#mama-alpha

Move your ass, they thought. It can’t be that much further. 

Or maybe the hospital was an endless, inescapable labyrinth of hallways and arrows that lead nowhere.

 I’ve got miles to go before I sleep, they thought. Where had they heard that? A poem? Movie? DIdn’t matter. It had just popped into their head, and they didn’t have the luxury of letting something so trivial natter at them. 

The memory of their treatment spurred Max on. The medical staff had been well-meaning (They were a far sight gentler than the cops who had dragged them into the ER. Max had barely managed to calm themself enough to avoid being cuffed to a bed.), but they had found themself flinching at every touch and snapping out answers or equivocations to their questions. They didn’t have it in them for anymore blood draws, or pen lights, or gloved hands, or someone telling them, “You’re just going to feel a bit of discomfort.” But they knew their physical examination was less damning than a psychological one would be. 

They’d heard enough bits of conversation to know that once they were cleared medically, someone from psych was coming to evaluate them. Max understood the staff’s concern all too well, they did, but they couldn’t allow that to happen. So, Max had bided their time until the nurse was gone and security was distracted, then they slipped past the faded blue and yellow-striped privacy curtain, and limped away down the nearest hallway.

They never thought they’d be thankful for a hospital’s short staffing. 

Their clothes had dried, but a stubborn, damp chill from the rain had sunken in and the too-cool air in the hospital was not helping. The deep lacerations on their right arm ached. They regretted that they had nothing to cover the bandages with. They didn’t want anyone to see it, didn’t want anyone to speculate what was beneath, and there could be no discussion of it. It’s not like they wanted to do it. Not like they wanted the pain. They hadn’t had a choice.

Just a little further, they thought as they lurched around the corner. 

—

Doc turned over in their head the conversation they’d had with Max’s brother. He’d reported that Max’s behavior, in the limited time he’d seen them, had been erratic, and that he was worried, though he didn’t think he had any helpful information. Nevertheless, Doc hoped that the brother could be a part of Max’s recovery. 

The officers who had dragged Max into the Emergency Department corroborated their erratic behavior and added “violent” and “delusional” to the list of concerns. (One of the officers was going to have a pretty good shiner come morning.) Doc compartmentalized the information as they made their way back toward Max’s bed. Hopefully a more complete picture would come together once they were able to talk to Max. 

Doc turned the corner and 

Oof!

The file, notepad, clipboard, and pen they were carrying under their arm went flying, but they ignored them in favor of grabbing the bicep of whoever they’d just collided with and tried to keep them upright. 

“S…sorry,” they said as they continued to both stumble and pull away. 

“No harm done,” Doc said with a slight chuckle in their voice. They kept hold of them and tried to steady them, but they seemed determined to fall flat.

“‘m good,” they said. They looked  back toward Doc, then forward again. Eye contact had been fleeting, but Doc became aware of two things: The person whose arm they were holding was deeply exhausted, and that person was the one on whom they were supposed to perform a psychiatric evaluation. 

They were a long way from “good.” 

“Hey, okay,” Doc said, their voice even and their grip as assertive as it had to be. They didn’t want to cause Max anymore pain or agitation, but If they let go, they would probably topple. “Max, right? 

Max didn’t acknowledge them, just kept straining away, even as they heavily favored their left leg. 

“Max, hey. Max? Hold up, hold up.” Max paused, and looked askance at Doc. The patient calm Doc projected was more than a veneer. It was so complete that their coworkers speculated it was something intrinsic that couldn’t be taught. In truth, it had taken years of care, practice and cultivation to be the person their patients needed them to be. “What are you doing out of bed?”

“I…” Max dropped their gaze, and shook their head as though they’d reconsidered something.  “Ba-bathroom,” they stammered.

Doc was sure the fact Max was heading toward an exit wasn’t a coincidence.

“I should probably tell you you’re going the wrong way, then.” 

No response. No one liked having their bluff called. Or maybe Max hadn’t even heard them. Either way, Max continued to pull away and strain in their intended direction. Doc got the sense that, aside from their firm hand on Max’s arm,  it was pure force of will keeping them upright. 

“Max,” Doc said, their voice infinitely reasonable, but stern. 

“What?!” Max turned and jerked their arm away and spun to face Doc, but they yelped, and lurched gracelessly to their side.

Doc reached for Max but pulled back when they caught themself on the closest wall. Crowding Max would gain them nothing.

“Easy, Max,” Doc said, the admonishment tempered with concern.

“I…I need to get out of here,” Max said. before they began shuffling along the wall. “I can’t, I can’t be here.” 

“Why is that?” 

Max looked back at them. Their eyes were tired and wide, but there was something honest and vulnerable there too, like they might tell them. Doc willed them to do so, but whatever they thought of saying went unspoken.

“I…I just can’t.”

 At least they’re engaging with me, Doc thought.

“You’re hurt. You shouldn’t be out of bed, let alone wandering the halls.”

Max huffed out a breath that was a jumbled mess of weariness, annoyance, and derision. Doc supposed wandering implied the lack of a destination. And that destination was likely any place but the hospital. 

“Max?” Another voice came from the end of the hall. Doc didn’t take their focus off of Max, but they spared a glance in the direction of the advancing orderly. (The relief on the ordery’s face was plain.) Max whipped their head toward him, then came a whimper and the harsh squeak of shoes’ soles on the white and green tile. Doc tried to stop their fall, but it was too late. Max thudded to the ground, and Doc winced in sympathy at Max’s pained groan.

The orderly’s pace quickened, but Doc put up a staying hand.

“We’re good,” Doc said. “Could you go get a wheelchair and bring it back?”

The orderly looked back at Max, who was trying to push themself back up. Their arms were shaking and blood, brilliant and red on the fresh white bandages on their forearm, was beginning to seep through. The orderly arched an eyebrow, but didn’t argue before nodding and turning to go.

Max had stopped trying to lift themself from the floor, and slowly managed to prop themself up so that they sat with their back against the wall. Their left leg was stretched out in front of them and they held their right arm stiffly at their side. 

Doc thought to pick up the papers they’d dropped, but that would mean getting closer to Max than Max would likely have been comfortable with, so they seated themself across from Max in a loose approximation of their posture. Max looked them over and ran their tongue over their split lower lip. 

“When was the last time you had something to eat?” 

It was as good a tack to take as any at that moment. Regardless of their answer, Doc would go to the cafeteria and get some food for Max before they officially began their evaluation. 

Max shrugged their left shoulder. Either they didn’t know, or didn’t want to say.

Then Max surprised Doc by speaking. 

“You think I look crazy.” 

Max’s expression was direct, but the way it was underscored by deep, dark circles, and the way their fingers picked at a tear in their jeans painted a picture of someone who could no longer run, but desperately wanted to. (Doc didn’t think the damage on the jeans had been put there with a mind toward fashion.)  

“No,” Doc said. They shook their head slowly and earnestly, as something partly self-conscious and wholly mistrustful flickered behind Max’s eyes. “I think you look like you’ve had a rough couple of weeks.” 

Max’s chest jolted with bleak humor.

“You could say that,” they said as their attention listed to their left and settled on one of the papers on the floor;  it crinkled as they picked it up with unsteady fingers. Doc didn’t protest as Max read over the notes they’d taken during the phone conversation with Max’s brother. 

“You’re going to put me away.” 

It was a statement, not a question.

There was no accusation in Max’s voice, but there was resignation. That should have given Doc reason to breathe a small sigh of relief, perhaps, but instead it needled at them. 

“Nobody wants that,” Doc said. “But it is my job to evaluate you, to find out if hospitalization is necessary.”

—-

Necessary.

If Max told even half the truth about the things they’d learned, or the events leading up to their apprehension, the doctor would find it very damn necessary to lock them up, and to throw away the key for good measure. Max looked over the paper in their hand where their brother’s concern and unwitting betrayal was documented in a stranger’s handwriting. They couldn’t be too hard on their brother, but they regretted trying to find some sort of solace or understanding with him. 

What did you think was going to happen?

They wanted to keep going, to do what they had to do, but their body was a traitor, and there was no way out. That fact was driven home when two orderlies, one of which was pushing a wheelchair, rounded the corner. Max could drag themself maybe several feet before they would be corralled. They would struggle, and they would lose. Their heart beat faster in their chest and tears stung their eyes. 

They met the studious eyes of the shrink sitting across from them. They didn’t look like the sort of person to accept “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you” as an answer to their questions. 

Max let out a sigh. It was a stilted, defeated thing. 

Whumpee heard themself make a dull, dumb noise. The brightness of the lights and the motion of the gurney, added to Whumpee’s disorientation.

And there was something over their nose and mouth. There was a disconnect between thought and action, but their arm lifted off the gurney and found the offending plastic tubing. Caretaker chided them and pulled their arm back down to their side. They wanted to fight, but they were too weak, too tired and hurt.

“Let them work,” Caretaker admonished as they rested a warm, steady hand on Whumpee’s shoulder.

But as they were wheeled through another set of doors, the hand was gone; Caretaker was gone. Whumpee tried to look backward, tried to ask where Caretaker was, but the muffled sound they managed was not intelligible in the least. There was another hand on one of their shoulders - not Caretaker’s - and someone was telling them to stay calm and that they were going to take care of them.

No, no, no. They needed Caretaker!

They heard a three-count and they were lifted from the gurney to a table.

Please, they thought, too distressed to feel ashamed of their weakness and the knowledge they would have lowered themself to begging. They could no longer keep their eyes open; it was too much.

Everything went away.  

---

It was sometime after midnight when the rate of Whumpee’s heart monitor escalated. Caretaker stood and set aside the magazine they’d been leafing through; they ignored the kink in their lower back as they crossed the distance from their seat to Whumpee’s bed.

Whumpee’s brow bunched and their head began to move slowly back and forth on the pillow as they began to mutter shapeless nothings.

“Shh,” Caretaker said. They doubted Whumpee could hear or sense them, but it was worth a try. At least they could feel like they were doing something. “It’s okay, Whumpee. Shshshshsh.”

Their mouth fell open and a choked, insensible moan escaped them and their eyes opened part way.

“Hey,” Caretaker said, with a tired smile. They’d been told not to expect too much from Whumpee.

Beep, beep, beepbeepbeep.

Whumpee’s body jolted and the deep, pained cry they let out caught in their throat. Their eyes came open and their upper body started to rise off the bed.

“Easy, Whumpee,” Caretaker kept their voice even and clear as they pressed their palms down on Whumpee’s shoulders. “You’re safe. You’re in the hospital, remember? Everything’s finee.”

Whumpee gasped and began to claw and shove at Caretaker’s forearms. The motion was unschooled, sloppy. It smarted, but it was nothing like the way Caretaker knew Whumpee could strike. With Whumpee, fight always overrode flight.

“Hey, hey,” Caretaker admonished with quiet sternness. “Whumpee, you’re safe. Listen to me. Listen”

Whumpee’s wide, unseeing eyes looked right through Caretaker as they continued to pitch and squirm.

“Nonono.You can’t,” Whumpee groaned at someone who wasn’t there. Their words were slurred, but they had a manic, ragged edge to them that caused Caretaker’s pity for them to deepen.  

When Whumpee was unable to batter Caretaker away, their hands wandered up and tried for the nasal cannula.

“Huh-uh,” Caretaker said as they caught Whumpee’s determined, but uncoordinated hand and pushed it down. “That stays put.”

Whumpee tried with their other hand, but met with the same result.

“Nggh!” Whumpee let out a frustrated, ugly sound as they tossed their head back on the pillow and tried to buck out from under Caretaker’s hands. The veins in Whumpee’s neck and forehead stood out as they fought. There was anguish on their face, but no recognition. Caretaker was not sure whether to be grateful or worried that they were keeping Whumpee pinned so easily.

“C’mon, Whumpee,” Caretaker tried. Their voice remained unruffled by their frustration and concern. “Think. Just take a breath and think. I’m here. You’re safe.”

Whumpee collapsed back on the bed, panting. Their breaths were worryingly harsh, but Caretaker ceased to notice the heart monitor’s incessant beeping. Their breath caught when Whumpee began to moan the names of people who were long dead, names Caretaker hadn’t heard Whumpee so much as mention in years.

Caretaker admitted to themself that they couldn’t pull Whumpee from whatever hateful imitation of consciousness they were trapped in.

Caretaker kept hold of Whumpee’s hands with one of their own and grabbed the call button mechanism with the other. They jammed the button down before putting their hand on Whumpee’s shoulder.

“It’s going to be okay, Whumpee,” they told them, wishing they felt as certain and reasonable as they sounded. “It’s just Caretaker. There’s no one else here.”

By the time two nurses arrived - it couldn’t have been longer than several minutes - Whumpee’s energy was beginning to flag.

“They just woke up like this,” Caretaker said without taking their eyes from Whumpee, who was still muttering and struggling weakly. In the back of their mind, Caretaker was aware of how harried their voice sounded. Caretaker knew Whumpee would be humiliated if they knew of their own loss of control. “They can’t calm down.”

The nurses worked quickly. Whumpee didn’t seem to notice them as they continued to rave. At the nurses’ instruction, Caretaker continued to hold Whumpee down and talk to them. It didn’t do any good. When Whumpee’s body began to go lax and their eyes slid shut, and their pitiful whimpers fell silent, Caretaker knew it was owing to whatever substance one of the nurses put into Whumpee’s IV line.

The heart monitor’s beeping leveled out and as the nurses rearranged Whumpee’s body and smoothed the blanket back over them and double-checked the IV and cannula, Caretaker took a step back and let them do their job. When they were done, one of the nurses excused themself to take care of another responsibility; the other scratched notes on Whumpee’s chart. When the nurse’s attention turned to Caretaker, their brow furrowed and a corner of their mouth tugged sideways into an empathetic almost-smile.

Caretaker realized how stricken they must have looked. The nurse explained to them what happened in a way that was calm, practiced and unpatronizing. They thanked the nurse, but they stopped them before they exited the room.