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takeyourcyanide · 6 hours

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Leaches | Chapter #1: Thievery

AO3

Possible CWs: Minor Blood & Violence, Mental Institutions

Fandom: Soul Eater

Character(s): Franken Stein, Dr. Mikhailovich, Nurse Glassier (chapter specific)

Word Count: 4 787

Tag(s): Violent Thoughts, Minor Blood & Violence, Mental Institutions, Mental Illness, Hurt/No Comfort, It’s Not Paranoia If They’re Really Out To Get You, ASPD, Psychosis, Angst, Schizophrenia

Summary: Stein’s parents admit him into a psychiatric ward, where he is, of course, evaluated against his will due to not only his violent and sadistic streak against various different species of animals, including humans, but also due to certain… other symptoms they found to be rather disturbing.

Note(s): Glimpses of Stein’s childhood and everything leading up to his being admitted will be seen within the later chapters (such as two, three, etc.). This will be a multi-perspective series. I also haven’t proofread this in its entirety yet, so if there are currently any grammatical or spelling (etc.) mistakes, I will fix them later on.

Perspective #1: Franken Stein

🔪——————————————————>

White walls, white ceiling, white tiled flooring, white and ill-fitted pajamas….

Everything was a luminous and obnoxious white, which was only exacerbated by the fluorescent white lights blaring down onto my still form, as a member of the probing staff wheeled me into the psychiatrist’s office, feigning solicitude as she asked various questions that I did not care to answer. Nor did I care to glance backwards at my mother and father, of whom, with teary eyes, waved me away; a betrayal I felt simultaneously indifferent to and homicidally aggrieved by, though a twinge of curiosity seemed to just barely ease the violent urges seething within me.

“Well, we’re here,” the nurse ceased her moving of the wheelchair in front of a white door, a silver name tag displayed on its front. “Just be honest, dear. We only want to help you, okay?” She opened the door, having faced me directly, peering into my eyes intently, of which I am certain were filled with nothing but a concurrent, mixed glint of hollowness, suspicion, and resentment.

🔪——————————————————>

An unpleasantly warm hand grabbed my own, forcefully shaking up and down. Upon letting go, the psychiatrist returned to his former position in his hideous, dark leather seat, of which was sat in front of metal cabinetry, a clipboard in his large hand and a ball-point pen in the other.

“So.. ‘Mr. Franken Stein,’ is it?” The man’s voice was strident, grating on my ears. With a click of his pen, the inky tip was protruding outward, well-prepared to begin psychoanalyzing and forcing his own stigma and biases upon his new prisoner.

Or perhaps those were my own biases talking.

I did not respond, I merely continued to stare, scanning the supposed “doctor” before me up and down, my head unmoving despite my eyes looking all around the room.

“Well, all right, then… I’m Dr. Mikhailovich, and I’ll be your psychiatrist during your stay here,” he began, leaving me to think to myself in mild annoyance, ‘Obviously.’ “Though a few other doctors will, of course, look over your documents, and we’ll all work together on a proper diagnosis and treatment plan for you.”

“Treatment.”

The word buzzed and batted around within the confines of my tormented skull, similarly to a taunting nuisance of a fly.

“While we’ve already asked your parents a few questions, we’d like to hear your side of things. To begin with, what are some symptoms you experience and struggle with? And when did you first notice these symptoms?”

Buzz, buzz, buzz……

“Stein? Is this something you’re not prepared to discuss?”

Just another fly….

“Franken?”

To be crushed under the weight of a fly swatter. Or perhaps one of my scalpels.

An annoyance; a mere fork in my road.

The man adorning a lab coat, of which he was undeserving of, stood from his chair, stepping closer and closer to me, whilst I begrudgingly continued to sit in the wheelchair that they placed me in. Mikhailovich then proceeded to ball one of his hands into a threatening fist, dragging it roughly and deeply across my collarbones and sternum.

A profound ache spread throughout my chest in response to the unwanted stimulus, as I desired fervently to rip the male’s hand off. But my body continued to remain immobile, almost like a protest to even being in the ward at all, a defiance unmatched. If I reacted with barbarity, I’d only be feeding into their own preconceived notions, what they want out of me; I’d be setting myself up to be restrained and sedated, perhaps even wrapped in a straight jacket - tied down to an uncomfortable bed not suitable for even the most vile of convicts, as more and more pills would be shoved down my throat; a force-feeding poorly disguised as generosity and assistance, simply so the staff could fulfill their sadistic desires and fantasies whilst judging and shaming me for my own, completely and utterly assault-like in nature as they’d force me to deep-throat their supposed “miracle drugs.”

A ringing whistled continuously in my ears, gentle and yet cacophonous, for the thousandth time that year. Nearly incomprehensible were the next words strung together - or, rather, yelled out together - by the psychiatrist, as he raised his unfair and cruel hand away from me.

Though, upon reflection, it seemed to make the most sense that the words shouted, called out by the doctor, were something along the lines of “Nurse.” The rest I was unable to make out properly.

🔪——————————————————>

“…tonic……path..c….ill..unsure……”

“..arents…id…know?”

The overwhelming majority of their words seemed to blend together seamlessly, as I weaved in and out of my own body, lost within the forest, breathing in the dense fog and exhaling nothing.

There was not one window present in the room - something of which I found myself grateful for despite the lack of any sort of entertaining view, and…

“…ein?…anken Stein?”

My eyes found theirs.

“Should we discuss….ifferent room?”

“Most likely, but-”

“I’ve no interest in speaking with their pawns,” I unexpectedly and matter-of-factly stated, taking the time to relearn how to speak, pronouncing each individual word, my speech hushed and unhurried. Even I could recognize the monotone in which I spoke, for all was growing more and more apparent each and every day; intensification.

The psychiatrists’ eyes each widened synchronously, Mikhailovich’s mouth opening and closing, searching for any possible response he could conjure up.

“Pawns?” One of the four doctors questioningly choked out.

They stood rather cautiously, apprehensively, as though they were approaching an undomesticated and viscous animal.

“Pawns,” I repeated, averting my gaze from the inspecting group, ignoring their exchanging of confused and intrigued glances, as well as their murmuring to one another.

“Could you tell us who this ‘they’ is, and how we are ‘pawns’?” Dr. Mikhailovich prodded, his eyes squinting as he clicked his pen once more, clipboard ready.

A part of me wanted to ask why I should bestow such information upon them, though my lips, mouth, and tongue did not seem to be taking orders from my brain. They had returned to their former rebellious state, refusing to move in a way that would form words.

What use was it to speak to them, anyway? They’d feed me medication whether I responded to their demanding questions or not. Though, I do suppose that they’d be more likely to give me the correct medicine if I were to cooperate.

“Mr. Franken Stein? Are you with us?”

No. And I’ll never be.

“Shit,” I heard the voice of one of the psychiatrists mutter into the abyss that was this room.

“You’re unable to speak very much, then?” Mikhailovich asked rhetorically, jotting a note down onto his paper, onto his brown clipboard. “I see.”

I drifted off once more as they gossiped and hypothesized amongst one another, focusing instead on the dissonance and perplexity closing in on me like the Iron Maiden.

“His parents made absolutely no mention of….”

One of the doctor’s voices faded into the distance as they all took their turns exiting the room, alerting the nurse, evidently leaving to consider how they’d harrow me next.

“All right, sweetie. I’m gonna take you to your room,” the dandelion-cladded woman grabbed hold of the handles of the wheelchair, escorting me to yet another one of my personal hells. “You’re getting a room to yourself,” she began. ‘Is it because they view me as being dangerous to others?’ I wondered to myself, even despite the fact that I already knew the answer. “It’s not exactly the most stimulating place ever, but I hope that you won’t end up too terribly bored, dear,” she assisted me with settling into the bed of the room, the wheelchair positioned beside it.

“There’s a bathroom over here, of course. And if you need anything, I’ll be waiting outside. They’re likely to call for you at any point in time, you never know with them,” Glassier chuckled, striding towards the door. The door itself had a rather petite little window, one with black lines forming a criss-cross sort of pattern on its surface. “I hope you’ll be able to grow accustomed to this… awfully grim place. I know it must be hard, but I was in here myself once, and while I most certainly hated it to hell and back, I’m still glad it all happened. I’m doing much better than I was all those years ago. Good luck to you, sweetie,” she offered me a conspicuously kind smile, one that showed in her tired, but bafflement-inducingly understanding eyes, her hand turning the white doorknob.

“Miss?” I did my best to stutter out.

For a brief moment, I honestly thought she hadn’t even heard my strained mumble, until she glanced curiously back.

There was not one bone in my body that trusted that tender-heartedness of hers… But it had caused an almost childlike warmth to spread throughout my body, along with the typical sort of repulsion. Even though she most likely wanted to gain my trust - wanted me to place my trust in the system and allow them to beat me into submission.. Not to mention, how many other patients had she behaved so gently with? I was not special… She merely felt obligated, and-

“Franken Stein? Was there something you wanted? I know you’re finding it difficult to speak at the moment… Perhaps I could find you a notebook and pen? You seem to be able to move a bit… Hm…”

“Uhm.. If you wouldn’t mind me asking… Why were you institutionalized?” I peered up at her after having analyzed every square inch of the pitiful excuse for a bed I was sitting on.

Her eyes narrowed, appearing more serious and dark, almost seeming more relaxed and… knowing. Her smile stretched into more of a grin, a proud and adoring smirk, as she stood in the door way, her head tilted.

“From what I’ve read in your documents and from what your parents have told us, you may not guess it, but you remind me a lot of myself. Let’s just keep it at that for the sake of professionalism, dear. Perhaps I’ll tell you a little later on. There’s others around right now, and I’m not sure how much they’d like me telling you,” the nurse playfully winked, waving goodbye as she left.

I examined the room around me, all was white and all was dull. The lights above me were flickering wildly, a back and forth similar to the bickering. In the bathroom, I could see from where I sat that there was no shower curtain, and no mirror whatsoever. Nor was there even so much as a door to the restroom. Not a shred of privacy seemed to exist within this building.

The firm mattress I was given had not a semblance of warmth or comfort; the frame it sat within metal and painted a now cracking white. The blanket covering my thighs was more similar to a thin sheet as opposed to a comforter, and just as nearly everything else was in this ward, it was white.

I typically found a sense of tranquility in the greyscale, but it felt as though I had been thrown into the hole of a prison, or perhaps a white, padded cell - as if I was being effectively tortured in order to acquire whatever information I possessed that the authoritative figures found to be necessary to them. Which, frankly, wasn’t too far off.

In the distance, I heard the sound of frenzied creaking, and impatient staff, as someone screamed in horror.

I felt myself to be a kindred soul with whomever that was having a needle forced into their non-consenting vein.

🔪——————————————————>

I managed to contract my fingers, curling them inward and into my palm, along with my toes as I leisurely began to twitch the muscles that made up my legs.

I moved myself to the edge of the screeching bed - truly, one wrong breath, and you’d awaken the entirety of the ward - and I robotically stood up, stretching my limbs mechanically, turning my head from side to side.

It looked as though my stupor had passed - at the very least, for the most part.

I explored the room itself, taking in my surroundings, from the tiled floor of the bathroom, to the tiled floor of the… bedroom?

I paced back and forth once done - something that has always been a much needed activity in my day to day life, and I hadn’t gotten my adequate pacing time, and with the looks of it, I wouldn’t be called to return until the very next year.

The nurse peered into the window, seemingly observing my behavior with an interested smile present on her visage, watching me mirthfully as though I were a caged zoo animal - which to be fair, I currently was and might as well have been.

The turning of the doorknob interrupted my pacing, a brief pout contorting my lips, before I remembered how I could experiment with the fools attempting to understand me.

“Hello, again. I was just notified, the doctors want you to come back now. Would you like to walk there?” The nurse poked her head in.

While the wheelchair was an enjoyable ride, now that I possessed more control over this body once again, I figured I’d demonstrate it. Though I was still exiting and entering it every once in a while, moving despite it not feeling as if I’m the one maneuvering it. At least I had improved a bit in that regard.

“Walk,” I concisely put it, moving to stand beside her welcoming form.

“I’m glad you can move more, sweetie. It must be quite a bother when you’re struggling to, huh?” She placed her hands in the pockets of her scrubs, looking down at me, her brown hair falling forwards, as I stared off at the encroaching shadows ahead.

“Yes,” I nodded in agreement, envious of the fact that her comfortable clothing had pockets.

‘It just happens sometimes. It’s nothing new,’ is what a part of me considered saying, but she’d surely tell the psychiatrist that.

“Well, I am certain you’re not going to want to tell the doctor anything at all, but trust me-“

“How can I possibly trust you?”

She sighed pensively.

“Yeah, I get it… I just mean from my own experience, it was worth it, dear,” she continued further.

“How can I even trust that you were admitted here at all?” I interrogated as we approached the door, of which seemed to open almost immediately.

“Welcome back, Franken Stein. I see you’re moving and speaking again, yes?” Mikhailovich spoke in a sing-song tone.

“Yes,” I plainly replied, staring intensely up at his rather tanned face.

“That’s wonderful,” he placed his hand on my back, a gesture I promptly flinched away from, as he attempted to lead me politely into his office. “You don’t like to be touched?” The nuisance inquired.

“You didn’t even ask first,” I scowled at him, or at the very least, on the inside I scowled at him, lest my countenance not go hand in hand with my inner thoughts and emotions once again.

“My apologies,” he bowed his head, and I hoped that he felt ashamed.

“Take a seat right over there,” he pointed me in the direction of the plush sofa against the wall.

“I’d like to say, right off the bat,” he spoke up as I sat down. “We are going to prescribe you antipsychotics.”

“Am I not here due to my violent tendencies and ‘psychopathic’ behaviors?” I wish I could say I was dumbfounded, but this was just as I had predicted originally. I am aware of how they view me. I know it now, and I knew it then.

“That’s not the only reason. And that’s not exactly something we can treat with medication. Only therapy, and if you’re not willing to participate-“

“Of course I’m not.”

“Your parents told us you’d be difficult about it. They informed us of how stubborn you happen to be,” he said with a titter. Something about it irked me to the point of mild rage and disgust.

“Why are you prescribing me antipsychotics? I haven’t told you anything yet-“

“Your parents have, son. Not to mention the sort of… episode you seemed to have earlier.

“Episode?”

He inhaled a tense and heavy breath, laying his clipboard and pen down on his lap, staring me directly in my eyes as I glanced away.

“Well, we all agreed that the episode you had earlier resembled catatonia greatly.”

I loathed the earnest and weighty inflection to his voice.

“It just happens sometimes, it’s not anything serious,” I explained.

“Well, Franken, whether it’s serious for specifically you or not, that’s the one of the many symptoms your parents have listed and that I’ve personally observed in you today.”

“Many?”

“While some of the symptoms are entirely separate issues, and culminate into what we think is likely going to be multiple diagnoses - that is once you’re prepared to be honest - many of them form their own sort of… cluster..”

“And what is the label you’ve given that cluster?” I glared at his arrogant self, my eyes narrow and pointed.

He exhaled a breath full of trepidation.

“How about I tell you what your parents told us first?” He suggested. “We can’t be too sure yet, given the lack of information you’ve given us, but…”

“Just tell me,” I calmly, yet restlessly demanded.

“Well, to begin, they mentioned an extreme lack of empathy, violent and sadistic tendencies and ideation, a lack of guilt and moral understanding, a lack of shame, a lack of humiliation, a lack of sympathy, a lack of general care for the rights and lives of others - all of which you’ve displayed since you were essentially born - their words not mine,” he began with his eloquent elucidation. “But they also mentioned certain… other things. Such as seeming rather ‘dead,’ as in being relatively expressionless, not only in your face and body language, but in your voice. They mentioned hearing you often ‘shush’ nothing at all. They mentioned you displaying paranoid behaviors since you were very little, as well.”

“What else did this bastards give away?”

Betrayal.

“They mentioned that you’ve seemed to have lost a lot of your former motivation. They discussed your inability to care for yourself. They mentioned hearing you whisper to something at night, and how it disturbed them. They mentioned how you never sleep. They mentioned finding it difficult at times to make sense of what you’re saying. They noted certain odd behaviors and odd things you’ve said-“

“Such as?”

“Mentions of people outside of your window, consistently asking whether or not they, too, have heard or seen certain things when they hadn’t, random questions such as ‘where is the line,’ that make no sense to them and that do not have any contextual value whatsoever, etc. They mentioned you being rather tangential, too.”

I focused on my hands, attempting to repress the urge to brutalize the two of them to moment I was released.

“Can you tell me how these symptoms have affected your life?” The doctor continued his imploring.

“You never told me what it is that you think that I have,” I pointed out attentively.

“We can’t be sure yet.”

“And you’re still going to medicate me?”

“We suspect-“

“But you can’t be sure,” I glowered at the man.

“How have certain symptoms affected your life, Franken?”

“How do you think they’ve affected my life, Mikhailovich?” I allowed my gaze to meet his, my eyebrows pinched together in pure and unbridled indignation. “Look where I am right now, for Death’s sake.”

“Yes, but we are looking for more specific answers. We only want to help you.”

“Yeah, sure. You’re entire job is to uphold the status quo,” he made notes on his fault-finding sheet of notebook paper, his hand going a mile a minute.

“How so? Why do you suppose that?”

I was only feeding into his desires by telling him.

“You shove pills down people’s throats in order to produce better cogs for your dystopian, capitalist machinery. You don’t care. You don’t try to rid the world of stigma and ignorance. You don’t listen. You merely hear one word and decide on the proper pill to shut your patient up, and get your piles of money.”

He lifted his head from his paper, appearing almost bemused by my latter statements. His hand had ceased its consistent pace, as he blinked, perplexed, a few times.

“Was that not the answer you were expecting, Doctor?” I ask, a little bite and bitterness in my voice, as well as on my face.

“I don’t really know what I was expecting,” he chortled awkwardly, seemingly moving on. “They’ve evidently had quite negative impacts on your life and wellbeing, then, I presume?”

I closed my eyes for a short moment, allowing my head to fall backwards exasperatedly.

“Yes.”

“How so?”

I fantasized about banging my head on the white wall behind me, blood and brain matter splattering all over its clean surface.

What if it was the doctor’s brain matter? Dissecting the dissecter. Oh, how I adored that idea. Poetic justice.

“They make trying to live any sort of life at all a living hell, a waking nightmare - which is pretty accurate considering how there is no more line between the dream world and the waking world. I can’t take care of myself. I can never rest. I’m exhausted all the time from trying to control my violent urges. I’m exhausted all the time from trying to keep the static at bay and failing miserably-“

“‘Static,’ you say?” He interrupted my monologue.

“Yes. Static.”

“Would you feel comfortable with explaining what ‘static’ means to you?”

“I don’t feel comfortable with any of this, what do you think?” I snarl. You’d think it would be obvious at this point.

“We can discuss it when you’re ready,” he offered a courteous smile.

“I’ll never be ready.”

“Not with that attitude, you won’t,” though he meant it encouragingly, it caused me to internally cringe in on myself. “Anyway, you mentioned keeping it at bay?”

“Yes. The thoughts stack up one after another, and they’re constantly following me.”

He squinted his suspecting eyes, his head moving from his clipboard right back to me.

“What do you mean by that, exactly?”

“Please stop,” I entreated, growing more and more agitated by the minute. The staticy popping grew only louder and louder, like fireworks or electric pulses, swirling around and stirring. Each question, simply being in his office left the two mixing halves to argue unwearyingly. “I’ve already said too much. Don’t ask anything else, please.”

“That’s okay. Any progress is good progress from my perspective.”

“No. We haven’t made ‘progress,’ you can’t say that,” I grimaced, my countenance surely growing more petulant as the seconds passed. The very prospect of making progress with one of the Dr. Status Quos was enough to push me over the edge.

“Why do you say that?” He continued dragging the scalpel through my thoracic cavity, tugging on the layers beneath.

Poetic justice.

“Stop. Fucking. Asking.”

“My apologies. I can see that it is bothering you. How about we let the nurse take you back to your room, then?”

“Fine,” I huff out, standing abruptly, bolting towards the door.

“Nurse!” Mikhailovich shouted, leaving Stein to quickly cover his ears and frown.

“Stop doing that,” I requested, or rather, ordered.

“My apolo-“

“Stop doing that, too. I know you’re not sorry.”

He narrowed his eyes one more time before I was to leave, his hand and pen flowing not-so-gracefully together as one.

The nurse opened the door, beaming, per the usual.

“You ready, dear?”

“Very,” I rushed out of the room.

🔪——————————————————>

“You all right? You seemed a little… freaked out back there.”

“I’m a little better now that I’m out of that room,” I say. “Still don’t wanna be here.”

“Understandably so,” she gave a quick nod. “Can I let you in on a little secret?” Glassier grinned ear to ear at me, as we trudged side by side. “I don’t feel anything for others either.”

“Then why do you behave so kindly? Simply to utilize it to your advantage?” I raised an eyebrow, the nurse having piqued my curiosity.

“Well, sometimes. But honestly, I wasn’t treated too kindly when I was admitted here, and I wish I had someone back then who wasn’t so…”

“Clinical and judgmental?”

“Precisely so,” she giggled, clearly reminiscing on time long gone. “Plus, as I’ve previously stated, you remind me of myself when I was your age. Even if only to some degree. Not to mention, everyone in here I view as an extension of myself. The mentally ill people are my people,” she sounded entirely sincere. “IThat being said, I still haven’t given you any reason to trust that I was ever even forced here, huh?”

“Nope. Not at all. How do I even know you’re as apathetic as I am?”

She laughed, a mischievous smirk stretching the corners of her mouth outwards.

“I’ll tell you what,” she began. “You’re an insomniac, right?”

“Always been, always will be.”

“Since you likely won’t be sleeping - which, I don’t know how anyone could given the ‘mattresses’ on those ‘beds -“ she used air quotes whilst rolling her eyes. “I’ll sneak you into the employee’s only room filled with cabinets full of patient files - new and old - in the middle of the night.”

“Oh, really? Or are you going to run off, call another member of the staff in, and get me in trouble for the sake of laughs?” My body tenses in suspicion.

“You really are paranoid, aren’t you?” The nurse blithely snickered.

“I don’t think so,” I tilted me head with furrowed brows.

“Well, they certainly do.”

“Obviously.”

“No, honey, I mean they really do. They think you might be a schizophrenic.”

“Yeah, I figured as much,” I nonchalantly replied.

“Oh? Do you think of yourself as one, too?”

“Not at all. I simply understand why others may think I am.”

“I see…” Glassier drawled. “Are you going to come with me or not, then? If it really gets to you, then… Wait.. I have an idea!” She slapped her hands together elatedly. “Why don’t I just bring you my old patient files? I’d bring you your own, but those are currently in use.”

“Sure. How will I know that you didn’t simply create those documents over the next few hours, mirroring them after the real patient files?”

“May I touch you?” She asked, which I was greatly appreciative of.

“Sure?” I response quizzically.

She placed her hand in my hair, ruffling it, as she opened the door to the room they’d assigned me.

“Sweetie, I say this with complete respect and without any judgment whatsoever, but accept the medication they give you. You need it. Even if they’re only giving it to you so you’ll conform, or what have you. Take it, darling.”

I stepped into the chilling room, beginning to tremble as I swiftly moved towards the glorified sheet on the bed, covering this body I am in possession of with it.

“Try not to lose whatever will you have left to live in here,” she shut the door quietly, her footsteps pitter-pattering away from the door.

Upon her exit, I took another look around the dingy room, a foreign urge, foreign need bubbling up within me.

It was the urge to weep.

I didn’t know how long it had been since a year last fell from either of my eyes, which began to water as I considered it…

As I considered how, whether I was stuck within a certain stupor or not, all control, all of the rights I ever had were entirely gone now. Even as mobile as I currently was, I still had as much control over what happened to me as I did when I was unable to even so much as speak.

Despite the burning sensation in my eyes, I refused to let a droplet fall, for if they happened to walk in on my blubbering, they’d more than certainly view me as easier prey.

I was in their kingdom now, their domain. They had all of the reigns. And they wanted me to cower and kiss their vermin feet. They wanted to suck me dry of all the blood I have, similarly to a bunch of black, slimy leaches..

After all, they had already taken viles from my veins for the sake of “evaluation.”

I will never comply. I will never obey.

But if the nurse isn’t actively lying, actively hunting me, as well…

Should I?

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