Chapter 1: Oliver's Story

Oliver's Story

Oliver woke up with a headache. He always woke up with a headache. Even before he had come to the hospital. As long as he could remember, he'd had a headache. He would awaken with a headache, and then the voices would come. It was because of the voices that he was in the hospital.

It looked like a regular room. Bed, nightstand, dresser, closet, and it's own (small) bathroom. The walls were painted pea green. God, how he hated green. The window had curtains, the floor was covered by a rug, and both were different shades of light green.

He really hated green.

Apparently, the designers thought that light green was a soothing color.

Green pissed Oliver off, to no end.

"Soothing my ass," Oliver said to no one in particular.

Atlantic Ridge Psychiatric Hospital was a small, 80 bed hospital. It was privately owned, and looked like a flophouse. The pipes dripped, the paint was peeling off of the walls, and all of the equipment had seen more years than the fourteen-year-old boy in room B8. Oliver was in room B8. Oliver wished he was dead.

That was another reason that he was in the hospital.

Oliver heard the door to his room being unlocked. A woman walked in. She was about 5'4", brown hair, and fat. Orca fat. It was 'Vette. He forgot what 'Vette stood for, and frankly he didn't care. Oliver didn't like 'Vette.

'Vette liked to talk. Unfortunately, 'Vette did not have a good life. So Oliver got to hear about her divorce, how her unloving husband abandoned her. How she never had enough money. How she had no friends. How her car was always breaking down. How her family didn't like her.

It was endless.

'Vette told Oliver to go shower while she changed his linen. Happily, he went. The bathroom was, thankfully, not green.

He turned on the water and shut the door. He bathed his body, brushed his teeth, combed his hair, and used the toilet. When he was done, he looked in the mirror. He looked like death warmed over.

His black hair was too long, and kept getting in the way. His brown eyes were sunken and bloodshot, from lack of sleep. He was thin, too thin, from not eating right. His chest was sunken, he had no muscle tone, and he was woefully pale.

"Yup," Oliver said sarcastically to the mirror, "handsome as ever."

As he opened the bathroom door, the voices started again. Oliver grabbed the door jam, and swayed a bit from the onslaught.

>>Too fucking early for this shit<<
>>Where did I hide those damn percocets<<
>>Damn! The fucker pissed his bed again<<
>>Oh, no, the little guy's having an attack<<

On and on they came. Some, he could make out. Most were just buzzing. Oliver knew he wasn't hearing voices. He knew that he wasn't crazy. Oliver was hearing thoughts. The thoughts of all the people around him.

And he could not shut them out.

Oliver steadied himself as his headache kicked in another gear.

"Are you hearing voices right now, Oliver?"

"Yeah."

"Are they telling you to do anything?"

"No 'Vette, and if they do, I won't act on them until I talk to you first."

-I swear, I need a damned tape recorder-, Oliver thought.

Every morning he had the same exchange with someone. It would happen again at least one more time before the morning was over. Then, a couple of times in the afternoon. And to round it off, a couple of times in the evening. Someone would ask if he was hearing voices, and then would ask if the voices were telling him to do anything. Usually that was followed by an admonition to not act upon them until he spoke to a staff member, but Oliver cut that short with his second answer.

With that 'Vette started her endless litany of her life of woe. The only good thing was that it was difficult to concentrate on the miasma spewing from 'Vette's mouth, with the other thoughts in his head.

After a while she finished up and left, locking the door behind her. There was nothing sharp in his room. They had even removed his lamp. The metal screen on the window prevented him from breaking the glass. All in all, unless he wanted to bash his head into the walls, door, or floor until his skull cracked open, he was forced to endure another day.

Later on in the morning, his doctor walked into his room.