Office of Dr. Arthur Kirkland, M.D.

Dr. Kirkland reclined in his chair, his feet propped up on his desk with a clip-board in hand, flipping through the pages with relative disinterest. The day to day paperwork was always so dull. A stack of patient files sat upon the desk next to him, in no particular order. He had already gone through them, checking the patient status and making his own notes in each. This place wasn’t so different from any other psychiatric hospital he’d been to, both in his training and in his youth. You had your usual collection of schizos, psychopaths, and wackjobs, some sicker than others and each having their own interesting quirks. The major difference now was his newfound authority as a full-fledged doctor, which he had to admit, he rather enjoyed.

His watch beeped once, a quick, sharp break in the silence of the office. Arthur jotted his signature on the last form and set the clipboard down before reaching in the pocket of his lab coat for what appeared to be a container of mints. Inside it were the meds which kept his own condition under control. He popped the top with a flick of his thumb, brought the container to his lips, and tipped one of the pills into his mouth. He had long gotten used to taking them dry. The deceptive container disappeared back into his pocket.

He lowered his feet from the desk and sat up straight. The morning therapy sessions would begin soon and he felt he should maintain a professional air. He was a relatively new doctor, and a young one at that, so it was especially important to present an image that commanded respect.



(OOC: So, yeah, take this as an open invite for patients to come for counseling or staff members to come by for whatever.)

She hadn't taken well to the nurse forcing medicine on her. Those horrid little pills given to her every morning, evening and night. They always left a sour taste in her mouth, and over the years, she had not lost her will to fight against taking them. However, as much as she did not enjoy taking the pills, she had a feeling the nurse giving them to her, had not taken well to being slammed into a wall, either.

She supposed, after giving it some thought, that this was what landed her where she was. Walking down the halls of the Asylum, so similar to all the others she had stayed in, an orderly on either side. The one on her right's hand hovered by her arm, as though worried she would run.

Where too, she hadn't a clue. As far as she was aware, she had no appointments with any of the attending Psychiatrists today, and group therapy was not until later- if they allowed her to attend.

While she did entertain the idea of harming both her escorts, - they were in her space, and she did not like that- she bit back her desire, instead focusing on the rooms they passed. The people, patients, nurses, doctors, all milling together, carefully. Constantly under the surveillance of strategically placed cameras.

Natalya's main concern, was getting back to her room, and away from these fools. She pondered the chances of getting her hands on something sharp. Something blunt would suit her purposes just fine, as well.

Her cold blue eyes were looking over the various non-patients moving about, doing their jobs, trying to decide which would be most likely to not only have something potentially lethal(anything would do, syringe, spoon, pencil, clipboard), when she was forcibly turned towards a door.

She stared at it for a moment, before one of the men opened it, and she was ushered inside, like one would an insolent child. Temper rising, she gave both men a vicious glare, before turning her attention to the 'doctor'. He didn't look like much to Natalya, but all the same she smoothed out her annoyed look into a particularly blank stare, and waited.

She listened as the man on her left exchanged pleasantries and handed the Doctor a clipboard, one she longed to get her own hands on, that likely short report on this mornings activities. It wasn't any of her concern, really. The woman would surely get over it, and her scrubs were replaceable.

Arthur glanced upward as the orderlies escorted the day’s first problem patient into his office. She was young, pretty, and pissed off at the world. Natalya was her name. He hadn’t memorized all the patient names yet, but he knew hers. Since everything with her name on it was stamped with a large red “violence precaution” warning, she was easy to remember. Arthur took the clipboard that was handed to him; he knew before he even looked at it that she must have lashed out at someone. He read the report, pursing his lips. It was going to be hard to keep sufficient staff on hand if patients kept attacking them.

He glanced subtly at his desk to make sure it was free of any letter openers or writing utensils, save the one he needed for his notes, on which he would certainly keep a tight grip. He was usually cautious about this anyway, but with Natalya it was wise just to not take chances. He motioned for the orderlies to wait outside the door and in a neutral, non-judging voice he turned to the girl and said “You may have a seat, if you like.”

Arthur pulled her file out of the stack for reference and laid it open on the desk. “Now Natalya, I would like it if you would tell me about this morning’s incident, in your own words, please. It will help me understand the problem you’re having so I can better help you.”

Her eyes followed the orderlies as they left the room, before turning her cold eyes to the doctor. He looked younger than she thought he would, not that it would matter.His skull would crack under a blunt object, just as easily as his flesh would give under the correct pressure of any slightly sharp item.

She scanned his desk, but only found one item she could use to stab with, and he had a tight grip of it. Slowly, with all the grace and poise she had been raised with, she took a seat, crossed her legs at the ankle, and folded her hands neatly She watched him pull out her file, and smiled at the familiar papers.

Carefully, she thought over her words. What would sound the best, the least insane. Big Brother liked it when she sounded normal. It was always a strain, but perhaps, if she tried, it would please him, and he would finally write her back. However, her actions this morning were impossible to excuse.

So instead, she decided being blunt would be best. Certainly, nothing else would be of any use to her, not at the moment. She locked her eyes with his. Her stare cool, and unflinching, "I've decided I don't want to take my medication." She began, voice cool, and calm, "The bitch refused to listen."

The word bitch rolled off of her tongue in the same way one would casually mention that it had started raining. She kept her eyes on him, watching for any reaction to her words, as she continued, "She presisted, and I was forced to explain by harsher means than planned. She established physical contact, and was dealt with accordingly."

She hesitated before answering. It was always something to think about when they hesitated. Did she really have to think about the question, or was she merely choosing her word very, very carefully. She made eye contact, staring coldly before responding. He raised an eyebrow slightly at her crass response, observing her blank expression and the matter-of-fact tone of her words.

Arthur took a breath before speaking. “The nurse was doing her job. That doesn’t make her a bad person or deserving of aggression, surely?“ Arthur flipped through the pages of the file before him. Such a violent history this girl had. Choosing a course of action for her would be tricky; she was so uncooperative and even the wrong choice of words might set her off. “You want to be able to leave the hospital at some point, correct? For that to happen, you need to both take your medication and get your anger under control.”

She contemplated his words, a mild amount of interest showing itself on her face. It was a fleeting show of emotion, "You're trying to trick me." She said cooly, eyes narrowing a fraction. Hands fisting in her skirt. Her whole body went tense for a moment, before it fell away, almost as quickly as it had come.. Her expression melts away. She tilts her head down, letting her hair fall around her face in a curtain of platinum.

A moment passed in silence, before she raised her head, blue eyes bright with anger. Her eyes darted to the desk a second time, but found nothing of use to her, so she met the Doctor's eyes again. "I am not ill. There forth, I do not need medication."

Arthur watched the flutter of emotions pass over Natalya. First interest, maybe even amusement. And following her accusation of trickery, she had shuddered visibly as if…what? Fighting with her rage? The desire to attack him? Thankfully, she seems to control herself, at least from lashing out.

We she looked at him, her anger was palpable. Her eyes burned into him and he almost had to shudder with the chill of it. Her answer, however, was one he had heard many times before.

“Do you know what ‘insight’ is, Natalya?” he said, folding his hands together and resting his chin on them as he looked at her. “It’s a term doctors use for self-awareness about one’s own health or lack thereof. It applies to mental illness as well as physical illness and it is the first step to getting better. With mental illness, however, it is often harder to achieve. I can’t show you a blood test or blemish that proves you have a problem.” He studied her as he spoke, trying to determine if she was understanding him or not. “You need to trust me on this. You are indeed, ill. The medication will not only make you better, but it can help you gain some of that insight. Why don’t you just try it for a little while?”

She listened to his words closely. She'd heard similar statements before. By more than just previous doctors. She could remember her mother and father, even her older sister saying that the various medications would 'fix her'. She'd heard it all, and it never felt right. She wasn't broken. There was nothing to fix. Those damned pills did nothing but make it hard to think.

"Не, вы памыляецеся. Я не хворы." Her eyes were locked on him, daring him to ask her to translate her words. She'd found, that since she'd been moved from Europe, it was very rare to find anyone who could speak her native tongue. Even here, at an international asylum, she'd yet to see anyone react to her words, as though they understood them.

She leaned back in her seat, eying the doctor, "I would like to return to my room now."


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[Translations;

Не, вы памыляецеся. Я не хворы. - No, you are mistaken. I am not sick. ]

She answered purposefully in a language he couldn’t understand. So she could manage passive-aggressiveness as well as open aggressiveness. How versatile. And annoying...

“I can tell from your tone and expression that you still do not agree with me. That’s fine, really. I cannot force insight upon you.” Arthur gave her a smug smile and lowered his voice. “I can say, however, that we have the legal right to keep you here until we feel you are better. So ultimately, it’s not if you think you’re sick. It’s if we think you’re sick. You will take your medicine, even if it takes six orderlies to give it to you. Your cooperation is appreciated, but not necessary.” He leaned back slightly in his chair, watching her very closely for the slightest flicker of movement in case she should decide to attack him. “Someone will be by again this evening to give you your medicine,” he said, raising his voice to its normal volume. “Be a good girl and do as they say. It will make things so much easier for everyone. You may return to your room now if you so wish.”

She'd listened quietly, abnormally silent, to his words. Certainly this behavior was new, she'd had many doctors, but none had ever threatened her. Nor had they ever spoken to her with such disrespect. She stood, slowly, arms limp at her sides, whole body loose. Her eyes darted to the door, and then back to the doctor.

She contemplated her options for a moment, unsure how to respond completely. A smile slid into place, it wasn't a pleasant smile, but was one she was well known for. Her right hand spasmed, as she had nothing to wrap it around, so she settled clutching at her skirt again. "Упэўнены ў сабе, не ці так, доктар?"

She decided, as she stared him, all the hate and resentment that could be held in her small body directed at him, that she would deal with him, as soon as she could. A new doctor, perhaps, would be better suited to her tastes.

"Атрымлівайце асалоду працай, у той час як вы можаце, доктар Кіркланда. Вам не давядзецца гэта значна даўжэй." She stated cooly, turning to the door, and stalking towards it.

Knocking on it lightly, the Orderlies waiting just outside opened it. She pushed passed the smaller one, leaving the room in a huff, her nose in the air.

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[Translations;

Упэўнены ў сабе, не ці так, доктар? - Confident, aren't you, doctor?
Атрымлівайце асалоду працай, у той час як вы можаце, доктар Кіркланда. Вам не давядзецца гэта значна даўжэй. -Enjoy your job, while you can, Doctor Kirkland. You won't have it for much longer.]

Oh she had not cared for his frank description of how the situation would progress, not at all. He was not often so blunt with the patients, but the more…obstinate ones…they tended to get on his nerves. She had uttered some gibberish that sounded akin to a threat, glaring at him the whole time with those cold eyes of hers before letting herself out to be accompanied by the orderlies back to her room. She had not attacked him, though clearly she wanted to. Should this be considered progress? At the very least she should now understand that he would not be playing games with her.

He began a new stack with her chart – one for the patients that had already been handled – and thumbed through a recent medical journal while awaiting his next patient.

Francis chuckled humorlessly as he was ushered into the office by an orderly, taking a seat at the couch with a heavy sigh. Orderlies never seemed to respond well to his advances, but that wasn't important right now. At least, not really important. Though he couldn't fathom why she's slapped him. He'd just-

Oh. Oh. This new doctor... was interesting.

His eyebrows were like a slap in the face. Just... huge. Bushy, almost monstrous. But not one of his delusions, his hallucinations. He could tell.

There wasn't really anything off about this room, not like the rec room. No blood, no entrails, no insects or gore. Just an office, orderly and neat. A normal doctor- though those eyebrows were far from normal, as were those startlingly bright emerald eyes- and a normal couch. Almost boring, but he'd rather have boring than terrifying.

Distantly, though, he wondered if the doctor- Kirkland, his desk tag read- would look just as stunning in red as he did in his drab doctor's attire.

"Bonjour." So new. He hadn't even had an orderly accompany him inside, though that would have been wise. The door locked from the inside, and the walls were thick. Foolish man.

But he wasn't going to attack him. Not yet, at least.

Arthur put the medical journal aside as the new patient was lead into the room, taking an immediate seat on the examination couch. He didn’t know all his patients yet, having not officially met them all, but judging from the cavalier nature with which this one behaved in what was often an intimidating situation, Arthur assumed he was a veteran of institutional life. At first glance, this patient didn’t seem threatening; he was functional enough to keep himself relatively well groomed, at the very least. But Arthur knew better than to trust first impressions. It was a little unnerving, the way the young man was looking at him, assessing him or maybe sizing him up.

Ehh, and he was French… He hated the bloody French.

“I’ll be right with you. Make yourself comfortable,” he said as he dug through the thicker patient charts, looking to match the face before him with one pictured within the folders, always keeping watch over his guest out of the corner of his eye. Upon finding the correct one, Arthur read the diagnosis. Mania, visual hallucinations, hypersexual (that one was highlighted), and bouts of rage. He frowned, briefly wondering if he should keep an orderly present, but quickly deciding that no, he did not what to be one of those doctors who kept a strong arm around to babysit the procedures. It ruined the patient-doctor intimacy. And it could get in the way of his occasional unorthodox methods of dealing with patients.

He was no fool, though. He had a syringe loaded with sedatives in his coat pocket. Unruly patients were an unfortunate reality of his profession.

He carried the chart over to the examination area and sat in the chair beside the couch, crossing his legs to seem casual. He maintained an open, neutral expression on his face as he looked his patient in the eye. “How are you doing today, Francis?”

Such chivalry! Asking him how he was, being so polite. It was almost as if he cared! He must be new, probably fresh out of college. Full of hopes and plans and a future that was not going to be asking mental patients how their day was going.

"Today has been relatively boring, mon cher. No fights, no drama. Nothing on the television worth watching." Though, the two in the rec room were definitely worth observing. The tall blond and the shorter one, with an uneasy peace between them. It was fascinating.

And there were, of course, the bloody hallucinations. The gut-deep need for sex that never seemed to leave him, rearing up in violent rushes. The anger, the terrible fury that sometimes accompanied the raw hunger, burning-hot-

Merde. Just thinking about what he could do to this doctor, the terrible desire he could act upon, was starting to get out of control.

There was nothing Francis prized more than his control. It separated him from the beasts, the monsters that had to be locked up all the time. And this man was testing his control, stretching it and waiting for it to snap. He probably didn't even know what he was doing.

Delicious.

He kept his eyes fixed on the man's, forcing himself to stay on the couch, to not stand and take his throat in his hands, push him back against his seat and hold him there. To-

It would only be worse if he imagined it.

"I'm sure your day has been rather interesting, oui? You met Natalya, it would seem."

“A boring day is a peaceful one. It keeps the anxiety level down for the patients and makes my job easier,” Arthur said. “But I’m sure you can find some entertainment that doesn’t come at the expense of your peers.”

He watched Francis, closely observing his expressions and mannerisms. Was that a flicker of a sinister smile he saw? A twitch of the eye? Signs of an internal struggle? They passed so quickly he couldn’t be sure.

“Natalya is an…interesting girl, yes,” he said in response to the Frenchman’s inquiry. “But we are not here to talk about her. We are here to talk about you.” Arthur glanced over the patient history report. This man’s hallucinations – the ones he’d spoken of anyway – were so dark and violent. If left to his own devices, this man would undoubtedly be quite dangerous….a rapist or a murderer or both, probably. There was something fascinating about such a dark and tortured mind. Arthur’s own hallucinations, back when he had them, had usually been pleasant and enjoyable. Of course, he’d had his dark moments, too…

“Tell me about the hallucinations, Francis,” he said, tilting his head to the side in interest. “Are they upsetting? Are you still seeing things no one else can see?”

"Seeing things no one else can see? Of course, petit lapin. I see all sorts of things." Not that he was particularly fond of just telling people what he saw. He always seemed more insane than he was when he talked about it, if only because he made it seem as if the images didn't disturb him.

Which they didn't. After you'd seen it for most of your life, it failed to affect you in the same way it had initially.

"It's mostly blood." A dramatic wave of the hand, as if to dismiss his words. "Blood and all sorts of terrible gore. Extremely disturbing, I assure you." Though it hardly phased him anymore. The blood did nothing more than add color, the gore make things a little more... interesting... to look at.

"What of you? Surely seeing blood and torn, oozing body parts would disturb you?" Best to turn the tables, stop him from asking questions. Questions that he wouldn't want to answer, and avoiding questions would only result in more questions. "What would you do, if you saw what I saw?"

Go mad, more than likely. Briefly, he wondered what Kirkland would be like as a mental patient. Dark, tortured. Bags under those glittering emerald eyes. Lovely. He would love to see the man before him reduced to what he was, unable to tell reality from fiction.

But this doctor seem to possess a darkness of his own, something he couldn't quite place-

Of course, it might have been his imagination.

Arthur did not particularly care for the way the patient addressed him. It was disrespectful and inappropriate and the only reason he didn’t correct the Frenchmen for this was because he wanted to keep him talking about his condition, not about his quirks.

Arthur wondered if there had been some violent experience early in Francis’s life that lead to this particular brand of hallucination. Or was it something as simple and boring as too many horror movies. He would have to make a point of finding that out

“I worked on cadavers in medical school, Francis. I did a surgical rotation and one at an emergency room as well. Blood and gore do not particularly bother me. Though seeing something that does not exist would be a concern, and if I were in your place, I would take steps to correct that. Making sure to take my medicine, for instance. ” Perhaps he shouldn’t have humored the patient by answering the question, as it was clear the Frenchman was attempting to gain control of the interview. Arthur would not be letting that happen, of course, but in the meantime it was important to establish that he was not easily shaken or thrown off task.

He tilted his head, a slight smile on his face. It was important to maintain a friendly and trusting demeanor when possible, of course. “Have you been taking your medication, Francis?"

"I do not seem to have a choice in the matter, petit lapin. Syringes are hard to deny when they are shoved into your flesh." He laughed, humorlessly, and shifted in his seat. This was quickly starting to bore him- talking, that is- and he knew what he wanted to do.

Violence, no matter how unwarranted and sickening, never failed to amuse him. Whether it was against himself or him attacking another, it was always so invigorating. The hot spill of blood, the rush of adrenaline. It make his blood churn with satisfaction.

But how to go about it?

If he just attacked him, he would call the orderly and it would be over before it even started.

He would have to wait.

It was a good thing he was an expert at waiting. He could wait as long as it would take, as long as he had to, for that split-second of satisfaction. He would wait. For now, at least.

"What of you? Surely you must take medication. I know that I cannot sleep a wink if I do not take the medication for my insomnia. Though, I must admit, staying up at night to hear the others scream has its... allure."

“Please do not refer to me like that, Francis. I am Dr. Kirkland, not ‘petit lapin,’” Arthur said, growing annoyed by the nickname faster than he normally would have. The demeaning endearment irritated him highly. He did not quite know why. Perhaps the mere fact of it being French was enough.

“And if you could be trusted to take the pills, the shots would not be necessary. You’ve had some improvement with the medication. At the very least you are better able to distinguish between you hallucinations and reality, correct?” He kept this in a matter-of-fact tone, filtering out his annoyance to the best of his ability. He did not like the way this patient insisted on throwing questions back at him. It wasn’t an uncommon patient tactic, but Arthur was still relatively new to this and he had not yet perfected distancing himself emotionally.

“Everyone takes medication, myself included. You may as well get used to it.” He readjusted his position to better face Francis. “I’m concerned though with this fascination you seem to have with the suffering of others. It’s not healthy.” Arthur would know.

It was interesting, though. That could not be denied. Such a dark and twisted individual… Not unlike the side of himself Arthur so tried to suppress. This man could be a bad influence on him. A very bad influence, indeed…

"If you so insist, Doctor." He grinned widely at the title, giving the man the cursory once-over that went with his insolent tone. Really, the man was rather good-looking. A shame, then, that he wanted to commit such violences upon him. It would absolutely ruin his good looks. A shame, but one he could readily get over.

"People's pain amuses me. Violence sustains me. Do not tell me that you do not enjoy seeing others suffer, doctor. It is a rather base feeling, one I'm sure everyone, not just those of us who are mad, can appreciate. It's a rather satisfying sentiment." He laughed at this, relaxing back against the couch. "I enjoy it very much. There is so little left to enjoy here..."

His tone grew a little more serious at the end, and he sighed. The sound could have been mistaken for a sob, had he not been grinning widely. "Reality slips from me, doctor. Sometimes, I cannot even tell if I am breathing air or fire. I can feel it burning, but the fact that I still live tells me that it cannot be flames that scorch my lungs." Another laugh, this one dry and harsh compared to the last.

"The blood never really goes away. It is fascinating, non? I'm sure you appreciate the stain of red against pale flesh, the giving of flesh under a blade. We are probably not at all that different, are we, doctor?"

He wanted to goad him, get under his skin. Rile him up and make those perfect cheeks flush crimson with rage. And what better way to do it, than to insinuate that the mighty doctor was as ill as the lowly patient?

Arthur listened intently as the Frenchmen spoke. He took in the mocking tone every time he was referred to as “doctor”. He listened as Francis waxed philosophically about the appeal of violence and misery and gore. And the way the patient implied that he, the doctor, had the same sinister fascination. That he was just as sick as those he treated. It was insulting and infuriating and not very far from the truth.

Francis was trying to push him. Arthur knew that. But despite his training and everything he had been taught, he couldn’t keep his face blank and open like he was supposed to. His annoyance was starting to show. But he wasn’t entirely sure it was just annoyance either… There was a certain…allure about him. An appeal he couldn’t quite explain. He suddenly found himself picturing the man bound in one of those wondrous devices in the basement. The cold water tub and the restraint chair and the bloodletting tools and the drugs and then he would just throw the Frenchmen down and….

He should probably adjust his medication again.

“I can appreciate your honesty with me, Francis. Most patients deny they have such….dark interests. Of course, the fact that you freely admit such things knowing they will only increase your stay here is concerning. You do want to get better, don’t you? I can help if you do.” He reached out and put a supportive hand on the man’s shoulder, an action he did without really thinking and he surprised himself. It was stupid, especially with such an unstable patient, and he wasn’t quite sure why he did it at all. He pulled his hand back quickly, resuming his composure. But in that second when he felt the warm flesh under his hands and imagined it drenched in a cold sweat and quivering as he…

Yeah, he definitely needed to up his dosage.

Had the hand that had been resting on his shoulder in a gesture of comfort lingered just a moment more- not even a moment, really, a mere nanosecond- the doctor would have found himself in a very, very unfortunate situation. But, as it were, the hand was removed and the doctor was, once again, a safe distance away from him.

"Get better, doctor? I was not aware that I needed fixing." It wasn't true, of course. He knew he was mad. He knew that he was a danger to society. And, in those brief flashes between the madness that could almost pass as sanity, he almost mourned his loss. The outside world was forever lost to him, the walls around him a prison.

But it was a prison he would haunt delightedly. The people out of their own minds were always the most interesting, this doctor included.

"Of course, if you wish to assist me in such a foolish endeavor, the choice is entirely yours. I, personally, do not see the need or allure in pretending that there is nothing wrong with me." He laughed heartily at that, sitting up in the couch to lean towards where the doctor was sitting. This was all very amusing, but it was time to get serious. Time to take matters into his own hands, bring this talk in the direction he desired it to go.

"So tell me, doctor, why is it that they give a madman the position of trying to cure other similarly... handicapped... fellows?" Of course the doctor wasn't insane; he just liked to hear the protests, the shouting. If he could not have violence, he wanted turmoil.

But... that flash of darkness, the feeling around the doctor that made the hair on the back of his neck stand in the most intriguing and delicious way... of course it had not been his imagination, but surely the doctor was not dangerous.

It was ludicrous to even contemplate. Who would hire a mad doctor?

“It is my job to assist you in this endeavor, however foolish you deem it to be.” The patient was leaning closer to him and it made Arthur both nervous and somehow excited. The Frenchman was vying more vigorously for dominance over the situation, meeting every question with more questions and countering his voiced concerns with more accusations. He was implying things he couldn’t possibly know… But no, he didn’t know. The patient was just trying to rile him up.

It was working. He was quite riled. In more than one way. But he couldn’t let on.

“Are you referring to me as this madman, Francis? I do not know what would give you such an idea, but I am no madman. And I am more than qualified for my position.” His tone was cold, serious, the gentle doctor facade gone. “And I do not appreciate you insinuating otherwise.” Arthur met the patient’s challenging body language with his own, uncrossing his legs and putting both feet on the floor, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and meeting the patient’s gaze with intensity, refusing to be intimidated. He could play this game, too. “You are a very sick man indeed, and you are in desperate need of fixing.”

He felt the syringe of sedatives through his coat pocket. Just give me a reason, he pleaded silently. Give me a reason to take that smugness right out of you.

“I believe I am going to have to adjust your medication further. It is quite clear the current regimen isn’t working.”

"So you are going to have me take more of those dreadful medications?" He hardly registered the doctor's own movement, so caught was he in a new hallucination. Or was it? He didn't care to check, to ask the doctor "Is it real?". It was fantastic, beautiful and so very, very deadly. Blood. Dripping and red, crimson as anything he'd ever seen. Thick and hot, the coppery scent of it rich and intoxicating.

But it was always blood, always beautiful and crimson. But never had he seen it drip so slowly, falling into little rivulets down the man's cheeks, staining his hair and his fair skin. Cascading down his jaw, down his throat. Disappearing under his collar, staining the starched fabric. Gorgeous, and too transfixing to ever hope for reality to assert itself.

He wanted him. More than anything he'd ever wanted, more than anything he could ever think of wanting. Too taste that crimson spill with his tongue, feel that soft skin under his hands... Irresistible. It was better than his any of his waking dreams, the sight before him. Perfect, and yet so terribly flawed.

Why did this happen to him? He knew the doctor would not take kindly to his lusts. In fact, he rather anticipated the violence to come.

He reached out with a hand, meaning to touch his blood-soaked hair. Stroke the stained locks, dig his nails into the scalp and pull-