Okay so I got bored and decided to do this :) It's a two-shot, I'll hopefully have the next chapter up today or tomorrow! I hope you like it!


Arthur stared at the mirror. The glossy surface made the bright light from the ceiling lamp flash into the Brit's eyes, but not once did he flinch. He remained with his eyes glued to his reflection, or more accurately, what was left of it.

His once dirty blonde hair had become matted and covered with sweat from the dampness of his forehead and scalp. His emerald green eyes were now dull, and Arthur found them unreadable in his current state. They no longer caught any light, making his face seem hollow and empty. There were large bags underneath his eyes, and alongside the now gaunt structure of his face, with hollow cheeks and pale skin, they made him look as though he hadn't slept in weeks.

But that was the thing. He hadn't slept in weeks. He had been kept awake by those sounds. Those voices inside his head, wanting to come out. They haunted him. It was almost as if Arthur could see them grinning at him, like they knew what they were doing to him. Then there was the screaming. Oh god, the screaming. They always wanted to escape. They always wanted help. But they never would. They didn't understand. They would never get out. Never escape. No one could help them. Not even Arthur. Especially not Arthur. For he was enslaved by the monster who trapped them here, in this god-awful place, for no one to find. He was doing the devil's bidding, he was was the lost and unholy prophet sent up from hell.

He couldn't be helped. No one could ever help him, let alone understand. That's what landed them here. In this place. They tried to help. They upset him. Nothing ever works out when he gets upset.

Arthur heard them again. The screams. The tremors from under the floor boards. Why couldn't they just shut up? Why couldn't they leave him be? Because they didn't understand. They didn't know what it was like. What it was like to be in Arthur's head. The images are enough to drive you mad, and the voices-... Well, the voices... They've already taken over. Driven him mad. Made him hurt people. His loved ones. His friends.

There is no room for friendship in this place. No room for compassion. It slows you down. Makes you weak. There is no room for weakness in this place either.

Arthur felt tears well up in his eyes, hearing familiar voices screaming his name. The trickling of the light liquid running down his cheeks no longer bothered him as it once did. Crying brought no relief to his heart. No comfort. It made the knot in his stomach tighten. He had felt it before. It felt as though a hand had almost reached into his abdomen and stolen the organs that resided there. It never made him better. Nothing ever did.

Sometimes Arthur wondered how long he had been in this house. How long had it been since he had seen the sun? Since he had felt grass? He couldn't quite recall. His mind had become a blank page in an empty book. He looked back at the mirror. He had lost all sense of how to smile a while back. He simply... Forgot. He didn't remember what it was like to laugh and be happy, to not have to worry.

'You don't have to worry here, Arthur dear... I can take care of all of that for you...'

There it was. The sickly sweet voice erupting in his head, telling him everything was going to be okay. But nothing was ever okay. Not here.

Accents of all kinds came from downstairs. American, French, Canadian, Japanese. All crying out for him. For his help. Why did they do that. He put them here. He could not help.

'They don't matter anymore, love. They aren't worth it. They were always laughing at you, they never cared in the first place. They were purely using you for their own enjoyment and entertainment.'

Arthur felt a siege of loneliness wash over him. There was no one here to comfort him, to tell him to calm down, to think. But he did think. All day and all night. He never did anything else. All he had was this voice, rolling around in his head and never leaving. Looking into his every thought and memory. Every fear, every desire. There was no hidden ideas, no secrets kept. No privacy in the mind of Arthur Kirkland. No, not here there wasn't.

Arthur traipsed across the room with the enthusiasm and fervour of a legless spider, and made his way towards the door. That door. The screams got louder, and sobbing pleas became more coherent. The pale and bony fingers of the Brit trembled as his hand inched towards the door handle and, once he had grasped the cold brass, he gripped it so tightly he felt he could never let go. The tension in his wrist building, Arthur twisted the doorknob and let the sweat bead his forehead once more, as the loud creak of the wooden slab of a door allowed a silence to pollute the room. As he walked down the steps in a torturously slow fashion, he saw glimpses of the beady lights in the room. The whimpers, the cries. He noticed tears rolled down a number of the inhabitants' faces. But Arthur noticed one thing about all their faces. They all held the same thing.

Hope.

Arthur stared around, his face emotionless. He didn't know why they bothered. He glanced at the blood-stained walls and the trembling figures. There was no point in hoping. There is no room for hope. Not here. Not at all. Not in this place.