Chapter Text
“Lord God almighty, creator of heaven and earth, we ask you to bless this water as we use it in faith to forgive our sins. Lord, in your mercy give us living water, springing up as a fountain of salvation; free us, body and soul, from every danger, and admit us to your presence in purity of heart…”
John let the words wash over him. He didn’t have to think about them; he knew the whole thing off by heart. He knew where to sit and where to stand. He knew when to listen and when to join in. He knew the differences between normal Sunday mass and special occasions. He knew how far he was into a sermon and what the priest would talk about in the evening mass depending on what had happened in the two morning masses. He knew how to bless himself as he came in and he knew the etiquette of holy communion. These things had been etched into his mind before he could even speak.
At six years old John didn’t really understand or notice how often he and his family went to church, it seemed, to all intents and purposes, normal to him. The ritual of Sundays had always been the same. John and his family would rise at six, say their prayers, eat breakfast, wash and then get dressed into their first Sunday best. After that they would go to communion in the morning at eight, return home briefly to change once again, have a spot of tea, and would return to St Martins for the second Sunday morning communion at ten. They would spend the day alternating between eating, having tea at the dinner table and going through bible studies, and then they would return to the Church again for the evening service. They would often go to communion part way through the week as well if there was one being held, and his mother always knew exactly when the confessional was open.
He didn’t asked his mother why they went to church so much, although when he asked had politely what communion was for, she, apparently pleased by his interest, insisted that it was to cleanse their souls of sin so that they would be worthy to remain in God’s favour and on his earth. For a six year old extrapolating from such information was easy enough. If communion got rid of sin, and they went to communion all the time, then they must be full of sin.
He didn’t really know how he had done so much sin, that the family would have to take communion this often, but he assumed that there must have been a lot of sin that needed accounting for. His mother would point it out to him often enough. “It’s sinful,” was a phrase often heard around the house. If only he could work out what the sin was, then he could stop doing it. If he could be a good boy and not sin then he wouldn’t be so dirty. If he wasn’t a bad child then his Mummy would stop being unhappy. Then they wouldn’t have to go to church, then he could play with his toys and spend time with his sister, whom John, for now at least, thought was the best person ever. Mummy didn’t tell her she was full of sin, Harriet was amazing.
Some part of John told him that it wasn’t just him who was sinful, there were lots of other ladies he saw at the church all the time as well whom he was sure must do some bad things during the week. Why would they come so often otherwise? He tried to imagine how they would ever be bad people, and he couldn’t work it out. He quite liked them all things considered; they smelled of powder and gave him sweets and pinched his cheeks and told him how much he looked like his father, although when one woman said that within hearing of his mother she turned a strange mottled puce and dragged him away to kneel outside confession. He wasn’t sure what it was he had done wrong, though he must have done something and so he stayed there, very still and very quiet, until his mother came and got him again.
Mother was the one who was most interested in sin. She was especially interested in the cleansing of sin and ritual to purify the soul. Sometimes his mother would decide that the family weren’t going to eat, to feel how Jesus felt as he was proving himself worthy of heaven in the desert. She would make them drink lots of water every Saturday, to ensure that their bodies were pure for church, and in the corner of the hallway was their own personal stoup for their holy water. She kept it in bottles, and they all knew that they had to bless themselves on their way out of and their way into the house.
It was just what they did, and John sort of understood after all, he was expected to wash to stop himself getting dirty, he figured a soul, whatever that was, probably needed the same treatment.
He was sure that other children must do this sort of thing as well, but they never spoke of it. His father insisted that to be boastful of their family’s dedication to God was sinful in and of itself, though father never did seem as involved in the church as his Mother was. But still, pride was a deadly sin, the sort of sin that he would go to hell for, so he didn’t speak of it at all.
He went to a catholic primary school, and they held mass as well every other Wednesdays for the older children. Even though he went to communion often, he was still expected to sit there and pray along and to receive his blessing from the priest who would visit them; his mother had requested it. Whilst the others his age were playing outside, or singing songs about Jesus in the classroom, John sat and watched the all too familiar mass unfurl, another one to add to his growing collection.
“Do hurry up, John” his mother said as the sermon ended and they left with the rest of the congregation crowding out of the door. “We have things to do.”
Today was a day where he would go and play in the river, they all would, they would sit by the bank all in white and let the water wash them clean as mother read passages from the bible about Jesus’s baptism and he would ignore most of it in favour of trying to see the little fishes that made the streams their home.
Living in the water, John thought, they could be free.
~*~
Nowadays John didn’t go to the river. The last time he went bad things happened. That was why he was here he supposed; here in his room, packing a meagre suitcase of belongings and personal items. He wondered if there were things he wasn’t allowed to bring. Probably stupid stuff, like shoelaces and belts and god knows what. Residents were probably dressed in some kind of uniform to make sure that no-one hurt themselves. The building was probably all whitewashed walls and metal furniture, the occasional official person wandering purposefully back and forth with a clipboard whilst the rest of them were isolated for fear of letting the crazies mingle.
He went through a checklist in his head of the thing that he needed to take; clean clothes, towels, toiletries, teddy, hard drive with all his work on it, favourite book (the one he would never let his mother see), his other favourite book (the mother approved one), grey’s anatomy text book, biochemistry text book, a few photos of family, the rosary his mother had given him.
His memory box.
He paused at that. It was stupid really; a box of trinkets highlighting better times and better places. A trip he had enjoyed or an outing into the woods. A particular interesting stone and…
That fucking tape.
His hand hovered over it. After all these years, after all this time and all the bad blood that had come after, and he still couldn’t throw away that fucking god forsaken tape. It wasn’t like he hadn’t tried. On that first day when he stopped talking to John and starting taunting him he had tried to get rid of it. When he mother questioned him he had wanted to get rid of it to protect himself. But somehow, even after everything that came after, even after that day, even after the anguish that came with it, he still couldn’t bring himself to get rid of it.
He was just too much of a coward he guessed; too pathetic, holding onto a thought and a feeling when the person that the feeling belonged to was long gone. The person those feelings were for was long gone.
John was long gone.
Too much seemed to stop him from throwing that stupid tape into the bin, he instead carefully put it back in its place, sealed the lid and put the tin in his suitcase amongst his clothes. He carelessly packed a few other bits and bobs; it didn’t really matter if he forgot something. It wasn’t like it would be going anywhere, and his mother had all the really important documentation he needed.
There was a soft knock at the door, all the sounds around him had been soft nowadays, so as not to distress him he supposed. People treated him as though he might suddenly lash out if the noise level reached above a pre-set level of decibels. He knew it was his mother; his sister wasn’t talking to him and his father wouldn’t come near his room. He missed Harry sometimes, but then he remembered that Harry hadn’t been much like the big sister he used to play with quite a while.
“I’m sorry, but the officer’s here.” He noticed how any terms of endearment she used to use were long gone now, not that he had heard them for a few years anyway. “Have you got everything you need?” She asked, “Have you got your spare…”
She still couldn’t say it. He doubted that she’d ever be able to say it to his face, there was too much guilt there, or perhaps disgust. Either way it has amounted to this strange half recognised elephant in the room. Everyone trying to pretend it was normal when it was anything but.
“I’ve got my spare prosthetic mum, don’t worry.” John reassured her, consciously avoiding the use of the word ‘leg’ in turn.
It had been the first thing he had packed, and undoubtedly the hospital would want to take a look at it before he was checked in. The nagging worry that he might have to be on crutches or in a wheelchair for the first few days, whilst they verified that he hadn’t tried to smuggle anything into the building via his leg, terrified him. There was nothing worse than losing independent movement; he remembered what it was like after the accident, before he had gotten his artificial leg. Though he had now lost his independence in some sense, he was acutely aware that there were things, options, which would have been much worse.
Of course the hospital never said that they would take his leg to inspect it, but that paranoid part of his mind, the one that had heard far too many media horror stories about mental institutions and the way they treated in-patients, wouldn’t let the thought leave his head.
“Maybe it’s all for the best.” His mother said, and not for the first time, “Maybe they can fix… everything.” She said with a vague gesture of her hands, saying more in her omissions than her words ever could.
John froze in place stupid knitted red socks still in hand. He knew to what ‘everything’ his mother was referring, and it made him sick to his stomach. Just the meanest suggestion of it spiralled him into the path of a desperate churning guilt, mixed with the desire to scream a big ‘fuck you’ to the indoctrinated denunciation of self that had been thrust upon him from before he could remember. ‘It’s not my fault that you fucked up!’ he had been screaming internally for years, but this time it was him who had fucked up, and no matter how many things had caused him to arrive at this terrible place, it was still John’s fault.
That was why he was being taken to the hospital by the long arm of the law, and not by health care professionals. How had his life come to this? His father wouldn’t even acknowledge his presence, his mother was driving herself mad trying to pretend that nothing was wrong, and his sister was go knows where taking advantage of his parents distracted nature to freely pursue her own ‘sins’. Though being fair to her, he was mostly certain she was just being a normal student.
But in this family, normal was not normal.
He zipped his suitcase shut, and hauled it downstairs. This would be his life now, this meagre package of possessions. His sister watched him from her room with a look of barely disguised distain. They hadn’t gotten on in years. No more would they play together and, whatever his mother would like to believe, it had started long before his accident.
“Say hello to the crazies from me.” She uttered, the lack of sympathy and cruel humour radiating through every word.
John didn’t reply. Though a thousand rebuttals filled his head, he didn’t have the energy to express them anymore. He never had been able to confront people and the trial and subsequent court order had taken what was left of his spirit out of him.
She retreated to her room, letting the door slam behind her, as though to finalise her goodbye and her association with him. He tried not to care though, in some way she had disassociated herself from him a long time ago, there wasn’t anything new there, and therefore nothing to get upset about. He just wished he could make himself believe that. Inside all he felt was hurt. Then again all he had felt was hurt for quite a while now. It wasn’t a new thing.
He reached the living room where the officer was sitting drinking a cup of tea offered by his mother. “I’m ready to go now.” John said, not knowing what to make of this gentle figure orchestrating his removal from his life and home. He had expected some gruff thuggish man ready to manhandle him into the car and away from here, but instead his man seemed content to let John take his time and say goodbye to his surroundings. Did this officer know what John had done? Was he being nice because he was unaware?
John guessed that it didn’t matter really.
He gave his mother a brief hug, the sort that was reserved for friends of friends and regular acquaintances, but not for between family members. There was no warmth there, and there was certainly no more than the barest of emotions expressed. It was the sort of contact that people endured to be polite, not the sort of contact that suggested any real care or affection was shared, and it took him a moment to realise that he was staring at his mother in a sort of state of shock.
John knew that his mother didn’t care that much for him; she had always seen him as a disappointment, but when he was leaving, to return goodness knew when, it was more of a blow than he had initially anticipated having her be so uncaring and unfazed by it. He certainly wasn’t unmoved by the situation. John was bloody terrified. He was terrified of being wrenched from his life, no matter how strange. He was terrified of the people that he would be staying with. He was terrified at the idea of being in an institution and what that meant for his future. Did he even have a future anymore or was this it? Was he now condemned to this sort of life?
“I’ll take your case, lad.” The officer said, gently picking up John’s worldly goods and taking them over to the unmarked car. He was grateful for that he supposed, at least they weren’t making a big song and dance over the situation. He would be discreetly carried away in the grey light of morning to be quietly forgotten about and life would carry on as per usual.
The ride was sedate and unhurried. The officer didn’t try to engage John in conversation, and instead was content to play soft whispers of music on the radio. The gentle strains of sound and the soft rocking of the car would have sent John to sleep, if he hadn’t been scared stiff.
When they finally pulled up, they had arrived at what looked like an old stately home; a giant sprawling estate which had probably had many generations worth of extensions added to fit with the fashion of the time before moving into the NHS’s hands. John would have been lying to say that he wasn’t shocked and surprised. This place was gorgeous, and nothing like the concrete sixties monstrosity that he had conjured up in his mind.
The officer pulled his bag across the gravel of the drive and rang the doorbell, silently inviting John to follow him, rather than parading him to the door. If John had been a different person, perhaps a braver person, he knew that he could probably run away from everyone and everything in that moment, but John had never been particularly brave, at least not when it came to figures of authority.
The man who opened the door reminded John of a well shaved Father Christmas. Though he didn’t know where the comparison came from, as the only physical similarities seemed to be the slightly rotund figure. John thought it was the man’s demeanour that had forced the connection; he seemed jolly in the way that John couldn’t help but imagine was perpetual, as though there was no way that this man could avoid being happy.
The place looked as stately inside as it did out, but it was much more brightly coloured. It seemed almost humorous to him. It was the perfect reflection of so many people; the vision of polite society with the acceptable stoic exterior, but inside was a riot of messy colour that you could peer at from the outside if you looked carefully enough. He clearly hadn’t had enough sleep if a building was making him get philosophical.
“You must be John,” the man said in a booming and slightly accented voice, grasping John’s hand firmly, “My name’s Stamford, Doctor Mike Stamford, I’m the resident psychologist here. We’ve got lots of day and night staff, but I’m here twenty-four-seven if you need me. We’ll sort out the formalities, I’ll show you to your room and then later I’ll start the grand tour.”
It was embarrassing being led to the side office where he and his luggage were carefully searched for dangerous items. Belts were, cliché as it seemed, actually banned items. His shoes however, being lace-less, were okay. The officer was quick to assure John that this was standard procedure and that he had nothing to worry about, but John couldn’t help but wonder what happened to people who were terrified about being touched. Could they cope with the perfunctory pat down that John had endured, or would they be given separate treatment? There were so many questions he had about this place, but his mouth seemed to have lost the ability to ask them.
“I can take it from here constable.” Dr Stamford shook the constable’s hand as well before taking the now resorted and packed case.
“Thank you, constable.” John said, timidly, though he wasn’t really sure that saying thank you was appropriate here.
The constable touched the brim of his cap in a way that was antiquated, and yet didn’t look even slightly out of place. “Good luck, John”
“Right,” said Mike, who had just locked the office door. Clapping his hands he then picked up the suitcase from where he had briefly placed it on the floor. “Follow me, and I’ll take you to your room.”
John trailed behind through this grand old building. Large windows shed light across the hallways and stairs and he felt, though still scared, slightly calmer than he had been when he had been packing earlier. The rooms and the corridors were so distinctive he also was fairly sure that he wouldn’t get lost any time soon, that in itself was a great bonus, he didn’t know how people were split up and, for want of a better word, organised here, but if he could tell the difference between the corridors already, then he stood a good chance of being able to avoid the places where he wasn’t allowed to be.
“This part of the building is for long term male residents. The girls stay in the opposite wing, the short term patients stay more towards the centre, and the communal and day patients areas are all in the middle near the entrance hall. We care for about a hundred and fifty residents at any one time, and about thirty are long term, like yourself.”
John didn’t have to be told that, he had heard his options enough times in court and then the details were shared with him afterwards by his interim social worker. Though Dr Stamford would probably want to tell him everything again to make sure that John understood, he already knew what lay ahead of him: John would be in the institute for a minimum of a year and he would remain longer if the social worker related to his case thought that he needed it.
“Your room is here. You’ve got the space to yourself, so you can personalise it anyway you like. We encourage individualisation here. If you want paints or pictures you can put them up, I hope you’ll understand that we do reserve the right to say if we don’t think your choice fits in with the ethos of this establishment.”
Nodding his reply John couldn’t help but be acutely aware of the fact that Dr Stamford was talking to him like an adult. Like a sane adult, and John wasn’t sure whether to be happy about it or worried. He was now living in a mental institution, it didn’t seem right that he would be treated like a normal person here when he had spent years at home being treated like a witless infant, even before the incident that had brought him here.
“I’ll let you get settled,” Dr Stamford offered, “I’ll come and find you again at around five o’clock so we’ve got time to chat before dinner, but feel free to wander around the house and communal areas. The walled garden at the back has some communal vegetable patches, which you’re welcome to look at, though the rest of the grounds are only available under supervision.” With that brief invitation he walked out and gently closed the door behind him.
The room was white, but in that kind of neutral way that was actually very comfortable, the furniture, though plain and utilitarian, was wooden and homely unlike the kinds that were normally used in hospitals. He suspected that the rooms were allotted on a case by case basis, as he had been given what was probably quite a desirable space on the ground floor which meant he didn’t have to climb stairs. It wasn’t that he couldn’t climb stairs, but it took a lot more effort than it used to, and he was always slow with his prosthetic heavy against what was left of his knee joint, especially if he had to bend too much.
He sat on the bed and lay down trying to imagine life here for the next twelve months. He tried to think of what creative ways he could make this room his own, but the only thought that crossed his mind was green forests and winding rivers. Such suggestions would probably be vetoed as being detrimental to his recovery. Instead he tried to blank it from his mind. He thought that perhaps he could go for a wander around the house, to try and make himself feel like he was at home, but he knew that forgetting everything wasn’t that easy.
Instead he lay very still and quiet, and breathed in the still, hoping that it would, in turn, still his mind.