Hi guys! So many of you seemed to like my one-shot I wrote so I figured let's try and give this writing thing a shot. I don't know if this idea has been used before but it weirdly came to me when I was walking around a garden centre on a sunny day, which is pretty morbid and weird when you think about it. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it and I always appreciate reviews as I'm kind of new at this and any advice or constructive criticism is appreciated. Enjoy!
Killian Jones had killed a man. To those who weren't so close with the ebony-haired, aquamarine-eyed man, this would come as a shock. The pair of glossy, soft eyes were too deep for him to experience such rage, the soft lines that creased around his eyes when he smiled weren't an expression of someone who could be charged with murder.
Yet here he was, essentially being hauled by his arms with a bored expression on his face into a place that would 'fix him'.
Robin, his lawyer, had done all that he could to defend him but the outcome, although delayed his sentence, was still far from a holiday in Hawaii, rum in a coconut resting in his hand while he dreams of sailing on the exotic sea's that spread out before him.
3 months in the local town's bloody psycho bin. Otherwise known as Storybrooke mental Institution. Storybrooke, the quaint little town that he'd killed the bastard in a month ago. Killian sent a mental sarcastic thanks to whomever it was who thought that putting him in the institute in the town where the imp used to live was a good idea.
For those who were close to Killian, of course it was a shock and confused those who knew of his true nature, but the reaction of revenge was not unexpected to them after hearing the circumstances.
Strict, monotone commands were fired at him that he let his brain subconsciously reply to. A grey tracksuit, towel, bag of toiletries and card was lain in his arms. Before he could register anything else, he found himself being shoved through wide doors, which looked strange when he noticed the large metallic bolds gleaming against the seemingly homely-looking mahogany wood. Yeah, right, he thought to himself, no homely-looking things for a while now. His plan was to not get attached. If it were his choice he'd go straight to his awaiting cell, no dilly-dallying in useless mental homes. He was well aware of his mental state and it was no dysfunction in his brain that had lead him to drive a dagger through the coward's heart. He was only doing this for Robin.
"I'm good friends with the owner," he'd said. "Trust me, Killian. I can get you in. It'll be good for you."
It looked like a prison. Funny that. What he assumed was the lobby of the psychiatric home was confirmed when the disinterested attendant mumbled something about it being called the rec room. Grey-clad bodies was scattered across the room. Some staring into the empty space and some whispering gibberish to another, he was pleasantly surprised at how quiet is seemed to be.
"If the volume reaches above a certain level, punishments will be made." The attendant said, looking at Killian's confused expression. "Your room is in Hall 4, the number is on your card and you have to be down at the dining hall for six thirty. Don't be late." He'd slipped back through the wooden doors before Killian could reply.
Killian somehow manages to find the hall he's supposed to be following after looking at the giant crusty-looking map hung on the rec room's walls. Hall 4; a corridor painted a bleak and dull pink that is starting to peal and fray in the corners. The small circular window located at the end of the hall is the only source of light but isn't exactly appealing with the solid bars guarding him from the outside world. Not like he didn't feel isolated enough already. Looking up, he found the number on the door that matches his card, 213, and lets himself in.
It was a very mundane room, nothing much to describe. A feeble-looking bed is placed in the corner with a moth-eaten blanket and not a very plump looking pillow. Not that he was complaining, he was sure what he'd get after this stop will be worse and it wasn't like he was going to get much sleep anyway. There were some wooden drawers, a mirror hanging on the wall and a flickering florescent light in the centre of the room. He wasn't expecting much, but he was still eerily upset at the sparse and loneliness of the room.
He looks at the clock hanging next to the mirror. Six o'clock. He strips from his jeans and shirt, knowing he'll probably never wear them again and slips them in the bottom drawer.
The unfamiliar grey material is itchy on his skin and he has a feeling he won't get used to it. Lying on the unsurprisingly uncomfortable mattress, he closes his eyes and tries to clear his mind.
Tick, tick, tick. The frustrating noise leads him to wince his eyes open under the harsh light. Still drowsy from his unplanned nap, Killian stretches, unsuccessfully trying to unknot his back; he could already begin to feel the ache and he was sure he'd be resembling a hunchback sooner than he thought. He glanced at the clock, six thirty five. He tried to straighten his sheets on the bed and then paused. Six thirty five. He was late.
It was quarter to seven by the time he managed to run down his hall, find the dining hall on the map and sneak into the grand hall. He knew straight away this was probably one of the nicest rooms in the whole building. He couldn't remember seeing any extravagant windows on the way in, so the large stained glass window that took up a whole wall indicated this must be at the back of the hospital. The tables and chairs were the same musty wood as the door in the rec room but managed to look a little more humble with the wooden floor and seemingly civilised people sitting at them. The sun beaming through the window cast a hazy glow on everyone, making them look like multicoloured uniforms instead of grey tracksuits. It was kind of beautiful.
Killian shook himself out of his architectural fantasy and realised why it was a good idea not to be late. The whole hall was filled and buzzing. Killian felt a heaviness in his stomach as he realised he may as well go without food tonight. Despite his conclusion, he wondered aimlessly anyway. He was looking at which colour fell where through the window when he saw her.
Shadowed in a glowing crimson, the blonde gazed at the plate on her table. Her slim fingers poking at the unappetizing bread. She had her whole focus on that piece of bread and she was far away from the world-long thick black lashes on her cheek and eyebrows furrowed slightly with a frustratingly adorable expression. There were two empty seats next to her. They were probably saved for someone else and he still doesn't know to this day what caused him to walk towards them, but he did anyway.