"That the woods are gonna eat me," he says matter-of-factly, and pokes at his food. "That I hear things other people can't."
'The woods... they crawl with all sorts of creatures that might very well decide that you would make an excellent cut of meat,' he offered, perhaps less than reassuringly. '... do ghosts crawl in your ears as well?'
"Not ghosts, no. Just...sounds. Other people talking to themselves. You know," he says, more to end the train of thought than out of expectation that - Sheridan? That's his name, right? - Sheridan understands.
Sheridan considered his eggs. The animal inside of him was sour that they were scrambled hard, and wanted raw eggs to snap up, but no matter. '... who are they?'
"The other people? They're not ghosts. Just people. Doctors, patients..." He looks at Sheridan. "Everything is loud for me."
... and that was a concept that Sheridan understood. Ears of a fox - Even in human form. His understanding was written clearly on his face and he vibrated slightly, like a child with a secret he could not wait to tell, but was forbidden from speaking. Perhaps later, when the doctor was gone... '... does... does everything smell strongly, too? As though it is right below your nose, even when it's a room away?' His dark brown eyes glistened, and for a moment, didn't seem human at all.
A smile shows on January's face, for just a moment. "...Like it's right there." He studies Sheridan's face. "Ever since I lost my hand. It's overwhelming."
Sheridan nodded, a bit more enthusiastically this time. 'I understand. For example, someone is unfortunate enough to be on a low-calorie diet.' There was something not quite human about his expression even now, but it was not something one could easily put a finger on. '... how did you lose your hand?' He asked this casually, seeming oblivious to how it might be considered rude - Ah, but then again, when medication schedules and diagnoses were regular topics of lunchroom conversation, it was less rude than it might be elsewhere. There were different rules, inside.
"The woods ate it," he says, looking down at the stump. "It was the sacrifice I had to make to get out."
Sheridan seemed to take that in stride, at least, assuming that he meant some kind of vicious animal - such as a wolf, which even its fellow canids feared - had devoured it. '... but you're here now. It's safe.' He stood, moving to put his cleared tray into the dirty cart. '... would you... like to go outside?'
Upon the appearance of the patient Increase was not entirely sure had the same name they did on their forms, the doctor sat back in quiet contemplation, observing the two of them interact. A sacrifice to the woods? Hm. Certainly interesting, if nothing else. Another one of those things where literalism might be the best operating procedure. "Apologies for not responding," he said, finally, "yes, I was institutionalized once, though not here, and a while away." He gave a tiny smile, one that showed a little too much teeth. "I fear it worsened things, in my case. I hope to do better with my own patients." "If either you wish to go outside, I believe I have the capacity to supervise, or ask one of the nurses I trust."
Sheridan started slightly. He had almost forgotten the good doctor was there - Ah, but that was a good sign. It meant his senses weren't going into haywire, as they often did around someone he distrusted. That he'd been in one of these places only continued to make Sheridan feel a bit more comfortable. '... I've heard the stories.' Some of them not even that old. Some of them that could still be told today. But not here. '... if you'd like, I could show you how I paint.'
"The stories I could tell are older than they ought to be," Increase says. He genuinely smiles at that. "I would like that."
Sheridan didn't find that comment too strange. Sometimes people joked about their age; perhaps that's what he was doing now. He smiled back, also genuine, and a little toothy. His teeth, too, looked not quite human - Not vampiric or monstrous, but a little too toothy, a little too sharp, especially around the canines. Did the doctor notice anything odd, Sheridan wondered? If he did, he wasn't letting on. 'Come, then. The ghosts want out. Jenna, are you coming too?'
"January," he says defensively. "Not Jenna." He taps his fingers on the table for a moment. "Yeah, sure."
January. Alright. Increase makes a mental note. "The outside only gets sunnier as we wait," he says. He decides to let the statement hang ambiguous. Sure there is something off about Hayes, but that's nothing all that unusual.
'January,' Sheridan corrected himself quickly, 'I'll remember.' He got up, stretching - if he had a tail at the moment, he might wag it. 'I enjoy the rain, myself. It washes out the soul as well as the dirt on the skin.' He stepped into the closet off the dining room and fetched out his easel, paint set, and a fresh canvas, then popped back out. 'Should we then?'
((Tell me if I'm doing this wrong)) "Follow me," he says, trying not to sound imperious. He leads both patients to the courtyard with the gazebo, hanging back awkwardly near the exit. He looks up- still clouds, he thinks, this is alright. Still, there is a familiar ache in his bones as the natural light filters through.
What a strange thing for a psychiatrist to try not to sound imperious, Sheridan might have opined. This new doctor, he seemed different from the others... he smelled different from the others. Or maybe Sheridan was just imagining that. 'Ah, the rain stopped...' He stepped into the gazebo and started to set up his supplies. 'What a pity that is. The earth must have cried itself dry.
January shrugs. "Maybe. You said you see ghosts? What do they say?" Maybe they aren't real ghosts, but they might be. He doesn't say what he wants to say, doesn't ask if his friends are dead and found their way here, but maybe if Sheridan isn't wrong...maybe he can finally say goodbye.
