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Hallowsgate Hospital,
1507 Slaughters Creek,
Cabin Creek, WV



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Nameless Here For Evermore (Open)

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Nameless Here For Evermore (Open)

Post  Bridgette Cavendish on Thu Jan 20, 2011 1:32 am

Cold, too cold. Too much snow and ice. The sun was nicer. It warmed her skin and brightened her hair from its usual dirty blonde to something light and pretty. Bridgette felt pretty in the sun. She missed it. Winter brought dull greys and tainted whites, chasing away all the exciting colors of summer and the soothing ones of fall. Spring should come again. Then she could play outside more. She missed the sun. Without it there was no warmth to chase away the bitter sting the wind left on her face, no light to literally brighten her day. Aside from snow, winter only brought thick clouds of overcast. These were of no use to her. In the spring and summer you could lay in the lush green grass and watch them float over head, picking out shapes and patterns. She liked to draw the clouds and show Dr. Brideston. Once she saw a rabbit. She still had that picture. But the clouds of winter weren’t usually white and fluffy. Not the ones she’d seen at least. They were thick and grey, ugly. They rolled through the skies without so much as a pause. They also came in dense sheets rather than isolated puffs. This made them impossible to doodle. This was disappointing. Not to mention the grass was no longer right for sprawling. It was short, dead, and rather pointy. Laying in it only made her itch and that wasn’t fun.

Winter meant staying inside where it was warm and safe. The shards of ice and clumps of snow couldn’t get her through her window. When it snowed Bridgette didn’t mind the winter. It was the only thing about it that she could enjoy. For a while everything became a fairy tale, a magical white wonderland. Every other day was dead and dreary. “Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore.” She looked up from the book in her lap, eyes sweeping the courtyard from her seat by the window. She was not reading The Raven and why it now filled her head was beyond her. But the longer she stared, watching patients and staff members drift like white clouds over the blackness of the asphalt, the voice that spoke the words in her mind got louder. “While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, as of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door...” Setting the book aside she rose, looking at the orderly assigned to her. Her eyes said time to walk and after a moment she began to move, exiting the library and heading for one of the doors leading out into the courtyard.

Bridgette was not dressed for Vermont in January and utterly ignored the orders of Nigel, the unfortunate soul who shadowed her every step. She did not hear him radio for Dr. Bridetson, telling him that she was having some kind of episode that wasn’t her typical. She padded barefoot onto the frigid asphalt, not at all phased by the cold. All had shut down except for the compulsions to walk and speaks. "'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door - Only this, and nothing more." Her voice sounded disconnected as she continued to recite the poem from memory, despite not recalling if she’d ever read it. The patients around her seemed to part as she moved and it wasn’t until she reached the center of the black top that she stopped, looking down at the ground. The whispering voice read to her, continuing the poem but she only spoke another few lines out loud, one perhaps appropriate for what was happening. “Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; - 'Tis the wind and nothing more." But, no, not the wind. Not the wind and not the voice reading to her. Another voice. A sad, pained voice that needed something. She was crying, begging to be let go. What had happened? Where was she? Down. She was down. At her feet. Bridgette’s gaze became more intense on the spot just below her feet. Nigel was now coming upon her, telling her to go back inside and that it was time to see Dr. Brideston. But still she did not hear. His words were lost to the ones in her mind and coming up from below.

“No…” Speaking suddenly, she must have surprised Nigel and the other staff members starting to drift her way. “Stop…STOP!” Just before the hands reached her she hit her knees, fingers clawing desperately at the ground. “STOP! STOP! SHE’S NOT DEAD! I CAN HEAR HER! YOU CAN’T!” Bridgette’s fingers raked across the ground, skin tearing and smearing the grounds with little flecks of blood. Before any real damage was done hands were pulling her up but she would not rise quietly. The moment they grabbed her she began to thrash, kicking he legs out and screaming. “NO! NO! I HAVE TO GET HER OUT! SHE’LL DIE DOWN THERE! LET ME GO!” There was nothing around her, only the hands trying to keep her from saving the poor woman who was calling out for help. She had to save her. She wasn’t aware the Nigel had made a more urgent call to Dr. Brideston nor was she aware that patients were being told to extinguish their cigarettes and being ushered inside.

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Bridgette Cavendish

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Assigned Ward: A
Issues Group: Disorganized Schtizophrenia
Assigned Therapist: Dr. Nathaniel Brideston

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Re: Nameless Here For Evermore (Open)

Post  Dr. Nathaniel Brideston on Thu Jan 20, 2011 4:33 am

Dr. Nathaniel- many middle names- Brideston shook out the page of his newspaper to iron a crease out of it. A weather forecast. Cold mainly, the way he liked it. Winters were supposed to be cold. The barren, skeletal limbs of the trees scraping a solemn sky were like home to him. They were home. He belonged in Vermont. Not in New York, nor Louisiana. This place was where he must be, and where each hallway and every nook and cranny remained familiar to him. Physically, the buildings had their quirks, and after so many years inhabiting between their walls, there perhaps was not a single one that he was unaware of. Finicky locks, a loose tile, a chipped picture rail. As a child, he'd trailed the coattails of his father from ward to ward, or spent his alone time sifting through forgotten boxes in dusty attics. Old records and photographs, medical instruments, psychiatric gadgetry sadly put away when it had been found ineffective. Deinstitutionalisation had done it's number on the place too, some years ago. The halls had grown more barren, lifeless. Restless. But that had changed since St. Matilda's had fallen into his hands. The place had blossomed to something resembling its old glory. And Nate, or Dr. Brideston to about ninety-nine percent of the populace, devoted most of his time and energy to maintain it.

Most of.

Snow would be coming, as it always did. It wasn't so strange an occurrence in the wilderness of Vermont. Prior storms of the year had left a thick blanket of pockmarked snow that would not wholly dissipate until spring, and weather experts -who sounded about as expert as sleep experts, which wasn't very- were suggesting that more was on the way. Nate read this news with a critical eye. It was like predicting that autumn would come after summer, really. The exact science was sketchy. Some might say the same of psychiatry, still in its infancy in the grand scheme of human history. Nate might say the same too, but that only made it more interesting. A realm yet to be fully explored and probed. Man had conquered Everest, and the far reaches of the globe. Why not now conquer himself, and the near infinite possibilities of the mind? He was the Robert Falcon Scott of his time. Only less ill-fated. He hoped. And he was happy in his pursuit, as happy as he could be. Certainly, he was not unhappy, but as far as real depth of emotion went, Nathaniel was content to scrape by on the surface.

Dr. Brideston. Please report to the courtyard. Ms. Cavendish is not well. There was an understatement. The critical eye that had been lent to the newspaper weather forecast swivelled to the radio on Nate's desk. Not well. It was gentle, unassuming code for stark raving mad. Somewhat. He recognised the voice as Nigel's, the orderly who had been exclusively detailed to Bridgette for a good many years now. Nate didn't mind the man. He would say that he was fond of him had that actually been the case. He favoured him only because he didn't ask questions, and followed orders to the letter. Perhaps, in Nate's universe, that favouritism might count as fondness. He wasn't tearing him a new one, of frying his brain until he lost the capacity for reasonable conversation, so that was something. And yes, most of Nate's time was devoted to St. Matilda's, while the rest of it was divided between this patient and the delicate business of Crane Pharmaceuticals. The latter was particularly consuming of late, given the questionable passing of the late Solomon Crane, and the rise of Dr. Hans Werner to CEO. Werner and Nate had a lot in common. But Nate wasn't 'fond' of him. He was expendable.

"Alright, I'm on my way." A lithe finger left the talk button of the hand-held radio, and Dr. Brideston vacated his antique styled office chair, taking up his suit jacket on the way out of the door. He paused to lock it, with the same old brass key his father had once used, and shrugged into the nondescript, grey item of clothing. Nondescript and unassuming. That was Nathaniel Brideston. Always ready with a disarming smile when it was needed, or an experimental hypodermic when he couldn't be bothered. He pocketed his jailer's ring of old, heavy keys with a harsh jangle, and headed in the direction of the courtyard, to see what must await him.

"Bridgette?" It was minutes later when he arrived on the scene, hastening his pace at a second radio call, as if the first wasn't enough. He'd said he was on his way. He knew he needed to be there. The second call was really superfluous to the situation. As were the number of thick-headed orderlies swarming the young woman. Nate's blue eyes gleamed with unspoken warning as he approached the scuffle. "That's quite enough." Was he speaking to the orderlies, or the patient? Whatever the case, it gave the staff members a pause for thought. They mostly froze, like statues, and Nate waded into their midst and sought to catch the young woman's gaze with his own. "Let's go inside, Bridgette. It's too cold out here to be bare foot." He didn't touch her yet, rather valuing his skin as it was- attached to him. "We can figure this out indoors, alright? There's no-one else out here, I promise you. You remember how we talked about promises?" The doctor held out his hands in an open gesture, inviting and harmless all at once. He hoped she would calm today. If snow was coming, he'd need time to prepare the staff in case of emergency. having to drag her kicking and screaming, back to her room, and then the subsequent calm-down would be unfortunate, and taxing.

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Dr. Nathaniel Brideston
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Re: Nameless Here For Evermore (Open)

Post  Bridgette Cavendish on Fri Jan 21, 2011 11:56 am

Screaming…there was so much screaming. So much pain. She could hear it all in her head and no one seemed to believe her. No! She was telling the truth! Someone was dying underground and she had to get to her! Bridgette was her only hope! The world was in slow motion, a majority of the outside voices blocked out by the noise in her head. They were only mumbles by comparison. She could barely make out words over the crying of the woman, her own voice calling back to her, and the whisper. The whisper was still reading, continuing The Raven as if nothing else was happening. Sometimes the whisper and the woman’s voice would become one. Lenore... Then they’d separate again, the woman still begging to be saved the whisper picking up where he left off. Where was she? How did she get down there? Why was the whisper still reading? She tried to reason with the whisper, telling him to be quiet so she could hear the woman. But the whisper wouldn’t stop and the woman wasn’t telling her much. Bridgette’s mind tried to plead with her, telling her that she need more in order to help. But all she could hear was more screaming and more begging. Lenore... Who was Lenore? Was that the screaming woman’s name? Was that the whisper’s name? Lenore…

And while all this soared through Bridgette’s mind she fought against the hands, those outside completely unaware of the turmoil in her head. “NO! LET GO OF ME! STOP IT!” They would never understand. They would keep her from saving Lenore. She could almost see her, bloody and caked with mud from the recent rain. What rain? There was no rain. When did it rain last? Was it raining in her head? Another voice, this one outside her head. It was the only once clear enough to be understood through the screaming and the whispers. Bridgette? This voice she knew. This voice she liked. She couldn’t see the voice’s owner however. Her eyes were barely registering what flashed before them, faces and sky. When did they pull her up? When did her head tip back? She should be on the ground trying to dig Lenore up. But the hands were holding her and keeping her from saving her. She could still hear the good voice through raging storm in her head and what was currently left of her mind was trying to grab onto it, pull her up from the tempest. That's quite enough

Face. She saw a face. Bridgette’s vacant eyes somehow found the face she knew and loved. It processed and through the screaming and the whispers found the name Dr. Brideston. Yes, she knew him. She knew the face. She knew the voice. Slowly the trashing began to cease and after another moment or two she went still in the orderlies’ hands. The screaming was stopping, becoming more garbled and most of the words were replaced by coughing. The dirt must be filling her lungs or she’d run out of air. Both. Her eyes went out of focus a moment, looking through Dr. Brideston and to the ground where Lenore lay dying. She couldn’t help her now. It was too late. “And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor, Shall be lifted - nevermore! She was silent again and not hearing, missing Nigel’s voice explaining to Dr. Brideston that the episode began with her quoting The Raven. Now the poem was finished and the whisper went quiet along with the sounds of Lenore’s final pleas. There was peace in her mind again and her eyes returned to focusing on Dr. Brideston’s face. “She’s dead now. They buried her to keep her quiet. She screamed until the dirt filled her lungs. No one will ever hear from her again.”

After she spoke everything slowly began to switch on. Life began to fill her eyes again and they left Dr. Brideston’s face, scanning the courtyard. There was a moment where she looked like she may cry, her face twisting with sadness and fear. However, all of that was quickly replaced with confusion as she took in her surroundings. It was like watching a machine turn on, really. Each part had to boot up independently before anything would function. Her eyes took in Nigel, the other orderlies, and Dr. Brideston, silently asking them all the same question: How did I get out here? Sensation, or lack thereof, was returning and a violent shiver shot through her, arms flying to wrap around herself. The tips of her fingers stung from attacking the pavement but that mattered little right now. She began shifting from foot to foot, becoming very aware of just how cold she was.

Once again her eyes found Dr. Bridetson and she inched closer to him, looking to be warm. “I’m hungry.” She said softly before looking back to the building and the door. She wanted to go inside. She wanted a snack. Soup maybe. “May I have some soup?” She liked soup. Especially chicken noodle. Chasing the vegetables with her spoon could amuse her for hours. But Dr. Brideston always made her eat them. If she played too long the soup would go cold and wouldn’t taste as good. Maybe they could eat now. It must be lunch time soon. Or was it breakfast? Did it matter? Any time was soup time.
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Bridgette Cavendish

Posts : 9
Points : 9
Join date : 2010-08-27

Patient File
Assigned Ward: A
Issues Group: Disorganized Schtizophrenia
Assigned Therapist: Dr. Nathaniel Brideston

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