Artist/Author: rosesofred
Title: Putnam Psychiatric Hospital
Fandom: Moon Knight, MCU, Original Work
Summary: Isaac is the youngest of three and the only one of his brothers diagnosed with schizophrenia. When things start getting bad again, his older brother David steps in to do what he thinks is best and takes him to Putnam Psychiatric Hospital.
Notes & Warnings: forced medication and mentions of cutting/self harm
The ER had been horrible. Nurses making faces at his smell, the wait, the condescending way people spoke to him. But the absolute worst part was when he was forced to separate with David and was taken into a room where he’d been forced to strip in front of a stranger. Just for his own wellbeing, they’d said. To catalogue any prior injuries before being admitted. And now here he was, locked in a psychiatric hospital wearing awful scratchy scrubs.
Sitting in a chair, dull nails scratching over old scars on his wrist where the worms had burrowed in. An older man sat behind a desk in front of him, waiting patiently with steady eyes locked on his own. He had a Ned Flander’s-esque aesthetic to him, complete with thick glasses and a mustache. His hair was neatly cut and slicked back, relaxed yet tidy.
He was leaning back in his see through plastic chair, holding a pen in one hand. Waiting for something. But no matter what Isaac did he couldn’t remember what it was. How long had they been waiting? It felt like hours. “Can you repeat the question?”
“Sure.” The man leaned towards his desk, resting one hand on the surface. “Do you think it is sense or nonsense to be the only one hearing voices?”
The office was painfully white. Glass and stone, pale decorations, Egyptian artifacts. The doctor certainly had a knack for Pinterest. Isaac looked around the room, looking at the diploma the psychiatrist displayed proudly on the wall.
Isaac had won his own diploma, a bachelor’s degree in English literature. Then right after graduation he’d been diagnosed. Turns out seeing and hearing demons talk to you during class wasn’t normal. He’d been sent out to the hall countless times for answering the voices during lectures, too. He hated the way people looked at him when he talked back.
“Take your time, Isaac. Think about it.”
Think about what? Oh. Sense or nonsense. “Sense.”
The doctor hummed, nodding his head slightly. “Can you tell me what the voices say?”
Isaac clenched his jaw, fingers digging into the armrests. “The end of the world. The tribulations. About Jesus casting them out into pigs.”
“I see. And do you ever answer these voices?”
“Sometimes. Yeah.”
“Do you hear them right now?”
“No.” Isaac was starting to get tired of this line of questioning. Nobody ever understood when he talked about his visions or spiritual connection to the afterlife and demons. They only ever judged him.
“Why is that?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. I don’t control it.”
“And these voices, do they ever say mean things?”
“Not really… Sometimes.”
“They don’t tell you to hurt yourself?”
“No.” He crossed his arms, feeling self conscious. Sometimes they did but he knew what happened when he was honest about the voices. Right now all he wanted was to go home to his dark room, away from this psychotically white walls and into his soft warm bed. “I want to go home.”
The doctor nodded again, sitting up straighter. “I know you do. But we can’t let you go while you’re still a danger to yourself. You know that.”
“I’m not a danger.” And he was being honest, he’d never hurt anyone in his life. Ever. Not even his brothers when they play wrestled as kids. He’d lost a lot of fights but he’d never been the one to start them, at least.
“We just want to keep you a little longer. Bear with us.” A promised lie. They wouldn’t let him go, not any time soon.
Isaac grit his teeth, glaring back at the doctor. He wanted to leave. “Can I go back to my room now?”
“Hold on. We just need to finish our check in, then you can leave.” The doctor pulled out a file, grabbing a pen from his desk. Isaac wondered if it could be sharp enough to dig into his skin with. It looked like a real pen, and not one of those horrible bendy ones they gave the patients. “Can you tell me where you are?”
“A hospital.”
“Yes. But do you know the name of this hospital?”
Isaac shook his head. His brother had mentioned the name of it when he’d driven him to the ER. Promised it was safe, had good reviews, that even one of their relatives had stayed there years ago when they’d have mental health issues too. But he couldn’t for the life of him remember the name.
“Okay, that’s alright. We’re in Putnam Psychiatric Hospital on the sixth floor. What about today’s date?”
He shook his head again.
“The month? Or the season?”
Nope. “Fall,” he tried.
“Late summer, but you’re close. Can you tell me your name?”
“Isaac Mohammadi.” That one he knew.
“Very good.” The doctor gave him a fake smile, marking down something in the file. “And do you remember my name?”
Isaac looked up at him, taking him in. He couldn’t really remember anything about the day. Or how long he’d been there. Just that he’d been handled like a stray dog in the ER and left behind by his well meaning brother. “Something with a P.”
“Not quite. I’m Dr. Harrow. I’m your psychiatrist.”
“Yeah I gathered that part.” He waited, watching as the doctor flipped through the file, going through something. “Can I go now?”
Dr. Harrow pursed his lips, looking at him for a moment. Finally he said “Yes, you may go.”
Isaac stood up, waiting for the orderly to open the door for him. Once he was out in the hall he could finally breathe. This was the first time in days he’d felt like his head was somewhat clear. Like he could think.
He made his way down the hall to the rec room where other patients were wandering around doing nothing. Some of them were just siting staring off into the distance while a few of them were doing a puzzle or talking to each other. One was talking to herself by the window.
The room was octagon shaped, right in the middle of the ward with windows on half the room so staff could see in and keep an eye on patients. Isaac walked in, looking around at what there was to do. A flat screen tv was playing an old western film, something outdated and misogynistic that didn’t seem very interesting.
He looked at the far wall that had rows of shelves with different safe activities, all of them with pieces removed that could possibly be used to self harm. The only thing appealing he could find was a puzzle.
Isaac briefly wondered if he could eat enough puzzle pieces to be sent to the ER where he could make an escape attempt but thought better of it. The last thing he wanted was to get his stomach pumped.
He sat down to do a puzzle with puppies on the front, pouring out the pieces so he could flip them all over and organize the edges. A 500 piece, so not too complicated but not so easy he would finish it immediately. It was pretty relaxing, if he were being honest. Better than staring at a tv screen or talking to himself.
And Jesus cast out the pigs, turned them into pigs, demons cast out.
The voices shouted at him, making Isaac grit his teeth. He tried to focus on the puzzle as they continued, talking about Jesus and how he cast out demons. They were upset that Jesus exorcised them, they wanted a new body. Isaac took a deep breath, steeling himself as the voices continued. On and on. They never shut up, just kept talking and talking as he worked on his puzzle.
Other patients started getting up, moving towards the door, but Isaac didn’t move. A warm hand on his shoulder snapped him out of his focus and he flinched. Dr. Harrow stood beside him, trying to get his attention. “Isaac, it’s time for lunch.”
We’ll eat their souls, lunch for sinner. Eat the doctor.
“Shut up,” Isaac snapped. The doctor didn’t seem surprised, his expression calm and collected as he watched the man talk.
“Are the demons talking to you now?”
Isaac gripped the sides of his head, gritting his teeth. There was too much noise going on, too many voices at the same time.
Kill the doctor, cut him up, eat his flesh!
“Shut up!”
“We can give you something to help you calm down.”
He wanted to say no, to object, argue, say he didn’t need anything. But before he could collect his thoughts, an orderly was already coming over. They exchanged words as Isaac muttered at the voices, telling them to shut up again and again. They never listened, just chattered on about eating the doctor. About how they wanted him to slice and dice the man, about how he might taste.
Isaac’s stomach convulsed once at the thought of it, he didn’t like how violent the demons were. They wanted terrible things. A jab in his arm made Isaac flinch but before he knew it a warmth spread through him, turning his system off. His eyes drooped, limbs going melty as his whole body relaxed.
He felt limp as the orderly grabbed him by his underarm and hauled him up to drag him to the cafeteria.
There were lots of open spots but the orderly deposited him at a table alone, letting him thunk down like a sack of potatoes on the bench. The tables and room reminded him of high school, complete with cliques and cool tables and people too self absorbed to notice him.
He sat there listening to the demons talk as someone put a styrofoam plate in front of him. It didn’t look appetizing. Mashed mystery meat, white sauce, soggy potatoes, limp carrots. He poked at it, losing his appetite.
Eat the doctor, tasty tasty tasty. Holy meat.
David said this place would be good for him. He wondered when he’d come to visit.
A girl sat down across from him, her long curly hair bouncing on her shoulders. “You’re the new kid,” she said with a grin.
He managed a nod, looking up at her with dead eyes.
“They gave you something for the voices, huh?” She crunched on a carrot, chewing it as she scanned him up and down with her eyes. “You can’t let them know you’re hearing shit. Gives them too much power.”
Isaac sat hunched over his food, shoulders forward. He felt like he might collapse forward into his plate but held himself up the best he could. “How’d you know I hear voices?”
“Heard you in the rec room. It’ll wear off in a few hours you know. Just in time for group therapy.” She watched him for a few moments, wiping her mouth with her hand. “Layla El-Faouly.” She stuck her hand out to shake his but he could barely blink. It made her laugh.
“Isaac… Moha-mohhdi-mohaman-“
“Don’t hurt yourself.” She stole one of his potatoes, munching on it like they were old friends and she could just steal his food without asking. “So what do they have you on? Abilify? Risperidone? Vraylar?”
He shrugged his shoulders lazily, shaking his head to get the demons to stop talking. It was like having a fly buzz around inside your head and nothing you did could stop it. “Don’t know.”
She’s the sacrifice, kill her.
“You can just ask them. They have to tell you what they’re giving you. State law or something.” She stole another potato, ignoring her own food.
“You can.. jus’ take it,” he said, nodding towards his food. Layla didn’t hesitate to take his plate, scraping it all off onto her own with a plastic spoon. She seemed ravenously hungry, much more than him.
“So what are you here for? Suicide attempt? That’s what most people are here for."
Issac shook his head, watching as she ate. “Don’ know really.”
She raised her eyebrows, taking a sip of water from a paper cup. “You don’t even know?”
“No.”
“Well I can see you’re a cutter. Cut too deep?” She pointed to his arms and he looked down.
“Maybe.”
“Who brought you?”
“My brother. Big brother.”
“Ohhh.” She took another bite of potatoes, washing it down with water. “I get it. A friend brought me in. Suicide attempt.”
He looked up at her, feeling a twinge of sympathy. The voices were finally quieting down, more like mumbled nonsense than actual words now. It made it easier to focus, at least. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I don’t want to be here anymore than you.” She held up her wrist to show the mark where she’d tried to end her life with a blade. “I’ll aim better next time.”
“Hey Layla,” one of the other doctors walked up to the table, a placating smile on his face. She rolled her eyes, moving her arms around the plate like he might take it. “Let’s not take other people’s food, okay?”
“Whatever.” She stood up, taking the plate with her. The doctor didn’t look pleased but he sighed and went up to the kitchen counter, grabbing another plate. He returned and gave it to Isaac, handing him a plastic spoon.
“Here you go. You’re new here, aren’t you? I’m Dr. Kumar. Nice to meet you.” Before Isaac could even respond, the man was gone. He sat down at a table of what looked like other doctors or staff members, talking with them like friends.
He could see Dr. Harrow sitting among them, eating a sandwich he’d brought from home. The man really was as simple as they came.
Isaac stared at the fresh plate Dr. Kumar had brought him. The same unappetizing slop, just rearranged. He poked at the mystery meat with his plastic spoon, watching it jiggle like rubber. The sedative made everything feel distant and muffled, like he was watching someone else's life through thick glass.
At least the voices had quieted down. Just background static now. He could barely make out their words about the end times and tribulations, just snippets of prophecies. Nothing that made sense. For once, the pharmaceutical fog might actually be a blessing.
"Not hungry?"
Isaac looked up to find Dr. Harrow standing beside his table, holding his own half-eaten sandwich. When had he walked over? The psychiatrist's eyes scanned the untouched plate with professional concern.
"No."
"The medication can affect your appetite. That's normal." Dr. Harrow sat down across from him, taking the spot Layla had vacated. "But you need to eat something. You have to keep your strength up."
Isaac pushed the plate away. "Not hungry."
"I understand. But skipping meals will make everything harder." The doctor took a bite of his sandwich, chewing thoughtfully. He swallowed and said, "There's an art therapy session starting in twenty minutes. Might be good for you to attend."
"Don't want to."
"Sometimes we do things we don't want to do because they help us get better." Dr. Harrow's voice was patient and controlled, that same tone that all psychiatrists seemed to master. "Art can be very therapeutic. A way to express things that are difficult to put into words."
Isaac shrugged, the movement sluggish. He didn't particularly care about expressing anything. He just wanted to go home.
"I'll walk you over when you're ready."
Twenty minutes later, Isaac found himself sitting at a long table covered with art supplies. Crayons, paper, markers. Nothing sharp enough to hurt himself with. Already finished projects hung on every surface of the room from past patients who’d been forced to express their feelings through art.
The art therapist was an older man in his sixties with salt and pepper hair and a frown that looked etched into his face. His name tag read "Gerald" but he'd introduced himself as Mr. Hoffman. He walked between the tables like a drill sergeant inspecting troops.
"Today we're focusing on self-expression through color and form," Mr. Hoffman announced to the small group of patients. "Draw something that makes you happy."
Isaac picked up a black crayon and began making random marks on the paper. They started out as meaningless scribbles but he started turning them into demons. The sedative made his hand feel disconnected from his brain but he tried to keep it steady, moving it around to create what he saw.
The black marks evolved into shapes resembling his visions. Twisted forms with too many limbs, faces that weren't quite human. Isaac's hand moved across the paper without conscious thought, the blunted crayon scratching out horned creatures with gaping mouths and soulless eyes. The demons that whispered to him daily were finally becoming real.
One had the body of a man but the head of a goat, its mouth open in a scream. Another crawled on all fours, its spine curved unnaturally, ribs protruding through red skin. He drew them as he saw them. Lurking in corners, perched on surfaces, hovering just outside his peripheral vision.
"What's that supposed to be?"
Mr. Hoffman's gravelly voice cut through Isaac's foggy concentration. The art therapist stood behind him, fat fingers gripping the back of Isaac's chair as he leaned over to examine the drawing.
"Demons," Isaac answered, adding claws to one of the creatures.
"That's not what we're drawing today." Mr. Hoffman sounded annoyed but Isaac couldn’t tell through the fog. Everyone was moving slow to him. "I asked for something that makes you happy."
Isaac looked up at him, his thoughts thick and sluggish. "They do make me happy. Sometimes."
"How exactly do demons make you happy?"
"They talk to me. Keep me company." Isaac turned back to his drawing, adding shadows beneath the creatures. "Everyone else just ignores me."
Mr. Hoffman took the paper from him, crossing his arms. "We're not here to indulge your hallucinations, Isaac. We're here to help you reconnect with reality."
Isaac looked up at him with a glare. "This is my reality."
"No, it's not." The art therapist ripped the paper from him, holding it up to examine it. "Your reality is this room, these people, this moment. Not whatever you’re hallucinating."
Isaac's grip tightened on the crayon. "They’re not hallucinations.”
“Draw something that makes you happy.” Mr. Hoffman put a clean sheet of paper in front of him, crumpling up the drawing and throwing it in the garbage. Isaac sat back, glaring at the table. He didn’t really want to participate now.
Isaac stared at the blank paper for a while before thinking of something that made him happy. He drew an outline of occupied Palestine and in big pink letters wrote “Fuck Israel.” Mr. Hoffman was not happy with his newest drawing. But before the man could snatch that one away too, Isaac folded it up and held it tight.
Other patients around the table drew flowers and rainbows, sunshine and stick figure families. Safe, sanitized happiness that fit neatly into therapeutic boxes. “That’s inappropriate,” Mr. Hoffman scolded. Isaac just rolled his eyes. What was inappropriate was bombing children and calling it war. Calling it out was the least anyone could do.
When the session ended, Isaac pushed back from the table with his drawing held tight in one fist. He followed the other patients out of the room back into the hallway, shuffling alongside them through the sterile corridors, past other patients wandering like ghosts in green scrubs. Everything felt dead in this place, even the people. Everyone moved like zombies, drugged out of their minds on sedatives and psychiatric meds.
Isaac made a beeline for his room, walking briskly down the hall. He was almost to the door when he heard a voice call “Isaac!” Footsteps followed him as he turned to see Dr. Harrow chasing him down. “Hey, it’s time for group therapy.” The man could move fast for someone with a cane.
“I don’t want to do group therapy today.” His hand was on the handle, a weirdly shaped knob sunk into the door so you couldn’t hang anything from it.
"I understand that, but group therapy isn't optional." Dr. Harrow gave him a look that meant business, his lips in a tight line. "It's part of your treatment plan."
Isaac's shoulders sagged. All he wanted to do was go home but he kept having to do things he didn’t want to. "I just want to sleep."
"You can rest after group. It's only an hour." Dr. Harrow gestured down the hallway where a few other patients were already making their way towards the group therapy room. "Come on."
Isaac reluctantly let go of the door handle. His feet felt heavy as he followed the psychiatrist down the corridor, past nurses who ignored them. The group therapy room was set up in a circle of mismatched chairs, most of them already occupied.
Layla waved at him from across the circle, grinning like they were friends already. A middle-aged man with thinning hair sat hunched over, picking at his fingernails. An elderly woman with a far off look, muttering under her breath. A younger looking girl with only one eye rocked back and forth. And lastly a man that looked to be around Isaac’s age, slumped over in his seat fidgeting with his hands. A collection of broken people forced to share their feelings with strangers.
"Isaac, why don't you take that chair there?" Dr. Harrow pointed to an empty seat between Layla and the young man. Isaac flopped into it, crossing his arms over his chest.
A different doctor entered the room, clipboard in hand. She was younger than Dr. Harrow, with short blonde hair and rimless glasses, holding a clipboard. "Good afternoon, everyone. I'm Dr. Martinez, and I'll be facilitating today's session."
The group mumbled their hellos, some more enthusiastic than others. Isaac said nothing.
"Today I thought we'd discuss coping mechanisms. Healthy ways to deal with stress and difficult emotions." Dr. Martinez's voice was artificially bright, like she was the only one happy to be there. "Who wants to share a coping mechanism that works for them?"
The middle-aged man raised his hand. "Deep breathing exercises."
"Excellent, Robert. Can you tell us more about that?"
Isaac tuned out as Robert launched into a detailed explanation of his breathing techniques. Breathe in, breathe out. It couldn’t be that hard. Layla looked over at him with a smile, her hands resting on her knee. She looked well put together for a girl in a psychiatric hospital.
“Layla, you had your hand up,” Dr. Martinez said. She was making notes on a clipboard with one of those horrible bendy plastic pens. It was the only kind of pens they were allowed to have in the hospital, since you couldn’t hurt yourself with them. But it was hard as hell to write with them and made everything needlessly more frustrating.
“Yeah, I like to dream. Sometimes I like to fly in my dreams, up high in the sky where nobody can reach me. Where I can just get away from it all.” Layla answered.
"That's a wonderful coping mechanism, Layla. Dreams can provide a safe space for our minds to process difficult emotions." Dr. Martinez scribbled something on her clipboard.
“I also like to beat the shit out of bad guys.” Layla said with a pretty smile.
Dr. Martinez blinked. “Let’s focus on healthy coping mechanisms for now. Let's see… Isaac? This is your first group session. Would you like to share a coping mechanism that helps you?"
Isaac shifted in his chair, the plastic seat squeaking under him. All eyes in the circle turned toward him, expectant faces waiting for him to bare his soul to a room full of strangers.
"I don't have any."
"Everyone has coping mechanisms, even if we don't recognise them as such." Dr. Martinez leaned forward slightly, her pen poised over the clipboard. "What do you do when you're feeling overwhelmed or stressed?"
Isaac's fingers found the scars on his wrists, tracing the raised lines through his sleeves. "Cut myself."
The room fell silent. Robert stopped picking at his fingernails. The elderly woman's muttering went quiet. Even the young girl’s rocking motion stilled.
"That's not a healthy coping mechanism, Isaac." Dr. Martinez's voice remained steady, professional. "Self-harm might provide temporary relief, but it creates more problems in the long term."
"You asked what I do. That's what I do."
"I understand and I appreciate your honesty." She made another note. "But part of recovery is learning to replace harmful behaviours with healthier alternatives. What did you do before you started cutting? How did you handle stress as a child?"
Isaac stared at the floor, the linoleum tiles blurring together. He couldn't remember much from before the voices started. Life felt divided into two distinct periods. Before the demons and after.
"I don't remember," Isaac said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Dr. Martinez nodded, making another note. "That's perfectly normal. Sometimes trauma can affect our memories." She looked around the circle. "Perhaps we can help Isaac brainstorm some healthy alternatives. What suggestions do you have?"
"Drawing," the one eyed girl said quietly. "Sometimes I draw."
"Excellent suggestion, Sarah. Art can be very therapeutic." Dr. Martinez turned back to Isaac. "You attended art therapy today. How did that feel?"
Isaac's jaw tightened. "The teacher threw my drawing away."
Dr. Harrow shifted in his chair at the edge of the circle, his brow furrowing slightly. Isaac caught the movement from the corner of his eye. The doctor didn’t seem pleased to hear this.
"What were you drawing?" Dr. Martinez asked.
"Things I see. Demons." Isaac's fingers pressed harder against his scars. "He said they weren't real."
Layla leaned forward. "That's bullshit. If you see them, they're real to you."
"Language, Layla," Dr. Martinez said mildly. "But you make a valid point. Our experiences are real, even if others can't see them."
Dr. Harrow cleared his throat from his position at the edge of the circle. "Isaac, what if we approached this differently? Instead of fighting the voices or pretending they don't exist, what if we found ways to manage them when they become overwhelming?"
Isaac looked up, surprised. No one had ever suggested managing the demons instead of making them disappear. They were hard to handle though.
"Sometimes when patients hear voices, we work on grounding techniques," Dr. Harrow continued. "Ways to anchor yourself to the present moment when things feel chaotic in your mind."
"Like what?" Isaac's voice was still quiet, but there was a flicker of interest.
"Well, you could try the five-four-three-two-one technique. Name five things you can see, four things you can touch, three things you can hear, two things you can smell, and one thing you can taste." Dr. Harrow leaned forward slightly. "It helps remind your brain where you actually are."
Dr. Martinez nodded approvingly. "That's an excellent suggestion. Grounding techniques can be very effective for managing intrusive thoughts or auditory hallucinations."
Isaac wanted to say it sounded stupid but he just nodded his head, rubbing his wrist with one hand.
"What’s in your hand?” Layla asked from across the circle.
Isaac stilled. He didn’t think it would be a good idea to show the room his drawing. People got weird about stuff like that, even if he saw it as pretty black and white. Don’t colonize people’s land, that seemed pretty straightforward. But others would disagree.
“Is that what you drew in art therapy?” Dr. Harrow asked. “Let’s see it."
Isaac hesitated, biting his lip. He thought about it a second before unfolding the paper, holding it up for the group to see.
Sarah started laughing like it was the funniest thing she’d ever seen.
“So you’re new here and don’t know, but we try to keep politics out of things. We’re more focused on healing here, not talking about what’s going on in the world.” Dr. Martinez said. Her mask held firm but Isaac could see something slipping behind it, something that showed a bit of anger.
Sarah's voice cut through the tension, all eyes on her. "You should fight them."
Dr. Martinez’s eyes landed on her. "Fight who, Sarah?" The doctor asked carefully.
"The demons." Sarah's eye fixed on Isaac with an overwhelming intensity. “Fight back, don’t just take it."
Isaac straightened in his chair. Finally someone who understood him. "How?"
"Sarah, let's redirect this conversation toward healthier coping mechanisms." Dr. Martinez began.
"I fought God when he possessed me." Sarah's voice boomed. She rocked in her chair, ankles crossed under the seat. "He thought he could use my body like Mary but I told him to fuck off.”
Dr. Harrow shifted forward, his expression concerned. "Sarah-"
“So I took a needle full of meth and jammed it in my eye, right through the pupil. It felt like heaven but then God died and I yelled, ‘Fuck you, God!’” She grinned, finished with her story. “And that's how I lost my eye.”
"Sarah, that's enough." Dr. Martinez's professional composure was slipping. "Self harm is never the answer to delusions.”
Isaac couldn’t help it, he liked her. He wished he could smile but his face was like a mask, emotionless no matter what he was feeling. Still, he could feel himself smiling inside. Sarah was a badass.
“Let’s move on to something more constructive,” Dr. Harrow said.
The rest of the day was boring, filled with group activities and too much time to do a puzzle. Layla followed him around like a lost puppy while Sarah danced in the rec room to imaginary music. Most of the other patients kept to themselves, too drugged to do anything but lounge. By dinner Isaac could feel the sedative had completely worn off and he was feeling a little better, less lethargic.
Layla sat across from him in the cafeteria, eating as she talked. Something about a hippo and a moon god, but he didn’t really catch it. “Hey, are you listening?”
He looked up at her, nodding his head. “Yeah you said something about a hippo?”
“No that was earlier.” She huffed, scooping up a piece of chicken with her spoon. “I got something.” Her grin was wide as the Cheshire Cat, a glint in her eyes. Looking around to make sure no one was watching, she pulled something out from the waistband of her scrub pants. She held up a plastic knife.
Isaac raised his eyebrows. “Now you can cut your chicken.”
“Idiot,” she scoffed playfully. “I’ll make a trade with you.”
It dawned on him then what she was implying. A cutting tool for something else. He considered it, wondering how she’d gotten ahold of it in the first place. “What do you want?”
“Your pills. The stuff they’ve got me on doesn’t work. I wanna try something else but they won’t listen to me.”
Isaac paused, seriously considering it for a moment. He didn’t want to take meds anyways so maybe this was a good trade. All he had to do was hide them during med time and he could hand them over. “Alright. Deal.”
Layla grinned, radiating joy as she started shovelling food into her mouth again.
The medication line formed after dinner, patients shuffling forward like cattle. Isaac stood behind Robert, watching the middle-aged man fidget with his scrubs. The nurse at the front dispensed pills from a cart, each patient stepping up to receive their chemical cocktail.
Isaac's mouth felt dry. He'd never tried to hide pills before mostly because he’d never been willing to take them. Layla made it sound easy when she explained it earlier, but standing here now, his palms were sweating.
"Next."
Robert stepped forward, opening his mouth as the nurse placed two pills on his tongue. He accepted the small paper cup of water, swallowed, then opened his mouth again for inspection. The nurse shone a penlight under his tongue, then waved him through.
Isaac's heart hammered against his ribs.
"Next."
He approached the cart, holding his breath. The nurse, a stern-faced woman with brown hair pulled back in a pony tail, consulted her clipboard.
"Isaac Mohammadi." She selected a small paper cup containing two pills. One white, one pale yellow. "Open your mouth."
Isaac hesitated, trying to buy time. “What are they?”
“One hundred milligrams of Sertraline and…” the nurse looked at her clipboard. “Eighty milligrams of Latuda.”
He had no idea if that was good or bad, or if it was a heavy dose or barely anything. He licked his lips, holding out his hand. The nurse poured the pills into his palm and he tossed them into his mouth, hiding them under his tongue.
The nurse handed him the paper cup and he drank slowly, letting the water wash around his mouth before swallowing.
"Open."
Isaac opened his mouth, lifting his tongue slightly but not enough to reveal the pills tucked underneath. The nurse shone her penlight across his teeth and gums, the beam bright enough to make him squint.
"Lift your tongue higher."
His stomach dropped. Isaac raised his tongue reluctantly, the white and yellow pills sliding into view under the harsh light.
“I need assistance over here.” The nurse said, waving her hand.
Two large men in white scrubs appeared at Isaac's sides before he could react. Their hands clamped down on his arms, fingers digging into his biceps as they held him in place.
"Open your mouth and swallow the medication," the nurse said, her voice flat and professional.
Isaac clenched his jaw shut. The pills sat bitter and chalky on his tongue, starting to dissolve. One of the orderlies grabbed his jaw, forcing his head to tilt back while the other pushed a gloved hand into his mouth.
The orderly's thick fingers pressed down on Isaac's tongue, forcing the dissolving pills toward the back of his throat. Isaac gagged, his body convulsing as he fought against the invasion. The bitter chalk taste flooded his mouth, mixing with saliva and panic.
"Swallow," the nurse commanded.
Isaac thrashed against the orderlies' grip, but their hands were like vises around his arms. The man with his hand in Isaac's mouth pushed harder, triggering another wave of gagging. Tears formed In Isaac's eyes as his body betrayed him, the automatic swallowing reflex kicking in as the dissolved medication slid down his throat.
"Good." The orderly removed his hand, wiping his gloved fingers on his pants. "Next time just take your meds like everyone else."
The orderlies released him and Isaac doubled over, coughing and spitting, his throat raw. He stumbled backward, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Other patients in line just watched with dead eyes, nobody reacting to what they'd just witnessed. Just another day in paradise.
"Move along," the nurse said, already turning to the next patient.
Isaac shuffled away from the medication cart, his legs unsteady. The forced medication sat heavy in his stomach, promising another night of chemical fog. He made his way to the rec room where Layla waited by the puzzle table, her knees tucked to her chest and her expression hopeful.
"Well?" She leaned forward eagerly. "Did you get them?"
Isaac shook his head, collapsing into the chair beside her. "Couldn't hide them. They forced me to swallow."
Layla's face fell, disappointment replacing excitement. "Shit. You hid them under your tongue?"
"Yeah. Then two orderlies held me down." Isaac's voice came out hoarse, his throat still burning. “One of them shoved their hand in my mouth."
"That's fucked up." Layla sat back in her chair, crossing her arms. "They love to power trip here."
Isaac rubbed his jaw where the orderly had gripped him, though his pride was hurting more than anything else.
“Next time try hiding them in your cheek, kinda under your teeth. They don’t check in your cheek pouches.”
“Like a squirrel?”
“Yeah, like a squirrel,” Layla laughed.