[s]lap me in the face.

[&Ismirshalen]

Asylum; 1st floor halls;
Topic finished May 15, 2009, 8:40pm

Ismirshalen heard a moan coming from the outside world. His eyes were closed, tight like vises, as if refusing to ever open again. The moan came again, and he realized that was his voice. He didn’t know why. Feeling with his hands, he became aware that he was laying on a hard cold surface, probably a floor. A floor… where…

Suddenly everything came rushing back to him with a ferociousness that was painful. He didn’t know why it should be painful, but then the pain revealed its location-- his face. His cheek, to be exact. It felt almost as if something was living there, because it throbbed with the violence of a heart and burned as if he were being fed upon by some sort of parasite. But besides the currently unexplainable pain, he knew where he was. His eyes finally allowed themselves to be opened. He rolled over onto his stomach, pushed himself to his knees, and felt his spine cry out in abuse because of how he had been positioned.

And that was when he realized that he wasn’t wearing any clothes. He had been wearing clothes before he had blacked out. The Frenchman hadn't been…

"OH, FUCK T'HAT BLOODY FRENCH BASTARD!" he shouted, and instantly regretted doing so as pain flashed through his face. What exactly had he done to him, anyway? Looking around himself in a sort of wasted desperation for his clothing, he finally let himself believe it wasn’t there. Except his cane. Obviously the bastard hadn't needed a cane. The Brit dragged himself over to where it lay, gripped it in both hands, and pulled himself to his feet. He felt kind of wobbly. And he felt like he was missing something. Like his clothes. And… and his hat.

"T'HAT BLOODY PIG!" he yelled again, this time ignoring the pain. He cussed some more in French, exhausting himself of every vulgar word he knew. Then he surveyed the shower. Empty. Apparently Monsieur was intent on keeping his piggy little hands clean. Well, screw him. Him and his wine. And his cheese. Izzy swore to himself that he would kill the guy the next time he saw him. And then get back his hat. Why the Hell did the guy take his hat?! He felt his head nervously, feeling for the bald spot on top that wouldn’t accept any form of hair renewal. For all his efforts at preserving his youth [plastic surgery, etc] the only thing that lingered to remind him of his age was that bald spot. He felt sick, but thankful that he was taller than most everyone. He was safe. For now.

Finally, unable to resist his curiosity any longer, he moved for the mirror. When he saw his face, he let out a gasp. The bright red mark of a hand-- the therapist's hand-- was imprinted onto his face. The man must have slapped him. He must have slapped him really hard. Gaping, Izzy touched it gently with the tip of a finger, feeling the flare migrate to that spot. He was surprised that no blood had been drawn. It looked like he had gotten a sunburn. In the shape of a hand. He could feel the fury boiling in his blood, but had to keep himself calm or he would explode. Turning from the mirror, trying not to think about how long the hand mark would take to heal he limped for one of the showers. A clean towel had been left inside it, probably by a patient who had decided at the last minute she wanted to skip the day. Ismirshalen picked it up and wrapped it around his waist, then limped out the bathroom door and to his living quarters. After putting on a fresh suit, he made himself a cup of coffee and took it with him out the door. He didn’t have any replacement hats to wear. That depressed him.

By the time he reached the low risk patient quarters, he had drank half of his coffee. Trying to appear nonchalant, he strode up to the security desk, smiling at the lady there and asking which patient he would be designated to guard. She looked up, stared a little bit longer than she should have at his face [Izzy had to clear his throat to get her to stop], then read a name on the computer screen.

"Mable Trea, cell number 102," she announced, sneaking looks at him when she thought he wasn’t looking. "She's been here forever. Shouldn’t be a problem for you."

"Ahhh… I'm confused, dear," Ismirshalen said. "W'hat h'appened to the other guard?"

"Oh, nothing," she answered with a nervous smile, and said nothing more. As Ismirshalen left for cell 102, he had the feeling she hadn't told him everything.

He arrived at the cell and peered inside through the window, at first not seeing anyone. "H'ello? Is anyone in t'here?" The brunet looked perplexed.

[Fail!CornMableCorn]

[]

“My favorite shade of the orange crayon is macaroni and cheese!” The new greeting is the greeting that tells something about you because everyone knows it‘s a pain to ask about someone’s interests when they’re obviously not interested in you. However, I’m interested in everyone. But people don’t always know that about people. I just like making things easier for people. Or do I? I laughed really loud. Now he thinks I’m crazy.

"And you?” My funny-sounding, exclaiming voice called out from the dank cell with my two eyes closely following and examining the new guest. I say I have the eyes of someone whom goes through a lot of guests. Like melted caramel. But one thing was good about being in a mental institution; You got company everyday whether the guests liked it or not: And that was all I needed.

I leaned bored-like on the window ledge near the curious guard man (Curiosity killed the cat), blowing at the plentiful dust particles in the air. The only thing that wasn’t always the same was in my head. If only I could find someone to take me on adventures. I don’t know. Perhaps a tall, dark, prematurely balding, handsome man take me out of here and on some random adventure to find the perfect mustache. But always be positive. Perhaps should talk to him. No, I don’t want to kill him. I’ll just stand here and think stuff and whatever I happen to say is what the conversation will be.
I squinted hard at the new arrival. Scrutinizing every base point.
Tall, old, and far off from self-acceptance. The nasty kind.
Or maybe I still missed my old guard. I felt myself shudder at the memory. I don’t like to think about it.

“New guard? Okay then, tell me your name, age, favorite color shoe, religious believes, (for safely slash pleasant conversation‘s sake), and--” I would have finished my usual code of acceptance for my new guard but there was something different about this one… What was on his face? I peered into his face. A rash? Closer. I could feel eyelashes. I saw it all before...
Than I realized.

“Wow! That must have been one big misunderstanding! You know, Dr. DeVrais understands English better when you say your adjectives after your nouns.” Of course it would leave him saying things like I like your shirt white, Mable for the rest of the day, but I thought it was cute so I didn’t find it necessary to mention it.

“Anyways, I’m Mable Trea!,” I shouted enthusiastically at the fresh mea-guard and smiled hugely with an extended hand out to shake. “Although you already knew that.”

[[She’s heavily medicated at the moment. Let us laugh together once it starts wearing off and she starts to forget to breath]]

[&Ismirshalen]

Less than a second after he asked his question, he found himself face-to-face with a rather pale blonde adorned with colonies of freckles. He leaned back from the window in surprise, almost stumbled, then regained his balance with a look of embarrassment as he listened to her blabber on with an indefatigable motor mouth. Her voice was loud, yet it didn’t hurt his ears. If anything, the thing that would cause them to bleed would be her endless chatter. He blinked twice at her dumbly, opening his mouth but not finding words, and it took another moment for them to come to him.

"I, uh… My favourite shade of the orange crayon is…" He paused, struggling to think. She had caught him off guard. And he didn’t even know that the shade macaroni and cheese existed. In fact, he was a rock when it came to colors. About the only colors he was concerned about were the shades of his coffee. Bitter black, thank you very much. "Red orange," he finished dumbly. He watched as she blew dust into the air and made unguarded observation of him, so he did the same with her. In other circumstances he might have told the person off, but before accepting this job he was instructed to go along with the patient and try not to make them angry. So as much as he would have liked to, he kept quiet. But observed her with the same intensity. And didn’t slouch on the window sill like she was to minimize the chances of her seeing his bald spot. Besides, he found himself liking her rudeness. For some off reason.

She had a rather petite frame, but that was contradicted by her extremely intense and demanding eyes. They were a dark shade of gold that seemed to melt Izzy's face as he stared at them. They were pretty. Très beau. He found himself sort of attached to them, and he had to work hard to tear them away to stare at something else. Like all those freckles. One would think a person would be consumed by such an amount of them, but she only seemed to shine even brighter. How did someone so fair land in an asylum?

He was torn from these childish [yet pleasant] fantasies as she bombarded him with more questions. She listed them off as if… as if she needed to see if he met her requirements. Well that was insane! It's not like she could choose who guarded her! Or could she? He would feel safer if he just answered them. Plus he didn’t want to make her mad.

"My name is Ismirsha--" he was interrupted by her voice. He felt his face pale, of course except for the burning hand mark on his face. Which he had momentarily forgotten. But now remembered again. He stood stiffly, biting his lip to keep from uttering the unpleasant words that he felt about to spill from his mouth. No good could come of losing it in front of a patient. It would make him seem more out of control than her. Because surprisingly, she didn’t seem so much insane to him than… talkative. 'Dr. DeVrais,' he thought, smoldering inside. 'So t'hat's the bastard's name.' As he listened to her, he became uncomfortably aware that there was a sort of admiration in her voice. As if she liked him or something. 'No,' he thought. 'You're just imagining things. Calm down.' But he could not shake her voice from his mind. It sounded very admiring. It did.

"H'ello, Mable Trea," he said, almost not accepting her hand. But then he did. Because not doing so would be rude. "I'm Ismirshalen Linnaeus. Age... twenty-six. I like black shoes. I'm Agnostic." He might have elaborated on things, but his former pleasant attitude had somewhat diminished from the mention of Dr. DeVrais. This attitude was positively idiotic, but he couldn’t help it. He felt like a teenager back in high school. Even though he had never gone to high school [he had been home-schooled] he was sure that's what his current feelings would have been like back then.

[Fail!CornMableCorn]

“HA! If you’re twenty-six than I’m twenty-seven!” I scoffed at him. “But really. I find liars to be repulsive. Any sort of long-term relationship should have honor to be healthy. This is honor less. And this is a long-term relationship I hope.” I shot a beam of seriousness into his face. “I hope that you take duty as being my guard seriously. I don’t want a one night stand.”

I shifted back to my boredom pose and made kissy/fish faces at a passing-by bug. It’s best to have the guard broken. And this one will be easy.

“Anyways, you must refer to me as Maple Tree or Queen of the Ants,” No one ever went for the second one. It was a continuous test that everyone failed.

“And if you so dare to choose the second one you must say it with a British accen-” Right. He has a British accent.

“Touche.” I briefly glared at him again.

He almost seemed perfect. I turned around and walked slightly away from him, talking to myself.
“However, he’s agnostic and pale like I am and has had more surgery than a Barbie doll. I like it more when they’re different than me.” I quickly darted my eyes behind me to observe him.
"He’s a moron, too."
I turned completely back around to face him, probably seeming like a total spazz-case. But I was a spazz-case. I’m in an insane asylum.

“I want your real age, Chalk-Face,” I said pertly, tapping the wall with a rhythm.
“Tell me it and I’ll let you kiss me.” I added, batting my eyelashes ridiculously.

[[Difficult bitch]]

[&Ismirshalen]

Her words has such seriousness embedded in them that he felt as if he were being slapped. Ergh. Best not think about slapping. But, if not slapped, then stabbed. That was better. But the meaning of it was of course sharp. He hadn't dealt with someone so off their trolley before. She might not have been stark raving mad, but she still was a notch above normal. Or two. Or trois. He had the feeling that in order to please her, he would have to play by her rules. Which had to be a bit more extravagantly designed than rules derived from a sane mind.

"Of course not, Ma-- Queen of the Ants," he replied, shifting to the second name halfway through her first. A spur of the moment action that might win him some brownie points. He needn't needed to hear any encouragement on the accent part of it, as he would have done so anyway. He was British. Touche indeed.

And then she turned away from him, moved further into her cell, and started muttering to herself. He listened hard, but he didn’t have to, as her voice was fairly audible. As if she wasn’t trying to conceal what she was saying. Or didn’t notice. Or care. 'Blimey,'he thought. 'She's a horse of another colour.' He wasn’t all too sure how he felt about her analysis of him. A moron? Well, so maybe he wasn’t top-notch with his speaking skills, but he thought he deserved at least an acknowledgement of some intellect.

Ah, Chalk Face. That was new. He was about to remind her that he hadn't offered any such nickname to her, but felt it would be a waste of effort.

"Is t'hat so?" he asked, moving within range of her face. Her pretty face, and he could see that she had also gotten a deal of surgery. But that didn’t diminish her charm. He was close enough that no one passing by would hear him. "Well, blimey, I guess we've got ourselves a deal, then. I'm forty."

And then he kissed her. Watch that shitfaced 'doctor' come walking by right then. He wished that would happen.

[VinnNAY]

[[And ever so ironically he did. Totally not planned. ;D My English is still awful today so here I go and try! And probably fail!]]

Vincent was just innocently walking through the hall because we all know in order to get to his office on the medium whack-case hallway you had to go through the slightly crazy hallway. He, of course being a therapist (And politically correct), didn’t see it like that, but the sarcastic 3rd person narrator does. When he saw the pure disaster doing on between a desperate man and a girl slightly off her rocking chair he made sure to walk extra loud.

“I like your shirt black, Dr. DeVrais!” Mable piped, hands in the air. Totally releasing the guard’s virgin face and trying to completely disregard him. And despite her borderline A.D.D. she managed to at least pretend to focus fully on Vincent.

“You know the color of my shirt without looking. You know me so well,” Vincent jested facetiously, walking over to greet Mable the French way. Kiss on each cheek. Giving no notice to Ismirshalen. He whispered something into Mable’s ear and watched her giggle. He hated using such a nice girl like that. But he figured he really meant it in a way.

“I see you are unhappy with our trade.” Vincent said curtly, finally turning to face (And acknowledge) the guard.
“Red mark for clothes. Would you like me to kiss it?” Vincent joked, stroking Izzy’s injured cheek gently. He figured he might as well make Ishmirshalen as sexually uncomfortable as possible. He probably already thought he was gay after all. The guy was probably never laid before, anyways.

[&Ismirshalen]

Ismirshalen practically jerked back away from Mable when she released him and started yapping to… to… He felt the mark on his face burning red, and stared at the therapist with such hatred that he felt as if he would just spontaneously combust right that instant. Just blow up. Burst into flames. Maybe set the stupid dick on fire too. 'Bloody, bloody Hell' he thought to himself, feeling feverish. He could hardly hear what Mable was saying to DeVrais, but he somehow knew exactly what the words were all the same. Each one of them felt like a hot iron pressed to his flesh. When he looked down at his shaking hands he was surprised they were not red, as he felt.

The doctor's reply seemed to be less of a true conversation with the girl than an insult to Izzy. He knew it for what it was. Never mind what the freckled girl might be goaded into believing. He kissed her on each cheek, and Izzy was reminded of how he had been kissing her before, also. What a bastard. What a blooming bastard.

"You frog," he spat, his voice hardly above a whisper. His hands shaking with anger. He would love to just explode. But he was afraid he might actually catch fire. That was preposterous. But he had to keep calm, he couldn’t let the Frenchman have the satisfaction of manipulating him into such brash actions that he obviously desired. For some twisted reason.

But the doctor's touch was like a switch, and the Brit felt everything he had worked so hard to keep pent up explode in a rushing current. He grabbed a hold of the pale man's wrist with a strength and blind fury that would not have been expected of a man of his slim stature. He dug his nails into the guy's flesh, grinding his teeth as he did so, as if in a last pointless attempt to keep everything in check.

"Give. Me. My. Clothes. Back. And my hat. Now. You toad. You filthy French toad!" he growled, surprised at his own voice, which was animalistic in quality. He damn right sounded as if he himself belonged in a padded cell. Too late he realized this might be what the toad wanted. Shuddering, he twisted DeVrais's wrist into an uncomfortable and perhaps unnatural position. He was burning up. On second thought, he stabbed his cane into the man's foot, for good measure. But wait… he wasn’t thinking anymore, was he?

[VinnNAY]

[[Ow?]]

Vincent was a bastard and he knew it. In fact, everybody knew it. He expected one day a group of people to form an angry mob and drive him out of town or the earth. However, he minded his own business (When nothing was in it for him) and never usually resorted to violence. The other day was completely out of balance for him. He had struck someone twice. Something that usually only happened over a span of maybe two years and it was usually done to misbehaving teenagers bothering their elders (or people who acted like teenagers, like Diesel). Anyways, he was pretty upset about it nonetheless. Vincent may have just weaned himself of alcohol over the span of a day. That’s how upset he was about it (It, being his pride).

So you could imagine how distressed he was when Ismirshalen started insulting him and calling him a frog of all things! A frog! The French eat frogs! Vincent didn’t eat the French! That was cannibalism times deux! He could only stare, completely flabbergasted.

Then, the deranged man sunk his nails into his arm, immediately meeting bone and absolutely crushing Vincent’s mental-calm. He tried to keep himself from crying out and only managed to keep it to a piercing moaning noise. He took his other hand around his captured arm to assure himself that it wouldn’t fall off and tried to struggle himself away from new pain in his foot. He realized that maybe he should have taken the cane, too.

During all this Mable was screaming.

The screeching was irritating but oddly helpful. Maybe someone would come and shoot the central nervous system out of his British ass. (That could be taken two ways.)

Once Izzy twisted Vincent’s arm he lost it. But contrary from the eccentric guard, he was still somewhat thinking in his dazed, hangover state. All his limbs were currently taken. One arm was out of commission, one leg was supporting him because the other leg certainly couldn’t, and the other arm was just keeping him from losing his mind from the agony the guard was putting him through. He also didn’t want to hurt Izzy for the sake of his pride and not wanting to get into as much trouble as he was going to. That left him with one of his talents left. Something he really didn’t want to do but he couldn’t hold it off any longer. He would just have to close his eyes and…

Vincent leaned quickly forward to give Izzy the kiss of a lifetime.

[[tsk tsk. Two guys in less than one week. But I really couldn't see any other way the poor guy was going to get out of this situation.]]

[&Ismirshalen]

[Ahaha. Poor Vincent! But I guess he got what was coming to him. Ahahahaha. Or not!]

Red singed the edges of the brunet's vision, and he could feel himself grinning with the pleasure you usually only saw on madmen's faces. And now it was on his own face. He'd never thought of himself of a madman. And he'd certainly never gotten this pissed off with a French person before. I mean, he didn’t like the French, but he didn’t go around doing this kind of thing. It was just… This man. Maybe at first it had been their difference in culture that had brought them to the initial hate, but now it felt like much more. I mean, the guy seemed to be intentionally provoking him. And Izzy knew that he was also doing so. It was both of their fault. But the time to stop the train seemed to have already passed a long time ago.

Happy to have the upper hand, no matter how questionable the happiness was, he was unprepared for the pale man's attack. He had thought he had the guy defenseless. But he should have known.

Ismirshalen's eyes widened into a look of utter horror as the doctor came at him with his mouth as the weapon, and since he was currently too occupied to protect himself, there was nothing he could do but take it, and full force. The kiss was even more persistent than the one he'd just shared with Mable moments ago, but extremely unpleasant. He felt such grotesque revulsion that at first he could not do anything at all. He felt bile rise in his throat, and not a moment later did he let go of DeVrais's arm, wrenching his face away and immediately spitting out a load of saliva onto the floor. Gagging, he looked up at the Frenchman with such a look of astonishment and horror that it was comical. But not for Izzy. No, not at all.

"W'hat the bloody Hell is wrong with you?!" he shouted, having to raise his voice to be heard above Mable's screaming. "…You… You kissed me! You bloody kissed me, you faggot!" The bile in his throat only seemed to fuel his anger at that moment, and before he could think about what he was doing he lunged at the man, aiming with his cane for the guy's throat.

But he never made it there.

Just seconds before he made his mark, a sudden force pulled him back, hooking unseen appendages through his arms and pulling his hands behind his back. Ismirshalen thrashed about, shrieking in fury, then saw who his assaulters were. Guards. They had heard Mable's scream. At once the British guard paled, and he stopped thrashing, but his breath was coming in such ragged gasps that he was sure he sounded like an animal.

"What is going on here, Dr. DeVrais?" one of the guards asked, one who was not holding onto the crazy British man. "Isn't this one of our guards?"

'Oh, bloody fuck,' Ismirshalen thought.

[VinnNAY]

Vincent liked what he did about as much as Izzy did. He sadly couldn’t keep himself from counting down the amount of encounters he’s had with the men in this facility.

When the guard finally pulled away from him he felt a rush of relief flow through his sore arm. He was afraid to lift his dark sleeve and look at it by this point and could only rub it tenderly between gasps of breath. He felt himself sway slightly and was a touch dizzy. Vincent’s health was pretty fragile and the fact that Ismirshalen took his rage out on him so physically surprised him. There was that saying: Pick on someone your own size. Which Vincent was definitely not his size.

“Eh, fermer ta bouche. You know you liked it,” He snarled and then spat at the floor violently. He wasn’t in the mood for dealing with this guy. This guy that only moments ago was on a direct root to killing him. And he couldn’t be more literal when he said shut your mouth.

Mable kept quiet but joined Vincent with the spitting but not at the floor. She wasn’t fond of her new guard at the moment. Vincent realized it probably wasn’t the best thing for them to fight so much in her area of vision. This would keep her more agitated than Izzy’s cheek.

Vincent wiped his dry mouth in a paranoid fashion and answered the guards “Attempted murder.” Vincent practically growled it but kept a smug look on his haggard face.