A/N: Don't own jack. Not even jill. None of it. Except this story. I'm no expert on the exact happenings or the appropriate regulations of a psych ward or mental hospital but I will say that that's what imagination is for, right? I kind of like my own idea of what I think one would be like for our beloved characters. I love reviews and critiques are welcome, just try not to go for my jugular.
Warnings: I have decided due to multiple responses of people being upset about my lack of clear warnings (again my hope was to avoid giving away the plot but I realize now that there is a bigger responsibility as a writer to ensure that people are properly prepared for the harder, darker, sort of content) that I would update this chap and make it very clear what to expect so hopefully no one feels potentially triggered, upset, etc. PLEASE NOTE: There will be - Character death: major and minor, suicide, mentions of murder, sexual abuse/assault, physical abuse, slash/smut, and racist, sexist, and generally inappropriate language. I'm not going to go back over every single chapter to provide specific warning each time but just know that everything I mentioned above will happen at some point in this story so again, if it's not for you, I understand, and please with respect, don't read it. Not every story is for everybody.
Now with that said, if you're still reading at this point of course, be prepared my dears or respectfully exit before your eyes burn. Not that I want your eyes to burn. I want them to feel nice, hopefully as they rove over my story. Just sayin...
How many times did the vending machine have to stop fucking working when he so desperately needed a cereal bar, he would rape his own mouth just to get it?
It's not like they were allowed any real comforts in this god forsaken place. It took him over a week just to earn enough change to be able to afford the damn thing. A fucking week. And all he wanted was to enjoy a fucking cereal bar.
His foot acted of its own accord. Then it was joined by his fists. Then at some point, he was ramming the machine with his broad shoulder, tilting it upward with his growing ferocity.
He barely registered being slammed on his back. One glance across the tiled floor told him that either he or someone else was bleeding.
There has to be two or three people on him. His screams are wild, full of anger and pain beyond that of someone simply being robbed the chance of something as seemingly insignificant as a cereal bar.
"Calm down Puckerman!"
"Sedate him, NOW!"
He fights. He fights as if this is his last moment of living.
And then he sees someone. A lithe, pale someone, being led into the facility.
They lock eyes.
The last thing he remembers seeing is blue. A really nice blue that reminds him of summer skies.
Then darkness overtakes him.
"Noah, this is the third time we've had to restrain you in the past week alone, and the second time you've physically assaulted the staff. Not to mention your other incidents with some of your peers. If you keep having these violent outbursts, we'll have no choice but to transfer you to the juvenile detention center."
He wasn't fazed. Whatever this pill pushing crack pot had to say, it wouldn't faze him.
"I wouldn't have had to go all ape shit up if the fuckin' vending machines in here actually worked. Doc," he added codescendingly.
"Noah. If you just would've notified the staff, I'm sure they would've been able to assist you-"
"Oh, bull shit! I've tried telling these fuck nuts about it. I did last time this shit happened and you know what they did? Abso-fuckin'-lutely nothin'."
It was obvious the Doctor's patience was seriously thinning. His grey eyes were alert, but at the same time weary, tired. Dr. Schuester had a whole hospital full of teenaged patients. Cutters. Schizo's. But none ever quite pained him as much as the young man sitting across from him.
Paranoid, prejudiced, narcissist, with explosive rage, severe emotional dysregulation, and no impulse control. The kid was a junkie turned veteran thief with no ability to follow rules.
He was diagnosed with conduct disorder. Dr. Schuester secretly thinks he was just born an asshole. Six months of these sorts of incidents have done nothing to deter his theory about the kid so far.
"Look Noah - "
"Puck," the teen interjected. His eyes steely, a direct contradiction to the smirk on his lips.
Dr. Schuester exhaled slowly.
"Mr. Puckerman, all I know is that you have to stop doing this. I can't justify keeping you here if you keep being physically violent and destructive. You're here to go through the program, get through treatment, and stay out of juvie."
"Yeah, well how do you expect me to do all that if you guys can't even manage to keep shit workin' around here? Guy can't even treat himself to a god damn juice box without jumpin' through twenty fuckin' hoops."
"Lashing out is only making things worse for you. And judging from your repetitive number of offenses this week, I'll take it that you've been un-medicated."
The boorish teen sits up at that remark. His smile a little less faciscious, a little more thoughtful.
"What makes you think that?"
"Only your increased outbursts."
"Whatever Doc. Prove it!"
"Prove it! Prove that I haven't been takin' those fuckin' pills."
Dr. Schuester leaned into his desk, his knuckles whitening as he clutched the edges. He can't do this with him anymore. He won't do this anymore. As much as he wanted to help him, he would probably have to note him as another statistical failure. Giving the kid so many chances has done nothing but reinforce his irrational and egotistical thinking.
"Puckerman. I can't do this with you anymore. It's obvious you don't care about others safety and well being but I do. I have to keep my staff and the other patients safe. You've just had your semi-annual assessment. If you don't show any improvement within the next three months, that means taking your medication, attending group therapy, and no other sorts of shenanigans and macho BS, I'll be writing the judge a full report and you'll be on a bus to Fairview Detention Center to complete a two year sentence. Well, however much time you have before you turn eighteen. After that... the rest of the time will be served at the State Penetentiary."
That got his attention. Dr. Schuester could tell. His eyes had lost that dangerous glint. His mouth was paper thin, lips chapped, and pursed as if he was struggling with his entire being to hold back a monumentous string of curse words. His hand ran through the tips of his dark mohawk, an attempt, to no doubt appear non-chalant, uncaring, in the face of something as horrific as being check mated by a shrink, and threatened with the cold, unyielding reality of spending two years in a cement box.
"Fine, Doc. But you still owe me."
Dr. Schuester was surprised by this exclamation. Despite all of the warning bells sounding in his head, his curiousity got the better of him. Sure, he would bite.
"How do you figure?"
And there it was, that damn sneer Dr. Schuester was so used to seeing spread on the kid's face like a comfortable winter coat.
"Eighty five cents. For the vending machine."
There was a pause in which the good Doctor could only carefully observe the seventeen year old sitting across from him with a mixture of enormous exasperation and the now mild, yet always present intrigue.
"You're a fair guy, Schue. I lost my money. You told me to tell the Staff. I'm telling you now."
William Schuester had a PhD, was trained in all of the latest psychological insights and practices, was reknowned for his work all over the state...
But for some reason he found himself reaching into his pocket, feeling around for change, counting out eighty-five cents exactly, and placing it in the outstretched, calloused palm of one Noah Puckerman.
For just a moment the teen's sneer radiated a brief display of genuine appreciation, but it was only a flicker, a milisecond that was too quick to truly be certain of.
He had forgotten that point: the kid was also a profound master of manipulation.