Hammel Asylum: The Dark Side of the Moon

[Lyn Ivchenko-Lewis]

Okay, so this started as a Cbox idea and is credited to Kirby (considering that we were talking about it privately before it was broached to the whole of Hammel). But there came up an idea of what people at Hammel would be if they only thought they had powers and the "school" was actually a sanitarium.

I.e. an asylum, madhouse, or crazyland (take your pick).

Since there were too many things to think about and everyone seemed interested, I finally caved to the idea of making this a sort-of game, sort-of Hammel meme.


SO! DA RULES!


The rules are very simple:

1. Post with the character you are representing.

2. Powers are not real, and everyone MUST be some degree of crazy. (People with physical powers, there are ways to show that, too. Please don't feel like you're left out!)

3. Post a quick summary of the psychosis your character suffers from, then write a sample of their thought process to give us a feel for it.

4. Have fun.

[Vincent Meian]

All right, so here's an example of what's going on here:


Vincent Meian - Age 43, Japanese
Prognosis: Paranoid Schizophrenic. Suffers from hallucinations and violent episodes of self-mutilation, likely caused by PTSD. Has rare moments of lucidity which seem to appear as "blackouts" when he returns to an unstable state - this must be researched further.
Special Notes: Supervise at all times - subject is prone to escaping from locked rooms at random intervals.


There was the Sound again. That damn thrumming Sound, like his violin being played too low for anyone to hear but for him and only him to feel it deep within his bones. The tall man curled his knees to his chest tighter, pressing his back into the wall in the hopes for some comfort from the Sound. It never came, and his hands gripped his own arms with brutal strength, the jagged nails biting deep into the flesh for the thousandth time. His scars ached; they always did whenever the Sound came, whenever those lines of fate danced across his eyes, begging for him to reach out and touch them. His golden brown eyes - so clear in his youth and now too bright in his age - glared at them suspiciously, watching as each of them showed him things; things that weren't meant to be, things that couldn't have been, things that weren't happening.

Or maybe they were. Maybe that pale doctor who said she was his wife wasn't really. Maybe she was just trying to get him to face the Sound, like everyone else was. He didn't remember her; didn't remember having children with her. That would have been before the Sound came anyway. Why should he believe her? Who cared if he knew without touching her how she felt, or without getting close how she smelled or tasted? This was probably some sort of damn hypnotic suggestion by the government anyway. They put him in that "experimental" anti-terrorist group anyway, and look where it got him; stuck in an empty room, locked to a bed, hearing tones that no human ears should have heard and seeing visions that no man was meant to know.

Besides, he knew what happened now. Every time the Sound came, the Nightmares came. The damn doctor... she said it's from his Incident, whatever the hell that was. The coming of the Sound, he thought. She said the Nightmares were him trying to understand what happened, to heal his brain and return to who he was. She was lying - they all were. There was nothing before the Sound - just disjointed dreams and thoughts that made no fucking sense; sensations that he couldn't place; fear that he couldn't comprehend. Whenever the Sound came, the Nightmares followed. And then... then he was somewhere else.

And then it was back here again. A taste of freedom, then confinement. He wondered how they found him all the time, but he supposed he looked kind of unique. Whoever heard of a tall Asian with long hair? He should cut if off sometime, but they wouldn't give him blades of any kind anymore. Not after he cut himself up trying to dig out the hot shrapnel in his back. Apparently, they got it all out, but he could still feel it sometimes. Maybe that was how they kept track.

A vision caught his attention, and reddened eyes darted to catch it, focusing on the images; a young man with red hair, and a woman in white (the doctor?) speaking as the former lay in a bed covered in bandages. They looked to him, and suddenly the Sound reached a crescendo. Vincent pulled his hands to his head, squeezing tightly and screaming, trying to make cover the Sound with anything.

By the time the nurses reached the room, he was already gone; his bindings slipped from his wrists and the door somehow open. Vincent Meian had vanished again.

[Suekeichi Minamori]

Suekeichi Minamori: Age 41, Japanese
Diagnosed with: Bipolar II and Borderline Personality Disorder.
Special Notes: Patient needs constant supervision. Doesn't like to take his meds. Restricted to the ward.

(I think I'll warn for mention of self harm just in case. It's kind of an expected thing in light of the theme of the thread, but still...)

It was one of the few times Suekeichi actually used his journal. Curled up next to a potted ficus -the only living plant in the building- in the T.V. room he scrawled away in barely legible Japanese. They just don't understand. I want to be outside. I want to be free. The sun is shining, and the trees are beautiful and I just want to be part of it. They say that I'm a danger to myself. Why? Because I accidentally cut myself pruning a bonsai tree? It's not my fault the cut was deep. I wasn't trying to kill myself. I'm not sick. Why can't they see that I'm just fine? Sure, I get sad sometimes, but EVERYONE gets sad sometimes. Who are they to say what's normal and what's not.

And then he'd pause. The nurse had come with his meds. Evil little pills in a condiment cup accompanied with the world's smallest glass of water. Horrible tasting chemically treated water. And he'd stare at her, with the same look he'd given his mother as a child when she'd administer cough syrup. All the medication he'd ever taken tasted horrid. Tasted fake. Lace it with sugar and make them think it's candy. But continue to tell them that it wasn't.

He'd take them. In the end, he always did. And it returned him to the prison of lethargy. Suekeichi spent most of his time outside of his room under the open window next to the ficus. The Japanese script on the page would become a bit looser as he continued to write -as the meds took effect. No one cared to ask him how he was feeling. No one thought to ask if he was lonely. No one realized that the ficus was the only "friend" he might have had in those moments.

I wonder if they'll find Vincent this time.