No Such Thing

There Was Always Alana

Alana Ramsey is considerably the most infamous patient at the institution, mainly because she has attended the hospital the longest. She had been sporting the traditional white robes and chained to room doors long before Janet had decided to work there. Alana had been transferred by her husband, who could no longer stand his wife's sudden depressed state. Several of her loved ones that came to visit from time to time mentioned her being an aspiring dancer and loving mother, and that even did some community service of her own on the weekends. The world suddenly fell when she realized her fourth baby would be a miscarriage, and she transformed into an alter ego her family could not learn to cope with. She ate little to none, spoke not a word to anyone and managed moans at best. Her children were far too young to understand their mother's behavior and because of this were sent to live with close relatives, while their father did his best to fix her.

The day she arrived at the hospital, she brought along a tiny suitcase filled with paint jars and brushes. No garments of any kind, no toothpaste, no hairbrush. Her husband had made it clear enough to only bring necessities, but apparently through her eyes that is exactly what she took with her. Soon enough, her sisters visits became less frequent, then suddenly non-exsistant. Her husband too fell into a similar routine. The first few months he carried bouquets and poetry and stayed by her side for hours on end. Five months later he arrived with less flowers and no prose. Until finally a year had passed and the only papers he brought with him were that of divorce. He had given in. She had signed accordingly and still said nothing to her new ex-husband.

The night of his leave, however, she cried. And it wasn't an excruciating sob, with constant moaning and whimpering. Just a quivering lip with a few silent tears.

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She lay motionless in her cot, her body clamped in the fetal position. She was awake. Her eyes were only half-lidded, despite her deepest efforts to try and sleep a night. The curl of her toes and the churn of her head meant she knew someone was present, watching her, pitying her.

“It's time for your meds Alana,” Janet says softly, keeping her distance. Well aware of her dramatic episodes in the past, she's not afraid, only cautious. She collects a various amount of pills and divides them by shape, then color, until she has finally categorized them to her liking into five separate Dixie cups. Janet knows she's not a fan of juice, so regular tap water will suffice. A pitcher sits next to her clipboard . “Come on.”

Alana's been here long enough to know that resistance got you nowhere, in an asylum or otherwise. She leans forward and takes the first cup herself and swallows every last tablet. Instead of filling the empty cup with water, she takes the pitcher, pulls the rim to her mouth and chugs halfway.

“Alana.” Janet groans. She's fighting off a grin.

The woman lets a smile tug at her lips for only a moment, then continues her somewhat dangerous procedure. With the last set of meds nearly at the edge of her throat she yanks the pitcher again for one last drink. Please with herself, she motions a hand at Janet as if warning her to leave.

She's caught up admiring her again. She may not be the prettiest she's ever been but she's quite the sight. Chestnut hair cut to her shoulders in one of the popular bowl cuts the celebrities are wearing. She cuts it her self wouldn't you know it, and often times doesn't mind cutting the other nurses hair as well. A beautiful and easily envied figure. Her bosom was plump and complimenting even beneath hospital robes, her hips curved out against the tight white undershirt she wore at night. Janet was always staring at her because of it. Simply admiration, she thought, it was natural. If it was physical attraction she was feeling she'd call herself absurd, but this was a mental institution after all, and she should expect nothing less.

“Are you going to talk at circle time today?”

Her fragile form sinks back into bed as she shrugs her shoulders. She knows she won't, but she knows that's what Janet wants at the very least, a false sense of hope.

“Let's hope so.” She responds with a much more cheerful voice. “I'll be back in an hour for lunch.”

As she rises from her seat beside her and turns to walk away, she can feel her eyes nail to her backside. Like pounded nails against wood, merciless and mindless. Janet quickly takes one last glance at her, and in that split second, the woman has turned to her opposite side and begins snoring before she can catch her staring. The feel still remains and it chills her bones, from the minute she leaves the patient room to the second she clicks the door's lock.