Chapter 169: The Patient in Room 3
The Third Mental Health Rehabilitation Center was built twenty-three years ago, one of Hanjiang's earliest private psychiatric treatment facilities.
As its name suggests, it wasn't a formal psychiatric hospital, but rather a rehabilitation and recovery center.
The center had three patient buildings. The first building charged much less than a regular hospital, but the living conditions were extremely poor.
The second building charged one-fifth more than a regular hospital, with dedicated caregivers and on-duty doctors.
The third building served a small number of patients, with fees several times higher than standard wards.
From the director's notes, it was clear that the center was very different when it first opened compared to later years. Back then, the third building wasn't a restricted area at all—it was the most expensive and best-equipped part of the entire center.
About three months into operation, the center received a special patient.
The director recorded the scene in detail; in his mind, that day marked a turning point.
A car with out-of-province plates drove into the facility. Two men dragged a pregnant woman from the back seat—delicate features, strikingly beautiful without makeup.
The director personally received them. After inquiry, he learned the woman suffered from severe mental illness.
Concerned for the pregnant woman's safety, the director refused admission.
The man was unfazed. He offered ten times the cost of a premium ward and told the director he'd prepay for six months.
Staring at the cash on the table, the director and several doctors were tempted. Since the center opened, regular wards were overflowing, but most rooms in the third building sat empty. After all, patients with money usually chose正规 hospitals for treatment.
Persuaded by the doctors, the director processed the woman's admission and placed her in Room 3 of the third building.
Once the woman was settled, the man left his phone number, claiming to be her husband. But when the director asked to see their marriage certificate, the man couldn't produce one.
With the money taken, the deal was done. The director couldn't back out now; all he could do was care for the pregnant woman.
After examination, doctors confirmed she had a mental disorder—classic bipolar symptoms. She never communicated with others, sometimes crying alone, sometimes flying into rages, smashing everything in sight, even harming herself.
To protect her, the staff wrapped all furniture in Room 3 with thick cloth.
Her condition was unstable, and because she was pregnant, most medications couldn't be used. Doctors took turns providing psychological counseling.
Three months passed. As her due date approached, the director hired several nurses to watch the room around the clock.
Whether it was the impending birth awakening her maternal instincts or the doctors' treatment taking effect, the woman stopped her violent episodes. She mostly kept people at a distance, just stroking her belly, sitting on the low hospital bed talking to herself.
Four months later, the baby was born, and her condition markedly improved.
The director and doctors breathed a sigh of relief. They called the woman's husband that very day, but no one answered after several attempts.
A bad feeling set in. They checked the man's ID and found all documents were fake.
After discussion, the director and doctors decided to wait until the prepaid funds ran out. If the man still hadn't shown up, they'd call the police. Considering the woman's condition, they didn't tell her.
The woman remained unaware. After giving birth, she seemed to regain hope for life, actively cooperating with treatment, occasionally asking about her husband. She believed that once she recovered, he would come for her.
But six months passed. The prepaid fees were exhausted. The man had vanished like a ghost, never to reappear.
Voices of dissent grew within the center. Some doctors and nurses suggested sending the woman away—caring for both mother and child was exhausting and time-consuming.
The director couldn't bear it, saying they should wait longer. But a nurse caring for the woman accidentally let the truth slip.
The woman demanded to call her husband. On the other end of the line, a cold, mechanical voice announced the number was out of service.
Before being sent to the center, the woman seemed to have made an agreement with the man. Now that agreement was broken. Already ill, her condition worsened dramatically.
She became hostile toward everyone around her, as if lost in a dark maze with no way out.
To prevent her from harming the newborn, doctors separated mother and child.
The woman was beyond reason, impossible to communicate with. The baby was too young. The center had no choice but to raise the child themselves.
They continued treating the woman, hoping to extract the man's information from her so he could cover the remaining fees.
No one expected the treatment to last three years. The woman's child grew up in a psychiatric hospital, learning to speak and walk in this madhouse full of lunatics.
Ages zero to three, known as infancy, is the period of highest learning efficiency in a person's life, and a critical time for forming basic perceptions of the world.
The woman's child spent those crucial three years in this twisted, pathological environment.
The prepaid money was long gone. Doctors and nurses were now caring for them out of charity. One or two days was fine, but over time, more and more people complained. Even the looks they gave the child grew complicated.
The mad mother stayed in her room. The most frequent thing the child did over those three years was being picked up by a doctor or nurse, held up to the window on Room 3's door, to peer through the glass at the woman inside.
As time passed, after the child learned to walk, he sometimes ran to Room 3 on his own, staring up at the door that was several times his height.
Day after day, while other children his age had family company and a world full of color, this child's world was distorted. Cold white tones dominated most of his memories. Gradually, he began to exhibit behaviors different from normal children.
Chen Ge unconsciously flipped to the end. The content on the white paper read like the director's private diary: "This child's experience is even more terrifying than mine."
He thought his own childhood—playing with human head models, dismantling plastic bones—was bad enough. He never imagined someone had it worse.
Putting down the paper, Chen Ge looked at the unsent letters.
The envelopes had no stamps, no signatures. They were yellowed and worn, likely written many years ago, never mailed.
In chronological order, Chen Ge opened them one by one.
The first letter was written twenty years ago, when the woman's child was two.
"Dr. Chen, I've never seen such a smart child. Unbelievable how quickly he learns everything."
"Born in a place ignored by the normal world, raised in a pathological environment—should I send him away?"
"This child will definitely be a genius when he grows up, but his current behavior makes me uneasy."
"Ever since he learned to speak, like his mother, he always talks to himself. No, it feels more like he's communicating with something we can't see."
"Doctors and nurses are busy. No one taught him to speak except me, yet I keep hearing unfamiliar words from his mouth."
"Did he learn them by eavesdropping on doctors and patients? Or is something teaching him?"
"I'm a materialist, but what's happening with this child shakes me. They say infants can see things adults can't—could it all be true?"