Chapter 131 The Asylum 1: Admission
You didn't reply, but calmly asked, "Why am I here?"
The nurse replied gently, in a tone as if welcoming you to a vacation: "You're here so we can help you recover from some... issues left by your trauma."
You frowned, then relaxed your gaze.
"What I mean is, I opened my eyes and found myself here?" you pressed, struggling slightly as you observed the nurse's expression.
Her expression remained unchanged, but her eyes followed your every move. Only after you stopped moving did she return to a relaxed and at ease state.
“Of course you don’t remember,” she said. “You’re not in good condition, so you won’t remember a lot of things, and that’s part of the assessment.”
You remained silent and changed the subject.
How long do I need to stay here?
The nurse's smile became slightly blurred at this moment.
“Once you’re all better,” she said slowly, “you will naturally be sent away.”
You nodded, as if you truly accepted the answer. But your mind was already racing, analyzing the situation:
—What does "everything is fine" mean? Who makes that judgment? What are the criteria? The doctor?
*Sizzle*
You know too well that you have no problems. Even if you really are sick, as long as you can live well right now, your condition is good and correct.
You watch as the nurse hands the medicine to you.
"You've just woken up, your body needs time to recover, eat this first."
"From now on, you should take one pill every morning."
"What kind of medicine is this?" you simply ask.
"Eat."
You have no choice but to reach out and take the small white disc—you know what to do.
You open your mouth naturally, place the pill on your tongue, tilt your head back, and swallow.
Then take a sip of water, and the water carries the pill down your throat, where it is blocked by the back of your tongue. It is then slowly pushed past the opening of your throat and settles into your trachea.
You open your mouth and obediently let the nurse examine you.
You've mastered this trick so well that you weren't even caught at the medical station...
—But then he suddenly met her gaze.
She kept looking at you. From beginning to end, her gaze never left your face.
Her deep brown eyes were set in deep sockets, and when the light wasn't perfect, her eyes would sink into shadow.
She doesn't speak or blink; she just stares at you with those dark, unfocused eyes.
Your heart skipped a beat, but you didn't move.
Slow down your breathing and quietly look into her eyes.
Five seconds, ten seconds, twenty seconds. You count in your head to calm yourself down.
She finally raised an eyebrow, and her smile widened.
“Okay.” She said softly, “Then I’ll take you to have breakfast, and then we’ll go see the doctor.”
“Then this restraint…” you gestured to the straps binding your body.
"After you see the doctor, she will give you a detailed evaluation," the nurse said.
"Okay, thank you for taking care of me." You didn't forget the general rule, and with a sweet and polite smile, you grinned at the nurse.
The nurse seemed to be in a much better mood, and left after saying, "Press the bell if you need anything."
You remain calm and wait until she and her footsteps have faded into the distance, then clear your throat and forcefully vomit up the pills.
Without hands to help, you can only struggle like a stranded fish on the bed, trying to turn your upper body as far as you can, and barely manage to spit the pill into the pillowcase.
It's so bitter.
You grimaced and fell back onto the bed, staring blankly at the white ceiling.
They call it a rehabilitation center, but it's really just a mental hospital. And what danger could there be in a mental hospital?
Countless horror movie scenarios involving such places flashed through my mind. However, these all seemed different from your situation.
You are a foreigner, not an American. It's obvious that you were brought in by Forpollner and the police, and you have an unclear criminal record. So your personal safety should be guaranteed... right?
Just as you were thinking about how to deal with the doctor, there was another knock on the door, and two tall, strong caregivers, a woman and a man, walked straight in.
The male caregiver smiled and said, "'Little sleepyhead,' we've come to pick you up. It's time for your physical exam."
His choice of words made you pause, but looking at his sunny face that seemed to express a love for life and work, and considering your own situation, you temporarily suppressed your sensitivity.
Let's just go along with their actions for now.
You lower your eyes, carefully considering the boundaries of your actions: neither resisting nor showing excessive fear. You should act as an "observer" who is psychologically traumatized but willing to cooperate; acting too wildly might trigger interventionist constraints, while acting too normal might raise suspicions of deliberate concealment.
So you nodded with a little hesitation: "I just got up, can I wash my face first?"
—See how they respond to your little requests.
“No need, the examination room will have all the equipment you need,” another caregiver said, refusing.
All right.
The two women helped you up from the bed and then tried to put you in a wheelchair in the same way.
You spoke again: "I've been lying down for a long time and I feel very uncomfortable. Can I walk over there? It's just a short distance."
The two caregivers exchanged a glance. The female caregiver insisted on putting you in the wheelchair, while the male caregiver looked at you with a helpless and apologetic expression.
You narrowed your eyes but didn't say anything.
At least we're out of this ward.
The corridor was eerily quiet, with a faint smell of alcohol, plastic, and...formaldehyde.
The elevator quickly takes you from the second floor to the first floor, where the various doctors' offices, nurses' stations, and reception areas are located.
You were led into a medical examination room. Instead of the doctor in the white coat you expected, you were met by a doctor wearing a green plaid shirt.
She looked more like a primary school teacher who was good at coaxing children than a doctor, except that her eyes were sharp and there was nowhere to hide under her gaze.
She looked up and said gently, "Please sit down."
You did as instructed, glancing at the room layout out of the corner of your eye.
There's a camera behind the door, and the mirror facing this side is strange—could it be one-way glass? Maybe someone behind you is watching you.
The doctor put on a stethoscope, blood pressure monitor, light therapy device, and began to measure basic vital signs one by one.
Can you describe your sleep patterns over the past few days?
What? These past few days?
"...Not good, I keep having nightmares." You truthfully described the situation "the last few days".
What did you dream about?
Your eyes darted away, and you lowered your head, whispering, "I dreamt that I was stuck in one place and couldn't run away, and everyone around me had no face."
The doctor nodded as he took notes.
"Okay, next we will do some 'emotion mapping test' and 'recall ability' related checks."
She turned on a machine, and several rapidly changing, blurry images appeared on the screen.
Please tell me what you saw.
You stare at the images: a blood-stained forest. An empty dining table. A bizarre sheep's head mask.
During the transformation, the delay in light and shadow almost superimposed them.
Your heart rate increases slightly.
These images would be considered terrifying and horrifying even to perfectly normal people, so you should still be able to express your panic, right?
You decisively chose a safe but slightly uneasy answer: "I saw a...dining table, the surroundings were a bit blurry, it seemed like someone used to eat here, but is no longer here."
The doctor nodded: "Again."
Next, she'll have you put on a pair of headphones, close your eyes, and play certain "specific audio" for you to identify your reactions.
I heard the sound of a branch breaking in my headphones, followed by footsteps, the sound of rain, and then—a child's laughter.
You've certainly never heard this laughter before; you think it's computer-generated, jarring, and eerie.
Your fingers unconsciously clench.
When you realize that you seem to have done something unconsciously and it has been recorded, a sense of annoyance washes over you.
—Would you be deemed to be subject to more severe detention because of this slightly stressful reaction?
The moment that thought popped into your head, you immediately snapped back to reality.
You came here because you were provoked, so as long as you don't show too much aggression, there shouldn't be any problems.
Really?
You have to stop thinking. Your mind is too cluttered right now.
You don't realize it when you're alone in the hospital room, but when you actually go out and talk to and interact with these people who might sign something on paper, you become aware of your deep anxiety.
The fear of being completely unaware of one's own situation is also the loss of security in a situation where one has no initiative.
—We must restore freedom first.
Looking at the shadows cast on you by the two caregivers, you make an unwavering decision: you must do everything in your power to free yourself from the restraints, even if it makes them think you have ulterior motives.
You must try it.
Soon, it was time for the actual psychiatrist to examine them.
You were placed on the sofa in the reception room, your eyes lowered in a submissive manner.
This is an overly cozy room: pale yellow lighting, patterned wallpaper, and an old-fashioned record player in the corner playing a saxophone melody.
The door was gently pushed open, and a doctor who looked to be in her fifties entered. She was wearing a white coat, her reddish-brown hair was pinned up with a black clip, and she was carrying a thick patient file folder in her hands, the metal clasps on her fingers making a slight tinkling sound.
"Hi." Contrary to her age, her voice and demeanor were very light, like that of a young person. "Your check-up is early today. Haven't you had breakfast yet?"
You nodded.
"Then have some biscuits first." She also poured you a glass of water and instructed the female caregiver to feed you.
"How are you feeling today?" She sat on the sofa next to you, and after you finished eating and drinking, she began to formally ask you questions.
"It's alright," you replied.
She sat down on the soft chair opposite you, opened a file folder, and glanced at you from time to time, as if trying to compare the image on the paper with the real you.
“I’ve reviewed your records over the past few days,” she said slowly. “Your physiological data is recovering quickly, and you haven’t shown any violent tendencies at night, nor have you experienced any speech difficulties or severe emotional breakdowns… That’s very good.”
Your scalp slowly relaxes. This is already the umpteenth time I've heard the phrase "these past few days" from the medical staff here.
But if you remember correctly, this is only your first day here.
"Where am I?" you suddenly ask.
"Welcome to the Valley Mental Health Center," the doctor and two caregivers replied in unison.
You understand a little now.
You can be pretty sure you've lost some memories. And your response to the nurse's question when you "just woke up" was at most a standard reply, not the "first time" she'd ever answered you like that.
Seeing that the doctor's condition had returned to normal, you continued her previous topic, saying, "I don't think I was sick to begin with."
The doctor didn't reply immediately, but paused for a moment, then looked up at you intently.
"But you went through something...very complicated, didn't you?"
You lowered your eyes slightly and curled the corners of your mouth into a smile.
"Complex is a mild way of saying it."
Would you mind talking to me?
“You’re a doctor, aren’t you?” you say softly. “I need your help, and I really hope you can help me.”
She smiled and made a light scribbling on the file folder.
You noticed that she wrote "has self-awareness".
You don't really understand the true definitions of these terms, but intuition isn't a bad thing. So, you suppress your smile and slowly begin, "I'd love to tell you, but I don't know which version you'd like to hear."
“We just want to hear what you see and feel,” she said calmly. “Just say whatever you want to say.”
You quickly get into character: you recount the camp in the rainforest, the terror, the escape, the deaths of your teammates, how you instinctively survived, and how you waited for rescue in extreme exhaustion and fear—your story is disjointed, sometimes vague, sometimes clear.
You deliberately included contradictory timelines and inconsistencies in your description to maintain the appearance of being "overly frightened".
You said that you felt like you were dreaming the whole time you were at the medical station.
The doctor listened quietly the whole time without interrupting, only occasionally taking notes. She waited until you finished speaking before saying, "When you were talking about these things, you didn't seem to have much emotional fluctuation."
"Don't pretend. I can tell you're smart. Now, tell me, why?"
You meet her gaze, and you finally drop the pretense.
"Doctor, you are welcome to perform all kinds of tests on me. I did not lie, and those people were not killed by me."
You paused for a moment: "I just know that if I break down crying, you'll think I'm emotionally unstable and might detain me for a longer period of time; if I'm too rational and too calm, you might continue to pin some kind of suspicion on me."
She looks up at you, and your eyes meet.
“So,” you ask softly, “how should I express it in a way that is ‘normal’?”
She didn't speak, but wrote in her notebook for a while before turning to the second page.
You breathed a sigh of relief.
Now that you've proactively handed over the knife, it's time to show your vulnerability.
You lowered your head, your voice lowered: "Doctor, I really don't know if I'm going crazy. I just remember trying to survive, not hurting anyone... but I feel like I'm always being treated as a potential suspect. Do you know that feeling?"
She leaned towards you without arguing.
“I don’t even know why I’m here—in a mental hospital…” You look up. “My parents will be heartbroken because of this. Their child came to school and spent so much energy and time participating in various activities, only to be caught up in an event that I can’t even explain myself. I’ve survived by sheer luck, yet you still locked me up.”
You choked up, your voice barely audible: "I'm not a monster, I'm just a student. Am I still a student? What will happen to my studies?"
“It may sound crazy, but as a Yazhou native, witnessing the tragic death of my teachers and friends might only give me nightmares for a few days. Not being able to go to university would truly be a nightmare for me for the rest of my life. My life would be ruined! How could I possibly have the mood to be sad and mourn my teachers and friends?”
Your words greatly shocked the doctor, far exceeding your expectations.
You heard her exhale softly, as if she had made some kind of decision.
“I am deeply sorry for what happened to you,” she said slowly. “Don’t worry, your school will not expel you for something that hasn’t been proven yet, and you haven’t been formally charged with any crime. But because the case is so special, our system must monitor and evaluate you.”
"This is not just because you are involved in a case, but also because we cannot ignore people with mental instability who may harm themselves."
You nod, then remain silent.
“But judging from your current state,” she continued, “forced isolation may not help you regain normal perception, and may even make you more anxious or…disoriented.”
You raised your head, pursed your lips, and looked on with anticipation.
“So we might adjust your observation mode,” she finally got to the point, “to involve you in daily activities, to interact with other patients, and to see if you can build a stable network of relationships in real social situations.”
"Only then will your testimony be more credible."
You looked up, your face showing surprise and relief, your voice trembling slightly: "Really? I can leave the room?"
“Of course,” she nodded, “but it’s still under surveillance. Your nurse will report to me about our conversations every day, and you’ll need to talk to me more often.”
“Okay,” you agreed almost eagerly. “I’m willing to give it a try.”
She closed the folder and stood up: "We can begin the first step this afternoon—you will be attending a group afternoon game."
"A game?" You blinked.
"Yes. We have 'stability group interaction' every afternoon at 3 pm."
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Author's note: Hehe
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