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

her mind. "As ready as I can ever be anyway."

Dr. Samuel Walt was a forty-something psychiatrist with a crown of graying, sable hair, a set of colossal shoulders and a belly that held the potential to be pudgy if he didn't watch what he consumed. It was high time to let his assistant take the reins in this particular case, one that he trusted Delilah could handle without his supervision. She had been with him since the patient was admitted to White Lane, documenting his progress over the weeks from behind Dr. Walt's shoulder like a pirate and his parrot. It was safe to assume that Delilah knewNoel Trent.

"Very well. It's about time that you paid him a visit. You know the drill, right? Try to get him to remember. That's all. Any memory he can recall might aid his recovery." He stood, ushering his assistant off her perch and out to the beige wallpapered hallway of the ward. "If, by any chance, he becomes hostile towards you, alert the other orderlies. I assume it won't happen given his current state, but it wouldn't hurt to be cautious."

Before she could reply, however, the brass plating of Dr. Samuel Walt Ph.D. greeted her with the faintest click of the shutting door. This inspired an indolent sigh, for it exacerbated the anxiety that flummoxed her system. At this moment, without her superior's presence, it finally dawned on Lilah how defenseless she was without Dr. Walt fronting her. Years of training in this field all seemingly evaporated now that each step she took towards her patient's room brought her closer to a test of, not only will, but also a form of valor. A brief glance at the wall clock with a bland design informed her that she was ten minutes early to her appointment, but it didn't bother her. After all, the early bird catches the worm, as the saying goes. But…who was the worm?

The man Delilah was about to meet was a renowned author, remarkable and notorious, yet an enigma in and of himself.

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

rehabilitation capitulated and believed nothing could be done to Noel. In the end, they consented to his admission to White Lane, a California-based group home for individuals like Noel, where he would be taken care and medicated accordingly since not a single relative dared to come forth and adopt the responsibility to do so. At least, that was what his record informed her of, anyway.

If she were to summarize his file, the précis was that Noel K. Trent was dumped in White Lane to die.

This man was alone in ways people shouldn’t be alone.

Any hope she had of emboldening herself with mental mantras and reassessing the important points in this case after the rapid succession of her knuckles on the door of Room 017 promptly vanished upon its immediate opening. Her spine straightened as she squared her shoulders, affecting a pedantic posture she was often reminded to adopt for an assertive disposition before the patients. A sheer contradiction to the trepidation that curled around her heart. Nevertheless, professionalism must reign supreme even though the only thing she desired in that godforsaken hall was to skedaddle back to the sanctuary of Dr. Walt's office and cower behind the older man who sent her to the lion's den.

What she perceived beyond the entryway was a sight she had not prepared for.

Skin, that was what she saw. There was a significantly exposed amount of tanned skin which glistened with the lightest film of moisture, confounding the young assistant to a bewildered blinking. This scenario wasn't included in her internal petitions; hence why, bafflement carved into her fascia. It took her a brief second to regain composure and an audible clearing of her throat before she could redirect her gaze elsewhere. With an amicable albeit strained smile, Delilah greeted him after adjusting the black, horn-rimmed spectacles balancing on the bridge of her nose, a nervous gesture of hers not many seemed to have caught on, luckily.

"Good morning, Noel," Lilah breezed in, the resonant click of her ebony pumps echoing into his chamber.

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

sunlight."

The clipboard she held close to her chest—a subconscious concealment of her fluttering heart, perhaps—was bequeathed on the table as she stood by one of the chairs that surrounded it. She motioned for him to take a seat as well, her poised demeanor hardly wavering in spite of the frenzied thoughts that ransacked her mind, afflicting her palms and her underarms to perspire profusely. Who would have thought that the pageant tricks her mother instilled in her would be so handy in such an unlikely field? "I'm Delilah," her introduction arose without any speech impediment fortunately. "I'll be monitoring your health from now on, in place of Dr. Walt, and reporting our proceedings to him afterwards. I'm pleased to finally make your acquaintance. We can start our session as before; how are you feeling today?"