A/N: I just can't stop writing lately. I look forward to hearing what you think about this new story.
unspeakable
"Got an interesting case for you, Dr. Simmons."
"I told you, Dr. Coulson, I wasn't interested in taking on any more cases." Jemma Simmons was grateful for her job. She really was. It was an honor to be a psychiatrist at Shield Memorial Hospital – one of the highest-ranked specialty hospitals in the country – but her caseload was heavy with four inpatients and the two outpatient support groups she led. And somehow, Dr. Coulson's "interesting cases" always turned out to be more complicated than solving a jigsaw puzzle while blindfolded and handcuffed and forced to do said puzzle with one's toes.
"You're going to want to take this one." Dr. Coulson – Phil, as he'd told her to call him many times – nodded and gave her that smile that made Jemma wanted to scream in frustration.
Somehow he always smiled when he knew he was right, and something about that irked Jemma.
She sighed and closed the patient file she was reviewing. "Something tells me this is urgent."
"They always are around here. She's being admitted now. We'll be putting her in the Blue Room."
The inpatient psychiatric floor at Shield Memorial was a 12-bed ward and specialized in treating the most severe mental patients in the region. Smaller than most traditional psychiatric wards, it allowed the staff to form closer relationships and create better treatment plans with their patients. Each patient had their own room, and the staff identified the rooms by their colors.
Jemma shrugged back into her white coat and took off her reading glasses. "It's a nice room."
"It's got a big closet," Dr. Coulson agreed.
Jemma frowned at him. "What does that mean?"
"You're not claustrophobic, are you?"
Room too big. Room too big.
Lights too bright. Lights too bright.
Dad. Where is Dad? Where is Dad? He had to fix. He had to fix. Couldn't type without Dad.
Room too big. Too noisy. Heartbeat big in ears.
Man in the kitchen. Man is not Dad. Man gun. Gun bang shoot too loud. Too noisy.
The room is too big.
Skye brought her hands up to her eyes and pressed her palms against her eye sockets. She wanted her headphones. She wanted her sunglasses. She wanted to be back in the closet.
Except she wasn't safe in the closet anymore. Not since the man with the gun had burst into the kitchen and Dad had done something to him.
Room too big. Too noisy. Too many people.
"Skye?"
It was a person. A person was saying her name.
Can't type. Can't type. Can't type.
Too big. Too big! TOO BIG!
Skye pushed her hands in further against her eyes and began to rock back and forth.
"Skye, we want to take you upstairs to the room where you'll be staying. You can stay right here on this bed. I wanted to let you know…."
Too many words. Don't understand.
Can't type.
Back. Forth. Back. Forth.
Too many words. Too loud.
"… and then…"
The words swam over Skye like a swarm of bees. They stung her ears, they buzzed around her hands and her eyes and she just wanted them gone.
Her arms weren't her own anymore. Or her feet. She was a windmill. She was a tornado. She wanted everyone out of her way, she didn't want them to touch her anymore. She wanted, she wanted.
Skye flopped to the floor and pulled her body under the bed she'd been sitting on. She pulled her knees up to her chest, pressed her hands in against her eyes, and started to rock again.
No more. Too many words.
Too loud. Too big.
"Jesus. Girl's a time bomb."
"Mack. Really?"
"Did you see what she just did to Audrey?"
"They pulled her out of a murder scene, Mack, and she's got words carved all over her body. I'm surprised it took her this long to get upset."
"We got permission to give her a sedative?"
No. No drugs. No more. Too many words.
Dad. Need Dad. Dad in kitchen. Computer in kitchen.
Too big.
Don't want to go back. Don't want to go back.
Don't make me go back. Don't make me go back.
Jemma followed Phil down to the emergency room. She was surprised when he led her to one of the exam rooms in the back hallway, usually reserved for minor cases. A patient ill enough to need the psychiatric ward at Shield Memorial was not a minor case.
"Are you going to explain any of this to me?" Jemma asked.
"I don't have a lot of explanations to give you," Dr. Coulson said. "I only know the details, and they're spotty. Twenty-one-year-old female with autism pulled from a closet at a double murder scene. Her name is Skye."
"How do we know that?"
"She's wearing a medic alert bracelet with a QR code on it," Dr. Coulson answered. "One of the orderlies scanned it and got those details."
"Was she harmed in the… incident?"
"No," Dr. Coulson said. "She was completely unharmed. They found her in a closet wearing headphones and sunglasses. When they touched her she screamed. To be honest I'm not sure…"
The door to the exam room banged open and a nurse Jemma recognized as Dr. Coulson's girlfriend, Audrey, stumbled out, holding a gauze pad to her forehead.
"Audrey?" Dr. Coulson strode forward, his tone worried. "What happened?"
"She just went crazy!" the nurse managed to get out. "I was telling her about what was going to happen next and she came off the bed like a tiger, kicking and scratching!"
She let out a huffy sigh. Dr. Coulson carefully removed the gauze pad to look at the wounds.
"When you spoke to her, what did you say?" Jemma asked.
"I told her that we were going to take her upstairs but she could stay on the bed and…"
Jemma cut her off. "Did you use that many words?"
Audrey looked at her, disgusted. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"She has autism," Jemma said, "and today has undoubtedly been the most traumatic of her life. It was probably very difficult for her to pick out the message."
"Well, then how would you have done it?"
Jemma shrugged. "I would have let her lead."
Dr. Coulson studied Jemma. "Who's in there with her?" he asked Audrey.
"Mack and Trip," Audrey answered. "Mack wants to sedate her, so if you're going to go in there and 'let her lead,' you'd better get in there."
Jemma nodded. To Dr. Coulson, she said, "Can you go down to facilities management and get me a set of ear protection muffs? And then borrow some sunglasses from someone – if you can't find any, I have some on my desk in my office."
"I'll give Sitwell a call," Dr. Coulson said. "He owes me one. Actually, most of facilities management owes me one."
"Thank you," Jemma said.
"Are we going to talk about what she just did to me?" Audrey demanded.
"It looks superficial," Dr. Coulson said. "I'll find you and give you some antibiotic cream and cuddles later."
Audrey rolled her eyes and stormed away.
"I apologize for that," Jemma said.
"It's fine," Dr. Coulson said. "This patient needs our help more than Audrey does. I'll be back as soon as possible."
Jemma carefully opened the door, trying to make as little noise as possible. She saw the empty gurney at the far end, medical supplies scattered across the floor, and two orderlies with their arms crossed against the opposite wall.
She moved towards them slowly. "Good afternoon," she said, keeping her voice low.
"About time someone got here," Mack snapped at her.
"Speak quietly, please," Jemma requested. "Walk quietly. Turn the lights off. Leave the room."
"What the hell kind of a plan is that?" Mack asked. "You can't just…"
"Speak quietly," Jemma repeated, lowering her voice even further. "Walk quietly. Turn the lights off. Leave."
Trip took Mack by the elbow. "Thank you," he said. He flicked off the lights, opened the door, and shoved Mack out in front of him.
The door closed quietly behind them.
Jemma looked over at the gurney. She couldn't see anyone under it, but she heard a soft sigh from beneath it.
"I'm Jemma," she said, taking a seat on the floor. "I'm a friend. I'm here."
And she waited.
When the lights shut off Skye brought her hands away from her eyes. She didn't stop rocking, but her heart rate slowed slightly. Then she heard a new voice. A quiet voice. Using simple, short sentences.
Dad. Computer, Dad.
Don't make me go back.
Going back. NO!
"Skye," her mother breathed into her ear. The singsong voice felt like nails being pounded into her spine and she grabbed her hair, pulling hard to block it out.
"Skye, don't listen to her. She doesn't want to help you."
The hair wasn't enough pain. Skye started smacking her head.
Don't want to go back.
"Skye, you should have come with me."
Smack head. Both hands. Make it stop.
"Skye…" Her mother's voice wrapped around her like a snake.
Too close. Too close. Please stop.
"You can't get away from me, Skye."
Dad! Dad! You promised!
A scream burst out of her mouth and she felt as though her chest was going to explode.
Skye threw herself to the floor and began beating her head against the floor.
Make it stop. Make it stop. MAKE IT STOP.
When the girl under the bed screamed and began hitting her head on the tile floor Jemma bolted forward. She forced herself to remain calm. Behavioral outbursts were part of autism, and such episodes could come on without warning.
"Skye," Jemma said gently. "You are safe. I am here."
The scream had devolved into guttural choking, though Skye's frantic head-hitting did not slow.
"You are safe," Jemma repeated. "I am here."
There was a soft knock at the door, and then the door was opened a few inches, just wide enough for Dr. Coulson to pass in a pair of ear protectors and some bright pink sunglasses.
"Thank you," Jemma murmured as she took them.
"Do you need help?" he asked softly.
"Not yet," she replied. "We're taking it slowly."
"Let us know," Dr. Coulson said. "Someone will be right outside this door. Not Mack."
Jemma nodded.
Dr. Coulson closed the door and Jemma turned back to the gurney. "Skye, I have headphones and sunglasses. They are on the floor next to you."
She knelt down and placed the two items next to Skye's left hand, then retreated to the other side of the room.
"You are safe," Jemma said once she'd resumed her seated position on the floor. "I am here."
Skye's hand scrabbled out from beneath the bed and grabbed the headphones and glasses. Jemma could hear her breathing – it was quick and raspy and the girl sounded terrified. In the mere seconds Jemma could see her hand, the doctor thought she saw something on the skin. She leaned forward, trying to get a closer look, but Skye's hand disappeared.
It had looked like a word.
But that was impossible.
Wasn't it?
Even the slow, gentle sentences were grating down Skye's spine. She heard the words "headphones" and "sunglasses" and they floated to her like a life preserver to a drowning woman. Her hand couldn't get out to them fast enough.
The headphones were the kind she liked, too, hard plastic with the foam inserts, the kind that could withstand the noise of a NASCAR race or a death metal concert. The sunglasses obviously belonged to a girly girl – they were pink and had sparkles on them.
Don't like the sparkles.
Don't want the sparkles.
Want the dark. Want the quiet.
Skye slipped the headphones over her ears and immediately felt the tension in her body decrease. Even with the sparkles, the sunglasses were still dark, and her world got small and quiet and dim. It was just the way she liked it.
And her mother's voice was gone.
Can win. Can win against you.
Skye pulled her knees back up to her chest and flattened her left hand against her sternum, flexing her fingers against the sturdy bone so that her knuckles tapped a rhythm.
Her right hand came up nearly automatically, pulling up her sleeve. The rhythmic tapping of her knuckles against her sternum didn't stop as her right pointer traced the word carved into the skin on her left elbow. It had been one of the first, long since scarred over, but she knew exactly what it said.
Liar.
And then, in the dark, in the quiet, in the tiny safe space that felt like a womb, she let herself cry.