Louder Than Sirens ➳ Larry

day two

day two

For breakfast, the kitchen staff serves grey, lumpy oatmeal and sour milk. The patients all crowd around wooden tables, stuffing their faces like pigs at a slop trough. Despite the barred windows, which leave rectangular illuminations on the linoleum floors, the dining area is bright and radiant. Some of the patients are freshly-showered with wet hair and damp clothing.

The detective, Mr. Tomlinson, moves through the cafeteria silently and snaps photos of hungry patients. He aims his camera at an older man eating oatmeal with his bare hands, disregarding his silverware. His hands are bony and wrinkled with bitten, dirty nails. His teeth are rotten and jagged and filled with random gaps. His blue irises look soulless and empty, so pale they're almost white.

Louis can't help but feel guilty. That morning, he ate French toast, a blueberry muffin, and hot tea as part of his hotel's complimentary breakfast. He knows these patients would do anything for a taste of something so delicious. As Cathy said, their cooks stick to a strict schedule of routine meals. He can only imagine the blandness of repetitive flavors.

Upon the police's request, Whittingham Asylum agreed to let Louis roam freely throughout their facility, so long as he follows a set of rules. For one, he cannot enter a patient's room without consent. Secondly, he cannot interfere with any treatment or drug administration. And lastly, he is prohibited from establishing unprofessional relationships with patients.

He jots down some observations in his pocket-sized notebook, accidentally smudging the ink across the thin paper. He sighs and tucks it back into his trousers. He takes another picture of the cafeteria, capturing a dozen or so patients with chunky oatmeal and half-empty glasses. A younger girl, probably in her late teens, is twitching and blinking rapidly, as if her body is surged with frantic electricity. An older man sits next to her, with medium-brown skin and hazel eyes, talking to himself. He's muttering something about needing to run some errands, to pick up some eggs at the store and drop off a letter at the post office. But Louis's the only one listening to his personal dialogue.

After seeing the cafeteria, Louis walks through the east corridor, where the "dangerous" patients reside. He knows he should feel hesitant, maybe a little afraid, but he figures he should be more intimidated by the faculty than the patients themselves. They seem harmless, like silent ghosts who sulk through dark, moldy hallways. The nurses, on the other hand, always have cold and detached expressions, as if they feel no remorse or empathy. That lack of emotion, Louis decides, makes him most fearful.

He quickly spots a girl sitting on a wooden bench, rocking back and forth. Her bony arms are restrained with a straitjacket, and her words are muffled by a dirty cloth covering her mouth. Louis stares at her blankly, not knowing how to respond. Her black hair is frizzy and tangled with knots, reaching well past her shoulders. Her Asian skin has lost its natural glow in the hallway's dark, dull lighting. Her eyes flicker frantically, nervously, fearfully.

Louis glances around in search of a nurse. He can't leave this poor girl alone, restrained, sobbing uncontrollably. Perhaps one of her caretakers forgot about her.

The detective gulps nervously. The rest of the hallway is completely empty, save the cockroaches and spiders crawling up the white walls. The girl on the bench watches him desperately, with pleading eyes and softened whimpers. Her foot is connected to the bench with a metal chain and cuff, as if she's a prisoner.

He approaches her slowly, cautiously, with his hands held outwards in submission.

"Hey," he greets quietly. The girl inhales sharply through her nose, unable to speak with the cloth over her chapped lips. "I'm Louis Tomlinson, an investigator. Do you want me to fetch you a nurse?"