The next thing Cody knew, he was in someone else's car, going over a speed bump that entered the glorious gates of the mental institution. In the roundabout driveway, a sign warned them where they were. It was surrounded by dainty bluebells. Weeping blue petals fell toward the ground. Beautiful red Peruvian lilies contrasted them, scarlet arms reaching for the sky.

Surrounding the roundabout itself, was a stream of water. Large, smooth pebbles seemed to boost it higher. The sound was almost intoxicating. His eyes followed it all the way to the building in front of him, where it disappeared without a trace underneath an array of rose bushes around the base of the building. He couldn't help but chuckle at the thought that perhaps some inpatient had tried to drink from the stream before.

Lighthouse Psychiatric Hospital for the Criminally Insane. Here he was. Now what? He opened his mouth to speak, but the car stopped at the doors. There were guards waiting there. They had batons, but no guns. Perhaps people were scared of the patients, perhaps because a patient could swipe a gun and kill themselves or others, but not so afraid that they'd skimp out on weapons as a whole.

When Cody was escorted from the vehicle, his eyes jutted back and forth between the guards, a little spiteful. He was generally an upstanding citizen. They couldn't put him in some mental institution with guards watching his every move. He didn't have hydrofluoric acid on hand, or knives, or anesthesia, so it wasn't like he'd kill them. "Let me guess, paranoid schizophrenia?" "I bet this is a case like Brian Bechtold." The guards spoke to one another like he wasn't even there. "Alright. We can take these off now. Have fun in your new life." The driver jabbed a key in Cody's handcuffs, jiggled it around, and slipped them off.

The man felt a breath escape his lips. He didn't want it to, because that moment of relief just made the guards chuckle and roll their eyes. They opened the doors, watching every movement he made until he was inside. He carefully rubbed his wrists. The skin was reddened, irritated by the cuffs. He had the feeling that it wouldn't be the last time he got hurt in this place.

His first step on the ornate tile brought him into a small room. He glanced behind him at the glass doors. They were locked from the outside. Go figure. Can't have some crazy murderer running about the woods and turn into a real-life Jason Vorhees.

The building was even larger on the inside. On the wall only a few feet from him, there was a 'Patients Bill of Rights', hanging too high for someone to reach. "Good morning! Are you a Mr... Lewis? Or Mrs? Or neither? You can be anything you want here, we won't judge you! We know that whatever makes you feel most comfortable in this environment is going to be the best decision for you. If you feel it will increase your mental well-being, you just let me know. Here at Lighthouse, we want nothing but the best for our beloved patients." The perky receptionist asked. Cody glanced at her, confused. Mrs. Lewis was his dead wife. He was a man. Was this a mind game? To see just how insane their inmates were? Maybe she was stupid, or maybe the workers were just as crazy as the prisoners. Er... their patients. None of those titles seemed acceptable.

"Excuse me?" He muttered, and peered round the tiny room. The receptionist had a layer of protective tempered glass in front of her. Her fake perky-grin only stayed because of the guards standing right outside the door. She knew he was a criminal. She knew every person she admitted was a criminal, and each of them had a regimen. There weren't any medications they could just slide on over to the serial killer who had no motive other than 'it was right' in his eyes. Though, everyone presumed it was likely a small case of psychosis. For now, low-dose antipsychotics would be on his regimen. There wasn't a way to tell how effective they were when he could already blend so well into normal, everyday society. It wasn't their money they were wasting on the drugs, so they may as well use him in the common experiment of 'how does this drug affect people?'

It would take a little more time to diagnose his disease before they could shovel pills down his gullet. That's what the nurses were for. Diagnosing, and treating. Every single thing they jotted down, went straight to headquarters. This receptionist was paid to act like these psychos were real people, but deep down inside, much like over half the workers here, she despised them.

The room itself had a few small chairs. Perhaps this was their idea of a lobby? "Uh, Mr. Lewis is fine, thanks." He frowned at her, brows furrowed. "Alright. Go on in, Mr. Lewis. It's group time right now. We have a music group, art group, therapy group, clean-up group, TV group, card group, yoga group,"

"Thank you, I'll figure it out myself." The man interrupted. Her voice was high-pitched, scratchy, and it annoyed him. "Alright. Thank you for participating! You're in room sixteen." She pressed a large red button beside her desk. Participating? Ha, he was right, they were trying to root out who was too crazy to just let wander around inside without say, cuffs, or an escort.

Cody watched the large metal door a few feet to his right open up, slowly. The metal hissed, a warning that he was no more welcome here than any of the others trapped inside. He hesitated only for a few seconds, before making his way into the room. The air was chilled, and stiff. The floors were the same tile throughout the entire building, white with the occasional painted flower here and there. The walls were even blander.

(SUPER long chapter today, y'all. Hope you all enjoyed it! Have a fantabulous and stress-free day <3 )