February 2017, 8 months ago.
"Paitent number 3871, please tell me your name and why you're here." Dr. Phillips sits leisurely in his leather armchair opposite me in the 'counselling room', clipboard pressed against his chest, hiding away all my secrets, though I don't know why. I know every bit of information on that piece of paper.
I sigh at him, irritated at his questions that he's asked every week for the last month. I slouch in my chair, bored already, ten minutes into the session. I crack my knuckles and ponder what the point is in this. Every week I get asked the same question, and I give the same answer.
There's no therapy, no coping skills, no talk about rehabilitation. I'm going nowhere, mentally or physically. This is a fucked up excuse for an asylum. The sooner I can get out of here the better.
"Paitent number 3871, please tell me your na-"
"Alex Danvers." I interupt, before he can repeat his command and he sighs at me. "3871, I need you to-"
"Mr. Danvers." I correct, grumpily, rising from the chair and wandering to the line of books on the shelves.
"Would you like to read a book?" He offers, and I snort. "If I said yes, you'd tell me to get on with the session. So, no, fuck the books. They don't matter to me. Education is not something I will ever get into again." I turn back to him, an angry look on my face.
"I will never teach again." I plop back into the chair, and yawn, dying to get out of here but Dr. Phillips is in no way lenient when it comes to leaving early.
I glance at the clock.
Forty eight minutes left.
"I'm here because I killed my brother." I give in, angry at myself for even going along with their regime of 'tell us what we already know'.
Phillips relaxes and lets the clipboard have some space from his chest. "Thank you.....Mr. Danvers." He says uneasily and I smirk.
"You're welcome." I reply with as much sarcasm and he sighs heavily. "I had a phone call from your mother today." He announces and I stiffen in my chair. "Olive phoned you? I thought she was done with me." I add in surprise. The fact that my mother even knows where I am is a shock to me.
He puts his clipboard to the side and clasps his hands together. "She wanted you to know that the funeral was last Friday and that Carl is buried beside your Father in Liverpool." He explains gently and at the mention of a burial, it reminds me of why I'm here once again.
I look away from him, towards the window, watching the other paitents outside, sloping about, the colour gone from their faces. "I didn't know my father had died until a few months ago." I admit and he nods. "I know, Alex. I know." The use of my first name is a shocker.
"Why are yer being so nice all of a sudden? Do yer want something?" I demand and he shrinks back in his seat. "Do you know, your Scouse accent comes back when you get angry?" He announces casually and it's all too much.
'Hit 'em, Alex. Hit the bastard.' Richard snarls and before I know what I'm doing, I have pounced on Phillips, kneeling on him, pounding his head with my fists, bashing him in the face until a stream of blood rushes out and I know I've broken his nose.
'Just like you broke Carl's nose. You've done this before.' Richard reminds me and it fuels my anger. I hit out my anger, my guilt, my shame. I hit until the tears pour down my face and I'm aware that Phillips is pressing something attached to a chain around his neck.
I land one more punch before the loud siren sounds and within seconds, the white coats are flooding the room, lifting me off Phillips and dragging me away, by my arms. "Fuck off! Get yer hands off me!" I twist and struggle as the two men pull me out of the counselling room and into the bright corridor.
They dump me there so they can fetch the tranquiliser, and I roll onto my stomach and up onto my knees. I stand up and with no sense of direction, I hurtle down the other end of the corridor, glimpsing at signs and trying to figure out where I am.
'Left, Alex. Left.' Richard whispers insistently so I bolt left and run down that corridor until I reach exit double doors. "Yes. This is it." I throw them open, and head outside, rushing down the path towards the gates that are probably bolted, but I can climb over them.
I can climb over them, I can get out of here- I trip over a stray rock that has landed in the path, and find myself hurtling forwards, towards the hard concrete. 'You're gonna hit your head!' Richard screams but it's already too late.
I brace myself for the impact, knowing this will hurt. I'll probably have brain damage or something. Shit, shit, shit.
My hands reach concrete first, they scrape along the path, tearing skin and making the palms bleed. My chest flumps against the path, the air knocked out of me, my head thunks against the path and everything goes black.