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. [i]He knew better.[/i]

“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: [i]‘The Pinkertons: Richer Than God, But They Can’t Hide The Crazy!’[/i]. You know, that might actually be my personal favourite.”