White. That was my world. The walls were white, the floor was white, the orderlies wore white. It was an upsetting, all-encompassing color which left me feeling a little dizzy. And there wasn't much to do besides be absorbed in it. Occasionally, the sounds of crying or screaming could be heard off in the distance, and I took a perverse pleasure in their distraction. It wasn't schadenfreude exactly, more a painful lack of any other source of amusement. The hospital was dull, the food was bland, and I always felt fuzzy after my morning dose of medicine. Things lost their edges and started to blur into one another.

I was sitting at a table in the cafeteria, trying desperately to remember a dream I had had the night before. Flashes of images and emotions popped up, bubbling to the surface like a shaken up soft drink. I had been running from a giant. I had been running from a giant along a road. I had been... scared.

"Jim?" Ralph asked.

Ralph didn't look good that day. I could always tell when someone was going to snap. It was a gift I had. Something about the tension in the muscles around the mouth and nose. Something about the peculiar way Ralph's mustache twitched and jumped nervously.

"Jim?" Ralph asked again, annoyed.

"Yeah, what is it?" I asked.

"They stole my pie again." I sighed, but Ralph stopped me before I could speak. "I know, I know. But this time, I've got proof. Jim, look at this. Jim, look!" he reached out his hand and dropped a small pile of crumbs onto the center of the table. I looked, disinterestedly.

"So what, Ralph?"

"So what? So, the guard ate it off my plate. But, he left the crumbs. He left the crumbs, Jim!"

"Ralph, that's a pile of fucking crumbs, what the fuck do I care about a pile of fucking crumbs?"

Ralph's hand clenched. "You don't get it. Today it's the pie, tomorrow it's the bread, before you know it they're bringing me an empty tray. An empty tray, Jim!"

An orderly walked over, attracted by the volume of the conversation.

"What's the problem today, Ralph?" the man asked, crossing his arms.

He was a new person, somebody I didn't recognize.

"They took my pie. You see, I used to have more food on my lunch tray. Yesterday there was definitely pie."

The orderly was a big man: big and bald and unsmiling.

"You ate the pie Ralph. I just watched you eat the pie."

Ralph's eye widened ever so slightly.

"No, no you see it wasn't there when I got my tray--"

"Look, buddy, that's enough. I think it's time for another dose."

Ralph stood suddenly.

"NO!" he shouted. "Not again, please, I don't need medicine, I need my food!"

The big man waved a few other orderlies over. They pinned Ralph to the floor. I and the other man at the table kept eating. After the ordeal was over, and Ralph had been dragged away, I stood and returned my tray to the pile from which it had come.

~~~

I was in my room, sleeping lunch off, when the door opened without warning. The grating, squeaking sound of metal against metal never failed to rouse me instantly. The orderly from earlier stood in the doorway.

"Hi, Jim," he said, stepping into the room. "Mind if I come in?"

It was a rhetorical question.

"Please." The man nodded, and closed the door. He walked up to me: just a little too close for comfort.

"So... what's going on?" I asked.

"We're just having a conversation," the man said, putting his hand on my shoulder. His breathing was just a little off, like he wasn't entirely comfortable. His posture was unnerving too, not exactly aggressive, but full of tension, like a cat preparing to pounce.

"About what?"

The man smiled. "I'm worried about you Jim. You seem to be having a problem with falling down the stairs."

I was confused. "Falling down the--" the orderly drove a punch into my stomach. The air rushed out of my lungs all at once. I collapsed to the ground, wheezing.

"It was a pretty nasty fall," the big man planted a kick in the center of my chest. I raised my hands feebly, but was too weak to stand. I had spent the better part of a year sitting in this room, considered too dangerous to be allowed outside. The orderly kicked my hands out of the way and slapped him across the face, the sound reverberating around the room. He stomped on my chest once again, and pulled out a small nightstick. These were only carried by security.

"I borrowed this, better make good use of it," he said, raining blow after blow on my stomach, arms and legs. This process repeated itself over the span of three minutes before the man finally tired. When he was finished, he took a moment to catch his breath, placing his hands on his knees.

I lay on the ground, my entire body a cacophony of pain. One of my eyes was beginning to swell; my legs and arms were excruciating to move. I had vomited on the ground and still felt immensely queasy. The world was spinning and had a distinct sense of unreality about it. When the man reached up to scratch his nose, I flinched back, my torso immediately exploding in agony. After a moment to recover, the man hauled me up, and carried me across the hall to the clinic.

The room was small: there were only a few beds and one nurse on duty. She turned when they entered the room and her eyes widened when she saw me.

"This one took a pretty nasty fall," the orderly said. "We were in the stairwell, and I was taking him down to the first floor and he starts having a psychotic break, screaming about how I'm trying to hurt him. He panicked, practically threw himself down three flights of stairs. Pretty ugly."

The nurse was a young, pretty woman, not older than 25, with a kind, open face and sharp eyes. They were the kind of blue that made you think she could look into your soul.

"I've got this," she said, shooing the man away.

She took me in her arms, and led me to a bed. I lay down, and she began bandaging my wounds.

"That guy, you've gotta keep me away from him," I croaked out.

The nurse shushed him. "Try to relax," she told me.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"Skylar."

"Skylar, that guy's dangerous. You gotta do something about him. He kicked me in the stomach. He-- he-- punched me in the face. I think he stole Ralph's pie."

She shined a flashlight in my eyes.

"You're confused, that's all. You took a pretty nasty spill, and you had an incident. Don't worry. You'll get over it."

I closed my eyes. "Please, you have to believe me," I said, grabbing Skylar's arm. I looked imploringly into her eyes, searching for any life raft I could grab hold of in that vast ocean of blue. She hesitated for a moment before gently prying my fingers from her arm and lifting my shirt to begin bandaging the wounds on my stomach.

"Try to relax."

~~~

I sat painfully in the cafeteria the next day, eating once again with Ralph. This time, it was me with the nervous twitch to my demeanor.

"Ralph."

"Yes?"

"You don't have any pie today."

Ralph looked down. "I hadn't noticed," he shrugged, and kept eating. But he wasn't as casual as he appeared. That slight tremor returned to his mouth. I saw it. It was there.

"No, Ralph, look. The pie - it's gone."

He stopped eating for a second and closed his eyes.

"No, it's just in my imagination; I ate the pie. I must've forgot. The medicine does that."

I grabbed his hand, "No, it's that orderly. It's gotta be, Ralph. He's trying to screw with your head."

Ralph began tapping his leg against the ground. "No, no. I'm over that now, I was wrong before."

"Try to remember," I said, looking into his eye. "Really try to remember. Did you have pie when you got the plate."

Ralph paused, then shook his head. "I don't know-- maybe..." He dropped his fork. "No, no. That can't be, it must have been there."

I stood and pointed at him, shaking, "There was no goddamned pie and you know it Ralph. Don't let them get to you!"

The orderlies came running.

"Come on, let's go," an altogether too familiar voice called out behind me.

I flinched, falling back against the table, spilling my tray on the ground.

"NO!" I shouted, before they wrestled me to the ground, and injected me with the tranquilizer.

~~~

When I woke, I had no idea how much time had passed. A week? A year? It didn't really matter in this place anyway. I came out of my stupor slowly at first, but then was able to shake it off. When I was fully conscious, I settled into a fitful rhythm of panic and resignation. I was sure that every step, every distant creak was the man coming back, coming to hurt me again.

Every time someone passed by the door I gripped the edge of my bed and clenched my teeth, terrified that the next second would bring with it the dreadful sound of metal grating against metal, and the light from the hallway. It was an unsustainable mental state.

Pain is one thing: we semi-evolved primates are built to handle pain. Fear, though, that is something different. Ours is as potent as that of the dumb beast, but enabled in its self-indulgence by our cognitive superiority.

Trading pain for fear, and fear for pain in alternating spurts, I dug my nails into my palms, driving for a few moments the monstrous memories from my consciousness.

Perhaps, a small corner of my mind suggested, my abuser had been caught. But that was a fool's dream and my rational mind knew perfectly well that it was so. There was no refuge from his shadow: whether it be physical or metaphorical. When he was not present in body he was present in spirit.

For a time, he took on the character and stature of the devil, and in my mind all evil and malevolence flowed from his fiery being. Yes! I could feel it burning within my soul and consuming with a slow, methodical determination all light and goodness that was left to me.

I didn't have to keep it up very long, because not half an hour after I woke up, the door did swing open and the light from the hallway did come flooding into the room.

"Miss me?" that low, growling voice asked casually.

I bolted at the door, trying to ram my way through the bigger man, but I ran up against a solid wall of muscle.

"Where do you think you're going?" he asked, as he threw me into the wall.

The previous day's horror repeated itself, and my world dissolved into a whirlwind of fists and feet and pain. When I was brought to the infirmary this time, I discovered that I had been injured on the basketball court.

Skylar brought out the flashlight again.

"You don't seem to have a concussion," she murmured.

"You've gotta help me. I can't take any more of this," I begged her.

"That's what we're trying to do here: help you get better."

I looked up at her. "Check my file," I told her. "I'm not even allowed outside."

She sighed and brought his paperwork over, presumably intending to put my delusion to rest once and for all. When she looked down at the paper though, her brow knitted together.

"Hold on a minute," she said. "You're one of the level 4 patients."

"That's what I'm trying to tell you," I said.

"Oh my god," she said, standing suddenly, with great force. "You're telling the truth."

I smiled. A weight lifted itself off my shoulders.

Skylar worked quietly, stitching me up, and putting me back together. She worked tirelessly into the night, stroking my hair and singing softly:

Hush, little baby, don't say a word,

Mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird.

~~~

The next morning, I awoke to the sight of Skylar standing in the doorway. I was surprised, as the nurses didn't usually come to work so early.

"What are you doing here?" I asked.

"Just wanted to check on you," she said, absently.

"Oh," I responded, not sure exactly what to say.

As this conversation was happening, the bell went off indicating that it was time for the day to begin. I began to shiver unconsciously. The start of another day, and I had barely managed to make it through the last one.

The orderly walked into the room a minute or two after the bell went off, to collect me for breakfast.

"Come on, let's go," he grabbed me.

"Hold on a minute," Skylar said.

"What?" the man asked, slightly irritated.

She walked up to him, a slight lilt to her step, and leaned in to whisper in his ear. He leaned over to listen, taken slightly off guard.

Suddenly, the man's eye exploded in a fountain of blood. A scalpel stuck out from it. He shrieked in pain, but was quickly muffled by a role of medical gauze. A pool of blood began forming around his face. Skylar yanked the instrument from his eye, and cut a long gash from his ear to his cheek. The man reached up to defend himself, but without the power of sight, it was a futile effort.

The small woman moved with lightning speed, hacking and slashing at the man's arms, legs, stomach, scalp. The pool became a lake, and the man's shrieks grew less and less frequent, his struggles leached of their strength.

I stood, aghast, too terrified to move. I felt the entire structure of reality splintering around me. Was this real? Could this actually be happening? Insanity, I noted, somehow insightfully in the midst of the chaos, had no way of analyzing itself.

Skylar walked calmly to the other side of the room, and washed the blood from her hands, face and arms. She changed out of her shirt, into another which was hidden amongst her medical supplies. She grabbed several rolls of gauze and methodically placed them around the man who barely clung to life, sucking up the growing torrent of red.

Skylar knelt next to the big man, gently stroking his hair. She took his hand in hers and he clasped her tightly, like a drowning sailor holding onto a piece of wreckage. As the life drained from his body, and the faint gurgling died down into a raspy rattling, Skylar began singing softly, with a voice that resonated with some half-forgotten, maternal memory from my childhood. The sound echoed in a disturbingly pleasant fashion around the room:

Hush, little baby, don't say a word,

Mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird