I got this idea from the Divergent trilogy, but I own most of it. This has no characters from Divergent, Insergent, and Alegiant, or places. The only thing directly from Diverent is the truth serum

I wake up on a cold surface. When I stir, I hear and feel the crinkle of paper underneath me. I unwillingly open my eyes and observe the room around me. I'm sitting on an examination table. The only thing in the room besides me and the table is an other table, but smaller, shorter, and a tray on it. I rub the sleep out of my eyes. When I look again, I see that the tray is filled with syringes and needles.

I scream, and throw my self back onto the examination table. I gasp short, ragged breaths, my heart counting the seconds for me. I never take my gaze off of the one syringe with a clear liquid in it. That is the only one that holds content. I claw at my face, my hospital gown, anything my overgrown fingernails can find.

I feel a hot stretch on my face. When I put my hand to it, I feel something wet, sticky, and warm. I look at my hand. There is red on my finger tips. Blood. I momentarily forget the syringes and am more concerned with the state of my face. I am not vain, I have even purposely made myself a train wreck. What does concern me is that I am bleeding. I have clawed at myself nearly every day back at our apartment, for twelve years and had never bled from it. So why was I bleeding now? The hospital had even applied a strengthening moistener to my skin every night.

I stare at my gross nails. They are nearly and inch overboard, but with no dirt caked in them. I don't think there is dirt around here for miles. They aren't pointy, because I don't bite my nails, and I haven't seen a nail file in the year since I've been here, not like I would purposely make them daggers. So what would make me bleed?

I sigh and let the matter go. I'm in the "hospital for mentally challenged children and young adults", which is pretty much a house for nut jobs. Like me. They found out last year when I killed my father. Red hot anger fills me when I think of him. He's the one who passed it down to me. He's the one that should be in the mental hospital, if not jail. Of course that's not possible, because he's dead, but be deserved that. He broke my younger sister's leg when she didn't do her chores and back-talked to him. That was when I was five, and he told the police it was me. They let me off then, but kept their eye on me. I couldn't sleep for the rest of my life. My father purposely hurt my sister. A year later, he hit me in the head with a candle stick. Again, for the rest of the week, until I finally swore on my life that I would not smuggle candy to my sister after she had been bullied. Then the injuries were for more serious stuff, like sneaking out after curfew, holding hands with boys, making myself cake when I was home alone, and stuff like that. The punishments to me only hurt me on the outside, not on the inside. But the punishments to my sister killed me. One day he was giving her a beating when I snapped after all those years. I yanked the wooden spoon from my father's hand and wacked his face with it. I shoved it towards his mouth, nocking out a few teeth. I stepped on his foot, punched his gut, tightened his tie until his face was purple and whispered, "You never touch her again, asshole." I yanked the tie and my father dropped dead.

I don't regret anything. He hurt her too many times. I know I killed someone, and the someone was my father, but he was committing child abuse. He was hurting his own children. And I couldn't bear to see my sister hurt. She moved in with our aunt, while the police put me in the mental hospital. I thought they were going to arrest me. When I asked the guy, he said, "I know what your father did. And you don't deserve to go to jail for defending your sister." Then he shut the door of the police car.

The door opens, interrupting me from my flash back, and a young man in a white lab coat walks up to me with a clipboard in hand. Once his is close, I see how startling blue his eyes are. Like the color of the sky on a summer day. His wavy blonde hair shakes when he walks towards me. The boy extends his hand.

"Hello, I'm Caylub Hartum. I assume you are Anita?" He speaks in a cute Australian accent. His eyes drift towards my forehead. "Your bleeding."

"I know."

"I will be asking you about your past and you will answer honestly. It's a little test the government wants from every patient." I know he's lying. Everyone here is here because of a deformed brain or something that has nothing to do with their life. I'm the only one here that they treat like a prisoner.

"I'm not going to answer any of your questions." I saw as strong as I can. I speak honestly. I don't want to talk to anyone about my life. The only person I trust is my sister, Cata, and I haven't seen her in a year. Why would I tell this random person everything I have keep secret?

"Sorry, but you're going to have to." He says, his eyes drifting towards the syringe. Oh no. I think. That's a truth serum.

"Ok, ok, I'll do your damn test so I don't get injected with a damn needle that's going to make me tell you every damn detail about me!" I yell. Caylub flinches when I shout at him. "But your little 'government approved test' will have to wait, ok pretty boy!"

Caylub looks genuinely shocked. I bet no one has ever yelled at him before. He looked so at ease a few seconds ago. He doesn't even know how evil life can be.

"I'm sorry, Anita. I'll leave." Such a fake. He gets up and walks to the door when I stop him.

"I'm not blind, as you should already have noticed, and I can see right through your lies. There is no way in the freaking world that I'd fall for that." That boy must be half transparent, because I can pretty much read his mind. He shrugs and walks back to the examination table.

Once seated, he notices the goosebumps on my arms. "You chilly?" He asks. I nod. He gets up and kneels in front of the bed. He gestures for me to pull my feet up on the table. He presses a panel, and a drawer popped out, filled with hospital gowns, white t-shirts, white baggy jeans, and white sweaters.

"Oh thank god!" I sigh, grabbing a sweater and pulling it on. I burry myself in the over sized, super thick sweater. I forget Caylub is even there, and fall asleep in it's warmth.

I have the weirdest dream. I was back in our old apartment, just how it was that day I killed him. The only thing that had changed was my father's body was not on the floor. Cata was frozen just how she was that day. When I look closer, I see something on my sister that I didn't see before. I see a tear swimming in her frozen eye. Why I am surprised, I don't know. Of course she was crying. She had just seen her sister kill her father. How ever un-fatherly that father was, she still cared about him. I am about to put my hand on her shoulder to comfort her when pain jolts me from sleep.

Caylub looks guiltily. He holds a syringe in his hand. I realize what he did.

"What the hell!" I shout. "You drugged that sweater, didn't you! You made me fall asleep so you could stick that needle in me!" Wow. His poker face is worse than his lies. I start to smile at his face.

"God, don't smile. Your making me feel bad." Caylub says. That just makes me smile more. He suddenly remembers why he came here in the first place. "Where is your father, Luke Johnson?" I try to resist the serum, but I open up against my will.

"In the grave yard."

"And why is that?"

"Because I strangled him." I say plainly.

Caylub looks genuinely mortified. "Oh kee doe kee. Next one." he searches his paper. "Where is your mother, Kristy Johnson?"

"In the grave yard next to my father."

"Why?"

"Father never told us how she died."

"Jesus, your poor sister was stuck in a house full of murderers," he mumbles, but not really trying to keep the words to himself. "Where is your sister, Cata Johnson?"

"Living with my aunt."

"No uncle?"

"She's single."

"Would you say you are emotionally stable?" New super annoying question.

"Definitely no." That's an obvious. We go on like this for an half an hour, before Caylub calls it a day, having collected all the questions he needs. He offers to walk me to the cafeteria.

"I don't need your help, pretty boy." I snap, and strut to the cafeteria for lunch. When I get there I wrinkle my nose. It's fish muck today. They call they meal "fish chowder" but it's so thick they should just call it "stinky slop that tastes like corn". I stand in line and wait for my turn to have the mush plopped onto my tray. Once I get it, I sit at a table by myself. I'm fine being alone. In fact people creep me out, because I'm so used to being alone in my cell. I zone out and finish my meal with out even looking at it. I put my tray away, and walk to the women's bath room. I stock up the shower I usually use, and hop in. The water's warm. I must be the first person in this one. I think. When I'm done I get a towel and observe myself in the mirror.

I look terrible. My scar pops out white against my skin, with a little blood still seeping through. My black hair is a rat's nest, from not seeing a brush in a month and from the towel. A couple of zits cover my forehead, but like I said, I'm not vain, so I don't care. I'm half Italian, and the boys at school would pick on me for "being from the pizza country but only weighing eighty pounds". I find it funny that Italy is known for olives and Italian people's completion is called olive. I start to wonder why they didn't hammer me for that but then realize they need a few extra brain cells to realize anything. I put my old clothes in the hamper and pick up some new ones from the cart. On my way back to the cell, I hear a conversation in the hall and press myself to the wall.

"Don't trust her. She killed the last person who pissed her off. For all we know, she could have killed half this hospital," am unfamiliar voice says.

"What makes you think that? That was a year ago and she was bound to snap at some point! You expect her to live her life being tormented and watching her sister be tormented? No! That would make anyone unstable!" The new voice is Caylub's. Why's he defending me?

"Exactly, you said it your self, only one year ago. She's mad, did you see that scar on her face?"

"Chuck, that scar was on her face. Just let me visit her again. At least once." Caylub pleads.

Chuck sighs. "Fine, just once though." Caylub mumbled something of thanks, and I heard foot steps grow quieter, until I couldn't hear them any more.

I take the other route to my cell.