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ozimagines · 1 month ago

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Oswald Psychiatric Hospital, West Wing

Uncooperative (1/?)

They had to sedate him in the ambulance. When he’d been Baker Acted, as it had been come to be known, he went into a full blown panic attack. He was labeled ‘uncooperative’, thrashing away from the medical personnel and law enforcement that had been called to abort his attempt on his life. If you asked Miguel, he wasn’t trying to die. If you asked Miguel what he was trying to do, he wouldn’t have had an answer for you. That’s probably what got him taken away. He should have come up with an excuse for the mouthful of pills before they got there. In his defense, he didn’t know the suicide hotline could contact law enforcement, and furthermore, he didn’t know law enforcement had the power to Baker Act. Miguel was unable to focus his eyes, even his toes going numb as his heart pounded the sense out of him. He turned to his side to see the paramedic next to him. Grace.

“Hey… Grace…” he slurred as the sedatives took over his system, his eyes still blurry. “I’m feeling much better now… you don’t have to take me to the hospital anymore…”

Grace the paramedic rolled her eyes, knowing that his lame attempts at escape were all for naught. Miguel tried to get up as if he wasn’t strapped down. Grace tutted.

“They told us you were uncooperative. Stop fighting it, you’re only making it worse for yourself.”

‘worse for yourself’ burned a hole in Miguel’s head. How could things be worse? He was getting put away. No one knew how to help him anymore, so they were locking him up. Miguel tried to escape verbally a few more times during processing, the actual process taking hours. These hours provided plenty of time for Miguel to panic. He panicked so much they had to strap him to his bed in the hospital and keep him sedated until he was through processing; through those big, heavy doors with mystery on the other side.

“I’m not a nutcase though.” Miguel reasoned with the intake nurse. “I don’t really have to be here.”

“Mr. Alvarez-“

“Miguel.”

“Miguel.” The intake nurse said with a kind of harshness. It helped to hear him first name. He felt so much like a number the other way. Miguel read the name tag; Eugene Rivera. “You’re exactly where you belong. You tried to commit suicide not twelve hours ago. Here you’ll be safe.”

“Mr. Rivera… can I call you Eugene?”

Rivera nodded tersely and continued to fill out forms.

“Look, imma level with you, I can’t be here.” Miguel pleaded with him, trying to keep as level a head as possible. When you’re mentally ill, any big reaction is categorized as an overreaction. “See, I’ll lose my job. I can’t afford to pay the copay for being here. The ambulance ride alone-”

“Miguel, I’m going to level with you.” Rivera looked him straight in the eyes. “Debt is the least of your worries. You can’t pay anything back to anyone if you’re dead.”

Miguel tensed up, his eyes narrowing.

“I didn’t try to kill myself.”

Rivera nodded, but made a face that showed that he didn’t believe it for even a second. He started working on the forms again, when someone entered the room from the only door out, being let in by some security. Miguel instantly shivered.

“Hello,” the man checked his clipboard. “Miguel, right?”

“…yeah.”

The man in the suit smiled, as genuinely as he was able. Creeped Miguel out a little.

“I’m Tim. This is Sean. We work on the West Wing of the Oswald Psychiatric Hospital. Why don’t you tell us why you’re here-“

“I didn’t try to kill myself.” Miguel snapped, losing his cool for a second. That Tim guy kept smiling. The Sean guy didn’t smile once.

“Wanna explain the mouthful of pills you had when the paramedics arrived?”

Miguel went to answer and then hesitated. He side eyed Eugene for a second, who was writing everything down.

“Does he have to be here?” Miguel asked, lamely.

“Yes.” Rivera said without looking up, making more notes. Alvarez craned his neck to see what he was transcribing, but Eugene moved his notes away.

“I wasn’t feeling good, that’s all.”

“So you took enough antidepressants to tranq an elephant?” Tim responded, swirling his iced coffee in his cup for a second. Alvarez wanted to deck him. “Okay, so you didn’t try to kill yourself, but you came awfully close to doing it anyway.”

“I didn’t swallow the pills.”

“Why’d you tell the 988 that you did?”

Miguel hesitated again, casting another glance at Rivera.

“Look, the bitch was giving me the same runaround I get from everyone. I’m depressed, so I called for someone to talk to me -just talk- until I calmed down. She kept asking questions. ‘Do you have a plan?’ and ‘have you executed a plan?’ And I’m just trying to tell her how I feel.”

“Uh huh, so then you took the pills.”

“I told her I just needed to talk. Just calm down and she kept trying to figure me out and if I was trying to die-“

“That’s pretty standard for a Crisis Line.”

Miguel took a deep breath, that vein in his forehead starting to bulge. They weren’t listening.

“No, I just needed someone to talk to me, like a person, just for fifteen minutes to feel like a person again. Fifteen minutes. She kept asking me if I had a plan so I told her about the antidepressants, that I was in pain and didn’t want to be in pain anymore.”

“And then you took the pills?”

Miguel slammed his hands down on the desk, and the security guy -Sean- put himself between Tim and Miguel, Eugene jumping back a little. Miguel curled into himself immediately.

“I’m sorry. No, I just… I didn’t put the pills in my mouth until I heard the paramedics. I got scared. I just told her I did so she would try and talk to me like a human being, but she’d already called the cops and I got picked up.”

Tim nodded his head.

“So you never actually took anything?”

Miguel sighed in relief.

“No… I never took any of the pills.”

He’d expected Tim to slap his forehead and release Miguel, apologizing for them being so silly. He didn’t, though.

“Unfortunately, Miguel, the paramedics showed up at your place and you had a mouth full of at least 6,000 milligrams of sertraline, so the cops weren’t gonna take your word that you weren’t intending to swallow them.”

Miguel’s heart sank.

“Why’d you even ask?”

“To assess your thought process at the time. Most non-suicidal people don’t call 988 and try to down a month’s supply of their antidepressants, just a note.” Tim took a sip from his coffee and Miguel wanted to hit him all over again. “So this is a no lose situation; we’re not gonna chance sending you home. You have a 72 hour psych hold right now with the possibility of extension if the 72 hours aren’t deemed sufficient.”

“Who deems it sufficient?”

“The doctor.”

“Can I see the doctor now?”

“Dr. Nathan will check in with you once every day, and assess the hold, but it will be at least 72 hours before you’re considered for release.”

Miguel’s heart raced again. He wasn’t good with small spaces; wasn’t good with being captive to anyone.

“What happens if they don’t deem the 72 hours sufficient? Can I sign myself out against medical advice?”

“No, you can go before a judge and contest the doctor’s decisions, but then you’d have to wait for a court date.”

Miguel’s heart beat even faster. Tim must have seen the look of panic in his eyes.

“Miguel,” he waved Sean to the side and sat down in the chair next to him. “You’re here because you need to be here.”

“It wasn’t a real attempt.” He pleaded, threading his fingers and rocking himself back and forth. Tim smiled sadly and patted his knee.

“All attempts are real attempts, Miguel. People don’t do what you did in a normal state of mind, even if you weren’t intending to die.” He put on his best dad face. “In time, you’ll see this for what it is; help. We’re not the enemy, Miguel.”

“You’re not exactly an ally.” Miguel grumbled, leaning back in his chair anxiously. He saw one word on the chart in front of Rivera.

Uncooperative.

He tried to calm himself down, but no one was listening to him. No one gave a shit. They didn’t ask him why he’d called the hotline. Why he was on the antidepressants in the first place. What had him sad enough to call a crisis line. No, they just wanted to ask about the damn pills. The pills were a symptom, not a cause.

Still, he knew enough at this point to understand that being marked ‘uncooperative’ wouldn’t get him out of there any faster. So he swallowed his pride and let them lead him to the West Wing. The involuntary, complicated, uncooperative ward.

First thing he noticed was that there were paintings on the wall, but not in frames like normal paintings, literally painted to the smooth, beige wall. The one closest to him was a palm tree and an ocean view. He thought it was cruel, painting lovely vistas in a place people weren’t free to leave. He saw an outline of something in marker drawn on the wall. He focused his eyes to see what it was. Someone had taken a faint orange marker and drew a hard dick halfway down the palm tree. He smiled against his better judgement.

Miguel took in the common area, filled with men just like him who had been deemed to be a threat to themselves or others. The involuntarily held. The uncooperative. Tim touched his arm and led him to a black man in a wheelchair.

“This is Augustus, and he’ll help you adjust to life in Oz- that’s what the patients call it. Oz.” He smiled a little. “Nice, right? Like the Wizard of.”

“Wasn’t the Wicked Witch from the West?” Miguel said, heatedly. And he heard an unhinged laugh behind him. He turned to see a large black man and a skinny white man laughing their asses off, listening to the conversation. Tim rolled his eyes.

“Ryan, Simon, please, be cordial.”

“Sorry, sir,” Ryan remarked sarcastically. “I thought we were being cordial by laughing at the new guy’s joke. Right, Adebisi?”

“Oh, yeah,” he smiled unkindly. “Very cordial.”

Tim turned to Miguel.

“They’re the resident jokesters.” He explained away and that only sent Ryan and Adebisi into further hysterics. They seemed to laugh at anything and everything. He scanned the room again. There were two older men sitting at a table, playing cards. A curly, black haired man sitting by the window and staring off into nothing. There was a tall, thin black man who looked like he was tweaking coming straight towards them. Shit.

“McManus, my man, you got any more o’ that clonaze-whatever? Feelin’ a little shaky right now…” he droned on, and Tim took a deep breath before answering.

“No more clonazepam, Omar, it’s a controlled substance. We told you if you tested positive, your controlled substances would be stopped and not restarted.”

“Okay, yeah, but, see, I can’t not take the clonazepam, ‘cause, like, I’ll go fuckin’ crazy without it, like I’m talkin’ loco, my man…” he went to put his arm on McManus’s shoulder and Sean shut him down, pushing his hand away.

“No, Omar. You already took your Hydroxicine dose for the next two hours. You’ll just have to make do until then.”

“Yeah, McManus, but you see-“

“No, Omar.” McManus said resolutely and Sean stepped between them again.

“Ok, White, back up.”

“Woo! Murphy!” O’Reily cheered, patting Simon on the shoulder, both laughing.

“Get ‘em, baby!” Simon jeered. Omar was escorted away and to his room by other orderlies. Miguel was sufficiently stressed out, hand on his head and starting to feel the room spin. This wasn’t happening. He didn’t belong there. He wasn’t crazy like these people.

Augustus must have known what he was thinking.

“Nobody thinks they belong here, man.” He advises Miguel. “It’s like how the saying goes that prison is filled with innocent men; wards are filled with sane people.”

“Yeah, we’re fuckin’ innocent, dog.” Ryan tormented from the table, laughing wildly at the glare thrown his way by both men.

“What’s their problem?” Miguel asked Augustus, who gestured for them to go down the hall. The West Wing was shaped like a U, the base of which was the common area with large see-through cells along the walls.

“Adebisi’s easy; he was caught being disorderly and violent so he said he wanted to kill himself to end up here instead of in jail.”

“Does that work?”

“Sometimes. But you’d have to be somewhat crazy to do what he was doing. Lotsa public indecency and shit. They say he has delusions of grandeur.”

“And Ryan?”

“Went on a bender after his brother died. Drank himself nearly to death. BP to the motherfucking D. It’s unclear how much of reality he understands.” Augustus shook his head. Miguel nodded his head towards the man with the curly black hair and a vacant expression.

“And him?”

“Peter. Doesn’t talk much. PTSD. Only says he’s here because his parents croaked, but he gets dailies from Dr. Peter Marie.”

“Why’s that important?”

“Dr. Pete specializes in sexual trauma.”

“Oh.” The realization made Miguel double take Peter in the hallway, who didn’t even acknowledge his existence.

“The tweaker was Omar. Used so much coke he went and gave himself bipolar with psychosis. Get high enough and you never come down.” Augustus rolled his wheelchair down the hallway, explaining the various states of all of its inhabitants.

“Him?”

“Kenny. Our youngest in the ward. Only turned 18 a week before they locked him up. Like the song goes; buys a gun, stole a car, tries to run, but he don’t get far.”

“Him?”

“Good Ol’ Robson. Big tough guy but gets regulars from Dr. Pete as well. Wouldn’t go mentioning that to him though.”

“Him?”

“Bobby Rebadow; got committed at the ripe age of 32… then had so much ECT his brain turned to mashed potatoes. He doesn’t speak but when he does, he tells us what God’s telling him.”

“And you?”

Augustus stopped rolling, looking up at Miguel very seriously.

“My theory or the official reason?”

“Both I guess.”

“I think it’s ‘cause I know too much. I got their numbers, so they gotta keep me locked up before I blow the whole operation.”

“…and the official reason?” Miguel asked, eying Augustus uneasily. Augustus smiled.

“Paranoid schizophrenia.” He laughed as he rolled himself away, cackling into the distance.

Miguel just watched him, taking his paper bag of toiletries to his room. Some of the architecture was odd until you thought about it for three seconds. The door handles were smooth and oblong triangle shaped. So were the rails in the bathroom. Took Miguel a moment before he realized they were hang proof. No window blinds either, just these movable wooden slats that filtered in the sunlight. He checked his toiletries. All non-toxic lest they be swallowed. Barely a few ounces of shampoo and conditioner, with a little bar of soap. No razor. Made sense.

He crumpled up the brown bag and started arranging his toiletries. He looked down at his shirt and pants. Since he’d been wearing pants with strings and a hoodie with the same, he’d been moved into hospital gown shirt and pants. It was damn near see through, but as his last outfit was not deemed safe, they said they’d get him some safe clothes when he was through processing. They’d yet to get him actual clothes. He felt so exposed in those gowns.

“Hey.”

Miguel jumped a little at the new and unexpected presence of yet another member of the whimsical ward of wonders. The man had waves of jet black hair pressing against caramel skin, and one eye that didn’t seem to be following its twin. It was nearly painful how handsome he was, Miguel thought with an odd amount of shame afterwards. He couldn’t believe that was his first thought upon meeting his new roommate, but he’ll be honest, he kinda thought wards were all crazy people zombified by meds. It was hard to see someone so vibrant in a place like this.

“H-hey, I’m Miguel.” Miguel went to put out his hand to the roommate, who didn’t take it, just eyed him suspiciously. Miguel retracted his hand a second later. “We bunking together?”

“Seems so.” The new man said with a raised brow. “Tu eres Latino?”

“Sì.” Miguel answered instinctively. The other man instantly warmed up, putting his hand out this time. Miguel shook it, but the other man guy yanked him forward so they were an inch apart. Miguel immediately revolted, trying to move away from the other man as his arms held him close.

“Get undressed.” He breathed, splitting into an insane smile where both of his eyes lit up. Miguel found his strength and pushed the man back, until he hit the side of the bed and grunted, holding his hip. “Pendejo…”

“Pendejo yo? Tu eres pendejo.” Miguel got into a fighting stance, ready to call for guards and remove his would be abuser. The man just kept rubbing his hip.

“Undress, fuckhead, I was gonna lend you some clothes.” He hissed in pain again. That bedframe hurt like a motherfucker.

“What? Why?” Miguel found himself asking, heart rate self soothing.

“First time in one of these hellholes?” The man asked, sitting in his bed with his legs crossed underneath him, bouncing a little with a playfulness that seemed way out of place.

“Yeah…” Miguel confirmed, rubbing the back of his neck and looking out into the hall to see if he needed to get any help.

“Well, they ain’t exactly quick about giving us shit. Taking shit, they’ll do in an instant, but giving shit? They take their damn time.” He bounded up and went into his own brown paper bag and fished out some clothes. Just an old pair of pants, no strings, and a baggy shirt. Man even fished out a clean pair of briefs and tossed them over to his roommate’s bed.

“I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but why are you doing this?”

“Eventually you’re gonna start to stink in those things. You can’t wash ‘em, so every time you get clean you gotta put them dirty things back on. I’m just saving both of our noses.” He laughed, and Miguel felt his face heat up a little in embarrassment.

“What’s your problem?” The man asked suddenly, taking Miguel a little off guard, if not for the goofy fucking smile that remained.

“My problem?”

“Sure, you don’t get set up in a palace like this ‘less you got a problem. Tell me your die-agnosis, my child, and I’ll absolve you.” He made the cross with his fingers on his chest, still laughing to himself.

“I’m here because of a misunderstanding. I didn’t try to kill myself.” Miguel asserted as if there were video cameras waiting to hear him admit otherwise. Shit, there probably were. The other man let loose a boisterous laugh.

“What a fuckin’ coinky-dink. I’m here ‘cause I didn’t try to kill myself too!” He kept laughing on his bed for so long that it made Miguel uncomfortable. He felt like the man was mocking him, so he reacted as such.

“Fuck you, cabron.” Miguel shot, angrily. The man instantly sat up, still smiling, and wagged a finger at him.

“Ooooh, careful, baby, you don’t want the orderlies to have you sedated. See, that’s what happens whenever we get agitated, man. A little too wily coyote for their roadrunners.”

“Uncooperative.” Miguel echoed, and the other man touched the tip of his nose and pointed.

“Bingo.” He laughed again to himself and reached for something under his bed. It was a soft, thin journal with a packet of thin markers.

“They give you your coloring pages yet?”

“Coloring pages? How old do they think we are?”

“No, no, Miguel, it’s how bored do they think we are? And the answer is; bored enough to color their damn My Littlest Petshop coloring pages.” He reached into the book and pulled out a page of a cartoon turtle, showing it off proudly. It was fairly well colored in, except Chico had made one addition; the turtle had a massive, hard cock sticking out from under it, and a voice bubble that said ‘What do you call a turtle with a hard on? A slow poke!’. Miguel thought to the palm tree painting outside.

“You do that little number on the palm tree painting too, Picasso?”

He laughed again and nodded big.

“So you’re familiar with my work?”

“You certainly have a style.” Miguel chuckled, already feeling more at ease. He stepped into the bathroom to change, and it was nice ditching the hospital gown. He suddenly got very self conscious. He looked up and the man was standing in the bathroom doorway, looking straight at Miguel’s dick.

“Jesus, man, personal space just isn’t a thing for you, is it?”

“Nah, kinda got numb to all that bullshit ages ago. Everybody sees everybody sees everything here.” He picked at his nails, eyes still going between the dirty digits and the prick of his new roommate.

“You didn’t tell me your name, man.”

“You don’t miss a trick, do you, cowboy?” He snorted as Miguel hiked up the pants to take away the show. The man gave him a face that said; ‘party pooper’. “It’s Carmen, but if you say that name, ain’t nobody gonna answer, ya dig? It’s Chico to everyone who ain’t an orderly or a doc.”

“Chico?”

“Chico.” He smiled, made a little finger gun, and winked as he clicked it. Miguel couldn’t help the little laugh that followed.

There was a little knock on the doorframe, and both men turned, Miguel assessing the situation and Chico smiling that eternal, everloving, goofy ass smile. There was another Latino standing there. Tall, with a scruffy head of hair and beard.

“Chico, it’s chow time.” The man regarded Miguel with the barest form of recognition; a head nod, before he turned away and went into the common area.

“That’s Carlos. Don’t let his rudeness confuse you; he’s ten times worse once you get to know him.” Chico cackled again at his own wit, and Miguel shook his head, still smiling. Honestly, the situation could be worse.

That’s what Miguel thought until he saw what was for dinner; cold pasta with mayo, carrots, and cheddar cheese. He could have fucking vomited.

He collected his tray and Chico called him over to his table, full with people. That Carlos guy. Ryan and Adebisi. Another fluffy haired, younger Latino who had a blank stare in his eyes. That Augustus guy. A heavyset black man stood at the precipice of another table, calling out poetic phrases into the air;

“Tried to die / I did that / In another person’s body / Not too far from here / I wrote a note / I did that / To explain why / You won’t be seeing me anymore / I opened the pills / I did that / Hoping my pain would stop / When I saw the bottom of the bottle / They call us worriers / We’re just warriors / That haven’t died yet /To claim that honor…”

“What’s that from?” Miguel asked Chico as they sat down. Chico shrugged, still grinning.

“His own fucked up brain, I guess. That’s Poet. He’s one of the few entertainments we get in here. We only get music therapy every week or so and the TV’s been busted for some time now.”

“How long you been in here?” Miguel asked, and Ryan let loose a sharp laugh. Chico’s eyes shifted but he never lost that insane smile.

“Just as long as everyone else, man, too long.”

Miguel gestured to Chico’s food; he had chicken nuggets instead. Miguel asked how you get that instead of the shitty casserole.

“You try and stab your wrists with the plastic fork, ma, that’s how.” Ryan informed, licking his spoon ravenously after dipping it into the salad dressing. “You get the finger food diet from then on, right, Chico, my man?”

Chico kept his head down, eating his food, not acknowledging the topic but a brief smile in Miguel’s general direction. Miguel’s eyes were drawn down to a faint scar on his wrist. It turned his stomach if he was honest. Chico must have noticed, because he nodded his head to Ryan.

“Don’t pay him too much mind, yo, he’s been on the holy trinity for some time now.” At Miguel’s confused expression, he elaborated; “Lamotrigine for moods, risperdal for psychosis, and sertraline for depression. Mood, ups, and downs; the holy trinity.”

He made that cross gesture with his hand again. Ryan didn’t mind; he held out his arms as if to say ‘you know it’.

“What can I say, homie, I applied myself. Gotta cover all them bases.”

“That reminds me, I usually take my… my meds at 9ish.” Miguel kept it vague, not as comfortable with everyone knowing his shit as some of the others. “Do they need my med regimen or what?”

“Med regimen, dig him.” Ryan remarked and Adebisi laughed.

“They got your file, Miguel.” Augustus informed him, rolling his eyes at the idiots he was forced to be friends with. “Any meds you need, they got for you. We take ‘em after dinner, after breakfast, and after lunch if they’re thrice dailies. Plus they’re gonna give you new ones.”

“New meds?” Miguel shook his head. “I don’t need new meds.”

Everyone at the table laughed.

“Yeah, your meds are working super, chocha, that’s why you tried to kick the bucket.” Carlos stated, meanly. Miguel turned bright red and stared at his shoes. Chico noticed. Everyone did but Chico gave a shit. He nudged Miguel’s shoulder.

“Carlos is just pissy ‘cause his cariprazine makes him constipated.”

Miguel snorted, and Ryan sent a couple of ‘ooohs’ Carlos’ way, who lifted his hand up and smacked a middle finger against his palm.

“Fuck you.”

“Name the time and the place.” Chico fake kissed in Carlos’ direction, who rolled his eyes and stood to throw his food away.

Miguel was thankful that Chico took the spotlight off of him for a second. He sent an appreciative glance his way, before feeling like it was too much affection, and looking away. Chico clocked it before he stopped, smiling a little into his food.

“Keep the juice you don’t drink and the dessert you don’t eat, we bet those playing cards later. That and the little grippy socks they give you. Shit gets cold in here sometimes.” Chico advised before going to throw his food away. Miguel nodded, and followed in suit, not being extremely hungry for the cuisine. The 72 hours would be somewhat bearable. There was always the creeping thought that it wouldn’t end at 72 hours. That the doc would say he was loco and keep him there, forever in the worst of cases. He could be like that Rebadow guy who barely remembered his own name. Poet kept reciting off to the side.

“I went to the hospital / I did that / Where they give you clothes / Made of paper / And if they rip, you’re exposed / Like a nerve ending / Or a vein / Once shielded / Now open to all / To poke and prod / And try to put me back together again / I told the doctors how I felt / I did that / Only to hear / That this is life my dear / And it will never ever end / I cried alone in my room / I did that / Because their words of comfort / Reach me like knives / Driving deeper with each syllable…”

It came time for bedtime and the lights in the main area were turned out, people trudging to their beds and doors being shut. Miguel and Chico got into their respective beds, settling in for the night.

“I’m no good at sleeping away from home”. Miguel admitted into the darkness.

“You get used to it.” Chico responded, turning over.

“I’m no good at sleeping in silence either.”

“Clearly.” Chico snorted. Miguel smiled softly and turned over, closing his eyes and trying to get himself to sleep. The silence was deafening. He still couldn’t shake this creepy feeling all over him. He turned his body towards Chico, and came face to face with the man who had apparently moved out of bed.

“Wh-?” Miguel started to ask before he felt Chico’s lips crash into his, hand on the back of his head, lips moving rhythmically together. He felt something push into his mouth on Chico’s tongue and go down his throat. Chico kept kissing him for another minute or so, rubbing his thumb along the side of Miguel’s head. Miguel’s heart went from racing to lub dubbing peacefully under his roommate’s touch. Chico pulled back and pecked his lips again, softly, smirking at him dickishly. Miguel gave him a puzzled, questioning look. Chico just puckered his lips and winked.

“Diazepam… you’ll sleep like a fucking baby.” He got up and stroked Miguel’s head once more before he went to his bed. “Nighty night, precioso.”

Miguel panicked a little at taking meds that weren’t his own, before his heart started beating slower, and a weight was lifted off his shoulders, the room sort of stopping spinning but melting away underneath him. It was an out of body experience, taking valium for the first time. It felt as if someone were sitting on him, like a weighted blanket, going shh shhh shhhh until he drifted off to sleep. He was able to breathe again for the first time in a long ass time. It cradled him as he went to sleep, letting those bad feelings from only 18 hours prior be forgotten. Everything was forgotten. It was only Miguel and his bed and that glorious son of a bitch Chico snoring away next to him.

Miguel, for the first time in a long time, was cooperative.