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whump-i-fied · 1 year

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Could you do a fanfic on the following whump scenario?

: whumpee in hospital - ER. Brought in for _____. Whumpee is in no mood for doctors, nurses and being touched. Whumpee find the right time and jolts from the medical room and down the hall towards an exit. Caretaker (psychologist, or someone with medical background) is coming back from _____, heading back toward whumpee’s room. Suddenly, whumpee collides with caretaker.

Caretaker quickly grabs whumpee by the arm and gently demands an answer to why they are out of bed, even more so out in the hallway unsupervised. Whumpee, still in fight or flight mode says with a stutter “ba bathroom, all the while trying to shake and twist their arm free from caretaker’s firm grip.

Hey! At long last, here it is! I hope you enjoy this prelude to a psychiatric evaluation! ❤️

CW: Referenced self-harm, medical setting, (very lightly) implied police violence, implied mental health issues

Max made their way to the end of a hallway that had about a half dozen directions listed on the wall. The only one Max was concerned with was the one with the arrow pointing left with text reading EXIT. They limped toward it, ignoring the pain, hunger, and bone-deep weariness that was dogging them; they fought the urge to lean against a wall for just a second.

Move your ass, they thought. It can’t be that much further.

Or maybe the hospital was an endless, inescapable labyrinth of hallways and arrows that lead nowhere.

I’ve got miles to go before I sleep, they thought. Where had they heard that? A poem? Movie? DIdn’t matter. It had just popped into their head, and they didn’t have the luxury of letting something so trivial natter at them.

The memory of their treatment spurred Max on. The medical staff had been well-meaning (They were a far sight gentler than the cops who had dragged them into the ER. Max had barely managed to calm themself enough to avoid being cuffed to a bed.), but they had found themself flinching at every touch and snapping out answers or equivocations to their questions. They didn’t have it in them for anymore blood draws, or pen lights, or gloved hands, or someone telling them, “You’re just going to feel a bit of discomfort.” But they knew their physical examination was less damning than a psychological one would be.

They’d heard enough bits of conversation to know that once they were cleared medically, someone from psych was coming to evaluate them. Max understood the staff’s concern all too well, they did, but they couldn’t allow that to happen. So, Max had bided their time until the nurse was gone and security was distracted, then they slipped past the faded blue and yellow-striped privacy curtain, and limped away down the nearest hallway.

They never thought they’d be thankful for a hospital’s short staffing.

Their clothes had dried, but a stubborn, damp chill from the rain had sunken in and the too-cool air in the hospital was not helping. The deep lacerations on their right arm ached. They regretted that they had nothing to cover the bandages with. They didn’t want anyone to see it, didn’t want anyone to speculate what was beneath, and there could be no discussion of it. It’s not like they wanted to do it. Not like they wanted the pain. They hadn’t had a choice.

Just a little further, they thought as they lurched around the corner.

—

Doc turned over in their head the conversation they’d had with Max’s brother. He’d reported that Max’s behavior, in the limited time he’d seen them, had been erratic, and that he was worried, though he didn’t think he had any helpful information. Nevertheless, Doc hoped that the brother could be a part of Max’s recovery.

The officers who had dragged Max into the Emergency Department corroborated their erratic behavior and added “violent” and “delusional” to the list of concerns. (One of the officers was going to have a pretty good shiner come morning.) Doc compartmentalized the information as they made their way back toward Max’s bed. Hopefully a more complete picture would come together once they were able to talk to Max.

Doc turned the corner and

Oof!

The file, notepad, clipboard, and pen they were carrying under their arm went flying, but they ignored them in favor of grabbing the bicep of whoever they’d just collided with and tried to keep them upright.

“S…sorry,” they said as they continued to both stumble and pull away.

“No harm done,” Doc said with a slight chuckle in their voice. They kept hold of them and tried to steady them, but they seemed determined to fall flat.

“‘m good,” they said. They looked back toward Doc, then forward again. Eye contact had been fleeting, but Doc became aware of two things: The person whose arm they were holding was deeply exhausted, and that person was the one on whom they were supposed to perform a psychiatric evaluation.

They were a long way from “good.”

“Hey, okay,” Doc said, their voice even and their grip as assertive as it had to be. They didn’t want to cause Max anymore pain or agitation, but If they let go, they would probably topple. “Max, right?

Max didn’t acknowledge them, just kept straining away, even as they heavily favored their left leg.

“Max, hey. Max? Hold up, hold up.” Max paused, and looked askance at Doc. The patient calm Doc projected was more than a veneer. It was so complete that their coworkers speculated it was something intrinsic that couldn’t be taught. In truth, it had taken years of care, practice and cultivation to be the person their patients needed them to be. “What are you doing out of bed?”

“I…” Max dropped their gaze, and shook their head as though they’d reconsidered something. “Ba-bathroom,” they stammered.

Doc was sure the fact Max was heading toward an exit wasn’t a coincidence.

“I should probably tell you you’re going the wrong way, then.”

No response. No one liked having their bluff called. Or maybe Max hadn’t even heard them. Either way, Max continued to pull away and strain in their intended direction. Doc got the sense that, aside from their firm hand on Max’s arm, it was pure force of will keeping them upright.

“Max,” Doc said, their voice infinitely reasonable, but stern.

“What?!” Max turned and jerked their arm away and spun to face Doc, but they yelped, and lurched gracelessly to their side.

Doc reached for Max but pulled back when they caught themself on the closest wall. Crowding Max would gain them nothing.

“Easy, Max,” Doc said, the admonishment tempered with concern.

“I…I need to get out of here,” Max said. before they began shuffling along the wall. “I can’t, I can’t be here.”

“Why is that?”

Max looked back at them. Their eyes were tired and wide, but there was something honest and vulnerable there too, like they might tell them. Doc willed them to do so, but whatever they thought of saying went unspoken.

“I…I just can’t.”

At least they’re engaging with me, Doc thought.

“You’re hurt. You shouldn’t be out of bed, let alone wandering the halls.”

Max huffed out a breath that was a jumbled mess of weariness, annoyance, and derision. Doc supposed wandering implied the lack of a destination. And that destination was likely any place but the hospital.

“Max?” Another voice came from the end of the hall. Doc didn’t take their focus off of Max, but they spared a glance in the direction of the advancing orderly. (The relief on the ordery’s face was plain.) Max whipped their head toward him, then came a whimper and the harsh squeak of shoes’ soles on the white and green tile. Doc tried to stop their fall, but it was too late. Max thudded to the ground, and Doc winced in sympathy at Max’s pained groan.

The orderly’s pace quickened, but Doc put up a staying hand.

“We’re good,” Doc said. “Could you go get a wheelchair and bring it back?”

The orderly looked back at Max, who was trying to push themself back up. Their arms were shaking and blood, brilliant and red on the fresh white bandages on their forearm, was beginning to seep through. The orderly arched an eyebrow, but didn’t argue before nodding and turning to go.

Max had stopped trying to lift themself from the floor, and slowly managed to prop themself up so that they sat with their back against the wall. Their left leg was stretched out in front of them and they held their right arm stiffly at their side.

Doc thought to pick up the papers they’d dropped, but that would mean getting closer to Max than Max would likely have been comfortable with, so they seated themself across from Max in a loose approximation of their posture. Max looked them over and ran their tongue over their split lower lip.

“When was the last time you had something to eat?”

It was as good a tack to take as any at that moment. Regardless of their answer, Doc would go to the cafeteria and get some food for Max before they officially began their evaluation.

Max shrugged their left shoulder. Either they didn’t know, or didn’t want to say.

Then Max surprised Doc by speaking.

“You think I look crazy.”

Max’s expression was direct, but the way it was underscored by deep, dark circles, and the way their fingers picked at a tear in their jeans painted a picture of someone who could no longer run, but desperately wanted to. (Doc didn’t think the damage on the jeans had been put there with a mind toward fashion.)

“No,” Doc said. They shook their head slowly and earnestly, as something partly self-conscious and wholly mistrustful flickered behind Max’s eyes. “I think you look like you’ve had a rough couple of weeks.”

Max’s chest jolted with bleak humor.

“You could say that,” they said as their attention listed to their left and settled on one of the papers on the floor; it crinkled as they picked it up with unsteady fingers. Doc didn’t protest as Max read over the notes they’d taken during the phone conversation with Max’s brother.

“You’re going to put me away.”

It was a statement, not a question.

There was no accusation in Max’s voice, but there was resignation. That should have given Doc reason to breathe a small sigh of relief, perhaps, but instead it needled at them.

“Nobody wants that,” Doc said. “But it is my job to evaluate you, to find out if hospitalization is necessary.”

—-

Necessary.

If Max told even half the truth about the things they’d learned, or the events leading up to their apprehension, the doctor would find it very damn necessary to lock them up, and to throw away the key for good measure. Max looked over the paper in their hand where their brother’s concern and unwitting betrayal was documented in a stranger’s handwriting. They couldn’t be too hard on their brother, but they regretted trying to find some sort of solace or understanding with him.

What did you think was going to happen?

They wanted to keep going, to do what they had to do, but their body was a traitor, and there was no way out. That fact was driven home when two orderlies, one of which was pushing a wheelchair, rounded the corner. Max could drag themself maybe several feet before they would be corralled. They would struggle, and they would lose. Their heart beat faster in their chest and tears stung their eyes.

They met the studious eyes of the shrink sitting across from them. They didn’t look like the sort of person to accept “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you” as an answer to their questions.

Max let out a sigh. It was a stilted, defeated thing.

Let’s get this over with.

#requests #hospitals #medical whump #whump #whump prompt #whump writing #escape attempts

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