capeandcowllogs | the door locked from the outside

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the door locked from the outside

WHO: Katurian Katurian and anyone who wants to talk with him! (Open)
WHERE: All around NOHoPE
WHEN: Saturday the 5th through Tuesday the 8th
WARNINGS: None as of yet.
SUMMARY: Just an open log for visitors, doctors, other patients, etc. Please tag in with a date and time. :>
FORMAT: Whichever you please!

In their sessions, Dr. Nadia Verma had Katurian pound into the foam blocks she was holding, again and again, until he was wheezing and his good arm was sore, and then she told him to watch out, the City's got a new hero, and they both laughed because it wasn't true. He had been finding more reasons to laugh, lately. In his isolation, in his road to recovery after his latest breakdown, his medication had begun to set in, and while he didn't feel good, he felt a passing glimpse at it. A promise where he had no promise before. Something.

The therapy helped, too. He had given away his whole past to her. He had talked and talked and she had listened with a keen ear and a sharp gaze, her leg kicked up over the chair, and when he had finished, she had said, hell, how could you keep quiet for so long? and that was when she brought in the foam. It was lashing out without consequences. Without trails of words and language. It was almost nice.

(When it was over, between the gasps of laughter, he could feel that his elbow ached. Right above his elbow. A scratch he had given himself, his mind hummed. A mistake.)

He wrestled his copy of 1984 back from the nurses, although he knew they had seen his rambling writings inside of it. His theories. His accusations. He knew they had given it back to him to see what he would do, and that someone somewhere was ticking it off on his list of supposed delusions. Thinks he can change the past. Looks for messages in fiction. Verma asked him at the end of one of their sessions what that book meant to him, and he shook his head and said he needed inspiration-- and that he had found it.

On Saturday, February 5th, he was allowed to go to the recreation room again. He was allowed to have visitors. There was an energy in his eyes, now, that same energy he had when he told his stories in Central Park, when he mused aloud about turning his own misfortune into brilliant fiction in that jail cell so long ago, before his whole world crumbled and he arrived in the City. It was a look he hadn't had in a while.

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It had been quite a while since Andy had last seen Katurian; not really out of choice, although he had been keeping himself busy, but he'd also been told Katurian was not allowed visitors the last time he tried. And the next time, and the time after that. Luckily, however, Andy had the patience of a saint and the persistence of a Saint Bernard, and when he dropped by NOHoPE on Saturday he was finally told differently.

Which was great, because he'd brought chocolates to share. February was great for buying chocolate, and Andy had bought a bunch in bulk as it was for his Bard business. He walked quickly down the hallway, eager to catch up.

"Knock knock, doctor's here to check your blood pressure." Andy grinned and waved his fingers. "Just kidding. It's Andy. Long time no see."

Katurian's immediate fear was that oh no, Edward had sent Andy to give him chocolates this time, but the poisonous thoughts didn't last long in his head. He was happy to see Andy. It was a little surprising to him - after all, they had only met once and not for very long. But he had a strange sort of affinity for the man. A connection. In a way.

It might have been a theatre thing.

"Andy," he said, and smiled. His hand was still bandaged, and it caught in his hair, slightly, as he ran his fingers through his bangs. It was a nervous tic, but not an agitated one. Not today. "It's great to see you."

Andy smiled, setting the chocolates down and opening the box. It was still wrapped in plastic, so this took him a few minutes; he talked while he wrestled with it.

"I kept trying to come sooner but they told me you weren't allowed to see anyone." He raised his eyebrows and shrugged, easily assuming it was some weird hospital thing. "But anyway, I brought us some treats. I got way more than I know what to do with at home, and I figured they don't have chocolate here. At least, that isn't pudding, which has a pretty gross texture if you ask me."

The plastic finally snagged around one of Andy's ragged nails (he bit them), and he pulled it off in a fluid tear. "Hey, what happened to your hand?"

"Oh," he said, abruptly self-conscious. He glanced down at his hand as though he were just noticing, as though he were wondering what the bandage was doing there in the first place. "You know, I--" He gave an empty gesture, eyes down. "Sometimes I--"

Living in honesty. It sounded so great in theory, but it really only worked when he felt like dead man. With an uncertain yet tangible future stretching out before him, he wasn't so sure he wanted to blemish his image. But maybe his silence said everything he needed.

"I've had better weeks." He laughed like it was a joke. "It's great now, though. On account of the chocolate." He peered down at it. "What are you doing with all that, anyway?"

Opening the box, he set it between them, taking one piece for himself. "Valentine's Day's coming up. Bernard the Bard's going to be totally busy delivering Andygrams and candy. Saved a couple of boxes for my own personal use, though. Just in case."

He raised one eyebrow, biting into his piece. He was tempted to ask more, but he used the chocolate as a means to keep his mouth busy until the urge passed.

"How goes the writing?"

Valentines Day already. Katurian had been indoors for so long that it was hard to remember it wasn't summer anymore. His time outside of the City felt like a mix between a split-second and an eternity, and he knew that it was death that he was feeling, but he couldn't get any more from it than that. God knew he tried.

"Better," he said, washing away his thoughts with a quick smile. He picked up a chocolate between his thumb and index finger but didn't raise it to his mouth. "Quite a bit better, actually. I've been thinking about, um, what you've suggested. With the play."

He nodded a few times, hesitated, then looked to Andy for confirmation.

At the mention of the play, Andy beamed. Although he liked Katurian, he hadn't been sure whether or not the idea of the play would stick -- sometimes people agreed to things just to agree. But Andy did love acting, especially in things he hadn't done before -- he could only guess Katurian would be talented at it. The writer's perspective wasn't usually from where he looked at it.

"Really? Oh man. Do you know what it's going to be about? Or who you're going to cast? Straight show or musical? It has to be a musical."

"I was thinking of writing my own," he said, and his smile brightened as soon as the words left his lips, writing his own. "But, er, I don't know if it's going to be a play or musical anymore. I can't really write songs. Or sing. But, uh, I figured I don't need to, because if I'm writing that's plenty to deal with, I mean, why act on top of all that?"

Compared to Andy's first visit, Katurian was practically a radio announcer, he talked so much. Shades of his old personality, peaking out through all the dread.

"And I was thinking, um, if I can't write the songs--" He waved his finger. "If I can't write those-- I could maybe, you know. I could maybe ask someone else."

He looked to Andy.

Edited 2011-02-08 02:23 (UTC)

"You mean me?" Andy's look of shock was brief, quickly replaced by excitement. He hadn't written that many songs from scratch -- usually just parodies, but he'd always wanted to try his hand at something more involved. He'd never sat down to it.

"Yeah, of course I'll do it! Wow!" He balled his hands into fists, grinning at Katurian. "I'll write the hell out of these numbers. They'll blow your mind, your ears... whatever. Would you want like, more Sondheim, or more Webber? Or Rodgers and Hammerstein? Because I could go in any of those directions." He paused, taking a breath. "Do you have a plot?"

"No," he said, sheepish. "I mean, I get all my best writing done at night, and, well, they turn the lights out at ten. And I haven't asked permission yet. From the hospital."

Would they give him permission? A mental institution was a mental institution, yes, but Katurian hadn't exactly been the pinnacle of stability these days. Maybe they would let him put on someone else's musical, something with a lot of bright numbers and a happy ending, but he would sooner die than contribute to that. Katurian's usual bent would prove... interesting to pass. Who would let mental patients sing about murder?

"It'll probably be a tad grim."

"Sondheim, then. But don't worry, I'm going to put my own spin on it. It'll be a legit Katurian and Bernard production. I know special effects, too. Red scarves are great for blood. Or we could use confetti, which I think is way more dramatic. Imagine--" He opened his hands out, miming confetti popping from someone's chest. "See, it'd even splatter!"

Permission would be the hardest part, and Andy knew that as well. His conversation with one of the doctors hadn't made it seem like an easy venture, but Andy Bernard rarely gave up just because things seemed impossible. He knew how to wear people -- particularly women -- down.

"I've got your back, Kitkat, don't worry about it. Hey, do you need like, a flashlight?"

This time, Yusuke had brought stuff. Or rather, he'd brought books. A lot of books. It was probably the most random, eclectic collection of books ever, because Yusuke's knowledge of fine literature was nill, basically, but he hadn't wanted to show up empty-handed again. So here he was, carrying a stack that ranged from Victorian romances to stuff from the Goosebumps series to biographies of dead presidents. Yup.

"Hey, Katurian! I brought you some stuff."

And then Yusuke spilled the books out over the table, grinning hopefully. Something in there had to be worth reading, right? Right?

Katurian put on a good show of being impressed with Yusuke's choices, raising his eyebrows, nodding his head, making quiet 'oo's at every book he turned to, even he barely understood or recognized the subject. But he knew he was thankful for at least one thing, and that was that Yusuke had come, that he was still visiting him. That he hadn't given up on him just yet.

"Wow," he said, and his smile was perfectly genuine. "Thank you."

His fingers caught on one of the Goosebumps books, Revenge of the Lawn Gnomes. Well, he thought. That had potential. He raised his eyes.

"How are you?"

"I'm okay. The lady at the library let me borrow all of these too. I got a card now and everything."

It'd been a long time since Yusuke had gone to check out audio books there. He assumed that the kindly woman behind the desk was just pleased Yusuke was making the jump to randomly selecting real books with text in them, as opposed to randomly selecting audio books in hopes of improving his English.

"But what about you? How're you doing?"

"Good," he said, and he looked good, or at least more vibrant, even if he still hadn't regained much weight. The only thing that really belied anything wrong was the bandage wrapped around his hand and the stitches underneath. Remnants from his too-recent breakdown.

"But the library, huh? God," he said. "I practically lived there in the beginning." He paused, then clarified. "Because my apartment was so small. How do you like it?"

"I'm not really a big reader. I used to get audio books there and stuff, so I could get better at speaking English."

Yusuke had never even started high school. He'd dropped out back in middle school and never bothered going back. His eyes caught on Katurian's bandages, but he decides it might be better not to ask.

Arcade tries not to let it bother him, the fact that the majority of people in the asylum would be those he’d consider fairly normal in his own world—but it does, makes him question whether he’s really in the right position to work with people he doesn’t really think need to be cured. Still, there's no point in distancing himself from those under care besides his (admittedly fairly odd) conscience. Interacting with them won't hurt anyone, right? Right?

But he remembers the fellow on the network; the impulsive side in him decides that he might as well visit a patient in his spare time, for once. What, he asks himself, could possibly go wrong? They're mostly harmless, that one explicitly pointing it out in a conversation, and he's inclined to believe him.

He gets the OK from the correct channels to go visit him a few hours after the standard visiting period (he does have to finish his own work, for Lucretia’s sake), figuring that there’s not exactly that much a patient could be doing in his or her spare time to interrupt. Hopefully.

It might not be the wisest idea to still be wearing the standard labcoat gear off-hours, but it's honestly too late to consider backing out now for such a minute reason. He knocks an even beat on Katurian’s door, peering in through the small window. “Uh. Hello?”

Edited 2011-02-06 00:15 (UTC)

Katurian doesn't recognize the voice immediately - or the face - but he catches a glimpse of the lab coat in the corner of the window. He thinks it's strange that he knocks instead of barging in like so many others, like he's actively (or unconsciously) creating an aura of normalcy. As though he were visiting Katurian's home. As though Katurian could even open the door.

"Come in," he says, and then, in case Arcade can't hear, gives a wave. He stands up from his bed like a host greeting a guest. Normalcy is appealing for him, too.

Arcade opens the door with a sense of caution, albeit unintentionally, closing it lightly behind him. He tries to look modest yet friendly to the standing figure, but he's fairly sure he comes off anxious or deranged instead. "Uh. Hello."

And at that moment he’s not exactly sure what he should say. There’s not much of a reason why he’s decided to visit him except perhaps some vague self-assurance. Awkward. He's wondering if he can incoherently babble about it being the wrong room and sweeping out at a cheetah's pace.

“I just wanted to see you.” There’s an awkward pause, and he clarifies: “To meet you. As a person. Not as a patient.” He shuffles a little, moving his hands from his back to his sides indecisively. "Doctor Arcade Gannon," he introduces as himself, internally flinching at the formal title.

"You're an import," he says, enthusiastic, but with a uncertainty to it, as though he can't decide whether it's a relief or a horror. Katurian dreads the import community, the carnage he witnesses nearly every time he turns on his communicator. The times he's been shoved around. Used. Yet he can't leave it.

Arcade seemed nice enough though, when they last spoke. Katurian decides that he wants to trust him, even if he can't, and so he manages a smile and extends a hand.

"With the schizophrenia poster" he says, giving an awkward laugh. "Right that was... very clever, and I've already said that, I think, but, um. I'm Katurian. I've probably already said that, too."

Jonathan couldn't sleep, and the daytime orderlies and nurses had long since packed up and turned over their duties to the night shift. The hospital was quieter and he could get work done, although it all seemed meaningless to him and he found himself scribbling strange notes, esoteric pictures and words whose meanings he forgot to elaborate on, on nearly all his patient evaluations.

He set off through the halls--long past lights out, and really he was meant to be setting an example, not prowling around, but something... he wanted to talk to Katurian. Didn't matter what time it was or if he was asleep.

If he was, Jon would just watch him sleep through the door for a while and make a mental note of what he wanted to talk about. He drew close and peered in, pondering.

Katurian never used to sleep at night. He'd catch a few scattered of hours of nightmares, and when he woke up in the morning, his jaw would be sore from clenching it. He preferred to spend his nights writing. It helped him escape his dreams, yes, but it also allowed him to be inspired by them, to twist the fear into something manageable and whole. Something that was his.

With his medication, his nights disappeared in blinks. He didn't dream.

Tonight was different. His conversation with Edward burrowed into his thoughts, and he fought the drowsiness so that he could scribble stories on paper, desperate to get out words. He sat on the edge of the bed and held his pad of paper close to the barred-up window. He was trying to use the light of the moon.

He didn't see Jonathan.

A smile tugged the corner of his mouth. A writer, he thought privately, could only be improved by insanity. Swift, and Poe, and Hemingway, and Carroll...

Thinking about that made him miss his old friend Hatter, and the strange lonely insomnia reared full force.

He knocked, didn't let himself in. He remembered how much he used to hate when the doctors in Arkham treated him as though he was a caged animal they could reach in and interact with whenever they wanted, no matter what he was feeling at the time.

The knock startled him. Three weeks ago, he would have dropped the paper right out of his hands, but now he just winces, tightening his grip into the pages. Sounds at night were always worse.

"Come in," he said, his voice frail. He wanted to say it again, stronger and with more certainty, but he was already self-conscious and didn't want to repeat it to remind himself. He squeezed the pad shut.

"I know I shouldn't be awake right now," he started, even though he couldn't make out Crane's face in the darkness of the room. "I'm s-sorry, but I can't sleep."

Edited 2011-02-08 02:57 (UTC)

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the door locked from the outside

saturday; 1PM.

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monday, 10:00 am;

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Saturday, 8:00 PM.

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Sunday, 12AM

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