Shambolic

[Snuffkin]

Let me begin by saying that this is not only my first work of fanfiction ever, but quite possibly one of my first formal works of fiction. My apologies if this turned out to be a painful read, but bear with me.
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Thank god for the drugs.

The doctor tells me I should feel grateful. A couple decades back, they took people like me (though I still resent his lumping me in with the rest of these subhuman shits) and stuffed them all between four cement walls. They only had their fellow outcasts and nurses and doctors who considered them little more than animals to keep them company, and sometimes they didn’t even have that. Sometimes they would be kept in conditions that the outside world would compare to violent criminals: complete isolation with nothing to do but stare at the walls and occasionally eat and shit. In either case they would rarely give you anything to read ro watch, because of the possibility that it would somehow distress you.

And God help you if you rebelled against those conditions. Hell, they only outlawed lobotomies a few decades ago, and that was mostly due to how much of a PR nightmare it resulted in due to the Kennedy family.

So, how did conditions improve? Better question: what forced them to improve?

The development of more drugs. The “therapeutic community” resulted in little more than sustained stability for most, and every last one of them no matter the condition was still a drain on taxpayer resources. So what did they do? Why, they made our sustainment into a fucking business, of course, and used the cement boxes only with those whose wiring had shorted in such a way that even chemical intervention wouldn’t stop them from posing a potential threat to others.

Now, we’re robbed of our distinction on a compulsory basis, so we can participate in “civil society”. I don’t mind this, though, because otherwise I’m haunted by the possibility of demons popping out of the ether to bite my nuts off or the eyes of those that stare at me when I think of such things emitting beams that burrow into my brain and make holes in it.

That, and now I know how to see through the euphuisms in these little history lectures. Thank god for the drugs alright.

Back at the doctor’s office, I continue to nod while he finishes his little speech with, “... just remember how much progress the rest of society has made to better the lots of good young men and women like you. You may resent how heavy-handed we in the profession seem at times, but I know personally that it’s all for your own good; that’s certainly the case with me, at least.”

He seems to think feigning some sort of personal investment in the “care” of the vermin I now find myself representing is bound to make me more complaint. What should I care? I know from my time in the ward that most of the people he deals with aren’t worth the food nor the air. So fuck him, either he’s being disingenuous about giving a shit or he has really low standards when it comes to those he thinks deserve compassion.

Speaking of the doc, I haven’t called him by his name, have I? Weird, I never bothered to remember it; all he ever expects me to call him is sir anyway. I glance at his nameplate but can’t pronounce it, so I’ll refer to him as just that: Doc.

His name sounds Russian, but I think he’s from one of the ex-Yugoslav countries: this place loves to get the cheapest certified immigrants possible.

It reminds me of yet another history lecture, this one from the last person in charge of pretending to give a shit and listening for the clicks and chirps that evidently indicate which pills I would need to swallow that month. It was about how the Soviets used to use psychiatry to put potential political offenders in prison, because in the Soviet Union they didn’t even bother making the (albeit slim) distinction between prisons and mental hospitals. What’s really funny about that story is how absolutely no one objected, because even the Krauts, anarchists and religious nutters in the gulags were seen with more concern.

I’m not sure if the Chinks did that, but I do know they haven’t stopped lobotomizing people.

I’ve been out of the psych ward for two weeks, and this was the first scheduled appointment after my discharge. I can’t tell what Doc thinks of my progress; after all, I’m saying as little as possible, and I hardly think my body language is making much of a good impression, given the state of my thoughts.

Apparently I was right in worrying about that; he seems to grow concerned at my unresponsiveness. His lips, before then wearing a fake smile, flatten out again and his brows knit in thought.

“David? Are you feeling alright?”

“Yes sir.”

“Be honest with me; what is it you’re so concerned about?”

I consider his question. Not much, actually. I managed to get discharged from the box, my hallucinations have died down for the most part, and while I’ve gotten a ridiculous amount of stares since I’ve returned home, I was only freaked out by it once or twice.

Sure, I’ll have to spend the rest of highschool with a merry gaggle of morons, melodramatically depressed kids, sociopaths, autists and bipolar girls who I will never enter into a relationship with for fear of being castrated with teeth, but like I said, it’s highschool. I would’ve done that anyway, this place just has a higher concentration of the certifiably broken-fused and missed opportunities for abortions. ...Ye gods have I got to work harder getting myself comfortable to the idea of being included in the group one would refer to as schizophrenics.

“Sir,” I ask, “when am I going to be enrolled in the school?”

“You mean Saint Dymphna?”

“Yes, sir.” (Apparently my memory is still as poor as ever.)

“Orientation begins next Sunday. Are you excited?”

“I’m not sure whether I should be, honestly. I mean, aren’t my parents paying out of their nose to send me to a what is essentially a glorified GED-preparation facility with a student body made up of a good number of violent sociopaths on campus?”

“Firstly, your enrollment is being subsidized by the state. You can thank your earlier test scores for that.
You have to remember that St. Dymphna isn’t for those who wouldn’t be able to take the opportunity to gain a valuable education. Potentially unpleasant classmates aside, violent sociopaths wouldn’t be allowed into the school, regardless of how well their parents were willing to pay."

"You have a great opportunity here; certainly one that not many in your position would ever be given in the past-“

I cut him off, “Could you please stop talking about the past!? Yeah, I get it, I’m the type of person that probably would’ve been used for a nice, lively game of Stone the Freak a century ago, but could you stop reminding me of that for a few seconds?!”

“David, I’m being absolutely serious right now, this could very well be the most memorable period of your life.”

Sure, but for what reasons?, I wonder.

[Snuffkin]

Oh yeah, I forgot to outline the policy for critiquing me: feel free to point out whatever you deem wrong with this. Extra credit for making some sort of suggestion for improvement while doing so.

[Snuffkin]

God this is shit.