Scene 5
"Will... Will you be my friend?"
The words of the young boy hung in the air, a surreal echo in the sterile white room. Matthew, holding the tray, tried to answer, but the room began to swim around him. The pills were kicking in. A soft, buzzing fuzziness blurred the edges of his vision, and the stark white of the walls bled into a sickening, bright yellow. A brilliant, blinding light bloomed behind the dripping boy, silhouetting his still, vacant form. Matthew squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head, trying to clear the fog, but it was useless. The tray slipped from his numb fingers, and he felt himself collapse to the ground, the darkness consuming him before he hit the floor.
"And then what happened?" a calm, female voice asked.
Matthew blinked. He was no longer on the floor of his room. He was in a different, more comfortable chair, the kind with thick, padded arms. The room was dim, the walls a calming shade of green. Soft music, a gentle hum of strings and piano, played from hidden speakers.
Across from him, a woman with warm brown eyes and a kind smile was seated, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She wore a simple, unadorned lab coat, and her nametag read "Dr. Cornelius West." She held a small notebook in her hands, its pages filled with neat, spidery handwriting. She wasn't looking at him with the cold, predatory gaze of Dr. Sawyer, but with a gentle curiosity.
Matthew looked down at his hands. They were clean, dry. There was no sign of the spilled food or the broken tray. He shifted in the chair, a sense of disquiet settling in his stomach. "I... I just... blacked out," he said, his voice hoarse. "When I came to, he was gone."
She nodded slowly. "And you said you... saw this boy before?"
Matthew's brows furrowed. "Y-Yes. When they... when they injected me a day before."
He saw her make a note in her little book. "Matthew, what you're describing—seeing this boy, a figure no one else can see—is a hallucination. It's a symptom of the illness we're treating you for." She paused, her voice soft and reassuring. "We've talked about this."
Matthew's shoulders slumped. He knew. It was a cold, hard truth that had been drilled into him over and over, a label that explained every bizarre episode, every jumbled thought, every fragmented memory. "Y-yeah," he said, the word a flat, empty sound.
"The pills, Matthew, they don't just treat your mood swings or your paranoia. They manage the hallucinations. Without them, your mind is... unfiltered. It creates these visions to fill in gaps in your memory, to give you a story where there isn't one." Dr. West leaned forward slightly, her kind eyes fixed on his. "The boy you're seeing, the one you think you saw during your injection, he's a manifestation. He's a projection of your mind under stress."
Matthew shook his head, a knot of confusion and frustration tightening in his chest. "But... it felt so real. The water... he was dripping wet. I could feel the coldness when I saw him."
"Of course it felt real," she said, her voice laced with a gentle empathy. "That's how hallucinations work. They're not just images; they're full-sensory experiences. Your mind is trying to make sense of something it can't process, so it creates a vivid, tangible figure."
He sat in silence for a moment, the soft music of the room feeling more like a distant mocking chorus than a comfort. She was saying it was all in his head. The boy was in his head. The memories of hearing the cheers of the crowd, the feel of Seth's blood on his knuckles—all of it just a symptom? A sick, vivid lie his brain was telling him?
"What you experienced was a hallucinatory episode," Dr. West continued, her voice pulling him from his thoughts. "A direct result of you not taking your medication for so long. The pills you took... they helped your mind return to a stable state. The boy disappeared because your brain is now properly regulated." She smiled, a reassuring, professional smile. "You did the right thing, Matthew. Taking those pills was the first step to getting better."
Matthew didn't smile back. He felt a profound sense of disappointment, a sickening hollowness spreading through his chest. He looked at the soft green walls, the comfortable chair, and the kind woman across from him, and he wondered. Was it all just a lie? The memories were already beginning to feel less like facts and more like stories. The rage he had felt just moments before—the terror, the confusion—was now a distant echo. The pills had done their job.
"I think that's enough for today, Matthew," Dr. West said gently, her tone indicating that the session was over. She stood, and Matthew stood with her. "We'll continue our sessions. I'm sure we can figure out a way to cure you, stop these… episodes." She smiled warmly, a stark contrast to the cold, analytical glint in Dr. Sawyer's eyes. "For now, the most important thing is to take your medication. Do you understand?"
He nodded, a sense of weary defeat washing over him. "Yeah." He understood. He just wasn't sure if he believed it.
He left the room and walked down the long, sterile corridor. He could feel the familiar weight of the institution on his shoulders, but it was different now. The panic and fury had been replaced by a heavy, unsettling calm. He felt… placid. The rage and terror were gone, replaced by a quiet emptiness. The pills had not only dulled his senses, but they had also taken something from him. Something vital.
He passed a guard, who nodded at him with a respectful, almost friendly, smile. A feeling of dread washed over Matthew. He had seen this guard before. This was one of the men who had held him down, who had watched impassively as the needle was plunged into his neck. Yet, the man's smile was genuine. It was as if none of it had ever happened.
Matthew continued walking, his mind a quiet void. He thought of Jade, her terror, her plea. He thought of Dr. Sawyer, his accusations, his cold eyes. He thought of the boy, dripping wet, asking to be his friend. The memories were there, but they were muted, like a film with the volume turned down.
The feeling of dread grew, cold and sharp. He had just gone through an emotional, terrifying experience. He had discovered a new betrayal, a shocking truth about his own violence. He had seen a ghost. Yet, he felt nothing. He wasn't angry. He wasn't scared. He wasn't even confused. He felt… docile.
Matthew stopped and leaned against the white wall, his eyes shut. He opened them and looked down at his hands, watching them tremble.
Suddenly, a hand clamped down on his shoulder, and Matthew flinched, his heart leaping into his throat. He spun around, his mind racing to conjure a threat, but his eyes met the familiar, kind face of Anthony.
"Hey, Matt, you okay?" Anthony asked, his voice low and concerned. He was inches taller than Matthew, lanky kid with shaggy brown hair and a smile that seemed perpetually out of place in the somber, sterile halls of the institution. He, too, was a patient here, a victim of his own mind's betrayals. "You look like you just saw a ghost."