Heart - 13. Cruella de Vil

Tyson watched Vladimir with curiosity. What is he hearing? What do they say to him? Is it like someone talks over his shoulder? Or is it like thoughts in his head? Is it like someone left the TV on or the background noise on the train? What? It didn't really matter in the end, because he just would not - or could not, Tyson noted to himself - ignore them. Cynthia told him a while ago that Vladimir's brain gets confused. The older Russian-Australian's scrambled mind didn't think to remind him the voices weren't real, or that weird demon with all those extra heads or the strange delusional thinking, so he didn't have any reason to question them. That didn't mean it didn't give Tyson the creeps, though. When Vladimir was having an off day - which wasn't uncommon while he changed his medications - he looked scared. If he got especially bad, he spoke incomprehensive nonsense in two different languages.

"You need to have more faith in me," Vladimir whispered, his blue eyes darting around the room. "I know what I'm doing."

"Oi!" Tyson had enough, shoving his friend's shoulder and pulling him from his weird dissociative behaviour. "You loud bitches can fuck off. He's mine from now on and I've never been any good at sharing."

Vladimir coughed and struggled to coordinate his blinking. He'd ingested a potent dose of his antipsychotics earlier, and they knocked him for a loop, but at least he was more or less back from the realm of the fairies, as the Korean cook liked to say. As far as Vladimir and everyone else knew, the pencil sharpener debacle was long over, and the official story was that an anonymous patient had taken it in their pocket and forgotten about it. Neil swept it under the rug to protect Tyson, a gesture so loving and sweet from a man who probably erupted in hives if someone filed something outside alphabetical order that it broke the intense resentment Tyson harboured towards the system.

"Is Mum coming?" Tyson asked him in an attempt to keep his attention focused.

"Every day," Vladimir stretched his arms over his head and yawned. "You better come and see her, because I'm starting to think she likes you more than me. What about yours? You haven't seen her in a while."

"Apparently she's threatening to sue the hospital if they don't force me to see her this time," Tyson rolled his eyes, imagining the look in his mother's furious brown eyes when she finally met with him. "I better do it. I can't avoid her forever."

"She sounds like such a Cruella," Vladimir screwed up his usually serene face and he looked mad.

"What?"

"Cruella de Vil!"

"She's my Mum. Don't talk about her like that," Tyson answered defensively, the words almost surprising him. Only he could call her names. Nobody else. Not even Vladimir.

"Oh. Sorry," the boy apologised sheepishly, still snug on the couch where the two had napped for nearly ninety minutes together. "She sounds like she makes you really unhappy, Tys. I don't like that."

He's concerned, Tyson thought, his ire cooling in his chest. That's all. He's not trying to be a dick.

"I dunno, Vladylady," Tyson looked to his hands. Dark brown, just like hers. He looked just like she did. "Have you ever really hated and loved someone at the same time?"

"I have three brothers. What do you think?"

Vladimir offered a smile, and Tyson did return it, but it wasn't what the younger boy meant. He'd met the other Tchaikovsky boys. Dmitry, Sasha and Ilya. They were friendly enough, though he definitely wouldn't be able to tolerate the younger two for more than half an hour. He wondered what it would be like to have a brother. He only had a sister, Kelly, and they sometimes went literal weeks without speaking a word to each other. They were as strangers. He didn't know anything about who she was beyond the immense amount of tutoring, sports and accolades. She was just as angry and miserable as he was, so when they did interact, it was woefully negative, and the two just stopped bothering. And his parents? One was involved in everything including his bathroom schedule, and the other didn't notice him at all. No. Tyson wasn't asking if Vladimir has ever briefly disliked someone he loved. He was asking if he ever wanted to knife them in the throat as much as he wanted them to hold him and let him cry on their shoulder and tell him they loved him.

A woman he'd never seen before interrupted his negative thoughts, standing in front of him and smiling. She was the least exciting person Tyson had ever seen in his life. She wore a very conservative blouse buttoned to the top underneath a white knitted cardigan, and her strawberry blonde hair was tied into a ponytail.

"You're Brianna," he decided immediately, and her smile widened.

"How did you know that?" She asked him with a cheerful laugh, and Tyson wanted to tell her to leave him alone. He wasn't in the mood for optimism and cheer, yet everyone in the mental health industry seemed to have a penchant for slapping him in the face with a smile.

"I'm actually clairvoyant," he replied sarcastically, and Vladimir nudged him, a look in his eyes that quite obviously said 'don't be rude.' He'd seen that look a million times. "I have an appointment with a psychologist today, and you're the only person I haven't seen a million times," he added, but she was like a bloody mannequin. Great.

"That's me. I'm Brianna. And you're Tyson," she ignored Vladimir completely, which was annoying. "Would you like to come somewhere else for a chat?"

"With respect, Brianna," Tyson was going to be completely honest with her, he decided. "I've had a pretty intense day, and I'm wiped out on my pills. Is there any chance we can reschedule or something? I'm just not up to it now."

"If that's what you want, then we sure can!"

Her smile never wavered, and he really wished it would. He didn't believe anyone who was happy all the time. Cynthia, Neil and Masha had all shown vulnerable sides to themselves, and he trusted them all the more for it. This Brianna, though? Tyson did not imagine he could have a constructive conversation with her unless he were mentally prepared to do so. If they talked now, he would be rude, sarcastic and unhelpful. Not because he hated her, he just... wasn't able to do that right now. Especially for someone who wasn't so used to guarding themselves and putting their feelings aside, starting an open relationship with a therapist was difficult.

"I can come by tomorrow, I think, but it won't be a long talk, okay?" Brianna added, seeing the look of relief on his face. "I mostly want to touch base with you. Nothing big. Now I just need to ask; are you sure you want to cancel?"

"Yeah. I'm probably just gonna be an arsehole," Tyson admitted, and Brianna nodded.

"Fair enough! Thanks for giving me the warning," she turned to leave and pulled out a small card. "Any time you need to talk, give me a ring, okay? Any time. Just tell one of the nurses and they'll help you out!"

Tyson was grateful as she respected his wishes and left him alone, and he slipped her business card into the pocket of his dark purple jeans. That was decent of her, and he already decided he trusted her more for her restraint. Amazing what changes come in a week, he thought to himself as he got caught up in Vladimir's blue eyes. Maybe there's some merit to all this incessant therapy and hospital ward shit after all. It's kind of like a soft reset button. The outside world can't fuck with me so much in here, not until I'm ready. Some of the patients got leave to go out with their families. Annie did. She went out every day, sometimes even by herself, and she always came back. Tyson, even though he was a voluntary patient, was not allowed to leave even with his family until his risk rating fell. Fair, he supposed. It's not like I've shown everyone what a well-adjusted person I am.

"So I hope this isn't offensive in any way," Vladimir began, and Tyson braced himself. Any time someone began a topic like that, it was followed with something absurdly racist or offensive. "But why are your hands like that? Why is this side so light?" Vladimir gripped him by the wrist and exposed his palm. It was a lot lighter than the rest of his skin, still olive-tinged, but not so dark. "Why does that happen?"

"Oh," the boy shrugged and looked for himself. "Something about how the skin produces less melanin there. I'm not really sure, honestly. It's not something I think about. My feet are the same. See?" He took his right leg and propped it up against his leg so Vladimir could see the underside.

"Oooh. I'm just white all over," the older boy traced Tyson's palm with the nail of his index finger. It felt nice. "Seriously. It takes me about twelve minutes to get a sunburn, and I don't even tan! I just peel all the skin off and get even whiter. Do you get tans?"

"I do, actually," Tyson revealed, scooting back and crossing his legs. "But I'm always brown, though. Sometimes I wish it were different."

"Why?" Vladimir asked him, almost surprised by that answer. "I like you this way. You're really cute."

Tyson gushed, flattered beyond words by Vladimir's compliment. Even under the rich brown, his blush was visible. "Stooop! I just mean I feel like things would be easier if I were white, you know? People tell me to go back where I came from and stuff just because I'm brown. They all make jokes about me being some Muslim terrorist or some shit, and they don't know anything about me or where my family comes from."

"Where does your family come from?" Vladimir asked, genuinely interested.

"I don't like to talk about it very much," Tyson admitted, withdrawing into a ball, yet letting Vladimir touch his hand. He didn't know physical affection was so... nice, nor did he realise how much he craved it. When Vladimir nodded, that was enough to convince Tyson to open up to him somehow. "Do you know who my dad is? Chase Lovett? Running in the next election?"

"Oh, right!" Vladimir's eyes bugged. "You're that guy's kid!"

"Yeah," Tyson's eyes fell. "I don't see him much, though. We don't even speak. He married my Mum and had my sister and me to prove he's not racist. That's literally it. That's why I exist. He's basically a Nazi, Vlady. He hates immigrants, Aboriginals, gay people, transgender people, women, anyone who isn't a Christian. Especially Islam. And people know this. You probably heard about the scandals about his activism twenty or so years ago. So he married a brown woman, whose dad was a refugee from Sri Lanka, and he had kids with her. I'm just... a brown kid who exists as a part of some Nazi's political campaign. That's why at home I never have any time to myself. Mum, a self-hating hypocrite, makes sure I'm the smartest and the fittest and the most successful kid around so my Dad looks like he can do great things for the minorities in Australia. I'm not even a person to them, Vlad. Just... an example. I exist just so my dad can pretend he's not a racist. That's why I wish I was white."

Tyson didn't know when he started crying during his short speech, but his eyes were wet and his throat tight by the end of it, and Vladimir was rubbing his shoulder. It was a shame the AIU cracked down on patients and physical contact because Tyson wanted a full body hug, but one of the nurses would break them up.

"You could've said all that to Brianna, you know," Vladimir chuckled, and Tyson grunted in response. "She'd know what to say! I don't. All I can say is that you're special to me, and meeting you is probably the best thing to ever happen to me... ever. I mean that." When Tyson grunted again, Vladimir continued. "The HDU is for like, the super disturbed people. I spent nearly all day every day locked in my room because my doctor told the nurses I was a dangerous psychotic. Sometimes he'd make them tie me to the bed for hours. He hated me so much. He always told me I didn't deserve to see daylight again. Then I was transferred to this wing, and it's a million times better. This ward's awesome, but still, I wanna get out, Tys. I wanna go out and have a life and stop coming back to these places. With that doc, I was probably never going to get out. With Cynthia, I have a real shot, you know? And you're the one who gave her to me. I owe you a lot, you know. I'm thrilled you're here, even if you're not."

"If your doctor was such an arsehole, why didn't you report him?"

"I did! I reported until I was blue in the face, but I'm just a schizophrenic in the middle of a psychotic break, and he's some big shot psychiatrist," Vladimir looked down at his knees. "We don't all have your sort of influence, Tys. I'm a nobody who... did some bad things. But the nurses listened to me, though. They all went high up to complain, and that's how I got transferred to this wing. They're really amazing people, our nurses. I don't know what I'd do without them. And Cynthia, too! She's going to try and get my old doctor's license to practice revoked. Heh."

"Good! He probably breached a dozen rules and laws treating you like that! What the hell was his problem, anyway?" The younger boy was fuming.

"It's a long story," Vladimir replied softly, eyes full of hurt and regret. "You don't need to worry about him or me or anything. Cynthia, Neil, Sue and Alice are gunning for him, and that makes me feel really special."

"Yeah, well good!" Tyson grumbled. "I hope they take his career away because if I see him in this place, I'm kicking him in the balls until they spring up and knock his eyes out."

When he realised Vladimir wasn't angry like him, he wondered why. It was so unfair! How many doctors mistreated their patients? How many people like Vladimir never got heard because of their condition? But it was the other boy's problem, he decided. If Vladimir wasn't angry, then Tyson didn't have a solid reason to be either. As though he knew what Tyson was thinking, Vladimir gently kissed his fingers. The two of them sat quietly together as the television aired recycled crap through the afternoon - it was a crime the place didn't offer Netflix or something - and let the minutes and hours dwindle away. One of the problems with the Acute Inpatient Unit was the immense amount of time the children had. Aside from meals, appointments and the education unit, there was nothing to fill the days. Kids were bored. Kids were lonely. But that was the public system, he supposed.

"Tys, your Mum's here. I really think it's time you came and saw her," Dale, a man disturbingly old for someone who dressed and behaved like a teenage punk, came to harass him, and Tyson shut his eyes.

"Why? She's gonna be a bitch, and I'm gonna lose my shit," he lamented, but Vladimir gave him a gentle push. "Fine, but if I kill her, you have to bury the body." When Dale's mouth opened slightly, Tyson remembered where he was and why he was there, and he raised his hands. "A joke! Fuck."

"I think you can leave the language in your room, mate," Dale chastised him. "Now, if you and Mum don't get along, then you don't need to lose your temper, okay?"

"Why don't you ever tell her not to be a slut?" Tyson asked him with a leer as he hopped to his feet and stabilised himself on the crutch he'd been burdened with for so long. "Why is everything my fault all the time?"

"Nobody's saying that it's your fault," Dale was in a mood today, it seemed. "But you are responsible for how you react to things."

"Okay but that doesn't help my shit-uation, does it? She's gonna make me miserable, lock me in my room, smack me in the face, and your only advice is to tell me to get over it. You're a piece of shit."

He walked on and past him, and Dale tailed him. He wasn't allowed to have unsupervised visits yet, thanks to his risk rating - neither was gentle Vladimir. Having Dale or Petra stalk him and listen in on everything made him feel so... exposed. It stripped him of his dignity. He wasn't a prisoner. Unfortunately, everything was legally tight about it, and Tyson couldn't pick open a loophole to get his own way this time. It was an unusual predicament - he was so legally savvy and informed that it left him nigh untouchable while his inpatient commitment was voluntary. On top of that, all the power Tyson had in this place came from his mother's ire. Her expectation that the staff would "fix" her son. It wasn't hard to spill tears and point fingers and have Edith destroy someone. One bigger boy in Year Seven spat in Tyson's face once, and a week later, his family had to pull him out of private school because neither of his parents had a job anymore. The thought made Tyson grin.

Edith had a look on her face that could have curdled milk on sight. If she frowned at a cow, its udder might have exploded. She looks like me, he thought with a miserable sigh. Me, when I'm angry and see myself in the mirror or the reflection in the pool or hot tub. I'm exactly like her.

"Tyson! Where have you been hiding?" She stood up to greet him, but there was no hug. No kiss. She didn't say she was pleased to see him or act as such, nor did she show any concern for his well being. "I've been coming every day only to have the idiots who run this place tell me that you won't see me."

"They might be idiots, but to their credit, they're actually good to me," Tyson sat down next to her on the couch, resting his tender ankle on the coffee table in front of him. "Why are you here, Mum? Did you leave Kelly alone? She'll eat a sneaky lamington if you're not watching her."

"I'm here to take you home," she answered, sitting straight-backed and with her legs crossed like the picture-perfect woman she was. "It's been a week. They've had plenty of time to fix you. I want you to get your stuff."

Tyson looked to Dale, who did not come to his defence as Petra did last time. Why did everyone let his mother talk to him like he was trash? They were gutless, all of them. If Edith wasn't going to change, Tyson had no reason to bother trying at all. Why? So he could remain a miserable and lonely prisoner shackled to his cold, distant mother? There was no point, was there? In spite of how much he hated it in the hospital and desired to leave, he was now beginning to have second thoughts. He didn't have anything to live for earlier, but... maybe that wasn't necessarily the case anymore. Giving up the means to kill himself seemed to open up a small avenue of hope - hope that maybe he might yet find a way to be happy. He liked Vladimir, and the feeling was mutual. Cynthia was moving heaven and earth to try and help him through his crisis, even going so far as to treat Vladimir free of charge. And as much as he denied it to both himself and his friend, he really did enjoy teaching Charlie the miracles of addition. When the distressed and broken boy lit up with the joy of succeeding in his learning, Tyson felt warmth he didn't know existed. He looked back to Edith and shot her a filthy glare - one she quickly returned.

"Guess what, Mum?" Tyson leaned closer to her, hatred and fury shooting through his body. But he would not snap. He would not lose his temper. Nuh-uh. No. Not this time. He was not going to spend more time in the quiet room because his mother was a self-centered cow. He whispered his next sentence so Dale could not hear him. "I nearly killed myself today. It would have been pretty easy. Even in here I can kill myself if I want to, and there's nothing you can do about it."

"How? Why? What kind of place are you jokers running?" Edith looked between her son and his social worker, who looked like a deer in the headlights. Big, tall Dale was terrified of small, petite little Edith, and he absolutely had reason to be. "Don't you threaten me, Tyson. I will have you transferred to a locked ward if you even think about it! I mean it!"

"Yeah, sure. Lock me away and hide me, and tell everyone I'm in Sri Lanka," Tyson rolled his eyes. "Except you can't. Not without reasonable grounds, and you don't have any."

"I will make reasonable grounds if you can't behave yourself," Edith warned him dangerously, her voice low and full of anger. "It's time for you to come home and stop this nonsense, already. Come now. You've had your fun, but reality is waiting for you, Tyson, and the longer you continue this rot, the harder reality is going to smack you in the face when you're discharged. Now, I want you to pack your things and come home with me. I've had it with this place, and I've had it with your games."

"Hey Dale, she can't make me come home, can she?" Tyson knew the answer already, and it was likely his mother did too, but Dale would spell it out for her. She might have a ghost of a chance of listening to him.

"Mrs Lovett, h--"

"Belmont-Lovett!" Edith corrected him.

"Sorry. Mrs Belmont-Lovett," Tyson could almost taste Dale's disdain as he spoke. "You are legally allowed to withdraw Tyson from our care as long as he remains a voluntary patient." Edith stood up, almost gloating in her victory, but Tyson knew the loophole that was coming next, of course. Dale continued. "However, he still remains a threat to himself, and we're not comfortable discharging him until we believe he can live safely in the community. We are taking steps to--"

"He's my son, and I will keep him very safe," Edith replied icily, strolling right past her son as if he were some store mannequin and standing toe to toe with Dale. "Who do I talk to about taking him home right now?"

"You can talk to Dr Ellicott. She's Tyson's primary psychiatrist. She'll make the final decision. But keep in mind, Mrs Belmont-Lovett, she might not agree to discharge him. She may even change his legal status if she had no other choice."

Dale concluded, and Tyson knew he was safe and sound. Cynthia knew that he wasn't ready for discharge yet, as did the rest of the staff at the AIU. But how far would Edith go to get her way? Tyson had seen her shut down a small food van business just because the manager dropped her drink on the ground and splattered on her shoe, even though he apologised and provided one to replace it.

"When can I see this Dr fucking Ellicott?" Edith flared at him, so angry that Dale took two steps backwards. "Cynthia, yes? When? Speak! Are you deaf as well as stupid and ugly?"

"I don't know when she'll be in next, and I would appreciate it if you did not shout at me or speak to me like that. I don't get paid enough to be abused for no reason," Dale replied in a quiet, shaky voice. "I can give you her contact number."

"Unbelievable," Edith laughed without a hint of humour. "I'll be in tomorrow, and you better make very sure this Elli-bloody-cott woman is here because she and I are going to have words. And you," she got in Tyson's face, and the boy glared defiantly into his eyes, even seeing his own reflection. His face was exactly the same as hers, and that caused turmoil inside him. The same rage. The same words. The same cruelty. "Get in shape, cover those hideous scars and act like a Belmont-Lovett, for fuck's sake! Otherwise, my team of lawyers will have all of the quacks here out of a job! And Tyson, I'll lock you away in a real asylum until you're begging to come home and act your age!!"

She stormed from the room and slammed the door behind her so hard that everything in the visitor's room seemed to rattle, including the boy and the man. Tyson was surprised at how well he managed to handle that. He wasn't a stranger to his mother's offensive outbursts. Dale, on the other hand, seemed to be shocked to the core, and that gave Tyson some smug satisfaction. They all assumed she was just a difficult, bossy woman and Tyson embellished his stories about her out of spite and contempt. No, she really was impossible. A Cruella de Vil, as Vlady said, ready to sacrifice her children so that her husband would buy her another exquisite coat.

"So are you gonna be coordinating my family therapy or what?" Tyson taunted him.