sea of guards were dragging his father out of the interior exit door. “Fuck you, Seven” were the last words he heard before the door slammed shut.
Seven was scooped up by the remaining officers in the room, who assisted him back into a seated position on the bench. He heard mumbling voices all around his head, discussing blood and injuries. “I am fine, I am fine,” he announced as he pushed them away. He wiped the blood from his face with his right hand; he felt an unfamiliar surface on his palm as he smeared the blood across the scar on his right cheek. He instinctively looked at the palm and that’s when he saw the bloodstained note that somehow had been forced into his hand during the altercation. He calmly slid the folded note into his pants pocket and allowed the host of security officers to tend to his face.
Cleaned up, bandaged, and holding contraband in his front pocket, Seven sat in Walter’s office listening to a series of “I am sorrys” and “I told you he was dangerous” lines from the balding man’s mustached mouth. Seven assured Walter that everything was fine, and he thanked the hospital security staff for their quick reaction. Walter continued his monologue all the way to the parking lot, where Seven advised him one final time that everything was fine and he just wanted to go home. He promised to call the hospital administrator the next day and give him a proper debrief on the incident. Seven drove his grandfather’s truck off the state hospital’s property and onto the roadway. Once the admin building was clear of view, he pulled to the side of the road and retrieved the note from his pocket.