The Pink Ward

 

Dr Jimmy sat alone in the day room, his chair turned towards the wall as though he had chosen exile over conversation. How he hated the pathetic feeble minded idiots in this place. Such dullards.

But he knew he was sat in a privileged seat. 

Money arrived for him from beyond the hospital walls. Enough to buy Coca-Cola from the trolley on Thursdays, enough for miniature Lion bars that he unwrapped with almost ceremonial precision. The other patients noticed. They noticed everything. They hated Dr Jimmy.

The wrapper from his latest chocolate bar crackled between his fingers.

Four nurses approached.

Three men.

One woman.

The patients had long ago renamed her Nurse Ratched.

Not because it was her name, but because it suited the way she carried herself. Upright, immaculate, lips painted crimson, curls untouched by the chaos around her. She seemed to belong to another world entirely.

The tallest orderly stopped behind Jimmy.

"Jimmy... Dr Jimmy."

No reply. Just a bored heave.

"You remember our conversation yesterday? About your treatment. We were hoping it might help."

Jimmy continued fiddling with the cellophane wrapper.

"You're taking me to the Pink Ward."

It wasn't a question.

The orderly hesitated.

"Yes."

Leather restraints slid from his shoulder with a familiar hiss. The buckles clinking.

Jimmy finally looked up.

"You're putting those on me?"

He smiled without warmth.

"Come on, lads. You know I'm here because of lies. You know that's why I lose my temper sometimes. I am an innocent man!"

No one answered.

"Dr Jimmy... please stand and face the wall."

For a moment it seemed he might refuse.

Instead, he rose quietly.

He turned.

The restraints closed around his waist with practised efficiency. Heavy leather. Cold buckles. His wrists secured before he had quite realised he had surrendered them.

How had it come to this?

He had done nothing wrong.

The accusations belonged to other people. Pathetic, stupid people! With zero IQ. Low intelligence.  Idiots!

They should have been the ones behind locked doors.

Not him.

The procession crossed the hexagonal courtyard.

From above it resembled a labyrinth, each path leading somewhere nobody wished to go. Different wards. Different treatments. Different kinds of despair.

Beyond barred windows voices rose and fell.

Some shouted.

Some pleaded.

Some laughed at things invisible to everyone else. 

One hundred and thirty souls, each carrying a private catastrophe.

Jimmy kept walking.

"Am I coming back?" he asked quietly. His arrogant demeanor evaporating quickly.

Nurse Ratched looked ahead without breaking stride.

"That depends, Jimmy."

He stared at the back of her perfectly pressed uniform.

God, he hated her.

The perfume.

The painted lips.

The calm certainty.

Everything she represented.

Iron gates opened.

Then slammed shut behind them with a crash that echoed through the corridor.

He was led into a changing room.

"Remove your clothes."

The hospital gown hung loosely from his shoulders, tied behind his neck. It offered little dignity.

He caught Nurse Ratched looking in his direction.

"Get your fill," he muttered. "You can kiss my bare arse while you're at it."

No one reacted.

The gurney waited beneath harsh white lights.

Leather straps again.

Chest.

Waist.

Arms.

Ankles.

"I hate every one of you," he spat.

"We know," one of the orderlies replied softly.

The trolley rolled through double doors into the treatment suite.

Machines hummed.

Metal reflected the fluorescent lights.

Another nurse stood beside the equipment, checking instruments with practised movements.

Jimmy's breathing quickened.

His confidence drained away.

For the first time that morning, fear reached his eyes.

"No..."

The wheels stopped.

Silence settled over the room.

The machine continued its low electrical murmur, indifferent to protests, innocence, guilt, or memory.

Beyond the closed door, somewhere deep in the Pink Ward,  another patient began to scream.

Nobody inside the treatment room looked up.

They had all heard it before.

Ready nurse?

I'm ready.

Here Jimmy, bite down on this, we wouldn't want you hurting yourself. A white cotton pad was pushed between his teeth. Not whiskey soaked either.

And with that the machine screamed,  Dr Jimmy shook violently,  and the lights on the pink painted walls dimmed.