A/N: This story may contain some later slash (male/male relationships). I do have a gay character in here, but he's not a main one so it isn't often (just a warning for all those who don't like to read about them. XD). Also, I'm not an "expert" on what a mental hospital looks like from the inside out. So if I make some weird mistake, don't yell at meh. D: I'm not that smart, okay?

Chapter Rated R For: Language, some drug abuse, and violence.


His wet shoes smacked against the solid ground, making the ground sound muddy. His hands were placed in front of him, handcuffs holding them close together. Another man's hand was holding tightly onto his forearm, leading him on where he needed to go. Dark gray eyes were directed towards the concrete tiles, hair nearly blocking his view because of how long it was. He didn't bother brushing it away, even if he could. It was useless since he had seen the ground about a hundred times before. He knew what it looked like.

The man standing next to him tugged at Landon's arm, forcing him to stop. Landon snorted, not bothering to look up as the other opened the door.

The man tugged at the arm again, forcing Landon into his natural walk. Once he was inside, he cocked his head upwards, peaking through the many strands of black hair that hung over his eyes. Ah. So there was a new psychotherapist. What happened to the old one? He wondered.

"Sit down," the officer said impatiently. Landon obeyed and sat down across the table from the new psychotherapist. He struggled a bit in his handcuffs. He wanted them off. They were too uncomfortable.

"Ah. So you must be Landon Williams, correct?" asked the man sitting in front of him.

Landon gave in to the handcuffs and just placed them gently on the table. He shook his head a little so his hair would sway out of his face just a tiny bit. He wanted to know who or what he was talking to.

The man looked old, probably in his early fifties or late forties. Bags of wrinkles hung under his dark blue eyes, making it look like he hadn't slept in days. His nose was a little crooked, barely noticeable if the lights above them weren't so strong. What was left of his brown hair was beginning to turn into a light gray. He was wearing a nice suit, as if he was some kind of lawyer and he was headed to court. Many papers were placed in front of him, his hands folded on top of them.

Landon snorted. Why did all these people coming to visit him have to be so formal to a mentally insane prisoner? It was ridiculous.

"Yes. What happened to the other guy? What was his name? Jonathan?" Landon asked, feeling an itch on his nose from his hair. He reached up and scratched it.

The man's bushy eyebrows rose questioningly. "Jonathan? Your last psychotherapist?" he asked, scratching the back of his neck. "He ran into some mishap. His daughter was murdered."

Landon laughed. He leaned back and placed his large boots up on the table, caring less that he could no longer see the other man's face. He looked up at the ceiling, jaw hanging open. "Bummer. I warned him several times about that. But did he listen? No. He thinks I'm too insane."

Landon could almost hear uncomfortable shuffles on the seat across from him. He smirked, eyes following the length of the green tubes that he thought of to be water pipes.

"How did you know, Landon?" the man asked, forcing Landon's feet off of the table so he could look eye-to-eye with the other.

Landon sighed, rolling his eyes. "The voices told me so. They told me she was going to die. Several times, in fact. Kind of amusing. That's all I heard when I was sleeping. I was trying to have good dreams, but all the people just said 'Mareene is going to die.' So I asked the voices, 'who the fuck is Mareene?' Didn't get a response. But then this idiot comes along, supposedly trying to heal me or something, just like all psychiatrists do, and he talks about his daughter. That's all he ever talked about when I asked him about how his life was going. I was wondering if maybe he was a pedophile or something because he seemed so close to her. Kind of disturbing. But then again, I've never had a son or daughter. I'm still too young so I wouldn't know what it feels like to be really close to someone, now would I? It is not like I have any family left and it is not like I've really been in love.

I never caught your name. What was it?" Landon asked, quickly changing the subject.

The man just stared at him for a while, a confused look on his face. His brows furrowed, hands beginning to twitch nervously. He sat back, hands falling in his lap. He shook his head. "Landon, you do realize what these voices are, right?"

"Yeah, Doc. They're warnings. They always have been but no one ever listens. It's always the same. They blame it on schizophrenia, when in fact, I doubt that it's the case. But what can I do? Telling you won't change a thing."

"It's Lucas. You can call me Luke, though," the man said, realizing he didn't state his name after Landon asked for it. "Landon, can you please tell me about these voices?"

"Sure thing, Luke. They're basically going on all the time. They always make me anxious and frantic. The medicine doesn't do anything yet they still give it to me. Everyday I hope they will just die down so I don't have to hear them anymore. Everyone thinks I'm insane because of what I tell them. It's just insane, Doc. I can't tell anyone anything without him or her thinking I'm some kind of mentally disabled person or whatever you call those people. You know what I mean?" Landon was talking quickly, his voice obviously a bit shaky.

Lucas sighed, scratching the back of his head, partially feeling the balding spot. "I'm not sure I do." He sat up again, eyeing the stack of papers on the table in front of him. He shook his head in dismay. "Anyway, Landon, would you mind telling me what some of these voices say?"

"Oh sure. Most of them just tell me what's going to happen in the future or remind me of things that have already happened. Sometimes they even send me dreams. All in all, it's disturbing as it can be. They're never happy. It always makes me know that the world outside this place isn't as good as it turns out to be. People are still being tortured mentally or physically. It's just like in here." Landon's voice quieted down on the last words, the sentence trailing into nothing. He averted his gaze from the psychotherapist.

Luke's eyebrows rose questioningly at Landon's last statement. "What do you mean, Landon?"

"Pfft. Isn't it obvious, Doc? They ruin my mental statement by always saying that I'm some messed and fucked up guy. No one ever believes me. And honestly, I'm sick and tired of it." Landon's eyes had narrowed. The doctor absentmindedly took note of his reaction.

"No physical abuse?"

"Doc, give me a break." Landon placed his hand on his forehead, rubbing his temples softly as if he were getting a headache. "Would you call it physical abuse if they just take it out on me? You know, the anger? I mean, it's not like there's any other weak people here. It's a fucking prison, you know?"

Lucas stared at him in silence for a moment. What did Landon exactly mean by abuse? "What kind of abuse, Landon?"

"Ah. Nothing too serious. Just an occasional beating. Honestly, it's not to the point where it's rape or anything." Landon threw his hands up in defeat. If it weren't for the handcuffs, it probably would've made more sense of him doing that. He grinned sheepishly. "I would never let them do that."

Lucas was partially thankful for this. He didn't want to know that prisons were how it turned out to be in the movies. But then again, Landon could've been lying. He couldn't exactly tell from the facial expression he had on his face. "Good to hear, I suppose." He glanced at his watch. "Well, our session for today is over. Thanks for cooperating. It's been a pleasure." He got up from the table. He grabbed his stack of papers and placed them into his briefcase.

"Yep. Sure thing, Doc. Anything that can make at least someone believe me." He laughed nervously and stood up as well. The guard on his left took his arm and led him out to the area where everyone else was held.


When Lucas drove home that night, he regretted his decision on leaving so early. He had never had a patient like Landon before. Not only because he had never had to deal with a Schizophrenic before, but because Landon was really open about what he was thinking. Lucas wasn't used to that. Usually, he believed in reading on what was the "unsaid". He studied the facial expressions of the people he was giving therapy to, paying close attention to how they either said or reacted towards each word said. Landon was far from that, though. His face nearly remained expressionless the whole time as he spoke, though towards the end he became a little frantic.

Lucas sighed, leaning back in his seat a bit. He knew why he left. His marriage was in jeopardy. His wife was beginning to believe he was having some sort of affair because of how late he was staying out. That wasn't the case. He just didn't want to go home in that empty house. There was nothing to come home to except for his wife, whom he didn't seem to exactly "love" anymore. He could already tell that they were on the verge of a divorce, but with his son being in a coma, they couldn't afford an attorney. All the money went to the life-supporter. They had to spend most of their time focusing on their son, Christopher, who had now been in a coma for almost a year.

The reason for Christopher's coma was still unknown. Lucas was blamed for it several times by his wife since he was running a little late that night he found Christopher lying limply on the ground outside of his school. He was beaten up with some sort of stick or club. No one knew who did it. There was no evidence left on Lucas' son. It was just known that the boy fell into a deep sleep because of a strong hit in the back of the head. Lucas presumed that was the first hit his son took.

Lucas turned on the windshield wipers as the rain began to fall down on his windshield. He hadn't notice how gloomy it looked outside until he saw the water splash on his window. He shook his head, going up his driveway. He turned off the engine, grabbed his briefcase and opened the door to his car. He put his briefcase over his head and ran to the front door of his one-story house, trying to avoid contact with the rain as much as possible.

Lucas let his briefcase fall back to his side as he opened the front door, only to find several bags sitting in the hallway. He stopped, feeling his heart skip a beat. He closed the door behind him and looked around.

"Oh, Lucas," said a weak voice which could easily be identified as his wife's.

"Marissa… what's with all the bags?" Lucas could barely hear his own words. He was even too afraid to look at Marissa's, fearing the expression she would have. He felt a lump in his throat, which he tried his hardest to swallow.

"I…" she began to say, sniffing a little before continuing. "It's time for me to go. You know very well that this marriage isn't doing too good. So… I've found an apartment. I'm… leaving now. We can discuss this later, at a better time, but now… I just don't know if it's good. I mean, you're just finding out and everything."

She's really going through with this? Even with Christopher like he is now? Lucas leaned his back against the door, slowly putting his hand over his chest. "I don't know if I exactly understand. You're abandoning Christopher?" Lucas asked, finally looking at his wife.

She's been crying, Lucas noted, examining her honey-colored eyes which were a bit puffed up. Her fading brown hair was pulled back into a messy bun, several strands falling loose from the sloppy hairstyle. She was holding onto a tissue, every once in a while wiping her nose with it. Her thin body was covered in her favorite white coat that she rarely wore because she was afraid of it getting dirty.

"No. I'm not abandoning my son!" she cried out, averting her gaze from Lucas. "I'm simply… leaving you. I'll still be there for Christopher. There is no way I can just leave him."

"I think I understand," Lucas said quietly, moving away from the door. He would've offered to help her carry her stuff out to her van, but thought that would be a little too weird. Shouldn't he be a bit more hysterical about this?

Lucas tugged on his collar, feeling like it was choking him. "I guess I'll say good bye now and I guess that I'll talk to you later. Maybe we'll actually carry through this divorce." He sighed, beginning to walk upstairs. He knew this was coming.

"I guess so. I'll call you and give you my new phone number so if anything comes up with Christopher, please call me. Otherwise, I'm not sure I really want to hear from you."

Lucas reached the top of the stairs and walked into his room, slamming the door behind him like a child. He felt like he was overreacting, but who wouldn't in a situation like this? In fact, he probably wasn't acting up enough. He should've been protesting against her leave.

He stood there in silence for a moment, waiting for the door to close one last time. When he heard no more movement downstairs, he knew that she was really gone.

That night, he cried himself to sleep.