I just got this idea in my head. I don't know if I should do more.
Words. They covered the girl's skin, running messily up her arms and disappearing into her sleeves. Her fingers were covered in the inky symbols, fingernails standing out blankly against the blue pen. They were bitten and bleeding, but the girl hardly noticed. She was intent on one thing – she held a pen carefully poised over her face, steady and sure.
Then, careful and focused, she began to write. Nobody knew how she could write without looking – maybe it was the meaningfulness of the word, repeated over and over again in inky words. Maybe it was her dedication to her work, determination to write. But she does, submerging every inch of bare skin. From her seat on a stool in the middle of her… cell, for lack of better word, she grinned slowly, straight at the camera in the corner of the ceiling, inky words on her cheeks dancing and stretching, unnaturally white teeth standing out in a blue-covered face.
Then, she carefully shut both eyes and began to draw carefully on both eyelids.
"She's going to get ink poisoning one day," the man surveying the screen behind the camera grunted to his co-worker, who sat studying another patient. The other man snorted and glanced over, knowing what he would see. The men who worked at Death Valley Mental Health Centre had been seeing the same sight for everyday since one month ago – the day this particular patient arrived. No one knew why she completed this daily routine – all they knew was if they took her blue pen away, she could send men to hospital to get it back. It had happened before. So they let her keep her pen – they even got her paper to write on. But she always used her skin. No matter what.
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"Why? Why are you doing this? I'm not mad! I don't want food! I want to get out!" The boy backed away from the howling patient warily. The man kept throwing himself around, wailing and crying. The boy got a glimpse of bloodshot eyes and yellow cracked nails and a frothing mouth before he leaped out the door, slammed it shut and hurriedly locked it. He could hear muffled thumps and bawling, and shuddered. He pushed his cart full of trays of food for patients along the hallway, arriving at the girl's cell. This was his first day working, and he had never been to see her.
But as he pushed the door open halfway, he caught sight of the girl sitting in the centre of the room, and backed away in horror.
"No, no, no…" he muttered. "Not her."
The girl looked up from her blue pen, catching sight of the dark boy standing in the doorway. And, eyes wide and innocent, said happily,
"Hi Fang."
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Fang tried a half-smile in return.
"Hey, Max." Max clapped, smiling in joy, eyes twinkling. She raised her open palm, covered in ink, to Fang.
"See, Fang." She said, smile dropping. "If you look real close, you can make out words." Almost unwillingly Fang squinted at the palm, ink blotted together to make a chunky word.
"Ari," Fang said in shock, his voice suddenly choked.
"Yes," Max said in a singsong voice. "Ari, Ari, Ari, Ari, Ari…" her sharp gaze found and held Fangs wide black eyes. "Do you know why it says Ari, Fang?" she asked, head cocked to the side. "Do you know why I'm in this mental hospital? Do you know why I write on my skin every single day? Do you?"
Her voice had risen to a wail and security guards rushed in, knowing she was throwing a fit and would attack Fang any second. But he stood still, staring at Max, face pale.
"Because," Max screeched, struggling as the guards dragged her away. "BECAUSE YOU WEREN'T THERE WHEN HE DIED! BECAUSE YOU WOULDN'T PICK UP THE DAMN PHONE! IT'S YOUR FAULT, FANG! YOUR FAULT!"
A guard managed to clamp his hand over her moth, muffling the accusing words. But Fang could still hear the words echoing in his mind long after Max was dragged away.
"IT'S YOUR FAULT, FANG!" Swallowing thickly, he turned and walked away, head down, and out of Death Valley Mental Hospital, muffled sobs escaping from his white lips, salty tears dripping down his nose.
It's pretty bad. Thanks!