Alright, guys, new story! I recently watched the horror game Outlast and it inspired me to this nice little story. I've finished it already, there are about 90 pages, I just need to proofread it, so please review if you like the story, then I'll do that faster.

Anyway, as you probably already guessed this is an asylum AU. First try with this kind of story. Will be dark at the beginning. Eventually GrellxUndertaker (big surprise). Sorry for spelling/grammar mistakes.

Disclaimer: I don't own BB, the characters and several other things I will mention later

Patient 01649

Day 1

Grell Sutcliff entered the room, a wide smile gracing his face when he sat down on a couch and threw his long, red hair back. The smile didn't fade, but got a little weaker when he saw a strange man in front of himself, rather young and professional looking.
"Good morning! Where is doctor Turner?"
The man pushed his glasses up.
"He is occupied with a new patient, so I will take care of you from now on. My name is Dr. Spears. So, Mr. Sutcliff, how are you today?"
Grell threw his hair back and looked at him in a slightly flirty way.
"I'm very fine, now that such a handsome man as you is here...although I'd prefer being called Miss."
The man called Spears frowned lightly.
"Miss Sutcliff, I read your file and I know that you're far from feeling 'very fine'. Let me ask more directly: Are you feeling like yesterday or worse?"
Grell's face fell immediately. He didn't want too many people to know what really happened inside him. He preferred to act like he was a happy, lighthearted person, too many people had laughed at him when he had told them how he really felt and that really didn't make anything better. Still, everyone at this place seemed to know it, it seemed like his attempts were useless. Maybe he should give up his facade, it was tiring and in the end he had to accept the truth...
"Worse. I'm feeling worse", he said therefore and Dr. Spears nodded slowly and wrote something onto the terminal board on his knees.
"May I see it?", Grell asked. He was wondering if this man was different from Dr. Turner, who hadn't been able to help him. Maybe the man with the glasses could? Said man hesitated a little before handing his board to the redhead.

Patient number: 01649
Full name: Grell Sutcliff
Gender: Male
Date of birth: 12.2.1927
Current Age: 24
Date of admission: 4.9.1948
Diagnose: Chronicle, hard depression (daddy issues); confusion concerning his gender
Therapy: Escitalopram (Lexapro), Mirtazapine (Remeron); speech therapy
Special information: Patient is potentially suicidal, tried to commit suicide two times already. He should not have access to sharp things to stop him from harming himself.

Then there was a list with dates of this year and Dr. Turner's notes to them. The newest one was by Dr. Spears: Patient tries to act happy first, but then says that he's feeling worse. Maybe he should get new drugs?

Grell pressed his lips together and handed the other man the sheet of paper back. Patient. He was addressed as patient, like a dog. But in the end, was he better, was he worth more? He had to admit that this was ironic. The people here wanted him to believe that he was not a loathsome piece of dirt that deserved to die, but in the end they made him feel even more like that.
"Miss Sutcliff?", Dr. Spears interrupted his thoughts. His voice was soft. Grell looked up from his wrist that was bandaged again, still biting his lip with his unusually sharp teeth.
"Yes?"
"We really want to help you. I hope you know that."

When the little redhead left the room, he had a headache again. He could use an Aspirin or something like that, but they wouldn't give him any without a letter from his doctor. Six months ago, when he had still been able to simply go and ask for painkillers, he had done that every day and collected them to swallow them all at once. Obviously he had been found before it had been too late.
He went to the big dining room slowly. The designers had tried to make the room look friendly and happy, so the walls were yellow and full of paintings, the long tables were light green and the chairs blue. It just helped to worsen his headache.
Crossing the room and heading for his usual place in the corner, he passed lots of other patients. Leroy Gallener heard voices telling him to do terrible things. Peter Sandler whispered things about his dead family all the time. Anthony Dervish thought he was being followed and they wanted to kill him. And there were so much more...
He sat down, pulled one leg up and hugged it closely, facing the ground. Finally he could have some peace, without being forced to answer questions that he didn't like, think about things that made him feel worse and tell of his childhood that made him feel afraid and worthless. Finally he could -
There was a low sound and someone sat down at the other side of the table. Grell looked up. The man's hair was nearly as long as his own one, but a shining silver, although he didn't look old. Twenty five to thirty maybe. Grell had never seen him before. He had placed a tablet with food on the table, but didn't touch it. Instead he looked at the redhead, smiling widely and showing perfect white teeth.
"Um...hello?", Grell said after a while, unsure what this stranger wanted here. He just wanted his peace, was this so difficult?
"Hello, Grell."
The other man frowned deeply.
"Why do you know my name?"
"Oh, I just know. Are you hungry?" Grell took a closer look at the strange man. His eyes were hidden by bangs of nearly white hair and he was deathly pale, his features were handsome though, only influenced by a scar running over his face. You could call him a mysterious beauty.
"No", he answered finally, but at the same time his stomach grumbled, what caused the white haired man to chuckle.
"You are. Here, take mine and I'll get new food. Don't worry, I didn't poison it."
He stood up elegantly and walked to the art of the room where you could get food while Grell's face darkened. I would welcome every deadly poison you could offer, he thought and looked at his meal. It was a piece of meat with potatoes and a mass that smelled and looked strange. He decided to rather not eat it. When the fork with one of the potatoes was about to touch his lips, the man came back and sat down again, having a new tablet.
"I suppose you're new here, Mister, so I'll tell you: I prefer to eat alone."
Don't even try to make friends, they will just use you and throw you away like the worthless piece of garbage you are, his daddy had always said. Grell knew he was right. He was garbage. Besides he had been hurt enough, he didn't want to endure even more pain. However, his comment was ignored
"Go ahead, eat! We don't want you to starve, mh?"
"Yeah...of course not."
He eyed his meal again, but then started to eat, earning a satisfied nod. When his plate was empty apart from the mass, he stared at the man again who finished his meal too in that second and pet his tummy.
"Ah, that was good."
"It was okay, compared to the stuff they usually serve. So...you know my name, but what is yours?"
"I was called many names already, but you can call me Undertaker."
Grell pursed his lips. He'd like to never call him any name at all and never see him again too.
"Undertaker? How come?"
"I am a mortician and somehow people forgot that I have a name at all. Maybe I did too."
"I see. Alright, Undertaker, I'll go then, I'm rather tired. Farewell."
He jumped up before the other one could say something, brought his tablet back and walked to his personal room to sit down on his bed and pull his legs close again.
What a strange person this had been! On the other hand...who at this place wasn't. Anyway, he'd probably never see him again and continue his life in here like in the last three years. He lifted his mattress up and took the razor blade from under it. He had found it some days ago, a sister must have lost it. Unwrapping his right wrist, he crossed his legs. This was what he waited for every day. For a few moments, the pain in his guts that made him want to bend over and cry would disappear. His father had always said that he deserved pain and hatred. This might be true, but he just had to do it.
"I'm sorry, daddy", he whispered and ran the razor blade across his wrist. The wounds opened again immediately and soon blood was running down his wrist and dropping to the ground.

When he was done, he washed the razor in the small sink in the corner of his room and hid it again before bandaging his wrist anew. If they found out the cuts were fresh, they would search in his room again and take the razor away.
Feeling a little lighter now, he leaned back and against the wall.

I hope you liked it, please review!