A Fanfiction about a Psychoanalysis for Cillian
I'll say one thing about evaluations, there never seem to be enough problems that people want to have thrown at them. Not enough pills to prescibe, not enough refills. People want to be sick, it's just a whole country filled with hypochondriacs. Perhaps that's why I love this job... people pay to be sick.
Dr. Faust closed the journal, letting his fingers rest on the bound hardcover of the book before sighing and shutting off the desk lamp. He pushed himself back from his desk and left the room, the book laying on the top of the desk, right where he closed it.
"You'll be holding your session downstairs, bottom floor, sir," the pop-pop-pop of the receptionist's chewing gum distorting the words she spoke. She lifted her manicured nails to the counter, holding a pass card to the employee elevator. A briefcase in one hand, the discerning look of parent as he accepted the plastic from her, pausing once he started to leave to pose a question.
"What room, miss?"
"Talk to the security down there, they'll know," she was already bored with him and tending to her chocolate donut, which had been left to the side of her, along with about two more.
"Right," he murmured, a little disgusted with the place as a whole. The shitty attendance, lack of employees, and not to mention the pure disorder and unkept appearance of it made him want to gag. He pressed the button for the elevator and waited for it to ascend, wondering how bad other government hospitals had to be. His hospital was a pristine environment with almost too many staff members to deal with, let alone the patients were half the time rich and only wanted a quick fix with whatever painkiller or antidepressant popular at the time. Dr. Faust had to appreciate the generosity of his clients, what with as many kids as he had to feed and clothe.
He swiped the passcard and pressed for the bottom floor, the audible squeak of the closing metal doors making him cringe before he stepped back against the elevator wall. Dr. Faust's face held a look of boredom as he stared at the numbers, going down, and down, and down. Glancing at his watch for the time, which he thought was going by rather slowly. He hardly cared about what was coming ahead of him, and suspected a very wealthy, spoiled individual waiting at the basement for a cheaper fix. Either way, thought Faust, he was getting paid for it, didn't matter to him whether it came from the state or from the pocket of the user.
Doors took their time to open again, the sound jarring him once more to move. His eyes opened wide to take in the location, dumbfounded and the state of disrepair the establishment had seemed to get away with. Concrete was broken off in chunks, and lightbulbs hung haphazardly across the way, pipes exposed and, farther along the way, only a small booth of chipped paint held anyone visible from the elevator.
His steps echoed while he made his way to the two security guards relaxing in the small space, sipping on coffee and some donuts from upstairs. A light tap on the glass turned their focus in his direction, and both rushed their way out of the booth, almost getting stuck in the opening.
"Are you the doctor?" The taller guard asked, towering over the docter. Faust responded with a nod, a bemused expression taking over his face while his hand shot up to receive a handshake.
Neither guard offered one, and Faust let his hand fall as he watched the two men stroll past him, one jingling a set of keys. He turned and followed.
The corridor was a scene from a horror film, all ready for the homicidal killer of whatever slasher film was popular to come around the corner and impale you with an icepick/machete/knife. Both guards didn't say a word as they led him through turns and eventually, they opened a door to what looked like an interrogation room. There was even a few iron loops to lock chains from shackles to the floor and tables.
"Give us a few minutes while we get the patient ready, Doctor," the tall guard told him as he set his briefcase on the cold metal tabletop. Faust feigned a polite interest in what the man was telling him, but blocked out the majority of what he went on further to explain. Instead, Faust stared at the ceiling, the walls, and the barren floors with nothing but the table and the shackle-holds with a questioning glance. The two guards left him alone with the door open.
He pulled out his prescription pad, the only thing he seemed to take out anymore, and started to click the pen rapidly while waiting. Down the corridor he started to hear screaming, followed by a loud banging against the pipes. Taken aback by the noises Faust almost looked outside into the hallway, but soon found that the guards were already back.
"This is your patient, Cillian Crowe," the smaller man informed the doctor, "he's a little drowsy and sedated, for your own good. Take this walkie talkie wit' you and call us if he's getting to ornry."
To be continued in part 2
Complete and utter crap, I think I'm stupider for reading that, and who in their right mind would want a psychoanalysis of Cillian Crowe?!
What a waste of literacy.
Well, you know, hun, after being paired with him sexually assaulting you with a rusty knife...
I think you'd be the most receptive.