped away by Pete.
"Damnnit Pat, you didn't mean it."
"I'm a psycho, I'm a fucking psycho, I'm sure you don't know what that feels like."
"Look- you're no psycho to me. You're no psycho. It wasn't your fault. I missed you though. I'm so happy we're together again."
"Me too."