"Blind, blind we go on/fighting what we see.
"Brittle, blearily, broken/oh yes, woe is me," I sang softly to myself, hidden in the darkest shadows of the hallways. Not plotting or misbehaving. Neither loud enough to be heard nor too soft to understand myself. Quiet, yes. My quiet. My calm. Lurking, the anti-social one. Or, perhaps merely observing. Catching onto the movements of the simplest paper, grasping all the information I possibly could. Not talking, not socializing. Observing. Always observing.

"Scared, frightened, worry/conspiring with such peers.
"Shadows, silence, soft/cover me yet still," Closing my eyes momentarily, hearing the deep flutter of my heart-beat in my chest, I concentrated on the rhythm and syllables forming so easily at my lips. So easily, and yet still being messed up, deformed to house an extra syllable on occasion. From set syllables of five to a sixth. My own mistake for no time to sound the syllables out first. My own error to torment my perhaps too critical mind.

"Anti-social, perhaps/hidden far away.
"Yet, here I stand, still/waiting, watching here," Frowning slightly at the stanza emitted so simply, slipping seamlessly from my lips, I scrunched my brow at the undoubted stereotype I'd included. A stereotype upon myself. Anti-social. As if it's a crime to not wish to speak to everyone all the time. As if I'm some wretched disease. It's the same pathetic tune the government's playing with, racism and the like, playing them so important. Honestly, they're only deluding people, making it worse. Especially with all the laws that amount to nearly everything being prejudice towards the African American race whereas they've become very prejudice themselves and get away with it. Thank you politics, I loathe you, too.

"Eyes dark with ignorance/but still, I may observe," and observe I always shall. It's far too entertaining to give up. Much better than television, at any rate. Plus, who's going to stop me? Better yet, who's going to notice me in order to stop me? Apparently, such a feat is not so easy as it sounds. Apparently people lack the, what, muster? Eagerness? Interest? Whatever it may be to actually venture forth and find out about another without being given a brilliantly obvious opening. That, and I find them to be far too ignorant and oblivious for it to be healthy. Alas, perhaps I need new subjects to observe. After all, we aren't healthy. At least, much to some allegedly smart doctor's analysis, that is. Who says we should trust in that? Then again, I'm hardly one to talk of people's joy in venturing towards another, am I? Now, that just might be too hypocritical for my ta-

"Miss Claidel," My head swiveled quickly towards an approaching silhouette at the sound of my name impeding my thoughts. The notedly sterile smell of chemicals swept cleanly up my nose with the sudden movement, so strong a concentration I could almost feel my brain decomposing. Or, maybe that's a minor exaggeration. Alas, a far from pleasurable smell and lightheaded feeling, without a doubt. I don't suppose a person ever really does get used to that smell, or is that just me?

"Miss Claidel, it's time for doctor Buoch to see you."

The silhouette had drawn nearer now, near enough to decipher clearly as she continued to make her way towards my own frame, half hidden in the ever immersing shadows. Another new one, no doubt. New nurse, that is. Ever since Lane left to go on to become a surgeon, they've all been new. That's the trouble when you get too comfortable with one person, and they leave: no one else could possibly live up to them. I suppose whoever runs this place is figuring that out the hard way. Now that that isn't entirely saddening on my part: the allegedly great observer, who's been here for at least two and a half years now, could tell a person anything about anyone here, and yet she's no idea who even runs this wretched place. This prison. This chamber. This cell. This locked tower. This Pharlain Medical. This evil.

Her brilliant blonde hair certainly stood out, catching in the light and sending glares alike. A soft smile; kind, naive, innocent. Likely easily broken. Not that I would want to harm her of course, just test her strength. To play the offensive is to test the strength and durability of the opposing. But, then again, in my own defense, she did interrupt my thought process. Granted, 'twas only a rant, but what if I were in the midst of cracking a code that could save out lives? Improbable, yes, but I dislike having my thought track impeded.

"Miss, your doctor wants to see you."

She'd stopped in front of me by now, the tips of her golden hair curling around the fresh nameplate clipped neatly to her chest; Saskia. Nothing but an eager, smiling face, reporting to work for the first day. Nothing but a brilliant smile to stretch across her cheeks. Perfectly straight teeth just barely glimpsing from her mouth; former braces, no doubt. The all-American, nothing but sweet and innocent blonde. Brow slightly wrinkled into an underlying frown at my still missing response, framing the purple eyes that were more likely than not contact-aided in color. Disgusting. Then again, she's probably thinking the same thing of my own lavender eyes. If she can see them, at any rate. The rarity of such an occurrence . . .

"Miss Claidel . . . ?"

As opposed to answering her call verbally, I turned my stare on her in response, neither smiling nor frowning. Merely searching for some sign within her character for when, never if, she should crack. This new girl could not last, for she was much too like a child in how she perceived everything. I could see that already, or else that smile just might fall from her pretty face and learn that the stance of innocence does not get once everywhere. Still, this time, the fourth time, I rose to her call, nodding silently for her to lead onward through the off-white halls.

There is another analogy of sorts, as per people, sort of opposing qualities. Certain people, some few and wise, do not have much to say, but when they do speak they at least appear to be quite smart. Whether that should be facade or truth, the appearance of one being wise, I suppose it would take a fair more than a short time to uncover. Those few are followed by the next set of people: those who never talk (or, at least when they do it's merely to themselves or few and far between; however loathsome a phrase that may be), but instead put a perhaps unhealthy emphasis on quiet. Lastly there lies the loquacious, largely the most dominating group of all. Those who are scarcely ever found without some words or sentiments being uttered.

Little common ground perhaps, but they are all attention seekers, whilst the last may be found most famous for such a title. Those seemingly intelligent ones so simply swiping attention wit their few syllables so that they may beam in pride later, no matter how much annoyance is put forth on the surface: phantasmic. Followed so smoothly by those ever quiet, so often sent to a shrink, so often to have their head analyzed, so often to be looked at as diseased or traumatized and then submerged into an environment no one wishes for, but they unwittingly and indirectly begged for. Leading to the infamous and population-flooded garrulous many. The people found so easily in the surrounding population, those with an opinion about nearly everything that they simply must share, those who can't survive if a conversation isn't focusing in some way or another around them. Those who need to hold some sort of power. Yes, we're all attention seekers.

Alas, little relevance as such knowledge, or implications, holds, I can at least take pride in that I hold information and knowledge within the utmost of respect. And, how else to gather such delicacies but for to make observations? Is that not how scientists go about it? Verily, that undoubted renders me in the median column, the quiet adulating, or is that my own doing? My own fault? We all do like our scapegoats, can observing not be mine?

However, much to my own displeasure, the nurse of late, Saskia, clearly does not prize silence so much as myself. Or, that's as much as I can infer upon her speaking again further along our walk, whilst we were passing through the column of Pharlain family portraits, beams of the fading sunlight seeming to set her hair aflame through the many tall windows. She was too innocent, couldn't be older than nineteen. Perhaps I would ask her true age later, if she lasted . . .

"We've a new patient coming in tomorrow, did you know? By the name of Gretel."

I tried my best to not roll my eyes at her naivety. She was far too sweet for her own good, of course, I'd realized.

It's so very simple to collect information about other people here, observe it. It shouldn't be, it's not supposed to be--something about a law of promising to keep medical data confidential--but it is. People are so disgustingly wrapped up in themselves that they never notice the quiet one lurking around the shadows, or they don't suspect her of doing anything to step out of her allegedly self-absorbed thoughts. Either or, really. So narrow minded, so pitiful, so offensive that I should be considered self-absorbed or worse, stupid, merely because I don't find the pleasure or point in endless chatter. Regardless, it becomes so simple to hear a person talk to oneself in the utmost quiet of the night, or confiding to another. I've even read, but accident of course, a sheet of doctors notes on another patient before. I didn't know what it was, and I've never read another stray paper again, not that it qualifies as payment or an excuse, but does that not say something of the trust in this place? The trust so ill-placed in human-nature.

What is basic to human nature, anyways? Disloyalty, betrayal. A condescending need to obtain attention; whether it be adulation or absolute abhorrence. The constant notion to both fit in and stand out. 'Tis nothing more or less than an oxymoron, and one so devastatingly disappointing. One draining slowly but surely of its intelligence. Human nature is nothing to be trusted.

Verily, there is something wrong with the unquestioned, overdone lenience of this place. Such lenience would be why I already know of the death of Caden, which the doctors no doubt have no wish to share with their world of patients. No, no, that would only entail all of that trust tilly-vally they've been going on about . . .

Alas, they wouldn't want to let on about Caden. No, as that would mean admitting how horribly useless they remain. Admitting that they couldn't save an eleven year old little boy that nearly everybody had fallen in love with in the two month span of his term. Telling all that they couldn't eve determine the condition, given more than the two months of his stay of seeing him, that took away the brilliant blonde haired child. No, no, to admit they couldn't save those curious, searching brown eyes would simply be too much for them. But, I know. I've seen. That's exactly why I know Gretel is coming, now that Caden's gone we have the room for her.

Then again, what could I possibly know? I don't work here; am no doctor, nurse, or even receptionist. Why should, or would, anybody feel the need the listen to a nonsensical patient. A patient that's been here two years too long.

Still, this time I humored her. It would have been well hidden to anyone, perhaps, but me, so caught up in their own nonsense world, that her composure was breaking. The way her smile was just a second more flitting, cut short, and how her eyes wavered ever so slightly to stray from the path ahead and glance behind at my still frowning frame. What an accomplishment, to hold yet another person on edge. To be believed a disease. So, humor her, I will do. Lie, I will do.

"No, I hadn't hear. I suppose whoever's in charge is still finalizing the details . . ." My voice was neither raspy nor soft, merely a level tone. Almost monotonous, only just breaching the lowest levels of inflection. I suppose that, more than my talking, is what surprised her. Produced the slightest of startled convulsions, not truly a jump of shock, likely too minuscule a movement to have been grasped by the eyes of most. That my voice was anything but invalid from what may have appeared as long periods of silence, rather a formidable opposite.

Still, perhaps I underestimated this Saskia and how very brittle she might be. Naive she is, I do not doubt that in the slightest, but that leaves her far from as flimsy as I did believe. She certainly managed to grasp ahold of her--what, excitement? At getting my to speak? Perhaps her shock, and responded as if her eyes had never widened for just that infinitesimal moment, "Really? I did think they were going to release it, so she could be welcomed properly and all . . ."

Her brilliant, blinding smile was back. So jubilant and up-beat I nearly couldn't stand it, knowing that instead of calming her I'd only succeeded in making her expect more of me. Smiles, and not of the phantasmic variety. Correspondences, conversations . . .

Way to make an idiot of me. Note to self: in the future, do take the time to think out the consequences of my tactics. Still, I suppose there could be no harm in responding just once more, if only to be sure she doesn't stereotype me into some loathsome, diseased fool. At least, more so diseased than she already knows me to be from my medical records. I just detest stereotypes that much.

Tugging at my shirt so as to occupy my hands, I kept the sorry excuse for a conversation alive, "Perhaps, it could be she requested otherwise. To not call attention to herself and whatever her own disease might be."

My voice was softer this time, likely something she was once taught to mean retraction, and she surely picked up on it. That, I propose, is why she proceeded to divulge so much information she was likely anything but permitted to share; a tactic to hold my interest. The information so very simple to observe, to collect. Information that I, perhaps as a flaw from birth or plain human curiosity, simply could not ignore: "I suppose you might very likely be right... Listen, this Gretel, maybe then then you could help her out? Considering you've been here longest of all the patients -I checked. You see, most people inducted into Pharlain have a condition they can't very well control, or at least didn't know the danger of the triggers. Gretel's not a dimwitted girl, she's twenty, she's been through school... It's, she has NAFLD, and I doubt she'll get better without support."

At the close of her really rather short speech, I merely nodded at her, motioning to the door a few paces ahead that read 'Dr. Benjamin Buoch' clearly on the nameplate--even the smallest of screws overpowered with chemicals until they gave off an unmistakable sterile smell. I could thank her for the information. I could warn her that she was likely overheard--being watched on her first day. I could even apologize for not stopping her from divulging the information, but then I wouldn't be me, wouldn't be curious, and she would not learn as she would from having put her job in peril. So, instead, smiling faintly for the first time towards Saskia, I ventured the last few paces alone.

NAFLD, it probably hadn't even crossed her mind that I'd heard of the disease before, knew something of it. Might have an opinion, one that's perhaps not the kindest. Considering the reception of the disease is nearly entirely in your own hands as a human-being. No doubt she's rather large, because she did it to herself. I don't suppose she might have image problems, low self-esteem? So what, she resorted to eating? Call me cruel, if you let yourself get fat enough, then I think you deserve the disease, maybe even resulting cirrhosis, because you did that to your body. It's different for most everyone else at Pharlain, we didn't cause what happened to us. I, at least, was healthy. NAFLD: nonalcoholic fatty liver disease.

Grasping the handle to Dr. Buouch's office, I stormed in rather quickly due to my rush of thoughts, bypassing the entire aspect of knocking.

"Miss Amethyst Claidel, I've been hoping to meet with you all week. I believe to have finally pinpointed your problem. Do, please, sit down . . ."

A/N: Alright, so I'm going to apologize right off the bat. This entire story was actually written in March for a Science project and has a fair few errors still gracing it, but I've only now finally decided to post it. I like to think my writing's better now, but I'm still attached the scene right after this one. My friend who edited it all as one piece back then actually likes the third increment best, but whichever.