Disclaimer: I DO NOT, under any circumstances, own the NMOES franchise. Sir Wes Craven, who directed and wrote the scripts, does. I watched NMOES3 frantically, every day, to the point where I had the movie memorized by heart. So, I wanted to do my own take on it. They have the scripts online, so I looked to that for reference occasionally. The only thing I own in this story is the character of Anabella Smithson, my OC :) Enjoy!
Oh, here is my reference (I don't know if I'm supposed to or not; if not, let's just say school assignments have the better of me): /site/films/a-nightmare-on-elm-street-3-dream-warriors/a-nightmare-on-elm-street-3-dream-warriors-scripts/
And in local news, two more teenage deaths have occurred . . both suicides. County health officials are at a loss to explain this alarming trend.
I knew exactly what was happening with those kids, and they weren't suicides.
"Good morning, Dr. Gordon."
"Good morning, Jennifer. How are the burns?"
"Regular, menthol, ultra-light."
"They're healing up nicely," Dr. Gordon responded softly, quickly looking over the blonde's arms.
"I've been good. When do I get my cigarette privileges backs?"
My mouth gaped.
She really asked that?
I really don't know why they allow teens to smoke in a treatment facility. If they're treating us for one bad habit, they might as well treat us for all bad habits.
He sighed. "Don't hold your breath."—Jennifer sighed and walked away—"Hi, Taryn. You don't look so hot, kid. Are you getting some sleep?"—she didn't answer—"I didn't think so."
I scratched my face, sighing in hopelessness. I turned to face the white wall, finding a spot and focusing on it—focusing on nothing.
Phillip (personally a favorite patient of mine) ran down the hall, with a happy smile on his face—"Phillip." Dr. Gordon tried to greet.
Dr. Gordon stopped when he reached me.
"Hello, Anabella." He reached up and patted my shoulder; I exhaled and turned around to face him.
"Hello, Dr. Gordon." I replied.
"How are you doing?"
"Uhm," I gulped. "Fine, I guess."
He walked away after that. Dr. Simms—the bitchiest doctor in the history of bitchy doctors—must have been around, because I heard Dr. Gordon say something he would only say to her.
"How is he?"
"He's cooling down. If he continues having these outbursts, I'll have to have him isolated permanently."
"Don't worry," Dr. Gordon assured Dr. Simms. "It won't come to that. I read the report on the new staff member."
My head snapped up, and I looked at the two doctors—yep, Dr. Simms.
"What did you think?"
"I don't understand why some grad school super—" Dr. Gordon started, but instead of staying to listen, I walked away.
Sometimes, my body had different plans than my brain—and often times, my body would take over for a bit. While I really wanted to listen to their conversation, my body wanted a bed.
"Hey, Anabella?"
I whirled around to come face-to-face with Taryn White.
"Hey, Taryn. Why aren't you sleeping? Bad dreams?"
Taryn nodded.
OK, you'd laugh if you knew why we were all in Westin Hills . . Bad dreams. That was why.
"What about you? You don't look so hot, kid." She retorted, using Dr. Gordon's earlier comment to her for her own purpose.
I shook my head and looked at the linoleum.
"Same," I moaned.
"Oh," she whispered. "Same dream, or a different one?"
"I'm playing with these two little kids in a sunflower meadow and it's a really sunny day. We're doing jump rope. Then all of a sudden, it starts raining and the kids run off and I'm running for my life."
"That's awful."
"Dr. Gordon, Dr. Simms to examination, stat. Dr. Gordon, Dr. Simms to examination, stat." A voice said over the intercom.
Taryn walked a couple steps forward, grabbed my forearm and pulled me down the hall; we ended up in Phillip's room.