“Johnson!” Dr. Janisse barked. “What did you do to my patient?!”
“Nothing” the intern blubbered. “He was in regression therapy and begging for his dool, so we brought him his doll.”
Dr. Janisse raised a surprised eyebrow and peered through the viewing glass, where Mr. LeBeau was sat staring at a small porcelain doll. “He’s never mentioned a doll before.”
Johnson nodded solemnly. “He seemed pretty insistent.”
Dr. Janisse rested his forearm on the glass and sighed deeply. Mr. LeBeau was brought to them five years ago, covered head to toe in blood and screaming bloody murder. Five years of therapy, counselling, and even hock treatments and he remained a babbling, incoherent wreck who had no idea of how brutally his mind had snapped.
Mr. LeBeau rocked back and forth in his chair, mumbling to the porcelain doll; its creamy-white cheeks were cracked, its rosy-red pouting lips faded, and its curly blonde locks were hanging in clumps. Suddenly, he gripped the doll tightly around the middle and started ranting; spittle flew from his lips, his teeth gnashed together so hard that he was practically chewing off his bottle lip, and his eyes bulged alarmingly.
“Shit!” Dr. Janisse spat. He pressed the call button to get some security in there but was fascinated by Mr. LeBeau’s sudden outrage. “Where did you say you got the doll from?”
Johnson, unable to tear his eyes away from the guards struggling to wrestle Mr. LeBeau to the ground, answered: “His mother brought it in.”
Dr. Janisse snapped his head around sharply. “His mother?! His mother’s been dead for five years!”
He gazed back through the glass and watched as Mr. LeBeau clawed at the guards, his face bulging with pulsating purple veins, his eyes wide and bloodshot, blood foaming around the remains of his mouth. He leapt at them, clutching and squeezing and ripping, chewing into the flesh of their necks and spraying geysers of blood over the padded walls.
The porcelain doll laid on its side in the corner of the room, watching on with a stoic approval.
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