White Lane: A Short Story

"Do you have everything you need?"

Delilah Haswell glanced up from the patient file she was handed, meeting the quizzical gaze of the psychiatrist she was assisting over the year. Though her face showed no signs of the distress she felt within, her hands, cold and clammy, betrayed her indifferent demeanor. She prayed to whoever watched over pale, petite psychiatric assistants about to delve into the forefront of a metaphorical war field of the mentally ill that her superior, Dr. Walt, would fail to notice the miniature brooks that emerged in her palms. It wouldn't do her repertoire any good.

"Yes, I believe I'm ready," Lilah assured, closing the folder after skimming over the essentials one last time, the image of the patient engraved in

He had fallen from grace; of that, she was certain. From distinguished to dismal, the Noel Trent behind Room 017 in White Lane was a different person from the Noel Trent who took the literary industry by a storm and accumulated assorted awards in his wake. He had led a publicized existence after his series became bestsellers, adapting a lifestyle that embodied the core of reality TV these days. All of it faded when a supposedly brief excursion in France led to an untimely disappearance. Some presumed that he had retired, or became a recluse to complete his trilogy, and that was that. It was a recurring trend amongst writers anyway, so it wouldn't have been bizarre when it happened to Noel. Therefore, when he was found in the streets of Montemarte—cataleptic and incoherent, it was the controversy of the year. After being admitted to numerous institutions for treatment, progress was miniscule at best much to his fans' dismay, for not even a team of seasoned psychologists could restore Noel Trent to his former glory. Inevitably, even though it wasn't explicitly stated, the succor and interest of the public waned. New, hip and rising writers claimed the limelight he formerly inhabited, and he was all but abandoned to the umbrage of his own fugue. With the decline of attention on him came the regression of his treatment. One by one, the doctors who spearheaded his

It was a room she had become familiar with, for it was identical to most of the other residents in White Lane. Complete with a single bed, a bedside table topped with a multipurpose clock and radio, two cushy chairs flanked a round and mahogany table for psychiatric visits, the vicinity had yet to be graced with late morning light due to the taupe drapes that sealed off illumination. She amended this immediately, flinging the curtains back and permitting the sun to dapple the room in radiance. "That seems a lot better, don't you think? You'll need all the vitamin e you can get from