Phloem

One Flew Over - Well, you know the rest.

@ningal700 No problem! Take as much time as you need. But I think just Smith is fine, no need to make a new character. I can take control of him - unless he's vital to the plot, of course. :D

One Flew Over - Well, you know the rest.

Bumping this back up to the first page because why not.

@ningal700 Also, I was thinking that Ezra could have some kind prior relationship with Smith. He seems less like an asshole than the others, so maybe he could be the one who gets Ezra his cigarettes? And maybe a little later on, Smith can help them get out of Remmington's? I don't even really know where I'm going with this, but that's just my two cents. xD

One Flew Over - Well, you know the rest.

Ezra’s eyes narrowed. Anxiety? Bipolar Disorder? Those weren’t exactly things that got you committed to a mental institution, much less one like Remmington’s. For a fleeting moment, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of commiseration well up inside him. How long had she been here? Needless to say, Ezra had his own woes to wrangle, but there weren’t many things in the world that made him feel this way. The abuse of power was something he’d always been wary of, and they had the audacity to call him crazy because of it. No one deserved to be in a place like this, no matter how incorruptible and virtuous they set themselves up to be. He knew better.

“Psychosis and BPD.” Ezra stated, quite bluntly, voice monotonous with disinterest. His face was a mask of detachment, but if one looked closely, they’d see a flicker of uncertainty. Up until this very day, he still wasn’t sure whether or not his suspicions were completely unfounded. Hushed voices and lowered gazes, those were the things that greeted him whenever he walked into a room at home. But he supposed that wasn’t the only factor that led to his confinement; more like the straw that broke the camel’s back, really. He still remembered how he stuck his head into the oven hours before they dragged him here - and he was so close to blacking out, too. The memory brought a wry, feeble smile to his lips, as he continued. “I tried to kill my family, and I guess they were tired of me trying to kill myself all the time.”

Ezra would be lying if he said this revelation wasn’t cathartic, and there was a sick sort of excitement as to how the girl would react mixed in there, as well. The therapists in here were useless - all they did was smile, nod, maybe scribble down some bullshit on a clipboard if they were feeling particularly productive that day. It was like talking to a brick wall, or rather, confiding in a goldfish. The therapists seemed to forget about everything he’d said by the time the next session rolled around. After a few months of this repetition, it was much easier for Ezra to simply clam up, and wait for the forty-five minutes to be over. With Alytra, though - or any other patient in Remmington’s, for that matter - it was different. There was something of a mutual understanding between them, even if they’d never actually spoken to each other up until now.

“They tried to keep it hush-hush, but you might’ve seen it in the tabloids, once or twice.” He vaguely recalled a headline splashed across the cover of OK! Magazine, and it would’ve almost been amusing, if not for its tastelessness. “I think it was something like: ‘The Pinkertons: Richer Than God, But They Can’t Hide The Crazy!’. You know, that might actually be my personal favourite.”

One Flew Over - Well, you know the rest.

Ezra might’ve been delusional, but he wasn’t stupid. He could see the subtle curling of the lip, the way her eyes narrowed as he made himself at home on the couch. It was clear - to him, at least - that he wasn’t all too welcomed here. Still, it took him every last ounce of willpower in his being to refrain from pointing out that The Lounge was a communal area. If the girl had truly desired to go down the path of the lone wolf, she’d be better off holing up inside a bathroom stall.

As this… ‘Alytra’ introduced herself, Ezra spent a few moments taking her in. She was pale, but not quite as much as he was, with a peppering of freckles all across her features. Of course, none of that were nearly as interesting as the purple hair - an oasis of colour in this wasteland. A compliment was right there on the tip of his tongue, though he couldn’t bring himself to say it. Not just yet, at least. He wasn’t about to get all buddy-buddy with some he’d just met. Especially not with someone who glared at him just for taking a seat.

“...Ezra. It’s Ezra.” The name sounded wrong between his teeth, and he rued the repetition. There was something dodgy about any assertion one felt obliged to make twice. But it had just been so long since anyone in this hellhole addressed him properly, his name beginning to make the strange transition into a dead language. Ezra was disquieted to realise that the staff had ceased to call him anything at all. He didn’t know when or how it happened, but one thing was for sure, this was all because of that bitch, Dr. Remmington. No doubt this was another one of her little mind-games, and that toady of hers, Jason, had to be in on it, too.

Speak of the devil… there he was. Ezra would notice that ugly mug anywhere. He’d heard rumours of what Jason did to the other patients, but that was about as deep as it went. Ezra himself hadn’t witnessed anything he did firsthand, though he’d certainly had his own run-ins with a separate kind of degenerate - the closeted kind with cigarettes to spare. For a moment, his mind nearly slips, nails digging into his palm to bring himself back to reality. No, no more getting lost in thought. There were other, more important things to deal with. Like the conversation he and Alytra were having, for example.

“So? What’re you in here for, then?”

One Flew Over - Well, you know the rest.

Cool, I checked it out. :D

This place could use a couple more people, though.

One Flew Over - Well, you know the rest.

Before the girl could answer, Ezra had already moved to sit down, draping himself over his side of the couch like a long-limbed octopus. Much to his amusement, however, he found it quite the fitting metaphor for his current predicament. His legs almost felt like jelly; like he’d collapse and slump into a heap of nothing if he tried to stand up again. There was no joy in the quiet huff of laughter that escaped him next, but… beggars couldn’t be choosers, he supposed. In a place like this, one had to be content with any scrap of levity they could find - even if the punchline happened to be at their own expense.

To the untrained eye, Ezra might’ve looked like he was off with the fairies, but he was paying full attention to his companion’s ramblings. That was the thing about Remmington’s, he never had any idea whether the other patients were just a figment of his imagination, or whether they were flesh and blood. Each of their individual experiences sounded so utterly relatable to Ezra that sometimes, he found himself convinced that the whole facility was simply a construct of his own overactive thalamus. He remembered the IV needle sliding under his skin, the drugs skittering across the surface of his brain, and he nodded in understanding. But when questioned by the girl on how long she’d been gone, Ezra found himself at a loss.

“...Beats me.” His thoroughly unsatisfying answer came only after a long moment of contemplation, syllables slurring and stretching with a peculiar effortfulness. “I’m as out of it as you are, stranger. What’s your name?”

One Flew Over - Well, you know the rest.

Nah, it's fine. I didn't get too far with what I had, so I just started writing something new. Sorry it took so long, though. I got distracted. :P

One Flew Over - Well, you know the rest.

White.

All Ezra sees is white.

White walls, white floors, white uniforms. In that very moment, he couldn’t think of a colour he hated more. This… maddening plainness symbolised everything that was wrong with the place. It was difficult, if not impossible to distinguish where one wall ended, and where another began, giving the impression of an infinite, white abyss. Growing up, Ezra always thought white was the colour of purity, wholeness - everything Remmington’s was not, as anyone who took up residence here would realise. Things weren’t so bad though, some days, especially when the orderlies left him to his thoughts, and the voices in his head quieted down. But the more he dwelled on the matter, the more he realised what a thinly-veiled lie it was.

He hated this place.

Ezra could barely remember how long he’d been here. A week? A month? A year? It all sounded wrong to him, even as they swirled around in the recesses of his mind. The drugs they pumped him full of did everything except their intended purpose, memories slipping from him like sand through his fingers. Sometimes, Ezra was convinced that it was all just a ploy to keep him docile; placid. After all, how could he plot an escape route when he could barely walk down the corridors without tripping over his own feet? But those thoughts never stayed with him for long, his mind drifting away to other ideas before he could tighten his grasp.

Plodding aimlessly along, Ezra’s footsteps were muffled into silence by the linoleum floor. No one had come to bother him today, which was a first - though he couldn’t say he was very happy about it either. Ezra had been jonesing for a cigarette ever since this morning, how was he going to get one with nobody around? Of course, he knew better than anyone that smoking was strictly prohibited for patients, but who was going to enforce such a rule when you could simply take advantage of it? Nothing came without a price, though it was one he was willing to pay to stave off withdrawal.

Before he could bump into an orderly, however, Ezra noticed someone out of the corner of his eye. Those wilful shocks of purple hair drew a stirring of recognition out from within him, although he couldn’t quite put a name to the face just yet - all he knew was that it started with an ‘A’.

“What’d they do to you?”

The words spilt forth from his lips before he could stop them, and he began to approach the girl as if on a tether. Ezra’s movements were slow, unsure. It wasn’t often that he made conversation with the others in Remmington’s, preferring to keep to himself. So why was he starting now? The answer to that was question was unknown, even to him. But maybe, just maybe, this would be the first thing in this place to do him good.

One Flew Over - Well, you know the rest.

Done, Ezra's in the character tab. I'll try to get something up in the IC soon!

The formatting cheatsheet at the bottom of the page is a lot of help, by the way. You should check that out, if you feel like it. And really, I'm fine with anything. :D

One Flew Over - Well, you know the rest.

Ezra Pinkerton

Name: Ezra Pinkerton
Age: 19
Gender: Male
Sexual Orientation/Preference: Bisexual, with an inclination towards men.
Mental Illness/Disorder/Etcetera: Borderline Personality Disorder, Psychosis

Personality: To describe Ezra as abrasive would be the understatement of the century. Inwardly self-destructive and outwardly misanthropic, the people he talks to often find themselves put off by his hostility. He doesn't abide by the rules, he doesn't play fairly, and he certainly doesn't let anyone think they can get one up on him. Ezra considers himself the alpha dog in any situation he's in, but when faced with truly confident or successful people, he can become flustered and defensive, lashing out with increasingly nonsensical insults. Despite that, Ezra is a capable manipulator when he needs to be, and has a knack for controlling people to get what he wants.

He’s very often obsessive about the things he does, the things he thinks about, and the people he chooses to follow. If he likes something, chances are he'll let you know it, and if he doesn't, well, he's never been shy about voicing his opinion in that matter as well. Try as he might, he's never really had the best poker face in the world, and it tends to give him away more than not. Ezra is hard to like, much less to love, but underneath the layers of barbed distrust and anger, lies a young man deeply frustrated by his condition.

Appearance: With a height of 5’7”, weighing in at around 135 pounds, Ezra isn’t exactly the most imposing of figures. It doesn’t help that he never stands up straight, either. His posture is terrible; shoulders rolled forward, knees bent, hands inside his pockets. No matter how many hours of sleep he gets a night, it’s always fitful, as evident by the dark circles under his watery, blue eyes. There is an unhealthy pallor to his skin, even more so than usual, after a year spent in Remmington. This, combined with his lanky, blonde hair, gives him an overall appearance that would be best described as "washed out". Unless he is fully comfortable in his surroundings, he is usually unsmiling. It’s not difficult to notice the way he suspiciously eyes people, watching their every move like a caged animal.

History/Background Info.: Ezra grew up in Bethesda, Maryland, the youngest child to a wealthy businessman and his beautiful wife. The Pinkertons, as one of the primary shipping magnates in North America, were, and continue to be, one of the richest and most influential names from the continent. From the day he was born, Ezra had everything he wanted handed to him on a silver platter. To outsiders, his life was enviable. But behind closed doors, things were quite different.

Ezra’s parents were far too busy with work to deal with a child, and so tended to leave him and his siblings in the care of a nanny. This detachment between parent and child, perhaps, was why Ezra’s unusual behaviour went undetected. People never seemed to like staying around Ezra for long; his carers had a curious habit of never lasting more than a month at a time - the frequency and intensity of his sometimes self-destructive tantrums driving them away from the Pinkerton estate. Shrugging it off as the unreliability of the working class, Ezra’s parents turned a blind eye to these so-called “episodes”. As far as they were concerned, there was nothing wrong with him - well, apart from being spoilt rotten, that is.

For years, the behaviour Ezra displayed was simply swept under the rug. After all, it simply wouldn’t do to have the prestigious Pinkerton name sullied, would it? Still, it was only a matter of time until things came to a head. Slowly but surely, Ezra’s psyche began to turn on him. As with all things, it started out small. Shadows lurking at the edge of his vision, the occasional whisper at the back of his mind. At first, he couldn’t tell whether or not it was just his imagination - but these symptoms only worsened as time went by. Soon, Ezra began suffering from full-blown episodes of catatonia, and it was only then that his parents started to worry.

After multiple trips to the psychiatrist, it seemed like they had finally pinned down just what was wrong with Ezra. Diagnosed with BPD and Psychosis, he was sent home with nothing more than a bottle of mood stabilisers and antipsychotics. But then, barely a month later - that was when things spiralled out of control. The night before his eighteenth birthday, something in him snapped. Convinced that his entire family was out to get him, he retrieved a knife from the kitchen, fully intending to carve up everyone in the house before they could do anything to hurt him. Fortunately, however, Ezra’s plans were stopped in his tracks when the knife was wrestled away from him by his first target - his father.

Despite their earlier reservations, Ezra’s parents finally realised what they had to do. In a situation like this, seeking professional help would no doubt be the best course of action. Thus, after an extensive round of perusal and vetting, they finally settled on Remmington’s Angels. Whether or not Mr. and Mrs. Pinkerton were aware of the rumours surrounding the facility is anyone’s guess, but two things were for sure - it keeps their son out of the public eye, and their reputation spotless.

Favorites/Interests/Hobbies: Cigarettes. They’re one of the only things that calm him down, but he finds it nigh impossible to get his hands on any in Remmington.

Other/Special: Ezra is terrified of dogs. Whilst he isn't going to run screaming when he sees a chihuahua or corgi, anything larger is enough to scare the living daylights out of him.

---

Gregory “Gregg” Smith

Name: (Scientist) Gregory “Gregg” Smith
Age: 33
Gender: Male
Sexual Orientation/Preference: Homosexual (closeted)

Personality: Whatever one might be led to believe, Gregory Smith is an extremely passionate, and emotional person. When he truly takes interest in something (or someone), he puts all of himself into it, and momentarily forgets about everything else. This, however, lends him quite the unfortunate combination of bullheadedness and impatience. He’s always been like that, ever since he was a young boy - clinging to his mother, and his friends. But when he is confronted with an authority figure, this facet of his personality seems to make a complete, 180° change. In situations like these, Gregg becomes something of a pushover, craving any kind of acceptance he can get from his superiors. Which is kind of ironic, considering his stature.

Appearance: Gregg stands at a solid 6’0”, weighing in at about 172 pounds. With broad shoulders and an angular face, everything about him is thick - from his arms, down to his legs. Most of the time, he is clean shaven, but on particularly long and tiring work days, a five o'clock shadow can be seen. Plain, white dress shirts, and dark slacks are his go-to choice for work attire.

History/Background Info.: Gregory follows the typical story of a child generally ignored throughout his early school years. Often disappearing into the back of the classroom, teachers rarely noticed him - unless they were reprimanding him for minor misdemeanours. Still, he always seemed a tad different from his peers. Gregg never did fare well in strictly structured classroom settings, and appeared to catch onto material just a hair slower than those around him. All the same, he read avidly, and he proved quite an intelligent child, in his own way.

Gregg was always told by his father that he needed to be what he called a ‘man’s man’, by doing things like joining the football team, and treating girls like objects rather than people. And for most of his youth, that’s what he did, because he loved his father and wanted nothing more than to make him proud. If the things he was doing made him feel sick and empty, well, that was the price he was willing to pay for praise from his old man that was way too caught up in his delusions of the American Dream. It wasn’t until he got to university, when his father could no longer check up on what he was doing, that he stopped acting the way he had so diligently acted for his whole life. He secretly switched his major from Law to Biology with the blessing of his mother, leaving his father in the dark until he’d finished all of his schooling. While he wasn’t exactly disowned by his family after that, Gregg would no longer be invited around for dinner.

In the end, he graduated with a major in Biology and a minor in Psychology, and then went on to grad and post-grad school for his doctorate, earning that at age thirty-one. Beyond that, he honestly hadn’t planned very well, but he does say that joining this particular line of work had never actually crossed his mind. And truth be told, he’s still hard pressed to explain how he ended up at Remmington’s.

Favorites/Interests/Hobbies: Outside of work, he likes to read up on the works of Nietzsche and Freud. (He's a pseudo-psychologist, like that.)

Other/Special: Gregg has some reservations about Dr. Remmington’s unusual and sometimes cruel methods, but he isn’t sure if it would be wise to speak up about it. On the other hand, however, he’s the one in the facility who supplies Ezra with cigarettes. And while he’d never admit it to anyone else, he’s actually grown quite fond of the nineteen year-old.