The woman pushed the swinging door open to find herself in the familiar, bleakly lit corridor that was her day-to-day habitat. The details of this space were so familiar that she barely even took notice of them anymore. The overhead halogen lamps, placed evenly apart the length of the hallway; the aqua tiles on the underside of the wall, with dirty off-white stucco above them; the rows of white metal doors on either side, with the odd observation room or restroom between them; all of this was lost on her. She had seen this space so many times over the past four years that it was now as familiar to her as her childhood home, and arguably more so than her apartment; she certainly spent more time here than there.
As she strode decisively along, her sensible black heels clacking in the marble pavement, she addressed a young, green-scrubbed nurse, pushing a tray full of sterilised instruments towards the door she had just come from:
Woman: How is he doing today? What kind of mood is he in?
The plump, auburn-haired, chubby cheeked girl lowered her eyes, an embarrassed grin taking over her features:
Nurse: I..I’m not sure…
The older woman frowned, her tone sharpish:
Woman: You haven’t checked?!
Her face growing redder and redder, the young nurse once again admitted her ignorance, shaking her head from side to side. Then, sensing that her superior was about to snap at her, she pleaded:
Nurse: But please, Dr. S.! Don’t make me go in there! He creeps me out!
The doctor’s brow furrowed even further in disbelief, her voice acquiring a shrill pitch despite her efforts to remain calm:
Doctor: You mean he hasn’t had his *medication*?!
The younger girl shook her head again, but the doctor did not even need such confirmation; before the admission was even complete, she was already on her way down the hall, her arms thrown above her head in a gesture of exasperation.
“Goddamn good-for-nothing incompetent kids!” she fumed privately, as she headed towards room 105. As she approached the nondescript white metal door, however, she quickly forced herself to regain composure; she would want nothing less than to allow the inmate within to read her mind-set.
She stopped just outside the door and leant up against the wall, catching her breath and waiting for her heartbeat to slow down. Slowly, but surely, her head cleared enough to where she could trust herself with her own actions. Only then did she approach the door again, peering through the hatch to the room within.
What she saw inside was almost as familiar to her as the bleak ward itself. The room was decorated to resemble a small apartment, complete with couch, television set, and a small kitchen area. The physician knew, however, that this space was more for decorative purposes than anything else. The fridge was mostly empty and, because of the restrictions with providing real cutlery to patients, the knives, forks and spoons on the drawers were exclusively party-type plastic utensils. The inhabitant of Room 105 would not be able to cook, even if he had wanted to - if nothing else, because the stove itself was just a front. No sane staff member in the ward wanted to take the risk of leaving this man around potentially flammable objects, and rightfully so; the patient had a history with them.
Having quickly glanced over the overtly familiar setting, the woman’s eyes now trained themselves on the person within it; and the physician could not help a soft gasp. The huge, hulking man was sitting on the floor, hunched forward, his gaze fixed on a small object in his hand. A closer look revealed it to be a lighter, which the patient flicked on and off at regular intervals, losing himself in the bright orange flame. Now and again, he would mutter an unintelligible comment to himself, sometimes in the tough tones of a hard-boiled street urchin, and others in a softer, more subdued, even frightful tone.
At the sight of the flickering flame, alarm bells went off in the young doctor’s head. “Where the hell did he get a lighter?!”, she screamed inwardly, her pulse quickening again. “What irresponsible bastard gave him a goddamn LIGHTER?!” Once again, she had to force herself to stay calm, and think rationally. Regardless of how he had acquired it, the fact was he had been left alone with a lighter, and the whole room was not on fire yet. That had to be a good sign. Or so she hoped, at least.
She reached into the pocket of her lab-coat and produced a small, neatly folded bundle of paper. She unfolded it and scanned, for the umpteenth time, the recommendation of her senior colleague:
“OBSERVATION LOG
Dr. Morris K. Horowitz
Subject: Kraputski, John T.”
She skipped the preliminary fluff, then skimmed through the observations and conclusions, which told her nothing she did not already know. As always, her main focus was the final paragraph, which detailed Dr. Horowitz’s proposed course of action:
“In view of the behavioural and psychological imbalances exhibited by the subject, and especially of his pronounced violently psychopathic tendencies, this physician’s advised course of action would be..”
The young doctor drew her eyes away to avoid reading the last few words, feeling the customary sinking feeling in her chest. No matter how many times she read the diagnosis, she could not get her head around the proposed course of action. She knew that, objectively, it was probably the right thing to do; but subjectively, she could not bring herself to accept it. This man had been her personal project for the past two years, ever since she was considered knowledgeable enough to be a principal physician. She had gained his trust. She had learned his innermost secrets, desires, and weaknesses. She had fought for permission to let him have Occupational Therapy outside the hospital, in a public setting. As a result, she had watched him make progress beyond anybody’s wildest imagination. She was as close to his friend as their professional relationship allowed. And now, that was all about to come to an end. At the end of it, not only would her efforts have been in vain, but she would also have betrayed somebody who had placed his trust in her. And all in the name of science.
She stuffed the report in the front pocket of her shirt, hung her lab jacket on a peg by the door, and took one last, deep breath, steeling herself for what would be one of the hardest tasks in her life. Burying her grandfather had been hard, but this was almost akin to murder. Oh, well, she told herself, it would be for the good of the patient; he might be able to recuperate and live an entirely normal life – or at least as normal as someone like him might aspire to.
She kept repeating this to herself, over and over, as she opened the lock, pushed down the handle, and stepped into the room. All the convincing in the world, however, could not stop her heart from sinking again, as the man stopped talking to himself for a moment and looked up at her, the intact side of his face breaking into a grin as the disfigured one contorted into a skeletal grimace:
Man: Hey, Christine! How’s it going?
The young woman forced out a smile, even as her entrails clenched with guilt and apprehension, Uncharacteristically oblivious to her tension, the heavy-set man continued to chat away:
Man: Didn’t expect to see you round this early! Did you get the late shift at the hospital?
The physician nodded absently, discreetly removing the wad of paper from her pocket to read the last three words of the diagnosis - three seemingly innocent words who would dictate the fate of the unfortunate man across from her:
“Full frontal lobotomy.”
Dr. Christine Scanlon, clinical psychiatrist, swallowed nervously. No matter how many times she read those words, they would never cease to affect her. She hoped to never have to do anything like this ever again, even though she knew in her heart of hearts that this was just the first of many such occasions. But why did her first one have to behim?
She forced herself to smile brightly at the man again, trying her best to adopt a peppy tone:
Christine: Put your coats on, guys. We need to be somewhere in about an hour.[/b]
