Cliffton Fanfiction: Intractable - Chapter 1
I finally got around to starting the fic about Devin being mentally unstable. It's going to be multi-chaptered! Okay, a LOT of Devin fic involves him being mentally unstable because Devin, but this one is about his mental illness.
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Killed my fourth fucking spiny tentacle plant. They gave me an extra plant, and I killed it like all the other plants -- everything I touch fucking dies. Don’t wanna fail botany, even if I’m expected to. My ma thinks I will. And I fucking can’t prove her wrong. Can’t even remember to go to class half the time since -- don’t wanna think about that. Don’t wanna think about what I did. How I am fucking poison.
Can’t help thinking about it, though. Fucking impossible to think of anything else. I could have saved him. My fault Eric’s -- I can’t even fucking say it. Convince myself he’s gonna be fucking okay. Spend at least ten minutes waiting for him to show up at my house. I see him arrive. He’s fucking smiling at me, cup of SynthBrew in his hand. Manage to smile even though I’m so tired. Can’t keep my eyes open -- need that fucking SynthBrew.
Blink a few times. Shake my head. Eric fucking disappears. Where’d he go? Look around. “Eric?” I call out. “Don’t disappear. Need my fucking my SynthBrew.”
He appears again. Shakes his head. “And why d'you have to say 'fuck' all the time? It's vulgar,” he says. Voice sounds all wrong -- like he’s far away or something.
“I’ll say fuck if I fucking want to,” I grumble. Reach out for the SynthBrew.
Eric smiles -- and disappears again.
“Don’t do that,” I cry. Look around again. He’s gone.
Then I fucking remember.
He’s not coming back.
* * *
Over ten fucking minutes late to homeroom. Instructor Lowry yells at me in front of the whole class -- not the first time that’s happened. Goes on forever, her screechy voice giving me a headache. Other students are fucking giggling. Wait for it all to end so I can fucking sit down. So tired it’s hard to stand. Don’t hear anything she says after I sit. Think I might have dozed off because I hear the bell -- time for Botany.
Don’t want to go to Botany without a fucking living spiny tentacle plant. Can’t skip -- that would look worse. Almost don’t care, but I do. Maybe Instructor Wyndham will take pity on me and give me another plant, not that it would do any good. I’m fucking poison. Kill everything I touch.
Make it to the classroom on time. Slip into my seat. Look around. Everyone’s got a healthy plant at their workstation -- except for me. Of fucking course. Nobody else is fucking poison.
Instructor Wyndham looks at me. Fucking disapproving. “Where’s your plant, Mr. Renton?” she asks.
Plant’s fucking dead. That’s where it is.
“Died,” I mutter, staring at my desk.
“You mean to tell me that we were nice enough to give you a fourth plant because of recent events and you were ungrateful enough to kill it?” Instructor Wyndham says. Voice is like fucking ice.
My classmates start giggling -- guess everyone can fucking hear us.
“Didn’t kill it on purpose,” I say. Keep staring at my desk. Can feel Wyndham’s eyes burning into me. Don’t fucking like that.
“I refuse to believe even someone from your -- less than comfortable background doesn’t know how to keep a plant alive,” she murmurs in that same fucking icy voice.
“Didn’t kill my fucking plant,” I mutter. Stomach sinks when I realize what I said -- the Instructor hates cursing.
“Did I give you permission to use such language?” she asks, leaning over my desk. She’s too fucking close. Don’t like that -- want my personal space. Wyndham continues, “Perhaps you’re still a bit -- out of sorts from what, ah, happened. Maybe you need to visit one of the Mental Hygiene Counselors.”
Can’t help shivering. Don’t wanna see any fucking Counselor. The Mental Hygiene Office here gives me the creeps.
Cross my arms over my chest. “Don’t wanna see a Counselor,” I grumble.
“It’s not a suggestion, Mr. Renton,” she says. “If you don’t want to fail, you will visit the Counselor. Now.” She sounds like she fucking means it. Fuck.
The classroom erupts in “oohs” -- I’m in trouble, and they know it. Feel my stomach sink into my shoes. I have a bad feeling about this.
* * *
The Mental Hygiene Office is fucking creepy. Looks like a regular hallway with a couple doors on it. But something’s wrong. Reminds me of those monster vids where the characters explore a mysterious hallway and never come back out. Too white here. Too fucking bright. Lighting must be broken. Don’t like bright things. They should fix that. Like a hospital here. I shiver -- I’ve heard rumors about the hospitals. Don’t wanna think about those -- if they’re even fucking true.
A head pops out of one of the doors -- makes my heart pound. Can’t breathe, either -- must have broken air conditioning here, too.
“You must be Mr. Renton,” the head drawls.
“The fuck? How do you know my name?” I gasp. Don’t look at who’s speaking. Grab my arms and hug myself. Don’t like how the guy is watching me. And don’t like how he knows my fucking name. Never told the guy my name.
“I know all the students’ names,” he mutters. Opens the door and steps out. Eyes so dark they’re almost black. Feel them fucking burn into me. I kinda hate this guy. Don’t trust him. Don’t trust anyone. The guy continues, “I’m Counselor Riley. Why don’t you come into my office?”
Don’t have a fucking choice, do I?
I follow Riley in -- notice the “Mental Hygiene Matters!” poster. Creepy as shit, with the smiling people on it. People don’t fucking smile like that. I know I don’t.
Riley takes a seat behind his metal desk. Gestures to the seat in front of it. I sit down. Fucking uncomfortable. Cold. I shiver. Air condition is fucking wonky. Too bright in his office, too. The Counselor clasps his hands together. Leans his elbows on the desk. “Instructor Wyndham informed me you were having, ah, difficulties in class, so she recommended you see me,” he murmurs. “Could tell me what those difficulties are? I would like to hear it from you, Mr. Renton.”
Cross my arms over my chest. Try not to look nervous. Can’t mess up this interview -- don’t want Riley to think I’m fucking crazy. Words don’t wanna come. I gotta make the words come. Silence doesn’t look good.
“Is that a difficult question for you to answer?” he wonders. Hate that fucking stare of his. “Perhaps it will be easier if you tell me how you’re feeling right now.”
“Fucking splendiferous, sir,” I mutter. Grab my arms hard enough it hurts.
Riley raises an eyebrow. “Splendiferous, is it? You don’t look so well.”
“You need to get more sleep, Devin.” Eric shakes his head. Still holding my SynthBrew. The fuck? How did he get in here? They would never make him see a Mental Hygiene Counselor. He’s not fucking poison.
“Need my SynthBrew,” I mutter. Can’t fucking think right without it.
“SynthBrew? Aren’t you a little young to be drinking that? It’s not very healthy for someone your age,” Riley says. Can tell how much he doesn’t approve. I don’t fucking care -- I need it.
I look over at Eric, pleading. “Come on, Eric, I need my fucking SynthBrew.”
Just shakes his head. Don’t get what’s wrong with him. Never refused to give me my SynthBrew before.
“Eric? You’re talking to Eric?” Riley wonders. Something odd about his voice, but I can’t figure out what.
The fuck is wrong with this Counselor? “Of course I’m talking to Eric. He’s right there,” I mutter, gesturing at my best friend. “He brought me my SynthBrew, and he won’t give it me.”
“And you believe he’s real?” he asks. Feel his stare get even more intense. Makes my skin crawl.
“Of course he’s fucking real,” I mutter. “Why wouldn’t he be?” And why can’t I breathe right?
“I see,” Riley murmurs. He takes out a weird electronic device from his drawer. Punches a bunch of buttons. The fuck is he doing?
That’s when I remember again.
Eric’s dead.
He vanishes with a sad look on his face. I feel a lump in my throat. Fucking impossible to breathe. Need to breathe. My best friend -- dead. Worse, I acted like he was alive in front of a fucking Mental Hygiene Counselor. Shit.
The fuck do I do now? Can’t think straight. Know I gotta do something, though. My heart pounds -- loud enough I think Riley can hear it. Need to convince him I’m sane. Don’t know what will happen if I can’t. Know it will be bad.
Would help if I could speak, and I fucking can’t.
“I gotta go,” I mumble. I get up. Can’t fucking stay here any longer, even if I get in trouble for leaving. Room’s too small.
Riley says nothing. Guess he’s not gonna bother to stop me. When I try to open the door, it won’t fucking budge. Rattling the handle doesn’t work. The fuck?
“You won’t be able to open the door -- I had it electronically closed until staff from the Home for the Intractably Insane get here to pick you up,” he says. Voice is so fucking cold. “Now why don’t you cooperate and have a seat? It will be best for everyone if you do.”
Wait, what? Staff from where are gonna pick me up?
No.
I can’t have heard that right. “The -- the fucking loony bin?” I stammer.
Riley nods. “I wouldn’t call it a ‘loony bin,’ but you are clearly not...stable enough for regular society,” he says.
“I’m fucking stable,” I mutter. Wish my voice didn’t shake like that.
“If you say so,” he snorts, shaking his head. Doesn’t fucking believe me, does he?
I’m shaking. Too cold in here. The doorknob turns. My stomach drops into my shoes.
“They’re here,” he says. Sounds so fucking satisfied.
Think I might be fucking sick. Get it together, Devin. Gotta convince them not to take me. “Don’t I get a phone call?” I say.
“That’s for criminal matters, and it doesn’t work that way in the real world, Mr. Renton,” Riley murmurs.
Door opens. The people from the Home enter -- they wear dark gray jackets. With white stripes that fucking glow.
Hate shit that glows. Shake even worse when I see that. Gotta get it together. “I’m not insane just because I saw my dead friend,” I blurt out.
Not the right thing to say. Shit.
One of the men in glowing jackets smirks at me. “We’ll take good care of you,” he says.
“Sure you fucking will,” I mutter.
No chance of convincing these guys, is there? Gotta make a break for it. Rush forward. Try to dodge around them. Can’t. I slam into someone and fall on my ass. Riley laughs -- it’s not fucking funny, dude. Not at all.
Someone grabs my arm -- jerks me into a standing position. Another staff member gets out a JetSyringe. No, they fucking can’t.
They can. The guy jams it into my arm. Feel woozy now. My vision dims.
Everything goes fucking black.
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next chapter
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Killed my fourth fucking spiny tentacle plant. They gave me an extra plant, and I killed it like all the other plants -- everything I touch fucking dies. Don’t wanna fail botany, even if I’m expected to. My ma thinks I will. And I fucking can’t prove her wrong. Can’t even remember to go to class half the time since -- don’t wanna think about that. Don’t wanna think about what I did. How I am fucking poison.
Can’t help thinking about it, though. Fucking impossible to think of anything else. I could have saved him. My fault Eric’s -- I can’t even fucking say it. Convince myself he’s gonna be fucking okay. Spend at least ten minutes waiting for him to show up at my house. I see him arrive. He’s fucking smiling at me, cup of SynthBrew in his hand. Manage to smile even though I’m so tired. Can’t keep my eyes open -- need that fucking SynthBrew.
Blink a few times. Shake my head. Eric fucking disappears. Where’d he go? Look around. “Eric?” I call out. “Don’t disappear. Need my fucking my SynthBrew.”
He appears again. Shakes his head. “And why d'you have to say 'fuck' all the time? It's vulgar,” he says. Voice sounds all wrong -- like he’s far away or something.
“I’ll say fuck if I fucking want to,” I grumble. Reach out for the SynthBrew.
Eric smiles -- and disappears again.
“Don’t do that,” I cry. Look around again. He’s gone.
Then I fucking remember.
He’s not coming back.
* * *
Over ten fucking minutes late to homeroom. Instructor Lowry yells at me in front of the whole class -- not the first time that’s happened. Goes on forever, her screechy voice giving me a headache. Other students are fucking giggling. Wait for it all to end so I can fucking sit down. So tired it’s hard to stand. Don’t hear anything she says after I sit. Think I might have dozed off because I hear the bell -- time for Botany.
Don’t want to go to Botany without a fucking living spiny tentacle plant. Can’t skip -- that would look worse. Almost don’t care, but I do. Maybe Instructor Wyndham will take pity on me and give me another plant, not that it would do any good. I’m fucking poison. Kill everything I touch.
Make it to the classroom on time. Slip into my seat. Look around. Everyone’s got a healthy plant at their workstation -- except for me. Of fucking course. Nobody else is fucking poison.
Instructor Wyndham looks at me. Fucking disapproving. “Where’s your plant, Mr. Renton?” she asks.
Plant’s fucking dead. That’s where it is.
“Died,” I mutter, staring at my desk.
“You mean to tell me that we were nice enough to give you a fourth plant because of recent events and you were ungrateful enough to kill it?” Instructor Wyndham says. Voice is like fucking ice.
My classmates start giggling -- guess everyone can fucking hear us.
“Didn’t kill it on purpose,” I say. Keep staring at my desk. Can feel Wyndham’s eyes burning into me. Don’t fucking like that.
“I refuse to believe even someone from your -- less than comfortable background doesn’t know how to keep a plant alive,” she murmurs in that same fucking icy voice.
“Didn’t kill my fucking plant,” I mutter. Stomach sinks when I realize what I said -- the Instructor hates cursing.
“Did I give you permission to use such language?” she asks, leaning over my desk. She’s too fucking close. Don’t like that -- want my personal space. Wyndham continues, “Perhaps you’re still a bit -- out of sorts from what, ah, happened. Maybe you need to visit one of the Mental Hygiene Counselors.”
Can’t help shivering. Don’t wanna see any fucking Counselor. The Mental Hygiene Office here gives me the creeps.
Cross my arms over my chest. “Don’t wanna see a Counselor,” I grumble.
“It’s not a suggestion, Mr. Renton,” she says. “If you don’t want to fail, you will visit the Counselor. Now.” She sounds like she fucking means it. Fuck.
The classroom erupts in “oohs” -- I’m in trouble, and they know it. Feel my stomach sink into my shoes. I have a bad feeling about this.
* * *
The Mental Hygiene Office is fucking creepy. Looks like a regular hallway with a couple doors on it. But something’s wrong. Reminds me of those monster vids where the characters explore a mysterious hallway and never come back out. Too white here. Too fucking bright. Lighting must be broken. Don’t like bright things. They should fix that. Like a hospital here. I shiver -- I’ve heard rumors about the hospitals. Don’t wanna think about those -- if they’re even fucking true.
A head pops out of one of the doors -- makes my heart pound. Can’t breathe, either -- must have broken air conditioning here, too.
“You must be Mr. Renton,” the head drawls.
“The fuck? How do you know my name?” I gasp. Don’t look at who’s speaking. Grab my arms and hug myself. Don’t like how the guy is watching me. And don’t like how he knows my fucking name. Never told the guy my name.
“I know all the students’ names,” he mutters. Opens the door and steps out. Eyes so dark they’re almost black. Feel them fucking burn into me. I kinda hate this guy. Don’t trust him. Don’t trust anyone. The guy continues, “I’m Counselor Riley. Why don’t you come into my office?”
Don’t have a fucking choice, do I?
I follow Riley in -- notice the “Mental Hygiene Matters!” poster. Creepy as shit, with the smiling people on it. People don’t fucking smile like that. I know I don’t.
Riley takes a seat behind his metal desk. Gestures to the seat in front of it. I sit down. Fucking uncomfortable. Cold. I shiver. Air condition is fucking wonky. Too bright in his office, too. The Counselor clasps his hands together. Leans his elbows on the desk. “Instructor Wyndham informed me you were having, ah, difficulties in class, so she recommended you see me,” he murmurs. “Could tell me what those difficulties are? I would like to hear it from you, Mr. Renton.”
Cross my arms over my chest. Try not to look nervous. Can’t mess up this interview -- don’t want Riley to think I’m fucking crazy. Words don’t wanna come. I gotta make the words come. Silence doesn’t look good.
“Is that a difficult question for you to answer?” he wonders. Hate that fucking stare of his. “Perhaps it will be easier if you tell me how you’re feeling right now.”
“Fucking splendiferous, sir,” I mutter. Grab my arms hard enough it hurts.
Riley raises an eyebrow. “Splendiferous, is it? You don’t look so well.”
“You need to get more sleep, Devin.” Eric shakes his head. Still holding my SynthBrew. The fuck? How did he get in here? They would never make him see a Mental Hygiene Counselor. He’s not fucking poison.
“Need my SynthBrew,” I mutter. Can’t fucking think right without it.
“SynthBrew? Aren’t you a little young to be drinking that? It’s not very healthy for someone your age,” Riley says. Can tell how much he doesn’t approve. I don’t fucking care -- I need it.
I look over at Eric, pleading. “Come on, Eric, I need my fucking SynthBrew.”
Just shakes his head. Don’t get what’s wrong with him. Never refused to give me my SynthBrew before.
“Eric? You’re talking to Eric?” Riley wonders. Something odd about his voice, but I can’t figure out what.
The fuck is wrong with this Counselor? “Of course I’m talking to Eric. He’s right there,” I mutter, gesturing at my best friend. “He brought me my SynthBrew, and he won’t give it me.”
“And you believe he’s real?” he asks. Feel his stare get even more intense. Makes my skin crawl.
“Of course he’s fucking real,” I mutter. “Why wouldn’t he be?” And why can’t I breathe right?
“I see,” Riley murmurs. He takes out a weird electronic device from his drawer. Punches a bunch of buttons. The fuck is he doing?
That’s when I remember again.
Eric’s dead.
He vanishes with a sad look on his face. I feel a lump in my throat. Fucking impossible to breathe. Need to breathe. My best friend -- dead. Worse, I acted like he was alive in front of a fucking Mental Hygiene Counselor. Shit.
The fuck do I do now? Can’t think straight. Know I gotta do something, though. My heart pounds -- loud enough I think Riley can hear it. Need to convince him I’m sane. Don’t know what will happen if I can’t. Know it will be bad.
Would help if I could speak, and I fucking can’t.
“I gotta go,” I mumble. I get up. Can’t fucking stay here any longer, even if I get in trouble for leaving. Room’s too small.
Riley says nothing. Guess he’s not gonna bother to stop me. When I try to open the door, it won’t fucking budge. Rattling the handle doesn’t work. The fuck?
“You won’t be able to open the door -- I had it electronically closed until staff from the Home for the Intractably Insane get here to pick you up,” he says. Voice is so fucking cold. “Now why don’t you cooperate and have a seat? It will be best for everyone if you do.”
Wait, what? Staff from where are gonna pick me up?
No.
I can’t have heard that right. “The -- the fucking loony bin?” I stammer.
Riley nods. “I wouldn’t call it a ‘loony bin,’ but you are clearly not...stable enough for regular society,” he says.
“I’m fucking stable,” I mutter. Wish my voice didn’t shake like that.
“If you say so,” he snorts, shaking his head. Doesn’t fucking believe me, does he?
I’m shaking. Too cold in here. The doorknob turns. My stomach drops into my shoes.
“They’re here,” he says. Sounds so fucking satisfied.
Think I might be fucking sick. Get it together, Devin. Gotta convince them not to take me. “Don’t I get a phone call?” I say.
“That’s for criminal matters, and it doesn’t work that way in the real world, Mr. Renton,” Riley murmurs.
Door opens. The people from the Home enter -- they wear dark gray jackets. With white stripes that fucking glow.
Hate shit that glows. Shake even worse when I see that. Gotta get it together. “I’m not insane just because I saw my dead friend,” I blurt out.
Not the right thing to say. Shit.
One of the men in glowing jackets smirks at me. “We’ll take good care of you,” he says.
“Sure you fucking will,” I mutter.
No chance of convincing these guys, is there? Gotta make a break for it. Rush forward. Try to dodge around them. Can’t. I slam into someone and fall on my ass. Riley laughs -- it’s not fucking funny, dude. Not at all.
Someone grabs my arm -- jerks me into a standing position. Another staff member gets out a JetSyringe. No, they fucking can’t.
They can. The guy jams it into my arm. Feel woozy now. My vision dims.
Everything goes fucking black.
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next chapter