[c]ounting sheep.

[&Ismirshalen]

Asylum; 2nd floor halls; therapist offices;
Topic finished Jun 1, 2009, 7:24pm

After his encounter with the therapist, Ismirshalen decided he never wanted to see the man again. He also decided he needed to go to his room to refresh himself. Blood was smudged onto his suit from where he had apparently rubbed his hand after trying to detach DeVrais's own hand from his wrist. An unsuccessful attempt, but from the blood he could tell he had almost gotten there. He was kind of squeamish about blood. Okay, maybe a little more than kind of. Anyway, as long as he pretended it wasn’t there it was okay, and when he got to his room the suit took a dive into the laundry machine seconds after he got there.

The next thing on his to-do list was a shower. But before he got in he took a minute to examine his face. The hand mark was only a light pink mark now, instead of the angry red it had been all morning. Which was good. The bad was that he looked like he had just endured World War III. Well, that was okay. Yeah. He could fix that. With a shower. A cold shower. Muttering to himself, he did just that.

A half hour later [apparently he was into long showers] the Brit was in the kitchen, preparing a fresh pot of coffee. Standing there, staring blankly at the counter, he saw his hands were shaking. Ever since he had come home, he had been moving as if in a trance. Looking without seeing. Going through the motions, not feeling much of anything at all. But standing here, the first signs that he had been rattled were finally starting to show. A grimace plastered his face, and his thin black eyebrows drew together as he clenched his fists. A small sob escaped his throat. He cursed, then turned to look at the Mr. Coffee, willing it to hurry up already. He needed coffee. He was falling apart like a wooden shack in a hurricane. Twisting apart like a broken string.

He tried not to think about the doctor, or anything relating to this damn facility, but he couldn’t completely isolate himself from the problem. Time seemed to be pressing down on him, counting off the seconds until he was forced to go to a therapy session with… with him. He wouldn’t even allow himself to think the name, at that point. A sob seemed bad enough coming from someone who was usually so ass-backwards, but he felt a river trying to break through his shabbily build dam. Just don’t think. His eyes flicked over to the clock nervously. It was only four in the afternoon. He had six hours. Six hours until he was forced down to the deepest pits of Hell. Maybe he would be able to leave this place before then. But he had a feeling that he had told the front office of their appointment. Which was very embarrassing. 'Oh yes, one of your guards is off his rocker, so don’t let him out. Just tell him not to leave, politely at first, but if he gives you any trouble…'

The Mr. Coffee beeped that it was ready, and that snapped the brunet from his thoughts. He greedily snatched the pot and filled himself a cup, adding very little cream so that it remained pitch black and bitter. Some people might say you could describe Ismirshalen by his taste in coffee. But Izzy wouldn’t describe himself as bitter.

Taking a sip of the seething hot liquid, he found himself moving for the beat-up couch in the center of the room, and he turned on the TV to find a show that didn’t look unbearably cheesy. Sipping coffee all the while. He finally settled on a very cheesy looking soap opera. Seriously, why were they paying these people? Izzy settled back in the couch, forcing himself to pay attention to the TV as an angry couple complained about their lives to each other. Like he really wanted to know about their problems. He wasn’t a therapist.

***

Blinking his eyes sleepily, Ismirshalen woke up to find himself listing to the side on the couch, a dark stain on the fabric where his coffee had spilled itself. It took a full minute for him to realize what had happened, and once he did he groaned exasperatedly. A bit woozily he got up from the couch, plucked his empty mug off the floor, turned the TV off, and went to the kitchen. And found his eyes snapping to the clock. It was 10:22 PM. He was twenty minutes late for his… appointment. The brunet stood there numbly for a few minutes more, contemplating his chances of being able to skip the whole thing and come out clean. They were… very poor. The different scenarios he thought up all seemed to turn out with him stuck in a small cell, huddled in the fetal position in the corner. Gritting his teeth, he unplugged the coffee maker from its port, dumped the remaining cold liquid into the sink, and tucked the whole thing under his arm. He grabbed his mug by his pinkie finger. He didn’t bother to check himself in the mirror. It would only depress him.

It was 10:34 when he finally made it to his office, and he found the door unlocked. Still, he hesitated before going inside, debating whether or not he should turn back, but then forced himself inside. The décor was black and white, and very neat. Also, the room was completely silent. No music playing, no one humming, no keyboard being typed upon. Not even a lost fly buzzing around. It kind of reminded Izzy of a grave. The place did not inspire happy thoughts.

The doctor was seated at his desk. He reminded Ismirshalen of a statue. It was actually sort of creepy.

Slowly, aware of how uncannily loud it was when his dress shoes touched the floor, he made his way around the room, hunting the premises for a wall jack. He didn’t pay any attention to the therapist. Finally, he found one, located near the bottom of the therapist's desk. He plugged in his Mr. Coffee, turned it on, and then sat down in the only other seat that wasn’t taken. It was one of those therapy couches. He felt uncomfortable sitting in it. It made him feel like he had mental issues. Only people with mental issues sat on these couches. He still didn’t look at the man, staring at his coffeemaker, trying to keep himself from fidgeting. He thought of what was going to happen next. Who would speak first? Not him. Hell, no. Maybe if he was lucky, the guy would be a stubborn bastard and wait for him to talk. In that case, he would be a pile of dust before a word came out of Izzy. Izzy was a stubborn bastard.

He didn’t want therapy.

It seemed like had been there for hours, but it had actually been only two minutes. Ismirshalen stared at his coffeemaker. Trying to stay awake. The room was silent except for the steady drip of black. Dark bags were hanging under his eyes, and he looked like he hadn't slept in years.

He was starting to wonder if that was actually the therapist or a cleverly made statue after all.

[VinnNAY]

Vincent was never late. Let’s clear that up. He’s a workaholic. In fact, if he was ever late for anything, it would be to go home. Sometimes he’s even absent from that. Forget bringing your girlfriend home for nighttime fun, his office has a couch. So it was no surprise that when the deranged guard walked in the room, Vincent was also in the room. Of course doing that perfect therapist smile just to mess with Ismirshalen’s head and, frankly, creep him out. He smiled and sat there for awhile with clipboard in hand. Writing down notes occasionally. However he got things from a silent man who refused to talk was a mystery to all. He waited a little longer, a bit irked, to see if Ismirshalen was going to at least greet him.

“You are autistic? Problems with eye contact?” Vincent joked nervously and nearly seriously once he grew a tad impatient. Which was weird, because Vincent‘s never impatient. “You know, Monsieur Linnaeus, I don’t think you are crazy. What you think of that?” He tapped his pen lightly on the clipboard that sat on crossed legs while he was thinking very hard of his next words. “Would you like to start today with fun?” At those words he excitedly sorted through a large, black masculine looking version of a purse and revealed something very nice. Large cards about the size of a sheet of paper. “People like to make fun of these,” Vincent started, showcasing the cards like they were some sort of game show prize (Izzy should know all about those). “I like them. I can find the kind of sick creativity you have. But first, we should introduce ourselves.” By this time, Vincent was beaming. “Start with where you are from, and your name.”

[&Ismirshalen]

As Ismirshalen waited for his coffeemaker to do its job, he was aware of a certain scribbling coming from the direction of Dr. DeVrais. Which he found very odd and unnerving. What could the guy get out of him if he didn’t talk to him? And he didn’t seem very mad that the brunet was about a half hour late. If it were Izzy, he would be thoroughly pissed off. Didn’t this guy have a life? …Okay, so that was a stupid question. He found it hard to believe that this guy could have a life outside of his office.

When the man finally spoke, Ismirshalen almost jumped out of his chair. Instead, he only jumped a little bit, then settled back in place, looking only a bit flustered. Okay. Way too jumpy. Time for some coffee, much? As if on cue, the Mr. Coffee announced that all systems were go with a shrill metallic beep. Which, may I proudly add, did not sent Izzy rocketing off his chair. Of fright, anyway. Moments after the beeper went off, he had the pot in his hand, mug in another, and before a full two seconds could be counted off, he was seated back in his chair, mug fusing with his mouth. As if suddenly remembering that the therapist had said something, he turned his hate-filled blue eyes onto the man. He felt this was an adequate answer. Autistic? Non.

In answer to his next question, Izzy found he would have to be more verbal. This quiet thing wasn’t going to work out, because sooner or later he was going to end up replying with some smartass comment or another. So he figured he might as well give up the mute façade.

"If you don’t think t'hat, then w'hy am I even here?" he asked, still glaring. The glare slightly faltered, however, when Dr. DeVrais took paper-sized cards out of a black purse and held them as if they were trophies. One of Izzy's eyebrows twitched spastically, and he looked at the doctor as if he had just grown another head.

"You've got to be bloody kidding me," he said in disbelief, unable to retract his gaze. "Look, I think you're the one who needs t'herapy, here. So how about you answer a question for me? W'hen do you plan on returning my suit and hat? Oh, and how is t'hat wrist of yours?" He spat out the last words with vehemence.

[VinnNAY]

Vincent’s extremely fake, ridiculous smile didn’t faltered at the edges with a quick twitch but he managed to keep it going. “I think you are troubled…” Vincent replied slowly to his first question, nearly chewing the words. He couldn’t understand how the man could be so upset at him still. Vincent didn’t recall being that emotionally draining during the time they have known each other. If you would call that knowing one another. The only thing he knew about the guy was that his last name was Linnaeus and he had an awful accent.

“How’s the top of your head if you don’t mind me asking.” Vincent answered back at his wrist comment. If he wasn’t going to cooperate with him he saw no sense in answering and questions like this were best left unanswered due to the fact they should be dropped altogether. Besides, of course his damn wrist still hurt. The bastard. “One article of clothing will be returned every day you behave. C'est raisonnable. D'accord… I will start… My name is Vincent Fedor DeVrais. I am from Russia. Moscow. Now introduce yourself, s'il vous plaît!” Vincent had a feeling that this man was going to try to bypass everything he was trying to get him to do. But he had his clothes, what else was he going to do? You can’t keep your pride when you’re running around naked. Unless you’re Vincent.

[&Ismirshalen]

"Troubled? Funny, I was just thinking the same about you…"

Izzy wasn’t prepared for the head comment. How could the guy know about that? Self consciously, he moved his hand up to the top of his head, making sure that his hair was covering it. Well, now it was. Maybe he should have checked himself in the mirror before he left. He gritted his teeth, feeling beaten.

"Very fine, thank you," he replied very stiffly, trying to retain what remained of his dignity. And he sort of failed. He was cornered. Finally, it dawned on him that trying to get through this by smart-assery was not going to fly. Maybe with a more topsy-turvy man, but Dr. DeVrais seemed to be reasonably well in control of his emotions. Lovely. The brunet set down his coffee cup on the far side of the couch, then rested his elbows on his knees. Thinking. So for every day he was a good little boy he'd get back an article of clothing… How many pieces of cloth had he been wearing that day? Certainly more than a T-shirt and jeans. Well, fuck.

"Strange. You seem French to me, Vincent," Izzy muttered, mocking the way the doctor said his name, drawing pictures onto the fabric of his pants with a finger. Looking like a pouty teenager who couldn’t get his way. He struggled with the urge to say something that the man would think of as bad behavior, then took another sip of coffee to calm himself down. He really should have brought some tea instead. Chamomile.

"My name is… Ismirshalen Alexander Linnaeus. I'm from Oxford, England," he finally said, feeling accomplished. See, it couldn’t be that hard. Just answer a few trivial little questions and then he could go back to his room. And repeat. Sort of like showering. Which this man didn’t do.

[HE SPEAKS?!]

[VinnNAY]

“I saw your little friend…” Vincent paused to motion towards the top of Izzy’s head with one long white finger, “…When you were having a tantrum the day before today. Toutefois, bonjour Ismirshalen.-May I call you Ismirshalen?-What was a person like you doing in Oxford?” Vincent by this time was making small talk, but he had no choice considering the man he was talking to had other things on his mind than making conversation. Or even attempting. He just wanted a proper introduction so that he could get a grasp on the troubled guy. A typical therapy method. He was starting to think he might have to become a little less orthodox and do things his way if this continued, though. He was less than satisfied when people didn’t take his career seriously. “I am French. I was born in Russia. But after my parents died my family did not want me. I was sent to an orphanage en France. Congratulations. You say my name correct.” The sarcasm was oozing. Only on the last line, though. But it was enough for a whole paragraph. “And you? Have you a more happy childhood?” Vincent on the contrary enjoyed his childhood very much. He was sent to a great school which was all he wanted. Studying kept his mind off of being such an unwanted homely child.

[&Ismirshalen]

Ismirshalen winced when the therapist reminded him of yesterday's… 'tantrum', for lack of a better word. He had made an extreme effort to forget all about the incident, shoving it from his mind whenever it threatened to engulf him. But of course, he should have expected it would be brought up sooner or later. After all, he had mauled the guy. And had almost killed him. He frowned, looking as if he had just eaten a frog. And had not enjoyed it. He kind of wished he'd been able to follow through with the act, though. It would have saved him from this.

"Well, if you were at some point going to ask my age, you can save yourself t'hat trouble," he muttered. "Because I won't answer t'hat."

He felt himself starting to grow irritated, and he hastily took out a golden pocket watch to examine the time. Even though the therapist had his own wall clock. Hardly any time had passed since he entered the room. He licked his lips in frustration, shoved the watch into his pocket once more, and busied himself with drinking coffee while he listened to Dr. DeVrais blabber on. He wished he could stuff a sock down the man's throat so he didn’t have to listen to his terrible accent.

One of his eyebrows rose when the therapist mentioned his unfortunate history. It sounded practically like Ismirshalen's own. He shot a look at the man, still drinking his coffee, wondering if maybe the guy could read minds and was toying with him. But that was impossible. So he had to believe it to be true. He'd never met this man before anyway, so there was no way the doctor could have gotten any information on him. And he would have been hard pressed if he had tried. The brunet didn’t seem to notice the guy's sarcastic comment, as he was busy thinking. But he didn’t reply right away.

"Well, my life is much more boring t'han yours," he finally started, having to take a breather from his coffee-guzzling. "You couldn’t possibly want to hear about it. Oh, wait. Of course you do. To help you plot for future interrogations." He rolled his eyes and shifted his position on the couch, drawing his good leg up to himself and facing away from Dr. DeVrais. To further impair him from his job. "Sorry to disappoint, but my childhood was a great happy thing," he went on, unable to keep some give-away sarcasm from oozing into his voice. He hoped the guy wouldn’t notice. Fat chance. "Lived in a big happy family, went to school, and… got a job. The usual. Guess you're going to have to think about something else to ask, Vincent." He went to take another sip of coffee, realized that his mug was empty, and bent down over the side of the couch to refill his mug.

[VinnNAY]

“Well, save your energy, I have your papers,” Vincent answered Izzy, snickering quietly as he ran his fingers along the pile of papers under the one he was writing on. He came to one that was filled out previously when Ismirshalen became a guard. He reviewed the writing on it with the smug face he wore so well. He made sure to read extra slow to absorb all the English information and just to plain freak-out Izzy.

“You have forty years. It is incorrect? Or have you plastic surgery? Where is your toupee?” Vincent retorted, his face coming up from the paper which his skin matched perfectly like an outfit. His teethy smile increased by an increment. The man was so clearly troubled and bothered by the world it was almost painful to watch. The pure vanity was astonishing. However, Vincent couldn’t say he would let himself become bald or wrinkly, either. But he wouldn’t need to worry about that, really. He had enough grease to feed a car and enough hair to feed Africa. But you never know… All he knew for sure was that he probably should be building up this man’s self-confidence instead of continuing on the route he was traveling.

“Je regrete for being cross, but you are very hard to talk to. Please try to work with me. If your childhood was so happy, why are you so sad? Tell me, Ismirshalen. And if it help you. I am but five years younger.”

They were apparently on a first name basis now, or maybe it was because the British man wanted to constantly remind him of (in Izzy’s opinion) his horrible ethnicity. Vincent was actually almost rather fond of his name and didn’t like the way this man was treating him. And his name.

[&Ismirshalen]

The fresh cup of coffee was halfway to Ismirshalen's lips when Vincent mentioned the papers. He had completely forgotten that he'd had to fill out all his information before he could be hired for this job. In the midst of things, those had been quickly forgotten as if they had happened months ago instead of mere days. He felt his heart sink down to his bowels, and suddenly he found he wasn’t in the mood for coffee anymore. Vodka or whiskey sounded great. But Izzy wasn’t much of a drinker, and even more importantly, he didn’t have either of those things anywhere on him. The Frenchman probably had wine or some form of alcohol. But the guard would never accept a drink from the man.

Face hidden from the therapist due to the position in which he was sitting [with his back turned], his face crumpled into a look of depression as he was taunted. He hated being reminded about his age. He hated the idea of growing old. If he was told there was a fountain of youth located in the deep cold of Antarctica, he would take a jet there without hesitation, wearing nothing but a short-sleeved shirt and shorts. When he had started to see the first signs of wrinkles and old age on his face, he had been scared shitless. Using his dead parents' Everest of cash, he had gotten some extreme plastic surgery. So much that it looked like his age had been cut almost in half. If one tried to find a rational reason for this fear, one of the conclusions that person might come to would be that the brunet was afraid of dying.

"Your information is true," he said expressionlessly, unable to turn to face the therapist. Instead he sat, his usually perfectly straight-backed posture now reasonably slumped. He stared vacantly at the far wall, which was looked clean enough to eat off of. If it had been horizontal instead of vertical. Talking to Dr. DeVrais was even more depressing than watching one of the soap operas that came on right about now. At least then he could pretend. The idea of facing reality seemed impossible.

"No, t'hat doesn't help at all," he muttered, exasperated. Apparently the therapist didn’t have much social skills, himself. Stupid French frog. "And I'm not sad. I've already told you t'hat. But obviously, w'hat I told you before was bloody bullshit. My parents died when I was born and I lived in an orphanage. T'here. You happy now? I sure am." Even though he was being somewhat sarcastic, it didn’t show in his voice.

[VinnNAY]

It was fairly humorous how far some people were willing to go with pretending to be emotionally something else. Vincent knew of course why people did this but was always so upset how the stubborn ones completely refused to seek any sort of help even though it was literally right in front of them. “I am here for you to tell me your problems. Stereotypical? But you must try to pretend to care. Is there anything bothering you? A past ou present girl, depression, caffeine tolerance, my accent, time… Menopause?” Vincent suggested. He added the last one in case the aging man had… Something really personal he had to talk about. It seemed like he was just here to list things he saw wrong with the man.

Vincent by this time was becoming very upset with how this session was going. If he still didn’t have an alcoholic buzz he promised himself that he would be able to have kept this from happening. Or was this Ismirshalen really that bitchy?








and because Izzy is being such a bitch I give myself full permission to post a short response. blah blah blah blah blah blah blah.