Orderlies

Victor Langley shuffled forward with the graceless momentum of a man long resigned to being moved like furniture.

His hair, long and greasy, hung in ropes, draping over his brow, masking his expression, making it impossible to tell where the hair ended and the tangle of beard began.

He wore the unmistakable orange of Sunny Meadow’s medium-risk classification, tear-resistant fabric, thick at the seams, designed not for comfort but containment. His feet scraped awkwardly across the polished linoleum in soft, white foam slippers, standard issue, though they looked pitifully on him, curling slightly at the toes.

His wrists were secured in front of him, fastened by wide, foam-lined restraints. Velcro straps, dull and frayed at the edges, criss-crossed over his skin. Holding him, but not biting. The soft restraints were a mercy compared to the hardware he’d once worn. Years ago, upon his admission to Sunny Meadow, he had rattled when he moved. Wrapped in stainless steel cuffs, double-locked at the wrists and ankles, joined by short, unforgiving chains. He had walked with the weight of punishment dragging behind every step.

But time had… softened him.

At least on paper.

The institution had reclassified him from red to orange, a downgrade in risk, but a sentence all the same. Yellow was for the ones who had drawn blood, but hadn’t killed.

Not for murderers.

Not for men like him.

Victor Langley would never see yellow.

The corridor stretched on in that peculiar, institutional way . . . too long, too flat, lined with too many identical doors.

On either side of him, orderlies walked in perfect step. Hands curled tightly around his arms, their grips just a fraction firmer than necessary. They didn’t speak. They didn’t have to.

Another set of double doors sporting the black leaf icon parted ahead, the magnetic lock hissing as it released. The corridor widened into one of the communal wings. Bright spaces dressed in the lie of comfort. A faux-recreational area, with thinly padded chairs bolted to the floor and peeling posters on the walls promoting mindfulness and wellness.

A room designed to give the illusion of care.

A few of the private patients lingered here, those with families who still answered the phone, still signed cheques.

One of the orderlies broke the silence, his voice bored but sharp.

“You know how this works, Mr. Langley,” he muttered. “Head down. Face the floor. No eye contact.”

Victor, his head already hung low, hair draping like a curtain. He had long since learned that obedience was quicker than correction.

Ahead, the second orderly barked down the corridor.

“You lot, Move!.. Rooms!.. Now!..”

The patients scattered instantly, fleeing into doorways like rats into walls. The sudden motion stirred the stagnant air, sending the faint scent of ammonia wafting toward them. All but two remained in the corridor.

One was a man, swaying slightly . . . eyes glassy, feet planted in a shallow, glistening puddle. The sour stink of urine rose sharply from where it pooled beneath him.

The other was Mrs. Baldwin.

Thin as paper, she leaned heavily against the wall, one frail hand trembling against the peeling paint. Her knees buckled slightly, her old bones locked in the quiet rebellion with the rest of her body, simply refusing her an escape.

The orderlies exchanged glances.

“Your turn,” one muttered. “I did it yesterday.”

The other sighed under his breath but released Victor’s arm without ceremony. His boots squeaked faintly as he made his way toward the swaying man, straddling the growing puddle with practised disinterest.

A nearby open doorway was crowded with onlookers. Patients huddled shoulder to shoulder, heads craning out like children watching a house burn.

The orderly planted his hands on the man’s shoulders and shoved hard.

The man toppled backward into the open door and into the crowd, knocking them down like pins in a bowling alley. There was no hesitation. No humanity.

It was the same mechanical gesture of a removal man shifting furniture.

The orderly wiped his palms on his trouser legs, as though ridding himself of something contagious, and turned toward Mrs. Baldwin with the kind of weariness reserved for chores long overdue.

Suddenly, Mr. Omnia appeared. Half stumbling, half skidding into view like a man late for a train. He stood between the rapidly approaching orderly and Mrs Baldwin. His arms spread wide in a helpless, pacifying gesture.

“It’s okay… it’s okay… I’ve got her,” he stammered, breathless and flushed.

The orderly didn’t break stride.

With a single, open-palmed shove, he sent Mr. Omnia tumbling backward onto the floor, sliding down the corridor. The impact echoed softly through the corridor, a dull squeak of skin against linoleum.

But Mr. Omnia, propelled by the fall, slid awkwardly toward Mrs. Baldwin. He scrambled to his feet, foam slippers sliding on the polished floor, arms flailing for balance.

He reached her just in time.

His arms wrapped clumsily beneath Mrs. Baldwin’s weightless frame. He was startled by how light she felt . . . lighter than paper, as though the frail bones beneath her skin might simply dissolve if he held her too tightly.

The orderly kept moving, extending his arm again with the same mechanical disinterest. His open palm landed on Mr. Omnia’s shoulder, shoving him backwards with unnecessary force.

Mr. Omnia nearly lost his footing, foam slippers skimming uselessly over the polished floor. His legs tangled, knees buckling beneath him, but somehow he stayed upright, staggering backward like a drunk, clutching Mrs. Baldwin protectively as he retreated toward the open doorway of the television room.

“You fucking cunt!” Mrs. Baldwin’s voice cracked like dry paper, thin but unmistakably vicious. “You fuck-a-doodle doo, cunt!”

The words echoed down the corridor like a slap in a cathedral.

Mr. Omnia sidled into the open doorway of the television room and lowered her carefully into the nearest armchair, her tiny frame folding into the cushion like it had swallowed her whole.

He hovered for a moment, breath catching in his throat.

Before he could move, she reached out . . . a shaking hand brushing softly against his cheek. The gesture was feather-light, but it froze him all the same. His breath hitched, throat tightening as he cupped her hand in both of his, holding it gently between trembling fingers.

He forced a smile, small, but warm, then released her hand with reluctant care. Rising unsteadily to his feet, he turned back toward the door, his eyes scanning for the orderly.

He returned to the open doorway, obstructing it, in fear that Mrs Baldwin heckles had attracted further attention from the orderly.

It hadn’t.

The orderly had returned to Victor Langley’s elbow,

They resumed their slow procession toward the far end of the corridor.

Mr. Omnia let out a slow, silent breath, the kind held too long in the chest.

In the hallway, the two orderlies moved in rhythm. One on each side of Victor, hands gripping his arms as though reminding him they were still there, still in control. One of them let out a breathy chuckle, shaking his head as though still amused by the outburst they had just left behind.

Their steps adjusted slightly, the three of them swaying awkwardly to the side as they navigated around the sour puddle of urine left behind by the swaying patient. The faint, acrid sting of ammonia hung in the air, curling toward the edges of the corridor like invisible smoke.

They passed door after door.

Each one framed by silent witnesses, private patients standing in clusters, dressed in pastel colour uniforms. Pale blues. Dull greys. Unlike the involuntary patients, colour in the private ward was only a preference, not a label.

They watched Victor pass without a sound.

No whispers.

No comments.

Just silent, collective observation, as though watching something ancient crawl past their doorways.

Doorway,

after doorway,

after doorway.

Then, without warning . . . Victor stopped.

His body stiffened, shoulders rising just slightly, as though something unseen had snagged him mid-step. One of the orderlies, still gripping his elbow, frowned and gave a sharp tug.

“C’mon, Victor,” the orderly muttered, impatience curling around the edges of his words. “No stopping. Head down. You know the procedure.”

Victor didn’t move at first.

His head remained bowed, chin tucked, hair hanging in thick ropes that nearly brushed his chest. But there… beneath that tangled curtain… a subtle shift, almost unnoticeable.

His head tilted . . . only a fraction . . . to the side.

Mr. Omnia stood frozen in the doorway. His breath caught in his throat as he watched Victor’s head tilt. From behind the greasy veil of hair, one unblinking eye locked onto him, sharp as glass beneath the dim ceiling lights.

It lasted only a second.

A flicker.

A breath.

But it was there.

Mr. Omnia felt the weight of it, heavy and cold.

Victor’s head dipped back to the floor as subtly as it had turned.

One of the orderlies gave a satisfied grunt, tugging Victor’s arm again.

The procession resumed, shoes squeaking softly against the floor as they approached the final set of double doors.

Again, matt black leaf symbols adorned the face on each door, a smaller one situated above a nearby card reader.

“Good lad. Good lad. Keep going. Nearly there.”

One of the orderlies reached forward, swiping his lanyard across the card reader. A mechanical chirp responded, followed by the heavy clunk of the magnetic lock disengaging.

The orderly entered a four-digit code, the keypad beeping softly beneath his fingers. Another click. Another hum.

The doors parted without ceremony.

And just like that…

they were gone.

Mr. Omnia stood motionless for a moment longer, rooted in the doorway. His chest ached with the tightness of breath held too long.

Slowly, he turned away from the empty corridor and back toward the dim glow of the television room.

Mrs. Baldwin was watching him.

Her face creased with concern, but her eyes remained sharp, too sharp for a woman who, just moments ago, had barely been able to stand.

He forced a smile. Then in an amused, hushed tone he whispered, “fuck-a-doodle doo?..”

Mrs. Baldwin’s lips quivered.

And then, slowly,

her face creased into a cross-hatch of lines, folds and a wide toothless grin.