In still waters - стр. 29
The hospital, with its pristine exterior of ornamental trees and light-colored walls, wore a mask of serenity that belied the torment within. From the outside, it could have been mistaken for a high-end resort. But cross the threshold, and the illusion shattered like spun glass. The interior was a nightmare made manifest – a horror movie set brought to life. Harsh fluorescent lights cast an unforgiving glare over everything, turning skin sallow and eyes feverish. Long, windowless corridors stretched into infinity, their dark blue walls seeming to close in with every step. The air was thick with the acrid stench of disinfectant and despair. Patients in straitjackets were shuttled from room to room, their anguished cries echoing off the walls. Masked doctors rushed about in a constant state of controlled panic, as if racing against some unseen clock.
Into this maelstrom of suffering stepped Dr. Tom Homsont, the psychiatrist tasked with Mary's treatment. At forty-nine, he cut a figure of calm competence – average height, bespectacled, his short light hair neatly trimmed. His appearance was meticulous: a crisp blue shirt and pressed black slacks beneath his pristine white coat. But it was his eyes that truly set him apart – keen and compassionate, they spoke of years spent navigating the treacherous waters of the human psyche. His extensive experience with suicidal patients and severe mental illnesses made him uniquely qualified to help Mary, if anyone could.
As Tom entered Mary's room, the air seemed to thicken with tension. Mary sat perched on the edge of her bed, dressed in the shapeless uniform of the hospital – long white pants and a short-sleeved shirt that seemed to emphasize her vulnerability. Her bare feet barely touched the floor, as if she were poised for flight. But it was her eyes that truly captured the doctor's attention – wild and unfocused, they darted about the room, tracking the movements of specters only she could see. As Tom approached, Mary's lips began to move, forming words meant for ears long since stilled by death. "She's here," Mary whispered, her voice trembling with a mixture of fear and longing. "Rose is sitting right beside me, whispering…" Tom's hand steady, he shone a small flashlight into Mary's eyes, checking for any physical signs of her deterioration. Mary's reaction was as sudden as it was disturbing – a rictus grin spread across her face, her teeth bared in a grotesque parody of joy. She stared through Tom, through the walls, into some middle distance where the lines between reality and delusion blurred beyond recognition. Then, as if a switch had been flipped, Mary's hands flew to her head, her fingers clawing at her scalp as she began to wail, a sound of pure, unadulterated anguish.