Lena Nowak
"Halo! Gimme that!" snapped Lena Nowak as she snatched a bar of soap from Hannah. A sickly light filtered through the tiny, grimy window of the cramped little hole in the wall Lena had come to call home these days. It was a room of drab, grey walls measuring only three meters by four, with two bunk beds on opposite walls; she and three other grown women, each of whom with her own...eccentricities, even without the heavy doses of medication they were all forced to take.
Carla was truly a gibbering lunatic and likely the one among them whose institutionalization was the most appropriate, but she was harmless -- all she ever did was rock back and forth, staring towards the window, babbling nonsense that barely resembled words. Lena found her quite annoying when she first arrived at Mezieu, but, after seeing some of the other patients, she quickly realized how much worse she could have had it. And Antonella, the Pisianese girl, was Carla's polar opposite. She was completely mute, spending her days with her nose stuck in a book; Lena was unsure of whether or not she was actually reading, for she rarely observed her turning a page, but her brow was always furrowed as if deeply contemplating every passage, every word, every letter, and every space and character on every page. She often sat so still and so quietly that people often never even noticed her. More than once since Lena arrived at Mezieu, she had been accidentally left in the mess hall, simply because nobody noticed her sitting along a wall with her book. She was literate, however; Antonella would often pass notes to her with hastily-scrawled messages about where she'd seen things. Or what certain other people around these claustrophobic halls were up to. There were plenty of secrets within these walls, both among the patients and the staff. It was Antonella who told her about Hannah's soap.
Hannah Margaret Kelly was Lena Nowak's fourth cellmate. She had a gimpy hand and was a paranoid mess of neuroses. And she was obsessive, obsessive, obsessive. The hospital staff kept a close eye on her because of her tendency to self-harm and her own obsessive fear of hurting others would have made Lena uneasy even if she hadn't known why she'd checked into this lovely establishment on the stinking River Roussier. But when she learned what she had done to be sent to Mezieu in the first place...there was nothing worse than someone like her, as far as she was concerned. "No amount of soap can wash away what you did, traitor," she spat. "Where'd you get this, anyway?" She threw the soap to Antonella, who caught it without looking up from her book, quickly stowing it away someplace out of sight. Lena understood that she had been institutionalized at Mezieu as a means of punishment and as an attempt to extract intel on Libre Fanaglia through torture; she couldn't help but wonder if having this murderer and traitor as a cellmate was part of that torture. It certainly felt like it most days.
"Oh, leave her alone, Lena!" came a disembodied voice. No, this was not Lena Nowak hallucinating (although it was a wonder she had them as rarely as she did, with all the drugs she was forced to take), but the tender call of the sweet girl in the cell next door, Giulia Bianchi-Ricci. Giulia was lucky enough to live in the second-class ward, where the cells were slightly smaller but where patients only had to share them with one other person; Lena's and Giulia's cells were the last and first, respectively, along the hall for each of their wards, and they'd grown to become quite fond of each other, meeting in the common areas whenever the two wards were allowed to intermingle, passing notes between their cells when the orderlies weren't around to catch them, and simply shouting to one another when they were. The others said that Giulia was there because she was a murderer, but Lena didn't think of it that way. After all, Lena Nowak was a soldier for Libre Fanaglia and she'd killed many of the King's men; Giulia only killed one man who refused to take "no" for an answer, for which she could hardly blame her.
"There's four of us in here, Giules! Ain't nobody being left alone in here, no matter how hard we try!"
"You don't have to be so mean to her all the time, though."
"Oh, yes I do. Yes I do." Lena glared at Hannah. She truly hated her. She hated her even more than she hated DiMarco.
Before any of them could make another remark, there came a harsh clattering sound from up the hall. It was that weaselly orderly, Martin, raking his baton across the bars of the second- and third-class wards as he walked, whistling before calling out, "'Psychopath' Therapy! Casting call for 'Psychopath' Therapy! Who's on the list?" Of course, the dupek meant "Psychodrama Therapy," Doc Bouchard's idea of extracurriculars to keep the crazies occupied and maybe even rehabilitate them.
Another orderly came along with the keys and a couple of friends to let prospective actresses out of their cells, one at a time. They began with the first-class ward far off down the hall, then made their way to the second- and third-class wards. When the group of women (some of whom looked excited while others looked quite lost) passed in front of Lena's cell, Giulia was among them and Hannah got up to join them. "Aren't you coming?" Giulia asked Lena.
"No. As much as I'd like to watch ol' Macbeth's downfall, this play is for crazy people, and I ain't crazy."
"Neither am I, but this could be fun!"
Lena eyed Hannah standing beside her friend. "I think I'll stay here. Uh, sic semper tyrannus and all that."
"Wrong Shakespeare, but I appreciate that you know it," Giulia smiled.
"Billy Boy had some good ideas."
"All right, you all," Martin barked. "Let's keep moving!"
Remy Bouchard
At the center of l'Hôpital Mezieu, flanked on all sides by the looming facades of the administrative wings of the six pentagons that served as the individual blocks of the facility, was the round, domed chapel, capped with a great crucifix, with Christ judging the sins of all of those around him. Doctor Remy Bouchard, however, saw it differently (as he did many things about Mezieu); he saw instead the Lord guiding his flock. "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me."
Excited to begin his latest session of psychodrama therapy with one of The Bard's greatest tragedies, he sat down on a step at the front of the sanctuary, greeting the ladies with a smile and bidding them to take a seat in anywhere in one of the pews as they slowly filtered in, escorted by orderlies and nurses from their respective wards.
When they all seemed to have arrived, he rubbed his hands together, rose to his feet, and cleared his throat. When that failed to catch everyone's attention, he did so again, somewhat louder. "Well! Welcome, welcome, welcome! I believe I have met most of you here at least once before, but I do see some new faces around here and those whom I do know, I fear I do not know as well as I'd wish. Let me begin then by introducing myself. I am Doctor Remy Bouchard. You may call me Dr. Bouchard, Dr. Remy, or just Remy -- please, whatever makes you feel comfortable."
"Asshole!" Somebody called from the small crowd.
Some of the orderlies tensed up, reaching towards their batons. Remy raised his hands towards the orderlies. "Well, I'd certainly not say that would be what I would prefer you call me, but to each her own."
"I would like to thank you all for coming here today to audition for a part in the Scottish Play," he continued.
"Oi, I thought this was supposed to be Macbeth!" The same voice shouted from the crowd.
Remy chuckled nervously. "Well, 'The Scottish Play' is a euphemism. It's supposed to be bad luck to use the name of the play while in a theatre."
"Ain't this a church, though?"
"Ah, yes, but we shall be using it as a theatre."
"Right then," said the woman, who seemed to be content for a moment. That is, until she stood up on her pew and began shouting, "Macbeeeeeeth! Macbeeeeeeth! Macbeth! Macbeth! MacbethMacbethMacbethMacbeth!"
Remy gave a defeated sigh, shaking his head. He gestured over his shoulder with his thumb to indicate that the poor woman would have to be removed from the auditions. With but a glance, he made it clear to the orderlies that she was to be removed as gently and as kindly as possible. They could be real brutes, but they knew better than to cross the doctor; his dramas brought in far too much money for the Warden and he would tolerate no disrespect towards Remy Bouchard, at least to his face.
"Wait! No! I'll stop, I promise," the woman begged as the orderlies approached.
"What's your name, love?" Remy called out to her.
"Maggie, sir. Maggie DeFleur."
"Well, Maggie, I direct these plays to try to help my patients. That means we need to take them seriously."
"Aye, sir. I can be serious."
"There'll be plenty of time for fun later, but we've got auditions to do first, to see if you even have a part in our show."
"Aye, sir. You've got me word. No more outbursts from me. Unless you wants 'em. You know, for the show."
"Of course, Maggie." Remy gestured for the orderlies to return to their posts. "Well, there's my introduction out of the way, and Miss DeFleur's, as well. Let's go around the room and get to know one another, one at a time. Tell us whatever you may be comfortable with. Your name, where you're from, what kind of experience you may have in theatre, or your familiarities with the Scottish Play or any of William Shakespeare's other works. Let's begin with you, Miss."