On the poll, on my profile, the top votes were for a Bluepulse story, and an AU.

So here it is. The title may change, though.

There's not really much Bluepulse in this chapter, but...just wait for it. I promise it'll be here.

Hope you enjoy!

March 22nd, 2007.

Dear New Friend,

Before we start, I just want to get this out into the open; I'm not crazy.

I'm a little bit hyperactive, a lot OCD, and I think I'm from the future—but don't let that deter you. I swear I'm not a madman. Just because my parents sent me to an insane asylum, does not specifically mean I'm insane...and even if I am, I'm getting a lot better.

I can sit still for about five minutes now, which is better than five seconds.

I think before I speak.

To be honest, I don't even talk to people. I don't make friends or leave my room— you know, so I don't get in the way. That's one thing my parents both agreed on- and partially, I think that's why they sent me away. It's not because I seriously bounce of the walls if my emotions aren't intact, or because I got kicked out of every school I attended, it was just because I was a bad influence, an extra button in the shirt of my family.

My parents would always look at each other with hollow eyes and tight mouths when I tried to tell my younger siblings about the future.

They'd pull me away, mum, with tears in her eyes, when I got too overstimulated and starting saying too much.

I was just an extra effort that they couldn't afford to have, I suppose. Bad for Mom's heart, I suppose. A waste of space, I suppose.

That's why I'm holding my ground, and saying that I'm absolutely not crazy. Just a little weird until you get to know me.

The windowsill is my favourite spot. It rains all the time here, and when the glass steams up, I draw pictures. I'm not going to boast to you, because I know I can't draw...but I do draw. Specifically, I draw things from the future. Like I said before, I'm not from this time period.

I can't explain it though. It would be like trying to explain to someone who'd never left the house what grass smells like, or what the colour blue looks like without mentioning the sky.

The doctors all say it's in my head. They say it's impossible, and far-fetched. I don't know yet how I'm going to prove them wrong. Maybe if they live long enough, they'll notice just how correct my statements about the future are. For now though, I'll happily sit tapping the window, waiting for my parents to come pick me up.

They said they would. Even though I'm still on medication, and have poor social skills, they promised I'd only have to live in the asylum for a year (or so). I suppose they emphasised the 'or so'. I've been in the same place since turning twelve years old- I'm almost sixteen now.

Still, I'm hopeful. I know the doctors give me sad looks when I walk past, and a few have already taken me by the shoulders, gazed at me with sad, glazed over eyes, and told me my parents have 'passed'.

Whatever that means, I really hope it's worth it. I stopped sending letters a while back, after getting a message saying my family didn't live where I was sending them too. I think I must've mixed up the address, and I can't remember the real one.

The reason I'm writing is because I don't have much else to do, other than draw on windows, and think. Or do both at the same time. My psychologist, Dr. Miranda; an old, smelly woman (don't tell her I said that), with clothes two sizes too small, told me that writing to someone would help me express myself. Other than expressing my obvious need to communicate, I don't think it's helping.

I suppose I'll go back to scratching lines into the blue plaster wall, next to my blue metal framed bed now. I've been doing one a day since I came here...but sometimes I forget to, and sometimes, I just scratch at the wall, creating extra marks. I've lost count, and I don't have a calendar.

When I can't sleep at night, because my meds make me too numb, recounting them three-thousand times usually helps.

Yours,

Bart Allen.

March 25th, 2007

Friend,

As of late, it's been getting difficult again. I thought, maybe, that I'd finally be somewhat normal...but it's just not working out.

Someone tried to talk to me at breakfast a few days ago— "Hey kiddo, can you pass us the salt?" and as much as I wanted to reply, with a fantastic grin, "top of the morning to you, no problem!" I just grimaced, and threw the salt at the man. Needless to say, with my luck, the top flew off, and the salt sprayed the man in his eyes.

The domino-effect in an insane-asylum is pretty obvious. He screamed, my insane house-mates screamed in response, and pretty soon, the mess-hall was thrown into mass-hysteria, with everyone screaming and crying.

Long story short, the punishment was prohibition.

"Hurting someone with your hands, feet, or mouth, means said feature is bound for the duration of time until the person gets better." It's extreme, but no investigators come here, so the workers make their own punishments. And they get pretty creative.

If it's not obvious, my hands have just been unbound.

I don't know why I reacted the way I did. A few of the staff mumbled about me wanting attention, but to be honest, all I want is a friend. I just couldn't control my arms when the man spoke...I don't know. Stuff like that hasn't happened for a while—and I swear it won't happen again. I will NOT talk to any more potential friends...except for you, and that's only because I need somewhere to let my fingers tap away...otherwise they'll start scratching the walls again, and I like my fingernails on my fingers.

Hoping things will get better,

Bart Allen.

April 14th

Let me humour you,

Something impossible happened. Something crazier than me or the others.

I met him. Two days ago—and...I kinda think that maybe there is something good in this world. Even though I screwed up a little, I suddenly feel like there's hope.

It was my sixteenth birthday two days ago. I only recognised it because it was like every single day of my life for four years, but I got a slice of meatloaf for lunch, instead of mashed potato or porridge, and some kid with green hair sent by the admin office brought me a squishy balloon and wished me, "Everlasting prosperity, and lots of free food...duuuuudddeee."

Doesn't get better than that.

I'd been woken up by Kevin, the boy next door, scratching at my door and making cat noises. Putting a pillow over my head didn't help, because he got louder. Shutting my eyes was a waste of energy, since he carried on yelling 'meow' at the top of his voice, until it changed more to sobbing, and he started hitting his head against the door. I heard them drag him away, and after a few minutes, the workers at the asylum barged into my room, threw me a towel, and promptly told me it was shower day.

Sixteen for less than seven unofficial hours, and I was already been treated to a personal alarm and a cold-shower surrounded by naked, mentally-ill boys. I was so lucky; I could feel it welling up in my chest.

Unsurprisingly things got better.

"Allen, why are you wearing that?" I was interrogated as soon as I fumbled into the mess hall, by Bertha- an elephant of a Carer, with moles lining up like planets on her face. Whenever she sees me, she always looks disgusted. I knew I didn't smell, since I'd had a shower, so I guess it's just the way her face permanently rests.

I wasn't in my regulation robe or hospital gown—some of my doctors had voted against it ages ago. They said I deserved a choice. I wasn't the craziest person around, and I knew (at least) what clothing was socially acceptable. Still, even heavily worn jeans and an orange and yellow striped jumper were a breach of Bertha's sacred laws.

She grabbed my arm and yanked me out of the room (even though I was hungry!). She looked pretty angry though, so I went with it. Didn't go down easy though, because I tried to wriggle out of her grip, praying to evade the sewer stench that poured out of her mouth.

When we arrived, she furrowed her brow, like she was trying to remember why she was punishing me. She hobbled into my room, handing me a white gown. I rolled my eyes dramatically, and started taking off my shirt.

She somewhat respected my privacy, and stalked out of the room unevenly. As soon as she was out of sight though, I pulled my normal clothing back on and went to sit in the long corridor a few metres away from my room, next to a vending machine.

And...that's when I saw him.

He walked up to the machine, mumbling—no, arguing—with himself.

Because I'm a total social butterfly, I slid even further to the 'protective' metal surface of the machine, using it as a barrier, and started taking slow sips of my drink.

The doctors tell me I shouldn't try to talk to people, because they'll freak out.

I think they just knew I'd freak out though.

I'm so scared of hissing at people who talk to me, or doing something else socially unacceptable. I hate the judgement I get when I open my mouth. Sometimes, I want to talk, and it's so frustrating I could kick myself.

I tried not to watch him, and reminded myself of how many times I'd failed to be a normal person. If I brought myself down enough, I'd lose all confidence to raise my head, and he'd go away.

"Hi." He sat down next to me, and took a huge gulp of his own drink. Cola—not too dysfunctional. "Why are you in here?"

He said it like we were prison mates, and he looked so nonchalant, I half-expected him to nod and 'relate', even if I said I was a serial killer.

I swallowed hard, and looked to the floor. I had to convince myself that my tongue was lead. I had to keep quiet. I had to.

"I'll talk for the both of us." He smiled, and bit his lip. "You seem nice." I kept my gaze on the floor. I didn't know how much longer I could hold out...

"I'm Jaime Reyes."

Those were the trigger words. I couldn't stop myself. At the top of my lungs, I yelled, "I'M FROM THE FUTURE!"

Real smooth.

"Cool." He didn't smirk, or spit on me, or choke-up, or scream. He didn't even flinch. He just nodded, and looked semi-interested.

He sat silently next to me for a good ten minutes after that. I was pretty much shaking my head the whole time, disappointed in my outburst.

"I'll see you later, Future Kid." He stood up, "I'm in Room 178, by the way. I have lunch at two." He raised a dark eyebrow, "My carer, Henry, is looking for me." He strolled off, letting a soft monologue slip from his lips as he did. He shook his head numerous times, disagreeing with himself.

Room 178. That meant he was on Floor 1. Floor 1 was for Schizophrenics, and Psychotics. And people with serious behavioural issues.

Doctors say I have ADHD, and some sort of Species dysphoria—no, I don't want to be an animal...I just don't feel like I'm the human that is supposed to live in 2007. It's like, I was born in the wrong generation...but that generation hasn't actually come about yet.

Anyway, I'm on Level 3—it's just for depressed and discontent people. Like me. Or like what the doctors have categorised me as. It wouldn't be hard getting into his room from mine (not that I'm creepy enough to try), but if the rumours were true, getting out would be hell.

After he left, I tried to scratch my name into the drink-machine. When my fingers started shaking, because I was getting aggravated, I left for my room.

Dr Gruph said whenever I get frustrated, I need to meditate. That's how I ended up taking deep breaths on my bed.

Bart Allen

Hope you enjoyed, so far.

Please leave a review if you get the chance.

-Fish