I do not own the Teen Titans or Dr. Leslie Thompkins.
A/N: My Robin is going to be Richard "Dick" Grayson. His background worked better for my story. I tried to portray a mental institution to the best of my abilities, but, considering I've never been in one, I could only go with what I had seen on TV or read in books. If anyone has any ideas on how I can make it better, let me know!
I Miss My Mind the Most
"Good morning, Richard, and how are we feeling today?" a high feminine voice asked cheerily, awakening me from my sleep.
My eyes snapped open in alarm to find a woman I had never seen before standing over me. She had a sweet old-lady appearance: short and overweight; her once light blond hair, now turning grey, tied back in a bun; crow's feet around her hazel eyes that stood out because she smiled so much; glasses that hung around her neck by a gold chain; and a cheerful disposition. Rather than an old fashioned dress and apron, though, she wore white scrubs, like she was about to go in and operate on someone.
"Who are you?" I asked in a raspy voice. I attempted to sit up, only to find that my arms and legs were held down by leather restraints. My costume had been replaced by what looked like a hospital gown with, thankfully, pants underneath similar to the ones the lady was wearing.
"Silly boy," she said pleasantly as she opened the curtains to reveal the sun shining through a window with bars on the outside. "I'm Nurse Sheila, but most people here just call me Sheila."
"And where is 'here'?" I asked cautiously and looked around, trying not to panic. I was in a small room just big enough to fit the twin-sized bed I was strapped to and a dresser in the corner, leaving just enough room for one to walk about freely.
Everything was white: walls, tiled floor, bed sheets, curtains, even the dresser in the corner was white. It smelled of rubbing alcohol and something else, something medicinal, no doubt. There was only one white door on my left with a small window.
Sheila was looking at me oddly. "Is something wrong, Richard?" she asked kindly.
"Yeah...What the hell is going on?" I yelled.
Sheila crossed her arms and looked at me sternly. "Now, Richard," she scolded, "we'll have none of that. You know you're only to use your inside voice here at the mental institution."
My eyes widened and my mouth dropped open in horror. "I'm in a nut house?" I screeched as I began to struggle against the restraints.
"No, Richard. It's a mental institution," she said slowly and precisely, as if she were talking to a preschooler.
"Stop calling me Richard," I snarled as I continued to struggle.
"What would you have me call you, then?" she asked innocently as she opened the door and wheeled in a tray with some food on it.
I stopped struggling and thought I'd try another approach. "Look, there's obviously been some kind of mistake," I said with a slight laugh as she pushed a button under my bed that caused the upper half of the bed to rise. "I don't belong here." She undid the restraint on my right wrist, nodding politely as I spoke.
The second I was free, I grabbed the front of Sheila's shirt and pulled her down so she was eye level with me. She gave a small squeal and her eyes widened in surprise. "Now, you will listen to me," I hissed, tightening my grip. "I. Don't. Belong. Here." Suddenly, the door slammed open and two guys came running into the room.
At first glance, they looked more like they belonged on a football team than in a nut house. They were both well over six feet tall, very well built, and wore white scrubs similar to Sheila's. Aside from that, they were as different as night and day.
The one on the left had dark brown hair cut incredibly short and dark brown eyes to match. There was a large scar that ran from the outside of his right eye down to the right side of his mouth. His nose was crooked at the top, like it had been broken a few times. His expression was grim and I doubted that he smiled or laughed very often. He was definitely a fighter.
His partner, when compared to Brown Hair, looked more like a kid fresh out of high school. He had light blond hair cut short, but in a spiky kind of fashion, like he used too much hair gel. He had electric blue eyes that creeped me out just by looking at them. He was smiling in a way which made me think he should have been submitted to this place years ago.
I was able to get all this in about two seconds which was about how long it took before Brown Hair came around on my left and put me in a headlock, cutting off my air supply, while commanding me to let Sheila go and Blond Hair tried to pry my hand free of her shirt. Now, I may be stubborn, but I am not stupid. I knew I couldn't win. About five seconds after Brown Hair got his arm around my neck, I released Sheila, though he didn't let me go until Blond Hair had my right wrist restrained again. They backed away slowly, glaring at me the whole time, as if challenging me to try that again. I took in a few deep breaths and sneered at them.
"You okay, Sheila?" Brown Hair asked, in a deep authoritative voice. He turned his head in her direction, but he never took his eyes off me.
"Yes, I think so," she replied quietly while trying to straighten her shirt. "Thank you, Brandon." Brown Hair gave a slight nod. "Thank you, Benjamin." Blond Hair gave a slight nod. "You may wait out in the hall now while I give Richard his breakfast. I'll call if I need anything."
They began to leave slowly, though I guess Benjamin just had to have the last word. He whipped around and pointed his finger at me, a mad gleam in his eyes. "Try that again, Dick," he said in an annoying nasally voice, "and it'll be a whole lot worse." He slammed the door behind him.
I snickered. I guess that was, for lack of better words, a threat. His voice had made it somewhat comical. Sheila had a smile back on her face and brought the tray with food on it to the bed.
"I guess it's never a dull day here, hmm?" she said in her sickeningly sweet voice. "Now, since you can't seem to keep your hands to yourself, I guess I'm going to have to feed you."
"I'm not hungry," I mumbled, turning my head away from her.
"Oh, Richard, don't pout," she chided.
I sat there, seething with anger. "Just tell me one thing," I said dangerously. "Why am I here?"
"Because you're sick, honey," she said easily as she moved the tray away. "You have a delusional disorder. Dr. Thompkins will be by shortly so you can have your daily session with her."
I turned back quickly as Sheila was leaving the room. "Dr. Leslie Thompkins?" I asked in surprise.
"Of course, honey, unless you know another Dr. Thompkins." And she left with a small laugh.