#stonefieldstarter

Carefully gripping his coffee mug with bruised hands, he drank slowly, closing his eyes momentarily as he waited for his next appointment. 

“I can only be on the phone certain hours and I know you work but…can you please pick up the phone? I need to talk to you. I haven’t heard from you since the hospital. That’s…I’ve been in here a long time. This…this isn’t fair…” He exhaled as he moved around so now he was pressing his head against the wall. “I love you…” And with that, he went to hang the phone up on the receiver.

His internal dialogue was making him sick. ‘You screwed up, buddy. Love of your life is gone forever.’

But he did not have time to wallow in his feelings. He heard the footsteps of someone approaching and he turned around to place a big smile on his face. “Hey! Here for the phone? Just got off.”

It had been a normal day (as normal as a psychiatric hospital got). The doctor had met with patients, before ending his day with a particularly temperamental red band who had a nasty case of IED. When the young man had his predicted outburst, Darcey didn’t know he’d have his own. Unable to control his pent up anger and stress, the doctor lashed out, using whatever force he had to pin the patient to the ground and throw several punches of his own. 

Darcey swallowed thickly as he lent against the desk, his gaze focusing on his bloody and bruised knuckles as he braced the wooden surface. He couldn’t process what had just happened-- did he really have to be dragged off a patient by not only one, but two orderlies? fuck. He needed a holiday. 

  JACK ALREADY HATED the idea of a Psychiatric ward even before it was suggested for its own good. Sure, the facility was there to help them. But is there truly even help needing? For Jack, they’re only going to make things worse. 

Sasha got her phone privileges back after finally apologizing to the orderly that she called “an ugly, bald dyke”. She scrambled to get her hands on the phone and she dialed her parents’ home phone number. A quick look around the hallway indicated that she was alone. There was a sigh of relief, she could talk. She leaned against the wall and waited for an answer.

“Ma? Ma, it’s me, Sasha.” Gone was her preppy accent, gone was the smoothness of her voice. Instead, her natural Brooklyn accent showed loud and clear. “Ma...Ma, turn down your TV. I can’t hear you. Christ sake, you and your stories...Ma, I can’t stand it here. You need to tell Roger to get me out of this hellhole...The hell? Ma, are you drunk? It’s 11 in the morning!”