Unsettling [closed]

Matthew didn't see it. He couldn't see it. Everything felt normal to him but the longer he stayed in this room the further he was withdrawing. His brain saw violence in the most mundane things and the control he exercised over his thoughts slipped while those judgments became manifested on his lips. His grip on reality was failing. An ordinary hello easily became an indignant insult; the lack of a said hello was outright slander.

He lay alone in his white walled room complete with shriveled and droopy lilies decaying on the dresser. Face down in his pillow, his breath was ragged and audible, but there was enough of a bubble to let some fresh air dart up his nostrils. It wasn't as if he'd been completely alone during his transition time. Nurses often poked their heads in, especially Caroline, but it wasn't the lack of care that had him disintegrating. It was the lack of pharmaceuticals.

Three weeks in and nothing was coursing through his blood stream keeping those malevolent thoughts in check. But of course, Matthew didn't see it. He couldn't notice his own screw ups, his own aggression, his own dreams of brutality. That particular part of his brain looked at his own behavior through rose colored glasses. He was just fine and therefore there was no need to alert any of the nurses or doctors, after all, a few slips of the tongue was hardly a crisis.

His bare feet hung over the end of the bed, while his arms were outstretched to either side of him. He was crucifying himself there in the stark white sheets.

The hollow click of dress shoes echoed down the open hallways as Doctor Murata explored every floor, every unit, familiarizing himself with the locations and patients residing within, with the accusations of troubles scribbled down on the public charts letting him know just what he had to work with on the east wing. Long, bony digits extended as he delicately tilted the charts put on display outside of every single room, scanning over the names, ages and notes. A soft rattle of laminated pages fluttered back against the doors as he carried on.

Particularly curious was the stats of a certain Parker, Matthew.
He’d been treated before, from the looks of it. For sleeplessness and lack of control, a bad temperament. So they sent him here instead? Oh yes, send all of the difficult ones to Acropolis. That just means we have better methods of treatment.

A slow smirk pulled across thin, pale lips. Reaching a gloved hand out the doctor rapped on the door announcing his presence first, before stepping inside, and pulling the man’s chart with him. He quickly affixed it to a wooden clipboard, gloved hands withdrawing a pen as he clicked it to life, letting the soft click of the door also sound behind him.

“Parker?”

His voice was surprisingly soft spoken and did carry a slight hint of a Japanese accent, and if the man chose to pull his face out of self-suffocating on his own provided pillow he’d be met with the stature of a slender frame of a man, also not very tall. Dressed in a sleek white suit of course, showing his status as head of at least one of the units around here. He was well put together, a dark red button up underneath coupled with a nice black tie, a pair of black gloves also on his hands.

Maybe a germaphobe.

Hair was softly feathered, a mix of blacks with few auburn highlights. Features were smooth, professional of course. Nothing very stand-outish about the man, save for that striking gaze that almost border lined on… eerie. One was a natural dark chocolate hue, but the other was murky, as if it had been damaged. Nevertheless, his eyes settled blankly on the man sprawled out lazily on his bed, taking in the very way his back rose and fell with every staggered breath, mentally taking notes.

First he had to make sure the patient was coherent.

A small groaning utterance muffed into the pillow as if answering roll call. Matthew turned his head just enough to allow one blurry blue eye to swivel towards the door. It blinked; slow to respond. Although the lab coat was missing, he could only assume his visitor this time was a doctor which meant his alone time was likely over.

He turned his face back to the stifling heat of blankets and material, lingering there a few moments longer before attempting a very ungraceful roll over. The single mattress just wasn't big enough to employ that so he had to scoot forwards several times to keep himself from crashing over the edge. When he was finally comfortable upon his back lazy blue hues settled on the man once more, this time actually seeing him.

The doctor's appearance ought to have been interesting (perhaps even alarming), especially that one bizarre eye, but for Matthew one other prominent feature stood out more. "It's like a fucking chink-fest around here..." He mumbled to himself before speaking to the man. "Parker. It's pronounced Park-er," he enunciated carefully, clearly addressing the other man's accent. Internally he shook his head, just his luck.

The doctor just continued to stoically observe as the lump on the bed groaned and shifted in the least bit. So… lethargic. Kirito bought up pen to his clipboard and scribbled a tiny note for himself to come back to later, mis-matched gaze watching the incredibly drawn out roll-over process. By the time the man was finally comfortable splayed out on his back, it was hard to miss the racial slur that escaped his lips.

A single, dark brow slowly crept upwards.
“Excuse me.” Kirito’s voice was flat, obviously unamused, but remaining soft – a complete contrast when compared to the tiny tick of irritancy in his features. Well perhaps if white people were more intelligent, America wouldn’t need to ‘import’ Asian doctors to do their jobs for them. This, however, Kirito chose not to say.

Instead, he reaffirmed the man’s name, making no effort to hide his accent or fix his pronunciation. “Parker.”

Dropping his attention back down to the paperwork in his hands, he continued. “I am Doctor Murata. Tell me, what troubles you?” Getting right down to business with no time wasted. Assessing the man, comparing if he was mentally stable enough to realize that he was fucked in the head or not. From the looks of it he knew exactly what was going on, but the fun part would be finding out what triggers his PTSD, and if it would be completely possible to stabilize and prevent any future episodes.

"Isn't that what you're here to figure out?" His deep voice mumbled. It wasn't as vicious as his initial greeting, rather it sounded more like the wind had been knocked out of him. He wasn't aware of it, but lately his moods had been swinging from extreme to extreme within the snap of fingertips. He wasn't really out to be an asshole, he just couldn't help it.

The pillow cradled his head nicely, comfortably, which left his eyelids at a dreamy half mast while he tried one more time to get more information about the man in his doorway. First observation was that he dressed much too nicely for his occupation. A neck tie? Doc might as well have put a 'strangle me' sign clear across himself. "What are the gloves for? I'm not old enough for prostate exams yet..." He grinned, obviously amused with himself.

His inspection pressing forward, the next part to be noticed was the man's short stature, however that wasn't too surprising; Asians were short and this particular man, given his accent didn't appear to be mixed. The doctor did, however, carry himself with confidence and that was dually noted.

And at last, he refocused on Dr. Murata's damaged eye. What the hell had happened there? Just as he thought it, the words also escaped his mouth. It was alright to ask though, or at least he told himself it was. It was perfectly acceptable to turn those kinds of straight forward questions on someone else, just not himself. "Does it hurt?" He followed up curiously.

So he was a mouthy one. Kirito was quick to fire right back. “No. I am not a therapist. I am here to fix the issues once they are known. Now, from your paper work it looks like you are entirely coherent of your mental instabilities, so it might be wise to stop wasting both of our time and cooperate less you be housed up here for longer than you need be.” The man pressed thin lips together unamused, pen scraggling down a few more notes for himself. And again, more of that charismatic attitude came from Parker. How sweet. “Unless of course you like it here.” Surrounded by Asians.

When the other asked about the dark gloves covering his hands Kirito flipped the pen around thoughtlessly between his first few digits, tapping the back end against the clipboard. “To keep from catching anything.” Yes. Because all of these patients clearly had cooties… Kirito clicked his tongue in distaste. Want to be sarcastic? He’d serve it right back.

Kirito was keeping mental tabs on the question count though, noting that the ones he’d asked Parker went unanswered and yet he asked in return. So showing a sweet smile (without teeth of course, he wasn’t much of a toothy grinner) he flipped that pen back around, pressing the ball point tip against the paper again while the eyes in question focused unwavering on the troublesome male.

“You’ve asked three questions and still have yet to answer my one. How about you play fair, hmm?”

So he was going to play along? It took a split second for Matthew to decide he kind of liked this guy already. Maybe he'd regret that thought later, but so far most of the people he'd encountered had been either snot-nosed pushovers or short-fused assholes. It was nice to encounter someone that could take some heat and throw it back.

A broad grin spread across his face and stayed there. Murata's casual threat of staying at Acropolis was glossed over and paid no mind.

"What was your question again? Oh yeah, what troubles me..." He took a moment to chew on his bottom lip as if thinking it over. In reality he was focused on that milky eyeball. Should just pluck that thing out and start over. "I think it's been probably," Matthew used his left hand to count, his lips mouthing his thoughts, "three weeks since I was last given medication?" It was like this place and it's inhabitants wanted him to fail.

"And I only sleep about three hours a night; never consecutively... You can start by fixing that."

Kirito wasn’t one for games himself, but he certainly did have a no-nonsense demeanor about him. As a professional, he was here to get the job done quick and efficiently. The longer he dicked around, the longer that meant he’d have to see people… and by his attitude, he definitely wasn’t the chatty, friendly type.

Those lips didn’t pull away from the thin, pursed flat line while the patient thought back to his own questions, mismatched gaze unwavering as he studied him intently. Even when Matthew’s own features shifted into a grin, Kirito didn’t move. Clipboard in hand, pen held against it, stock and still against the back of the door. Three weeks since he was medicated? You’ve got to be fucking kidding. The doctor sighed heavily, scribbling another couple of notes down. God, what would this hospital do without him? Clearly everyone else was useless.

“Right. Lexapro, Lorazapam, Xanax… while on your previous medications did you have episodes where you can’t control your actions?” The oriental was looking over the paperwork, flipping through the pages. Perhaps he was having some sort of a bad reaction to the meds, and that was why he’d been off of them for three entire weeks.

Matthew frowned and nodded his head, the motion almost unnoticeable. Sure things were better, but control was still a large issue. He slept better on the medication and definitely had an easier time keeping his prejudiced tongue to himself but that was about it. Matthew still found the pros outweighed the cons; it was easier to get people to like you when you didn't insult them in every breath.

His body still listless and passive on the bed, he contemplated Murata even further. The way he held his pen and scribbled notes, the way he even read over the paperwork, his body language. A wild thought shot through his worn out brain that caused him to lift his head just a sliver from the pillow below, brows furrowed tightly.

"You... You're going to actually try to help me?" Matthew spat out incredulously. Shortly after being committed to his previous hospital in Bakersfield the doctors there saw the small improvement after medicating him but it wasn't enough. Instead of further analysis and treatment, they resigned to keeping him caged like an animal for the rest of his life. No doubt Bakersfield was being funded like Acropolis; the longer he stayed the more money lined their pockets. But they told him he wasn't going to get better and therefore wasn't going to be leaving. So when the episodes and anger and violence flared despite being drugged they simply washed their hands of him, funneling him and a large sum of money to a "sister" site.

"Or are you just bullshitting me, too?" His head flopped back down. He was so fucking tired.

So basically the medications did little to actually curb the male's destructive behavior. Perhaps that was the reason why they were discontinued? Not actually being successful in their mission. Kirito's mind was working quick, putting pieces of the puzzle together while he watched and assessed the boy before him. Note after note was written down, tiny scribbles of mostly meaningless nonsense just to keep the doctors thoughts organized for himself. By the time Parker spoke up again those sharp brows arched incredulously and he slowly lifted his gaze.

"What exactly did you think I was here to do?"

Seriously. He wasn't here to juggle for the man. As the other dropped back down against his mattress in defeat Kirito simply stared, wondering if he'd finally struck some sort of respectful chord with the guy. Would make his questions that much easier if he got real answers. "When you lose control - do you black out, or are you conscious of your actions? Is it like you're watching from a distance, like a dream?"

Had Matthew been able to read minds, he might have thought Dr. Murata juggling bowling pins or flaming torches to be rather entertaining. It would certainly bring a bit of energy and color into his life. Caroline had been trying, which was more than he could say about the others, but the deep ocean blues that hung on the wall did little to help him forget his confinement. And the longer he was confined the more the anger bubbled up within him. And the more anger that dwelled inside the more dangerous he was becoming. A human time bomb without any specific trigger.

"I don't know," he mumbled towards the pillowcase. "I know I'm lashing out but I can't do anything about it. It's like another person takes over my body and I can't stop it. They say and do everything I wish -- I long to do, so there's even part of me that doesn't want to stop it." Matthew paused, tightening his lips. Well shit, give the blind rice ball a standing ovation. Somehow he'd managed to pull more out of Matthew in the five minutes since their meeting than other doctors did in three years. Hearing it like this, as it came out of his own mouth was different. Somehow it made the problem more real. More heinous.

But maybe he liked the no nonsense professionalism that radiated from the apathetic doctor. He liked the competence that didn't need to rely on babying him or examining his feelings. Dr. Murata didn't care who he was, just that he be fixed and that was worthy of respect. Maybe Matthew was setting his expectations too high, especially after literally just meeting the man, but there was a nag that was telling him that trusting this one was okay... for now.

Murata would have been fairly certain that he had zero skill in juggling despite being very good with his hands. It’s a hand/eye coordination kind of thing and now his vision was all askew.

So the doctor remained standing stock still where he had taken up temporary residency, listening to Parker ramble on all the while taking notes here and there to keep himself up to date, offering slow, contemplative nods here and there. Subconscious attacks, driven consciously. Interesting.

“Anything else you’d like to tell me?” Kirito already had several names of drugs written down that he’d like to try to aid the man, but he wanted to make sure he was covering all bases here. Start small, work your way up. Better than trying to tackle monumental issues all at one, that sort of thing usually backfires and presents more miniscule problems.

His dark blue eyes closed, listening to Murata's pen scratch against the pages of notes he was taking. It was somehow soothing. He was quiet for a long time, almost as if he'd fallen asleep, but sleep had been elusive. It'd been 57 hours since his conscious had last shut off and despite the heavy weariness it seemed as if the sleeplessness would continue.

Finally he breathed a muffled sigh and shook his head. There was nothing more on that topic to talk about and all he really wanted was something strong coursing through his veins that would knock him out for days. A dreamless, restful sleep without any of the terrors resurfacing. Subconsciously, he tucked his chin in closer to his chest, hiding his neck and the scars that blazed across his flesh there.

He peeked an eye open to find the doctor remained still as a statue in the doorway. Matthew held out his hand towards him, for a moment looking like a child that wanted comforting, but he pursed his lips and grinned a bit. "So what's the game plan?" He murmured, his question an obvious request for drugs.

In the dead silence Kirito still said nothing, more than patient enough to wait until Matthew was ready to respond. His eyes – or singular eye – never wavered, lips never moved. He simply stood, quiet and observing.

Nothing else he wanted to say. Good. He had enough to start with for now, could go and inquire with the rest of the medical team as to just why nothing was happening with this man, and start him on a path to correcitveness. Kirito finally nodded.

“I will prescribe you something to help you relax and put you to sleep first and foremost. Perhaps these bouts of anger are due to too much adenosine in your brain. We will work from there, seeing which has better results and if your temper will subdue. I will also assign you a therapist to go over your PTSD, see where we stand.”

Again he clicked off his pen. Looking up from his paperwork Kirito managed a slow smile, though with the way the rest of his facial features didn’t quite curl to the expression it may have been slightly awkward. At least Murata had drive, maybe it would make up for his lack of empathy.

“A nurse will bring you your doses tonight before lights out. We need to try and get you on a set sleeping schedule. Try not to fall asleep before then.” Or pass out from exhaustion. Kirito then pointed with the butt end of his pen to the tiny buzzer located by the bed for emergencies. “I’m sure you know the drill. If you need something, ring.”

And that was that, really. Murata didn’t linger any longer, didn‘t beat around the bush… instead he simply turned on his heels and pushed back out of the door.
“We will be in touch, Parker.” Still with his accent. The door clicked quietly behind him before footsteps carried him down the hall.