Too many times-- too many for someone like him, he thought, somewhat bitterly.

I can
see the reason behind the saying, "The white walls drive you mad."
He, an ordinary man compared to all the praised saviors rushing about him, scurrying
through rooms and vacant-like hallways, sat there waiting for his turn. Not one of the
caffeine-deprived workers he only glanced at came up to him. He longed for someone's
presence, to relieve his bitter loneliness, but then again, no matter how much he craved it,
he despised it all the same.
His worn, tired hands wrung themselves-- over, over, and over. He had enough control to
quell the urge to tap his foot impatiently. His face remained impassive despite his
growing annoyance. How long has he sat here? How many times has he waited, slowly
losing another piece of his mind?
Too many times.
Finally, a too-young woman came up to him, in her coat and crisp clean pants. His scruffy
face felt misshapen compared to everyone appearance.
He nodded to her only once, his voice not willing itself to work. No matter how many
times he told himself to get a grip, to not be so emotional, his throat would close
regardless of his brain's useless demands.
They walked throughout the brightly lit corridors, the overly used expression of 'sterile
white' popping into his mind, but he scoffed at it. No smell of disinfectant. No lemon
floor polish. No scent of the papery product that always hung around. Instead it smelt of
faint chocolate and pine. He scowled to himself, no place should be this inviting.
He was led to a door, the woman not saying a word as she lightly pushed it open. The
pale blue lining made it seem so falsely cheerful-- so disbelievingly welcome. He ambled
over to the bed that was smack dead center in the room. The place was so bright from the
sun pouring in behind those soft white curtains. A table stood next to the bed, with a vase
of fake flowers. Fake, just like everything else, he thought sardonically.
There was a door off to the side, which he knew for a fact was a bathroom. The door was
closed, and a yellow light flickered through the crack. On, off, on, off...
He loudly cleared his throat, not from a blockage, but to grab the attention of however
was behind the door. He heard a startled yelp before the door was cautiously opened. A
lone eye peeked out, before the door was flung too harshly to the side, making him cringe
at the crash. A woman-- too frail to be a woman, more of a skeleton-- stood there in
pajama pants and an over sized shirt. The woman neither smiled nor frowned in his
presence, staring at him with such a look of confusion, it was unnatural. He only turned
to the woman, waiting for what she would do.
"You're..." Her voice was scratchy, but not enough to sound as if she had been smoking
three packs every day. He nodded, realizing what she was trying to say, and avoided
looking at anything but her eyes. His gaze never strayed to the veins he could plainly see
on her arms, or her sick complexion. They didn't wander to her unevenly chopped hair, or
her red, irritated neck. He defiantly did not look at the long scars trailing across her chin
and cheek, diagonally crossed over her mouth. He didn't look-- he'd seen them more than
he'd like, anyway.
Too many times...
She gained her composure, clearing her throat as he had done, and blinking slightly.
"You're...here." She said, in slight disbelief.
"I am..." He trailed off, reluctant to say anything else. What would he say? What would
she say?
However, she only shrugged and stepped past him on shaky legs. She sat down
awkwardly on the comfortable bed and motioned to the wooden chair covered with stiff
yellow foam and even harder plastic. He sat down, breaking eye contact and glancing at
his hands again, which found themselves wringing each other once again, as if trying to
strangle the other...
"What are you doing here?" This time, there was no confusion, nor disbelief. It was pure
controlled indifference. He didn't know whether to be relieved she had spoke first-- or
not.
"I'm--" He tried coming up with something to say. The short, stubby man had told him
over the phone earlier that she couldn't be upset, by any means. "Just look at what she's
done before..." He blinked slightly, biting his already split lip.
"Just checking up on me?" The voice was airy, as if not paying attention, but suddenly
there was malice. He felt himself irrationally becoming annoyed as well, but did not
comment on it. Instead he shrugged, his broad shoulders sagging afterward.
"So..." He managed to say, gripping his hands tighter. "How have you been?"
He chanced looking up, and was met with an uneven glare. It seemed the was battling
internally whether to be delighted and start rambling, or angry and start yelling. He only
sighed and shook his head, mumbling, "Never mind."
"I don't need a keeper you know--" Apparently she had chosen anger. He looked up from
beneath his unwashed bangs, his eyes hardening.
"I said nev--" "I'm not a little kid!"
He sighed soundlessly. Every time he comes here, he goes through the same process-- the
aggravating wait, the long vacant hallways, the disbelief, the anger, then-- he stopped.
"Calm down." He whispered painfully, but it went unnoticed.
"Nothing is wrong with me." She sounded on the verge of tears and he cursed softly.
What did he do this time? What had he done that made her upset? His eyes glared at the
tiled floor before looking up at the woman.
"I know. I said never mind." His voice was hard, and he stared at her. She stared back, but
for only a second. She turned away and rolled onto her side, fully laying down on the
mattress.
He looked at her then. He hadn't seen her for two weeks. Last time he was here, she had
upset herself so much that she locked herself in the bathroom, which alarmed all of her
nurses. He had gotten hell from them, of course, but even now he couldn't pinpoint the
exact reason for why she had gotten so worked up.
Maybe its just the sight of you...Yeah, maybe. He shook his head, dispelling those types
of thoughts. He couldn't afford to think that now. Maybe when he got back to his
apartment in the shady part of town, with his blank walls staring back at him all of the
time, as if accusing him.
He stood up at that moment, scraping the chair ever so lightly. He knew she heard it, and
he could feel her tense up. He paused for a second at her wariness before taking the two
steps toward her, looming over the bed. That had apparently been the wrong move.
"Don't touch me!" She shrieked loudly, making him wince and take a step back. She had
rolled over so she was standing on the floor, but her eyes were wild, as if she knew she
was the prey-- but he knew himself, that she was the predator.
His throat closed up and he spared a glance at the long angry red scars on her pretty face.
He hadn't been there when she made them...but he knew exactly what had happened. His
breath came out somewhat shakily and he tightened his worrisome hand into a fist.
Clenching, unclenching...
He heard a knock outside the door. It was to remind him that the same woman who had
guided him to the room was waiting outside, ready to come in if trouble started. He
hardly spared the wooden door with it's diagonally checkered glass window a glance. He
took a step back from the feral looking woman-- no, only a girl, a scared girl-- and
walked to the opposite end of the room.
"Sorry." He softly murmured, head down, clenching his fists. His chest throbbed in that
way which was so familiar to him now-- in throbbed in heart-wrenching pain. His throat
managed to unclog for a second before he gulped harshly.
"Don't touch me." She repeated, her eyes glassy. She seemed out of it, as if she was high.
But the tense way she held herself told him that she was aware of all of his actions.
"I-I.." He found himself stammering. She just turned her head away, and sharply dug her
hands into the sheets that matched the room.
"Don't..." She began saying but he then glared at her. "Yes, 'don't touch me', I know." He
bit out, only realizing a second later that it was going to cost him. Her eyes had hardened
and she looked at him with so much ice, that he found himself frozen to the floor.
"Shut up."
"I-"
"Shut the hell up!"
He grit his teeth. Every time...no matter what day or what time he came, it would always
be the same process. And each time he would leave because she was too angry, too
delirious, too upset for him to be there. The doctors would rush in saying he needed to
leave, which he always agreed with. On more than one occasion had he been injured
himself-- not just the woman inflicting pain onto herself.
Sadistically, he figured she should be hurting him...well, physically, at least. She had
already destroyed his heart and mind beyond repair anyway...no matter how many times
the doctors said it was the other way around.
He stayed quiet as she glared at him. He only met her gaze with an unreadable
expression.
"Look...take...take care." He suddenly stuttered, staring at the floor. He could feel her
bristling, and he dared to look up. Indeed, her face was red and her eyes were filled with
hate. But he knew...no matter how many times she hurt him...she didn't hate him...
"Get out." It was a simple command but the tone she used was so harsh and hurtful that
he himself bristled. His heart throbbed once, twice more, reminding him-- that it was his
fault-- that she meant it. He only smiled ruefully, sadly.
"Fine." His tone was just as curt and biting before he turned away. However, he paused a
few steps before the door. She snarled, as vicious as a tiger, and twice as deadly. His
shoulders tensed uncomfortably.
"I said, get out!" He let her angry voice wash over him, his head pounding. He glanced
down at his fist to see the knuckles had turned white. He then turned his head over his
shoulder, shuffling his feet a little to look straight into her eyes. He remembered every
moment he has ever had with her-- remembered all the smiles, the tears, the agony when
she accused him-- him!--
--and his heart broke even more.
He stared into her wide eyes, his own eyes softening at the memory of the woman before
him laughing as she dumped her ice cream on him, and as he chased the six year old girl
around the backyard.
"Take care of yourself, 'sis'." He said forcefully, his chest constricting. He then turned
around to avoid the sheen in his sister's eyes. He took those last steps before opening the
door, urgent to leave and go home-- preferably get himself wasted. The nurse only spared
him a glance before rushing in-- hearing the woman's sobs. He only carried on, familiar
enough with this place, this hell-hole (in his opinion), to know how to leave. He passed
elderly people in wheelchairs, walked by rooms filled with screaming patients, and
ignored the doctors with their bright fake smiles telling you it was going to be okay even
when you knew it wasn't.
"I'm sorry, but she seems to be going through mental trauma. We don't know if it is
temporary or not."
He finally made it into the lounge. The blank stares he received burnt his back but he
carried on, pushing on the glass doors to the front of the building.
"You! You-- no, get away! Away, damn-it! Don't touch me with your filthy, filthy hands,
you monster! Leave me alone! I hope-- I hope you die! How could you?! How?!"
The sun was lowering itself lazily across the sky. Only random patches of lights reminded
him the day was still not over, even as the streetlamps shot on. Couples and families
walked around, looking through shops and restaurants. The warm air made his lungs
ache.
"She seems to be under the impression that you had raped and killed three women.
Does...does that ring any bells with you?"
"I was accused of being a serial rapist...but, why would she think that?! Why would she
possibly--?! They disproved it,and even caught the right culprit! How...?"
"I'm sorry, but I can't tell you. I'll contact you regarding her progress. Uh...she also..."
He walked down the cracked sidewalk, passing people lying in the street, or rushing past
him. He almost ran into a jogger as he stared into space, his eyes clouding over in a fog
of pain.
"We the jury find the defendant...not guilty." Why was she looking so upset? He wasn't
going to jail-- he wasn't!
Now it all made sense.
He blinked once more before coming to a halt. His own sister had thought he had raped
and murdered three innocent women. She even claimed she had proof, testifying in court!
He always knew she had a hidden fury directed against him. What could it be? Her doctor
told him that the mind played tricks on us...it worked in strange ways. The short stout
man had said that it was likely that she had become mentally ill due to the paranoia, the
fear, the anger, and the resentment.
He shuddered, closing his eyes in agony.
How many times has he received a phone call, having the doctor say she was improving,
but one visit making her crumble?
He suddenly began walking again, the lit signs proclaiming 'Open' or 'Cash Only' blurred
through his tearing vision.
How many times had he blamed himself?
He figured the best place to go would be his favorite bar, where the bartender knew to
keep the drinks coming. His head swam already. He just wanted an escape.
How many times had he felt that aching pit of loneliness-- parents dead, friends gone,
sister insane?
When he reached the dark doors, he paused at them. The bar itself wasn't very popular,
meaning seclusion. And the atmosphere itself was depressing, making it easier for him to
succumb to his despair. But it didn't sound appealing. At least, not right now.
How many times had he visited that goddamn mental hospital, only to break them both
even more?
The sight of his angry, feral, deranged relative made him tense. He ducked his head,
before swiftly turning on his heel. The utter resentment she shot him, the unbridled
anger...and she didn't even know that it was unfounded.
How many times had he wished, prayed, and dreamed of her getting better?
The alcohol would be just what he needed...but it wasn't what he wanted. His sister was
too far gone, he realized that. And so did the staff. He knew he would get a call from the
doctor in few days, telling him the latest breakthrough with her...but then he would visit,
as was insisted by the short man, and they would only go through this process...
How many times had he thought of the past?
It would be better if he was drunk, he thought. Then he could blame it on the alcohol. But
that was even more cowardly. He gulped as he stood at the curb, waiting, waiting.
How many times had he felt that glimmering ray of hope...only to crash down with the
look of haunted eyes and scarred faces?
He knew he was old. He also knew he was tired. Ever since his sister's admittance into
the hospital, he had to pay the fees that came with her stay there. It had been close to
three years now...he couldn't have the woman of his dreams now, or the kids he wanted.
He would have to take care of his sister first, and only her first, no matter how much she
wanted him gone.
How many times did he suffer for nothing else-- not even his sanity-- but his kin?
At least now, he thought, she would finally be able to have some satisfaction. He stared at
the street lights, the cars able to fly by. He sighed, and unclenched his hands. He saw it
then-- his chance.
How many times did he want it to...end?
He stepped out into the middle of the street, right in front of the speeding truck, ignoring
the horn blew at him--
One too many times