A/N: I didn't expect this to be ready so soon, but I had one of my muse strikes today so I finished the prologue. Anyways, here's the rather short prologue, but it felt like it would turn into epic failure if I extended it. I'm starting with the useless blabbering, so... Enjoy if it's possible! Reviews are much appreciated! I DON'T OWN KATEKYO HITMAN REBORN! OR AMERICAN HORROR STORY.
Prologue
St Louis didn't make you normal and sane again, Fran decided in one of his rare sober moments. It didn't help you; it didn't make you overcome the supposed madness. Quite the opposite: it cracked you even more, brainwashing you, making you erase the thin line between sanity and insanity, reality and fantasy, good or bad. And nobody actually left. Well, in body bag - yes, but alive, sane and normal - never. At least not since he was here or as he heard - since the building, previously a small manor for some millionaire that died, became a hospital. But hospital wasn't the right word. Oh no, it wasn't and wasn't going to be if the staff didn't change.
Because there were always voices here, when everything was dark and everyone were in their cells, alone and scared, wondering if this was the horrible reality or just a delusion, caused by the medicine. People, usually men, disappeared at least once a month, never to be seen again. And when the good old doctor decided to heal somebody, the result wasn't pretty. Primitive and barbaric methods for healing were something normal here, only here, even if it was the 20th century.
The voices were in his head, even during the day, crying, screaming, telling him stuff he didn't want to hear and nobody could stop this. Or didn't want to, Fran honestly didn't know. He wanted to believe he wasn't insane before he got here, the so-called 'maniacal depression' just being a result of the drugs and the shit that happened every single day and hour and he was normal. But now he wasn't. He was never going to be again, never leaving the rotten and horrible hole.
Fran still remembered small and unconnected fragments of his very first day here. His parents threw him in and we wanted to think that they didn't know what was going on in this poor excuse for mental hospital. The diagnosis was clear - maniacal depression after years of drug abuse. And Doctor Lussuria promised he was going to fix him in no time, just like he always promised to the unsuspecting parents, other relatives, friends or lovers. The fixing was electroshock therapy twice a week, until his brain was completely fried. But the sick barbarian with medical license was somewhat right - the huge need for drugs was absent, just like the reasonable train of thoughts he used to have. Used to. The six different pills weren't helping either - they just made everything even worse and yes, 'even worse' was possible here.
What was he thinking about? Ah, yes, the first day. The only thing that he remembered clearly was the fear when he was on the bed, bound not to move with massive leather straps. But that didn't stop him from screaming for the very first time in his life. Doctor Lussuria just shoved a piece of cloth in his mouth with the words 'Don't worry, honey, it won't hurt. I'll fix you. You're going to be alright again.' said with such calm, fake caring tone that almost made him throw up.
But when one of the orderlies started putting some unfamiliar liquid on his temples, he actually threw up. And when the weird device was ready and in use - more and more throwing up, he almost choked to death from the pure, primal fear. The pain was unbearable when the electricity went through his brain, it felt like his insides were on fire, so he threw up again. The last thing he felt was the sickly warm palm of the Doctor caressing his face, the sweet voice whispering in his ear and everything became black.
When was that? Year? Two? Three? Eternity? Fran didn't remember. Time passed slowly here and he completely lost track of it. Time wasn't something important here, Fran decided, because it didn't matter. He had all the time in the world and there was no way out. At first, he thought there was, when there was still some hope left. He even had a plan to escape. What was the plan? It doesn't matter. After the ninth, tenth or fifteenth therapy session, he completely forgot about it.
So he just stayed here for days, weeks, months and years, with no visits, letters or phone calls. Did his family forgot about him? Probably. Did his friends forgot about him? Probably. Wait, what friends? Did he ever had friends? Answer was no, it's still no. It was hard to find something relatively close to a friend here - the rest were either brainwashed like him, completely insane or pretending to be. Well, pretended to be - after a few meetings with the good Doctor Lussuria, nobody remained sane for long.
At least he had something like entertainment - the other patients were pretty interesting to watch. When the common room was open, he had a few hours just to observe their unreasonable actions. Fran never talked to them, he just didn't know what to say or do to gain their attention so he just stood in one of the corners, watching, trying to think about something that still mattered, even if that was a lost cause.
Most of them were trying to act normal, like being locked in an asylum was something completely normal in life and they accepted it, socializing with each other in strange ways, or dancing to non-existent song or just imitating his actions. The others were few, but enough for the entertainment - insane to the core, screaming, hurting themselves or trying to hurt the orderlies, talking to somebody that existed only in their minds. Fran wasn't frightened - after some time here, he realized Doctor Lussuria was the only one that should frighten him. And there was this small group of pretending to be crazy, including serial and mass murderers who killed a lot people, their family included in that number. They weren't scary too, he just had to avoid them.
Anyways, there was a new fish coming in the next couple of days. Maybe that would change anything, even if the possibility was very low for him. Fran couldn't wait.
Since they caught him, the huge beetle in his head stopped moving, making him scratch his head and scream. Maybe that was the ultimate goal, maybe he was just insane as the bastards said. Xanxus didn't know. But he couldn't stop thinking that it wasn't him. It wasn't his fault. He wasn't the one thinking, he wasn't the one that commanded his body to move. It was that other side of him - a side he discovered when he was seventeen.
And that's when the annoying beetle was born. At first, it just buzzed in his skull, giving him an annoying feeling. After that, it started walking, biting his brain, giving him headaches. It was harmless. Was. At first, Xanxus didn't mind the unwanted bug, because that was explained a lot of things he did. But the buzzing became worse and worse, it happened every single minute when he was awake. It started buzzing and biting in his sleep, making him wake up with thoughts he never thought he was capable of.
It made him scream from pure anger, it made him break everything he saw, it made him hitting and insulting people that simply didn't deserve it. And two months after his 25th birthday, his brain finally cracked under the huge pressure. He found out he had huge black spots in place of memories, weird nightmares about him killing people. The anger multiplied, turning into pure wrath that destroyed everything on its way.
He started finding himself in places he didn't remember going to, destruction all around him, with no memories of his action for the past hours, days or weeks. And there was this quiet whisper that sounded like his voice, telling him that they deserved it. He didn't know who deserved what, but the voice kept telling him that after every blackout he had.
The bastard that called himself 'his father' noticed and tried to talk to him, but that made everything even worse. Because the annoying old man wasn't his father. He never was. For years, he lied and lied and promised the leading post in the company and it turned out fake. Everything was fake. The bastard was fake. And it was his fault. Everything was his fault. The beetle was born thanks to him.
The whisper wasn't a whisper anymore - it was loud and clear, telling him to do what's right. It talked to him every single night, assuring him that everything he did was reasonable, that it was justice. But what did he do? Xanxus didn't know, didn't remember. It didn't matter. The dreams became even clearer; all the details were present, like he was actually awake, like it was all real. But it wasn't. Because he didn't remember.
The blackouts multiplied, taking almost all of his awake moments and one night, when he 'woke up', he found himself in the burning mansion he spent almost his entire life. There were screams, a lot of screams, some only in his head and the others - real. The beetle was biting and biting, making him scratch his head until his nails reached the brain. The voice was laughing. And the bastard called 'father' screamed, flames on his entire body. In some corner deep inside his brain, Xanxus noticed the fire was like a crown on his head, lighting up the entire room.
Everything and everybody burned and the voice kept laughing and laughing, screaming 'THIS IS JUSTICE!' in his head. The fire caught him too - his face, his body, his hair and Xanxus started screaming, just like the voice, but from the pain on his entire body. He didn't know how he survived, but he was the only one. And that was when they caught him.
It turned out that the dreams weren't dreams and he actually did everything - murdering 26 people in total, plus almost everybody in the mansion, including his 'father' and that continued for two years. The diagnosis was clear - the bastards decided he was schizophrenic sociopath with a touch of pyromania.
The date was 15th November 1965, the weather - cold and rainy, the day - Thursday and the actual event - his first day in St. Louis - hospital for the mentally and criminally insane.