Attempting Sanity
Chapter One
Sleep. Or pretend to sleep. Either way, it was working.
Buffy was cheese on a grilled cheese sandwich, and her mattress being the bread. All her melt-y goodness was eagle spread style. One hand had hidden itself under her pillow, supporting her head. It had probably gone asleep, which was an inconvenience. Her eyes were twisted shut so hard that her brow furrowed in an awkward position. She had been waiting three hours for the lights to go out. There was a strict nine o'clock lights out, but tonight the hall lights remained on. She faintly heard the breathing of her roommate, who could sleep through an earthquake and wake up not knowing where she was. She used this time of faux-sleeping to count the tiny whiffs her roommate's nose made when she breathed in.
Seven thousand and sixty-two… seven thousand and sixty-four… seven thousand and sixty-six…
Wait; shit… sixty-five… now sixty-six, or is it sixty-seven? Dammit.
She sat up in her bed and looked around the room. A few shelves, two feet high, bolted to the ground, a window, which was barred off and had a thick layer of plastic protecting the fragile glass. Underneath it was a radiator, which was supposed to emit heat. It didn't. It only let out soft rumblings every now and then. Buffy assumed it was rats. Maybe she could make friends. There were two twin-sized beds, separated by two bedside tables. There were no lamps, and the lights were far up in the ceiling so no one could jump up and break them, or, you know, get electrocuted. But, hey, what a way to go. Deep-fried, crispy on the outside, soft and gooey in the inside.
Wow, she was spending a bit too much time here. She must be going insane. No more thinking about the gooey, soft center of people. She huffed out a sigh and opened her eyes. There was no use pretending. She just wasn't sleepy. But she did have to pee.
She stood up, her white baggy pajama pants swooshed underneath her. Her feet were cold, and the last remains of her nail polish weren't exactly a pretty sight. She suddenly wished for socks, or slippers. As if on command, she spotted a pair of bunny slippers. A smile split her face as she slipped into them. They used to make little bunny noises when she walked, but she hadn't replaced the batteries in three years. Buffy exited her room and looked down the hall. The lights gave off an eerie green-yellow washed look to the halls. One flickered above her and burnt out.
Lovely, she thought as she trotted down the hall. She passed many rooms. All doorless. You could do bad things behind closed doors, but with everything open, it was free game. She turned a swift corner and spotted the bathroom monitor.
"I have to pee." Her voice almost shocked herself. It was low, cold, and raspy. The young girl who sat there flipped the page of her Cosmo and pointed at a sign. Buffy looked over, squinted, and read; "Level-one patients have two minutes in the lavatory." She blinked. Was she level one? The girl grunted and threw back, her thumb at the bathroom door. The sixteen year old shrugged and entered. She didn't bother to look around the cold, echo-y bathroom. She went straight to the second to last stall and relieved herself. She looked for the flush but only saw a button. She pressed it and the water swirled beneath her. When fully clothed, she sat back down on the toilet and stared at her bunny slippers. They stared back up at her. Three painfully blue eyes. Only three, the left eye on the right slipper had fallen off. She reached down and ripped off the left eye from the left slipper. She pocketed it and left the stall.
She looked at herself in the mirror in front of her and wasn't pleased with what she saw. Her eyes appeared to be sunken in, and hallow. Traces of old makeup smeared from her eyes and face. Her hair, tattered, greasy and in tangles, looked as if it was on its last leg. It looked reasonably darker. She had only ever lightened her hair once before, but it had always retained its natural golden color. She ran her fingers through it, examining her scalp. Her hair had been dyed brown, and badly so. She looked up, expecting to see someone staring at her.
But no one was there.
She suddenly felt a sharp pain to the head. Her forehead hit the sink, specifically the tab to turn the hot water on. As she snapped back, she reeled her head around to face a man. Large, ugly, and probably dumb. She was grabbed her by the hair and smashed her face to the tiled floor. Slowly and steady, the spaces between the white tiles turned red. Blood. It was blood. Her blood. She tried to focus her eyes, but they refused. Buffy was becoming increasingly queasy as she forced her eyes open. She let out the breath she had been holding in, and it felt like fire.
She slipped into darkness.