Committed to Parkview (Pogue and FrancesKobain)

[Pogue]

“Did you get her? Where’d you find her?” Doctor Kris Nelson asked anxiously, his second question predicting the answer to his first as he watched the ambulance driver hop down from the cab of the truck, Kris’ palms suddenly starting to sweat as the thought of the cargo, the patient, that they’d brought him.

“Same place,” Waylon Christophersen shrugged, wondering at why this reed thin doctor cared so much about one crazy. “The bitch didn’t have too much imagination, kept going back to the same dumpster night after night,” Waylon explained, his hand reaching out to bang on the side of his truck in response to the faint thumping coming from the other side. “We just watched the place the last two nights until she came back. Same place, same time. It was easy,” the young man said with just the faintest hint of pride, the innate pride of a hunter, in inevitable bragging after successfully bagging their prey showing through in his words. “She did put up a pretty good fight, though.”

“You didn’t hurt her, did you?” Dr. Nelson asked, shooting the arrogant young driver a warning look as his long thin hands reached up to slick back his lank dark hair. “I need her unharmed… or nearly,” the Doctor insisted; listening to the muffled sounds of struggle coming from within the enclosed back of the truck.

“Nothing permanent,” Waylon assured him, a bit too quickly, knowing that if he’d had his way, if he’d had more time, more privacy, then he would have enjoyed the capture more, then he’d have taken more of the fight out of her. Maybe later… Waylon mused, remembering the rush of adrenalin, the surge of arousal that had washed through him as he struck her, his fist digging deep into her soft belly.

“Good. Good,’ Dr. Nelson mumbled almost to himself as they moved to the back of the truck, the simple Ford truck having been converted into an ambulance by simply enclosing the truck bed, a simple sheet metal shell that was now emblazoned with the words “Parkview Hospital” across the sides. “I don’t want her harmed…” he assured Waylon, letting the inevitable “yet” remain unspoken. “Let’s get her out of there,” he suggested, stepping a few paces back from the end of the truck, his thin fingers toying with the edges of his white coat as he thought of all that could happen now, of what he could accomplish with her in his grasp. It was with a good deal of self-consciousness that Dr. Nelson straightened up to his full height. Nearly seven feet tall and rail thin, Kris Nelson was hyper aware of how he appeared to others, the taunts and name calling of his childhood peers never truly leaving him. “Scarecrow,” they’d called him, jeering and hitting whenever the teacher’s back was turned. It was with a good deal of pleasure that Dr. Nelson recalled that at least two of his childhood tormentors now resided within the walls of Parkview, that they lived ever hour of every day regretting having teased and tormented him when they were younger. “Let’s see her,” he said eagerly, his green eyes flashing in anticipation as he watched the younger man move towards the back of the ambulance.

“Okay, Doc,” Waylon shrugged his broad shoulders, his reddish blonde hair falling in curls around his face as he worked the latch free, swinging the door of the ambulance open. Waylon didn’t understand why Dr. Nelson was so keen on this one, on this crazy bitch… Under the dirt and grime, he could tell she was attractive, blonde hair now matted and dirty, her pale skin marred with dirt, but nothing too special. Although she did have a great ass, Waylon reminded himself as he stepped back from the open door of the ambulance. “Come on out of there,” Waylon called into the darkened enclosure, “come out. Or I’ll come in after you,” he warned, hoping she resisted, hoping that maybe he’d get a chance to grab her, to hit her, once more.

 

[FrancesKobain]

Frances had spent the entire ride to the hospital contemplating what was happening. While she sometimes lost her grip on reality, she spent most of her time well aware of the world outside her head. However, this was one time she had wished she was completely detached from her body.

Frances had been living on the streets for a few years now, having been kicked out of her home when she was 16. Her official diagnosis was bipolar with psychotic features. For her, this meant a life of extreme ups and downs emotionally; She was either in an energetic, optimistic, high-on-life manic episode, or a dark, painful, debilitating depression episode. Regardless of what mood she was in, she would sometimes be psychotic when her emotions became so intense that they over took her mind. When she was manic, her psychosis involved soap-box speeches about how she had met god and could save everyone from burning in hell. When she was depressed and psychotic, she would have strange thoughts like “If I just killed myself now, maybe my life would go back to the way it was before I became crazy”. Either way, she was only a real danger to herself.

On the streets, there were many people who had been in and out of hospitals, so for some it really wasn’t a big deal. But for Frances, going to this hospital meant a lot more for her. It was her father, Thaddeus Kobain, the man who felt so ashamed of his ill daughter that he threw her out like a mangy cat, that had owned this particular hospital. She knew that this would only complicate things for her.

Her thoughts had started racing with the possibilities that this shit hole of a hospital would hold for her, so naturally she began panicking. Once the truck stopped and she heard the voices talking about her, her anguish heightened into a full-blown panic attack. Her hands were numb, her face was on fire, and she was sweating bullets. Her heart was racing, almost as if it was prepared for her to make a break for it. She slammed against the walls of the make shift ambulance, not knowing what else to do. The second that the doors opened, she did something that she had never done before and had never thought she would be reduced to; She attacked.

The metal on floor on the underneath Frances’ feet made her short sprint sound like thunder. She clung onto the hospital workers face, biting and scratching with all might. This was something completely out of her character; She was always such a sweet, gentle pacifist. But for whatever reason, her switch had flipped to fight rather than flight.

 

[Pogue]

Waylon was looking forward to climbing into the truck, to grabbing her, maybe sneaking a grope of her breasts or ass in as he drug her out of the darkened interior. When she didn’t respond immediately, he lifted himself up onto the bumper, peering into the deep shadows inside. The first rumblings of her footsteps, that metallic thundering sound, raised the hairs on the back of his neck, some part of him knowing something wasn’t right… only the message reached his mind seconds too late.

Waylon screamed as the young woman flew at him, his cries at first of surprise and then of pain as she bit and clawed at him with an almost feral desperation. He’d wanted to hurt her, to cause her pain for his own pleasure, only now as her long dirty fingernails dug into his flesh, it was him in pain… Summoning all his strength, Waylon tried to peel her off of him, one hand gripping the back of her dirty shirt while the other started raining blows down on her, his fist striking any soft vulnerable area that it could.

Dr. Nelson stepped back involuntarily as the girl launched herself at the other man, her dirty blonde hair resembling a lion’s mane, matted and fierce as she clung to the shorter man, her fingers and teeth attacking him with a wild desperation. “My word,” Kris mumbled as he watched the brief intense struggle, seeing Waylon raise his fist, flinching slightly at each powerful blow the other man landed, knowing how much pain each impact must impart to her. Slipping one long fingered, graceful hand into his lab coat pocket, Dr. Nelson withdrew a large glass syringe, the needle glistening, and a fat drop of amber liquid hanging at the tip. With his thumb on the plunger, Kris waited, biding his time until the battling duo turned his way. Stepping forward, Dr. Nelson raised the syringe high, wielding it like a spear as he brought it down into the soft flesh of her thigh, his thumb pressing down on the plunger, pumping the thick potent sedative into her bloodstream before he stepped back out of her range. “She’ll start getting sleepy,” he warned Waylon as he tucked the syringe back into his coat, watching the slow, waning struggle before him. “Once she’s out, we’ll admit her… and bathe her,” he added, wafting a slender hand in front of his face as the lingering odor of the homeless reached his nose.

 

[FrancesKobain]

Frances felt the syringe go into her body along with the cold liquid. The fight slowly was being taken from her. She realized that she had made a mistake attacking these men, but it was like a demon had overwhelmed her and implanted her with an animalistic rage that she couldn’t control.

The tranqs made her body go first; Her limbs felt like the each weighed a thousand pounds, and left her jaw hanging open. She fell off of the man she was attacking with a loud thump. But slowly her mind followed. Her vision got blurred, and everything she was hearing sounded like it was off in a great distance. She felt her cognitions getting slower and slower and it was as if a black fog had entered her skull and contaminated her brain. Perhaps this was for the better; She was less panicked, although still semi-aware of what was going on around her. She felt the punches from the large fists sink into her delicate body before drifting into a drug-induced sleep.

 

[Pogue]

Waylon felt the fight beginning to go out of her, her fingers clawing at him with less zeal as whatever drug Dr. Nelson had injected her with began to take effect. As her grip began to loosen, Waylon got in a few good shots, digging his punches into her soft belly where she’d feel them later.

“Don’t let her fall,” Dr. Nelson warned, rushing forward as he saw her body begin to sag, reaching out to slide his hands under her arms, half catching her as the drug took the fight out of her. “That’s enough, Waylon,” he commanded harshly as the younger man continued to strike the girl’s body, his fist punching hard into her delicate body. “That’s enough!”

“O… Ok, Doc,” Waylon panted, rage clear on his face as he halted his blows, letting the girl fall off of him to the hard floor of the ambulance bay, the doctor trying ineffectually to catch her, to stop her from falling and hurting herself. She’d probably have a bruise from that fall, he thought with a slight glee, feeling the hot angry red scratches across his face. “Crazy bitch,” he hissed under his breath, spitting a glob of blood out of his split lip onto her body. She’d pay for this, Waylon assured himself, knowing that over the next few weeks or months there’d be ample time to pay her back for attacking him, for scratching his face. “And I had a date tonight,” Waylon lamented, raising his fingers to run over the crisscrossing pathways of scratches across his cheek.

“I’m sure Nurse Lynne will understand,” Dr. Nelson assured him somewhat coldly, knowing that Waylon’s dates with the head nurse amounted to little more than a brief drink before rough sex in the supply closet. “Now help me get her onto the gurney,” he instructed, waiting for the younger man to bend down and grab the girl’s feet, the two of them lifting her easily onto the wheeled stretcher.

“Hmm, she’d kind of cute under all that dirt,” Waylon remarked, looking down at her as she slept, his hand lingering on her slender hip for a few seconds. Maybe once she was cleaned up…

“Forget about it,” Dr. Nelson insisted, reading the lecherous thoughts clearly on Waylon’s face, beginning to push the gurney into the hospital. “This one isn’t one of your playthings. Now go see Nurse Lynne for your date,” he sneered before disappearing through the swinging doors that led to admitting.

“Not yet,” Waylon assured the retreating form of the doctor, his tongue licking at his bloodied lip, “she’s not my plaything… yet.”

“What dya got there?” Johnnie Jennings asked as Dr. Nelson wheeled the gurney up to his desk, the young orderly standing up slightly from his high stool to peer across the polished surface at the unconscious girl. “Looks slightly familiar…”

“Just another undesirable that’s polluting our fair city,” Dr. Nelson assured the orderly curtly, his tone telling the young worker that he wasn’t in the mood for conversation as he quoted the new Mayor’s campaign speech. “Just a piece of human flotsam,” he remarked as he picked up the clipboard with the admission papers on it. “Don’t know her name,” he lied as he filled in Jane Doe on the forms, “get her cleaned up and put her in room 231. I’ll see her when she wakes up,” he assured the young man, handing over the clipboard with the incomplete paperwork.

“Yes, sir,” Johnnie nodded, hopping down off his stool and moving around the desk as fast as he could with his limp, his left leg slightly shorter than his right thanks to a Japanese mortar attack. “Come along, darling, let’s get you cleaned up,” he spoke cheerfully to the unconscious girl as he started pushed the gurney down the hallway towards the showers. “Come along, my pretty, we’re going to have some fun,” he muttered under his breath once he was out of earshot of Dr. Nelson. What nobody knew, or if they knew, what nobody talked about was how much Johnnie enjoyed providing baths for their patients, how he got his jollies cleaning and fondling their unconscious bodies as he scrubbed the dirt off of them. And this one was prettier than most, he thought with a broad smile as he wheeled her into the large tiled room that was the hospital’s shower.