Jim Moriarty is snapped back into reality from his daydream when Dr. Richards asks him another question that so irritates him that he can't ignore it.
"So let's go over your discipline record; have you got into any trouble lately?"
Jim sits back, rolling his eyes at the therapist. "You have my record in front of you, why do you have to ask me if I've been disciplined?"
"Well, Jim, admitting your mistakes is never a bad thing. Admitting your mistakes can actually help you feel better about your current situation and help you to help yourself."
"Already said I didn't want to do that."
"Right. I think it's time for you to go," Dr. Richards says abruptly, calling a nurse into the room.
"Why do I need her? I can get back to my room on my own."
"After your late entrance? I think you do need her help to get back. I want to make sure you stay safe, Jim. Remember, we're here to help you."
"Yeah, you always say that. But you don't mean it. You don't do anything to actually help me! You make me go to therapy, force me to socialize with other people I don't care about, and then shove food down my throat. Oh, and then did I mention the fact that you tend to lock me up in my room a lot?"
"Jackie, please take Jim out of here," Dr. Richards says, sick of listening to Jim's old, tired argument. And it was completely pointless; no one would ever listen to him back. And nothing would be changed because of his words.
Jim stood up from his chair, glared at Dr. Richards, and then was led out by the nurse.
Back in his room, Jim sits upright on the edge of his bed for an hour until the really long and tedious socializing part of the day was to begin. He dreaded it, just like he dreaded all other activities that he was forced to take part in.
Finally, he's led out of his room and to the "backyard," which was their outdoor facility where they'd lock the kids outside and let them play. The adults didn't have this time, and Jim couldn't wait for the time when he wouldn't have to do it anymore.
Jim is outside on a bench for a fair amount of time, then taking a walk. No one approaches him today; of this, he is grateful. But few people ever really approached him anymore. After everything that's happened to him recently with regards to getting in trouble and receiving formal discipline, most kids deem it too risky to talk to him or even be near him.
This is another reason he wants to go to the adult corridor as soon as possible. Maybe he wouldn't be so miserable there.
He is shit with kids. He hates their illogical ways. And it's almost humorous how much he doesn't even try to hide it.
Jim is finally allowed to go inside to eat dinner. He had a headache now, and his head was pounding. His mind is like a prison for all the thoughts he had and was not allowed to express, just as this facility was like a prison for his physical body and restricted him from doing, well, anything.
Dinner is tiny. It always is. Lunch is their big meal of the day, and breakfast is also relatively nice. But dinner is always pathetic.
A roll of bread, a scoop of what looked like pasta, a tiny helping of salad, and an apple. That's it. No metal utensils, only plastic ones. And no knives. No dessert, and if you wanted something to drink, you had to go up to the kitchen to ask for it. And it wouldn't come in a glass, either. It would be in a plain paper cup, so that there would be no risk of someone trying to break a glass if given one.
On this particular day, Jim wants a cup of water. He walks up to the kitchen counter, expecting to see a chef there to help him. But there was no one there on this day.
Jim quietly steps back into the kitchen, nearly knocking over a row of spoons lined up on a hook near the door. But he is in the clear, and he looks around.
There is literally no one there. Where did all the cooks go? Jim pays no mind to this fact, because he sees something that changes his whole demeanor.
A butcher's knife, long and sharp. It had been jammed into a cutting board, and the handle is upright toward Jim.
That had to be a sign of something. Someone or something wants Jim to take that knife, to use it for some grand escape attack or anything. The weapon is calling is name, purring it seductively.
Jim looks around again. There is still no one in the room. They have got to be joking. Why would they ever leave possible weapons out like this, when kids could just sneak into the kitchen and find them so easily?
His hands on the handle of the knife, Jim pulls it out of the board. He's looking at his reflection in the knife now, turning it and throwing it in the air to catch it again. With this knife, he has an advantage. He's dangerous.
But then, Jim realises that he has no place to put the knife to take it out of the kitchen. He grabs a chef's apron and wraps the knife in it. That's not too bad. It is a little bit suspicious, but not overly out of place.
It could be any t-shirt, article of clothing, and no one would suspect it is a chef's apron with a long, sharp, butcher's knife lodged inside of it.
Jim looks around. No cameras to see what he just did. His luck on this particular day is immense. He is free to walk out, and he does.
When he returns to his room, Jim aims to take the butcher's knife out from the white apron. He unwraps it slowly and carefully, making sure that no one is in the hall, watching him, as he's doing it.
He wants to attack. He is now deciding who in particular he wants to punish for making his life a living hell. First, the nurses. Possibly all of them. Then, the one he hates most of all. Dr. Richards. Finally, the cooks. For being dumb enough to let him go in the kitchen in the first place.
But before Jim could even finish planning, a fatal error is made. Not by him, but by one of the nurses. It's Jackie again, walking up to Jim's door and opening it.
"Jim? Are you all right?" she asks, looking into the room and seeing Jim hold up the knife as if he were about to throw it.
"Jim," Jackie says, clearly trained for this type of situation, "Put it down."
"You know what?" Jim asks, in a rhetorical and sort of menacing way, "I don't think I will," he finishes, turning around and swinging the knife at the nurse.
But, as it would seem, Jackie is trained for this kind of a situation. She grabs Jim's arm and twists it behind his back, holding it at a distance away from her.
"Jim, let go of the knife," the nurse says.
"No," Jim repeats, twisting his arm back and turning to attack Jackie again. Her response is quick and one that Jim never expected.
The nurse pulls a syringe out of her dress pocket. She grabs Jim's arm, the one that has the knife in its hand, and jams the syringe into Jim's bicep.
Jim yells in pain, shouting curses at the nurse, but she subdues Jim by twisting his arm behind his back again and pushing him to the floor, where he goes unconscious from whatever was in the syringe.
Waking up was terrible. Jim realises he is in a cold, sparse, sterile white room. He also is brought to know the fact that he is sitting in a little metal chair with a stiff back and no cushions. His head is on the desk in front of him, also made of metal.
"Where am I?" Jim asks the man in front of him. This man is in a white jumpsuit, and his name tag says "Dr. Johnson."
"You are in Corridor D's detaining facility. I need to ask you a few questions."
"About what?"
"Your attack on the nurse who came to check on you. Where did you get that knife?"
"Why should I tell you?"
"Because if you don't cooperate, we'll jail you in corridor D for a longer time. So I'll ask you again. Where did you get that knife?"
"The kitchen. I went in when no one was around to get a cup of water. And I found the knife instead. I wanted it. I don't even know where the cooks were - idiots. I didn't even want to use the knife yet, but your stupid nurse looked into my room and saw me with it."
"How would you have used the knife?"
"I don't even know. I didn't finish my plan yet."
"Fair enough. Well, since you told me all that I want to know, your stay in Corridor D will be shortened. Only a few weeks."
"A few weeks?! Why? I'm almost an adult! I'll be moved soon; why bother?"
"Because you, Jim Moriarty, are a dangerous person. You must be kept from attempting to hurt any more people. I don't know why you haven't been here before, anyway. You've attacked people before, as I can see in your record. This knife attempt was the last straw, I guess. Your nurses have been very lenient with you. No more."
Jim sits in the chair, staring at Dr. Johnson. He doesn't know what to say back.
"This is a good place, Jim. But when you break out rules, you must be punished. You have to set an example for others! You will be an adult soon! Maybe a stay in Corridor D will straighten you out."
Jim is led out by two guards. Guards. He hadn't seen any of those before. Now he knows why those kids in Corridor D scream all the time.
His room in Corridor D is small. Like a jail cell, the door is completely open, covered by bars. There is a slot by the door that food could be sent through.
Jim lays on the tiny cot in the room for hours. Until he hears a noise from outside the cell.
"No! You can't do this to me! You understand? My brother will have something to say about this! You cannot just... DETAIN me like this!"
A person who looks only a little bit older than Jim is being led into the cell across from him. He must be an adult since Jim had never seen him before. He is fighting the guards.
"Put him in the cell," one guard says to the other. The person is thrown into the cell and the door is shut. He reaches through the bars and begins to yell. Jim stands up, watching this.
"Sherlock Holmes, you are detained for three weeks. Enjoy your stay, freak!" one guard says to the person in the cell across from Jim before both guards leave.
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