TAGGED WARNINGS: Schizoaffective Nathan, Manic Episode, Panic Attack, Derealization, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-consensual photo taking, Verbal Abuse, Emotional Manipulation, Swearing, Two POVs, One-Sided JefferAmber, One-Sided AmberScott (if you squint)
ooooooooookay wow this was actually super hard and super emotional to write; this is my first time properly writing something in a WHILE so apologize for any silly errors. I just wanted to depict what might have happened leading up to the 'Rachel in the dark room' drawing seen in ep 3 so this ensued. I used the POV of Rachel and Nathan, and I was going to write a section for Jefferpoop too but I didn't really want to get into his head lol. It's super dark, be warned, and I don't condone any of the behavior or mentioned behavior in this fic.
Title comes from the song 'The Sense of Me' by Mud Flow.
Drugs weren't going to work on Rachel this time.
…Well. That was half a lie. Every so often she would blink, and the sterile, blurry area of the Dark Room seemed to tilt and spin like she had a raging fever, and Jefferson's voice sounded like it was coming from another planet, notwithstanding the petite size of the room. Her breathing was heavy and her body felt like lead – but otherwise, she was fully aware, her eyes trained on her kneecaps, knobby and bruised purple from heavens only knew what.
She couldn't believe she had been so stupid.
Mark was supposed to have been her way out, her rise to fame in the modeling industry through his prowess with a camera, white lights, and eye for detail. He'd drug her up, like he'd done to the others, but she knew – there was no power imbalance, it was mere reciprocation between the two of them. She would pose how he wanted, duct tape singeing at the fragile hairs on her wrist and ankles, and then she'd get her way, provocative and flirty, shots she'd use for her career down the line. And that – that had turned into something greater. Love, she guessed. Maybe. Probably. They'd kissed passionately more than once, and sometimes the way he'd gazed at her during their sessions, with a soft smile, or telling her the angle of her tattoo was just perfect with the lighting, made her heart flutter and the tiniest of goosebumps rise on her arms like little pinpoints of affection –
– but not this time. This time, Jefferson was furious, his comments few and far between and harshly whispered, and Rachel returned the favor by keeping her gaze stony with only the slightest crease of her brow. There was no bargaining with him now, to be nice to her and give her at least a little smirk that severed the sudden emotional distance between them. No, not this time, because he was frustrated with her. He knew. He knew what really had brought her to the Dark Room that fateful day, and it wasn't in his interest at all.
Flash.
The brief shutter of the camera blinded Rachel briefly; she'd moved her gaze to the lens in her train of thought, and the sudden light caused her to flinch all over, as if she'd transcended the bridge between her head and the current situation she was in. Now, she wasn't special, she wasn't his favorite subject, she wasn't 'his Rachel', who would go far as a model, who would capture the audiences with her piercing glare…
She was just Rachel. Another name on a two-inch red binder, another drugged out face among the many, many more Jefferson had saved and printed and locked away. And, while she was afraid to admit it, that actually… hurt. A lot. And while she had Chloe to talk to about anything, and Frank to… well, not anymore, she realized how much she had invested in Jefferson, in a relationship that would never go anywhere, in a memory card of photos she would never see, in a future career that would probably never become real.
For an instant, she wished she had just gone to high school back in Long Beach, instead of chasing after artistic prestige in Oregon. There, she'd be even closer to her goal physically, she would have made it work, she wouldn't have needed Blackwell as the spring board…
"You're wondering why I haven't stopped taking photos of you?"
Another flash, to her left. Jefferson's voice, still sounding like it was underwater; Jefferson's hand, pushing her body from seated to lying in fetal position. She didn't answer his question, only stared straight ahead at the blurry barrier between the white sheet she lay on and the off-white tiles of the floor.
"…Mm. I see. Of few words today? That's atypical of a woman as boisterous as you. To think, only a week ago were you dancing around this very spot, hair glowing and stomach bare… Not that it would have gotten you anywhere anyhow."
Her muscles quivered at his taunting; every word felt like a dagger in her heart, as if he dismissed her beauty to nothing. "Sh-shut the h-h-hell up."
"No," he hissed, and suddenly, he was kneeling over her, his eyes narrowed to where she could barely make out his pupil, his camera on the floor adjacent. A tinge of red in his face showed not embarrassment, but fury, though the stark white light behind him kept his frame mostly in shadow. "No, you shut the hell up, Rachel. I gave you anything you wanted, but you were never placated enough. In the end, this was all for you and your stupid-ass plan to go to a city where you'd die within days of living on those streets. Not about my artistic vision in the slightest. This whole time you got special treatment, that I didn't even want to give you, when I could have treated you like Kelly, like Lynn, like Suzie, from the very beginning. I should have never even continued after our first session. But, ah well…" He stood up, taking a breath to compose himself. "It doesn't matter. I'm getting these final shots at what I need, and you'll be quiet, you understand?"
Rachel averted her eyes; she couldn't stand to look him in the face anymore. "You sick fucker. You never cared about… about me."
"And you never cared about me. Not that it matters to me. But now we're even."
Roughly, he bent down and grabbed her by the chin, twisting – now she was forced to look as that smirk crawled back up onto his bearded face, a smirk of contempt this time, not of pleasure. Rachel wished she could punch him. How much of a dumb blonde could she be, thinking that Jefferson actually had feelings for anyone and anything but his work, and that she could manipulate someone as smart and emotionally detached as him? In fact, he might have known what she was after since the beginning – just waited until to unleash that he was tired of putting up with her –
Despite all that, I'm not dying here today.
In retaliation, with one swing of her tied up arms, she whacked the camera across the room and into the table, in which the object hit it with a satisfying crunch. A true smile worked its way onto her face – she could guess the expense of every object in this room, and that camera cost at least six grand. He'd have to go fix it, as it was the only one he'd brought with him today. And that would certainly give her enough time to break out of here, grab what she could find of her shots, and tell everyone what she'd seen.
….But her gaze trailed to Jefferson, having let her go at the sound of the impact. He stood there unmoving, unemotional, his back to her with his gaze obviously trained on the camera. From his stony stance, she couldn't tell if he was angry with her. And she never got a chance to decipher if so – but she saw from behind, the slight uptick of his jaw. He was… smiling?
That was an expression that meant nothing but terror to Rachel.
"Nathan, son, would you keep an eye on Miss Amber for me? I have to do a quick fix on this commodity." And in one fell swoop he grabbed the camera, snagged a new pair of latex gloves from the trolley, and walked out the main curtain of the Dark Room like he was going on his lunch break.
But for Rachel, he was out of sight, out of mind – her focus changed to Nathan Prescott, sitting on the pure white couch, only a few feet away where the camera had cracked.
Nathan. Somewhere in her drug-addled mind her brain had ignored the fact that he was here. Though they were both eighteen years old, Nathan looked like a child in light of what had just happened; he sat with his knees hugged to his chest, the loose fabric of his jeans wrinkled, but over the red of his jacket sleeves she could only see he wide, terrified eyes staring daggers back and forth between her and the floor. She'd never seen – or perhaps, acknowledged the presence of – Nathan in the Dark Room before, not once in the month or so she'd been visiting. So why was he here? Was he one of Jefferson's victims as well? Or worse - was he in league with Jefferson? But he looked so scared, like the light had gone out of his eyes – so he couldn't be, not Nathan, who'd been at least amicable to her at Vortex club parties – though he did report her as a drug dealer, which wasn't entirely untrue…
Rachel's thinking stopped suddenly as she moaned; her head had begun to throb as the drugs took more effect. Maybe she had underestimated her tolerance to strong sedatives such as the ones Jefferson used, and while she had been fine for a while, it wouldn't be long before she succumbed to complete incoherence. Drowsiness began to take over as she saw Nathan rise from his seat, slowly – she could only hope that he would be more kind to her than his demeanor made him appear.
Her eyes.
Those hazel eyes that turned from stupored to wide as saucers when that catlike grin had twisted Jefferson's countenance. Those eyes that, every time he blinked, protruded their way into his thoughts like a haunting ghost. Her face was white, and her hair was a matted mess; her nose shriveled and her mouth ajar but – those eyes.
They sent his heart racing.
And it wasn't helping that Nathan had begun to feel that high again – or, as Dr. Jacoby liked to call it, 'mania' – for the past few days. He was restless, insomnia-ridden, his thoughts and conversations ran so fast sometimes he couldn't keep up with them. He'd done more homework in the past 4 days than he had done all month, and he could feel see hear taste smell everything – here in the Dark Room, antiseptic and particles of light overwhelmed his senses to the point where he wanted to scream.
But on some level, he felt… he felt good. He'd missed feeling this good. When he felt this good he could bring home the straight-As his father wanted, he could party with his friends as for days on end and not even feel exhausted – he could take on the world, mistakes were a thing of the past, he actually could blow up Blackwell if he wanted to, regardless of money. And yeah, sometimes he'd get frustrated in class and scream or punch a kid who bumped into him in the hallway or forget to eat at all but he had so much energy there was no time for trivial stuff like that.
But his heart still raced. Maybe it was few pills of of Diazepam and Risperidone that he'd forgotten to take and didn't want to take because this high was better than any high he'd ever gotten on speed. And he didn't want to think it had an end in sight.
He stood up, his legs feeling like jelly below him. He felt good but also weird, the sensation of his heart pounding into his chest making his whole body and brain feel fuzzy, like he was being tickled with a feather from all sides. But he couldn't focus on that now – Rachel Amber was lying in front of him, her expression having turned to borderline delirious. Rachel Amber, the wanna-be queen of Blackwell, who hung out with his friends and the punks and the fashionistas like water clinging to dye, who partied harder than any actual Vortex Club member, who he had to admit he had a small crush on but had never had an actual conversation with, at that, was posing for Jefferson? Sure, he'd half-heard their conversation – this wasn't a new thing – but it had been a while since Nathan had visited the Dark Room. Of all the people at Blackwell, she was the last one he expected to see here high as a kite.
Still staring at her, he began to speak. "Rachel what the hell are you doing here why are you—" He cut off his own words with a swallow, becoming more aware of how quickly he was speaking. It felt as if he had too many words on his tongue and if he didn't get them all off now, his tongue would burn into a crisp. Speaking slowly felt laden and difficult, but he tried anyhow. "Rachel Amber. I don't get it."
"I could s-say the same of you, Nathan Prescott." Despite her current state, Rachel's words were still fiery hot with derision. She looked at him as he looked at her, but her gaze wandered, as if the drugs in her system made it impossible to focus. "What brings the king of the social scene to… to a place like this?"
"None of your damn business." From his angle in front of her, he could see every curve her body had and his breath caught deep in his chest – she was so beautiful. Maybe this is why Jefferson takes his pictures, he thought, not just for the sake of 'purity'. So he can capture a moment of incredible blinding beauty for him to have forever, without anyone to destroy it…
Though that could be the high talking.
But Nathan's gaze turned to the trolley full of sedatives and needles to Rachel's right, and his hand went his phone in his pocket, the disposable one with the 2008-esque picture quality. Even so, he was sure his shots would come out perfect, almost to the caliber of Jefferson's… then he'd have two people proud of him.
He began to cross the room to the trolley at what felt like the speed of light when Rachel spoke again. "Wh-whatever you're thinking of doing… Pre-Prescott… don't you f-f-fucking dare."
The voice went in one ear and out the other like a jet plane. He reached the trolley and he wasn't sure when it happened – he hands fumbled messily over the syringe and container of sedative like they were slippery soap. My hands won't stop shaking isn't this how Jefferson does it? fills up the syringe halfway or is it the whole way MY HANDS WON'T STAY STILL but I can't fuck this up or else Jefferson won't think I'm—
"Nathan… p-put the syringe down… p-please."
Everything was so bright; his head was throbbing; Nathan turned on Rachel in a sudden blind rage that seemed to bubble up within him from nowhere –
"Shut UP, Rachel!"
For once I feel like I'm in total control my hands are shaking
He'd filled the syringe. He didn't know when that had happened, but it happened, so fast, it happened. But he left it there – the urge to take some shots first was overwhelming, he had his phone out and in camera mode faster than he could blink.
"Don't be scared, Rachel. I'm not gonna… you're gonna be fine I just wanna try…"
Flash.
He stared at the image for a second before it vanished – like he thought, it was perfect, better than perfect, if only Jefferson would get back from messing with his stupid camera…
"Nathan… you okay?" She was probably genuinely concerned, but Nathan was barely listening to her.
"I said SHUT UP!" He seethed, looking over the camera with the gaze of an untamed lion. "And QUIT MOVING YOUR HEAD I can see you what you don't think I can see you?"
Those eyes keep staring at me I wish she'd stop
He was pressing the digital shutter button rapidly now; with every flash his heart rate seemed to get faster and words seemed to tumble out of him like a faucet that was running unbridled; strange sounds tickled at the back of his mind – had Jefferson returned? – then he'd see!
THOSE EYES KEEP STARING AT ME I WISH She keeps moving why does she keep moving what does Jefferson do when his subjects move oh I know
He grabbed the syringe, letting the camera fall from his hands. If he didn't screw this up, when Jefferson came back (if he wasn't the door already, Nathan thought) he'd show him he could be more than a protégé. Somehow he was on the floor by her and had the needle right at her jugular vein – if he could calm down and be careful, he'd be able to give her just enough so she'd stop squirming –
"NATHAN!"
Jefferson yelled, and he panicked.
Pressed a little too hard, harder than he'd intended on the instrument; the liquid surged rapidly into her neck, so much so that some of it spilled off the sides, trickling down to her dark shirt. He couldn't breathe – couldn't think couldn't stop thinking couldn't breathe and those eyes still stared at him, boring holes into his chest where his heart jumped around like a wild dog—
"I don't know what I why I was just trying to take pictures like you did and you yelled you came back I'm scared Mr. Jefferson I feel like I'm going to die –"
He cut himself off with an animalistic noise of fear; Jefferson didn't look at him, merely shoved him away roughly as he knelt by Rachel, blocking Nathan's view of what was even happening. He didn't know what was happening. Everything was too fast and too loud and his ears were ringing and his entire body felt like an earthquake, he was trembling so hard; his breath kept catching and stopping, hyperventilating –
No no no no shit no this isn't real this isn't happening
Jefferson looked far away; Rachel looked far away; he felt so small; he thought he heard someone vomiting –
Did I hurt her I didn't want I was just trying to show Jefferson that I could I'm so fucking scared
He closed his eyes, digging his fingernails into his scalp as if that would make the true terror that surrounded him go away; suddenly, he felt a sharp pain in his neck, then a rush of drowsiness, a numbness in the edges of his fingers; Jefferson's soft voice.
"It's okay, Nathan. You're alright. Everything is going to be just fine."
A camera flash, far away. He slept then.
Flash.
The back of someone's head was on his stomach. He felt lucid, dizzy, nauseated; but he could hear crickets. He was dreaming, perhaps.
Flash.
He didn't open his eyes, but he could feel the light briefly against his skin – was it dawn? Or was it—
Flash.
Someone moved his arm; his eyelids fluttered. The position was awkward, but it didn't hurt. The stars were out.
Flash.
Another pain in his neck, and Nathan succumbed.
It was 4 am and not even the soft sounds of whales from his speaker did nothing to stop the voices head-butting their way into his brain, breaking through the conflicting haze of sedation and anxiety. At first, they were jumbled sounds, noise – but five words kept repeating themselves, over and over.
Rachel in the dark room Rachel in the dark room Rachel in the dark room
Pencil against paper. His dorm room, nearly dark as pitch save for the light of the moon. His memory, reduced to nothing save for a few flashes of light and the mingling smell of antiseptic and dirt and rust. Maybe writing it down would help to shut them up, the voices that taunted him for something he had seen, something he had done –
Rachel in the dark room Rachel in the dark room Rachel in the dark room
The room began to spin. His thoughts were a blurry mess of a messy blur. Drawing circles, dark and light and those eyes kept staring at him. They would never stop staring at him.
Rachel in the dark room Rachel in the dark room Rachel in the dark room Rachel in the dark room Rachel in the dark room Rachel in the dark room Rachel in the dark room Rachel in the –
He took a breath, and crashed asleep against his desk, his mind dreamless but his frail body still shaking.
Favorites, reviews, and hugs for Nathan are appreciated!