Allison didn't remember much during her time in her "untreated state". It'd been more of a blur of screaming people. She remembered the squelch of blood beneath her feet and in her hands as her teeth clamped down on her victims' skin and tore it away from the hard, white bone. She vaguely recalled guns being waved in her face; the fingers attached to them were too shaky and stunned to even pull the trigger. She'd reveled in their hesitation and had relished the warmth of their flesh as it'd settled in her stomach.
Allison assumed that they'd been warm when they'd died; it was hard to tell now that her five senses had become obsolete.
She was beginning to feel genuine emotions again, but most of them had been overridden with a crushing guilt.
The treatment centre that she'd been assigned to was called Eichen House, a miserable little place where the doctors treated you like violent porcelain, at best. Dr. Brunski didn't hesitate to use force when patients became too rowdy, believing that the neurotriptyline dosage had been too small or ineffective. She'd befriended one particular patient that had gone out of his way to infuriate Brunski, just to test his patience. The boy had used to crack morbid jokes during group therapy, laughing about how 'a little bit of government funding turned monsters into mental cases'.
Allison hadn't seen Stiles Stilinski for four months now. His father had come to collect him one afternoon once Stiles had been deemed 'cured enough' to reintegrate back into society. Stiles's father was the Sheriff of the county that Eichen House resided in called Beacon Hills. Allison had watched the family reunion from her room's window high above, and her heart had squeezed in longing when the Sheriff hugged his son like he never wanted to let go. She turned away once he'd led Stiles away from the courtyard and to his cruiser parked outside of the gates.
Stiles had been her only friend while in Eichen House. He'd been the only one to distract her from the constant evaluations, injections, and repetitious group therapy with his wild stories and outrageous plans for the future.
"When we both get out of here we'll show the world who's boss," Stiles had said before kissing her on the cheek.
"I don't think I'm ready," Allison confessed. Dr. Deaton had just finished the last check-up that she'd ever get from him and was pulling small, marked boxes out of the cupboard above the sterile sink.
Dr. Deaton glanced over at her and gave her a warm, reassuring smile. He was the only doctor in Eichen House that had legitimately cared about rehabilitating the PDS sufferers from their "untreated state" and helping them return to the outside world.
"But you've made tremendous progress within the past six months," he reminded her. He held up two boxes, shaking them a little. "Blue or brown?"
"Umm, brown," Allison replied. Dr. Deaton handed her a box of contact lenses and another box containing make-up to cover up her ghoulishly pale skin. He'd told her earlier that she'd need to apply the make-up every day and take it off at night, same with the contacts. If Allison had been going home with someone other than her parents, she wouldn't have bothered applying the stuff onto herself. She knew why it had to be done; there were a lot of people out there who remembered the Rising and what her kind had done to this country.
It didn't mean that she had to like it.
Dr. Deaton had on the stool across from her. "Why do you think you're not ready?"
"I'm mentally, physically and medically prepared," Allison amended. She looked down at her hands, still deathly white without the make-up. "I've been on my best behavior to make up for—for what I did in my untreated state. I showed this by helping keep my fellow sufferers in line and maintaining the peace. It's just…" She felt tears forming in her eyes. At the doctor's reassuring smile, she continued. "I'm not emotionally prepared to face my parents, that's all."
Contact from outside had been extremely limited, but rumors had seeped in through the walls regardless. Stiles had consumed every scrap of information that he could sink his teeth into and had relayed all of it to Allison. She was aware of the Human Volunteer Force, or HVF for short. Her estranged grandfather, Gerard Argent, had organized one in her former hometown of Fossil, Oregon, ruthlessly slaughtering anyone with decaying flesh and sluggish movements. From what she'd heard the members of the HVF were steadfastly opposed to the very notion of the reintegration of PDS sufferers. She wasn't sure if Chris and Victoria had been part of their crusade, but she wasn't feeling confident that they'd be welcoming of her return.
"They'd readily agreed to take you in and help you with your reintegration back into civil society," Dr. Deaton said. "They've informed us that they'd relocated to Beacon Hills where nobody is aware of your existence. If you keep up the façade and apply your make-up daily then it should be easier to rejoin the world.
"That level of dedication shouldn't be thoughtlessly shoved aside," Dr. Deaton added. "A lot of care had been prepared on their part."
"But are they going to see past the monster that killed hundreds of people?" Allison asked angrily. "Did they say that they were active in the HVF before finding out that I was here—?"
Dr. Deaton shook his head, looking worried about how she knew about such things. It wasn't healthy for the patients to hear about the negative reactions regarding their existence. "It wasn't my place to ask," he said carefully. Allison sighed, feeling annoyed about the vagueness of his words. She needed to know if she was going to be welcomed back or seen as a nuisance that they had to hide in their home.
"Wait," she said, realizing something. "You said that they moved to Beacon Hills?"
"It's the closest town to us," Dr. Deaton said. "And yes they have. I'm fully aware of the relationship that you and Mr. Stilinski have started here." As Allison hopped off the examination table the doctor turned to her one last time. "Think of it this way; you can start over in Beacon Hills, both you and your parents. You already have a fellow sufferer to relate to, so go from there and see what happens." He flashed her another warm smile before calling in the next patient. Allison nodded, clutching her boxes of supplies as she left his office for the last time.
Her parents would be arriving that afternoon. Allison's nerves were bundled up deep inside of her, twisting in her stomach. Chris and Victoria had sent her the clothes she was now wearing, the tags still attached to them. Allison realized with a sinking feeling that they'd given away all of her old clothing to charity after she'd died. They were the masters of compartmentalizing their emotions, even while she'd been alive.
Why keep clothes for a corpse rotting in the ground? Allison sighed; why did her parents have to be so clinically practical?
She applied the flesh-toned make-up a little too thickly and had to try many times to get the contacts into her eyes. Allison had to look perfect and in total control; a first impression would be vital to garner her mother and father's approval. Once she was in Beacon Hills she would find Stiles and together they could figure out what to do next with their eternal lives.
Stiles had jokingly suggested getting married; did the same rules regarding matrimony apply to PDS sufferers? It didn't matter one way or the other; she and Stiles would elope, wearing flower crowns and all. Allison had discovered the ability to knit and sew alongside him during 'relaxation time' at Eichen House.
After a long minute of readjusting her clothes Allison took a step back and examined herself in the mirror. Her make-up looked unnatural and gave her complexion a weird, orange glow. She knew it was cheap; they had to supply hundreds of PDS sufferers with it, after all. She ran her fingers through her hair one last time and deemed her appearance satisfying enough.
Dr. Brunski was standing outside in the hallway. He shoved a plastic garbage bag into Allison's hands. It contained all of the worldly possessions that she'd garnered during her stay there, including her and Stiles's knitting projects.
"Move it," Brunski said brusquely, pushing Allison down the hallway. Allison would've retaliated with a bad joke if she hadn't felt so unsettled. Chris and Victoria were going to be at the bottom of the stairs, waiting to take her to her new home.
"Don't be a burden to that family of yours," Brunski jeered. "Good, living folks like them don't deserve the chore that you're going to be."
"Same to you," Allison said. "The PDS sufferers don't need to spend the rest of eternity staring at your stupid face." She smirked a little at Brunski's angry spluttering.
"Fucking rotter," he muttered as he shoved her through a door and closed it shut.
Allison looked around, taking in her new environment. It was the hallway that led to the front doors of Eichen House. She stood there, clutching her boxes and bag, wondering when her parents would show up.
She didn't have to wait long. Allison heard the clacking of her mother's heels before she saw her.
Victoria Argent looked the same as ever: her hair was cropped short and she wore a grey pantsuit that was crisp and clean. Her posture was stiff, regal even. She stopped in her tracks and stood ten feet away from her daughter. Her face betrayed little emotion as she looked Allison over, taking in the overdone make-up and the lumpy white sweater that she'd sent her.
"So you're back," she said stiffly.
"Where's Dad?" Allison asked. It was the first words that she'd said to her mother in over four years.
"In the car," Victoria said. "Come now, we have to head back while it's still dark out." She turned on her heel and began to walk down the hallway. The click-clack of her heels echoed off of the walls.
Allison was expecting this cold response to her return but it didn't stop the tears from welling up in her eyes. She dabbed them away, conscious of the contacts hiding her condition beneath them. She ran to catch up to Victoria, leaving a wealth of space between them. She hoped that her mother would narrow the gap and walk next to her.
She never did.