She is allowed food and water and two minutes in the restroom before someone comes to check on her. It used to be five, but she broke the mirror and there are bandages on her arms now so she is only allowed two. Someone comes to check on her every hour. It used to be every three hours but she unscrewed the bed frame that had been bolted into the floor and put a crack in the observation glass so now it is every hour.
They have not repaired the crack in the observation glass and if she were not chained to the far end of the room she would run her finger along it to see if it bleeds. It's been a long time since she broke the mirror, so she isn't sure if she still can. She tried biting herself once but they came in and made her stop. She also tried scratching herself, but they clipped her nails too short to be effective.
(Every now and then during lucid moments she tries to make herself remember. She is real, this room is real, the people who come and watch her are real, this is really and truly happening. She is under the power of zopiclone and that makes everything seem distant and dreamlike but hurting herself is real and she can't wake herself up from this nightmare because she is awake. But then they come in again and smile and force her to take the stupid pills and she forgets.)
"Jemma," he says. She blinks herself awake. The pills make her sleepy. He smiles at her and runs a hand through her hair, smoothes wrinkles out of the front of her dress. "Jemma, I need your help. Can you help me?"
She blinks again, puzzles over this. Can she help him? She wants to. She likes to be helpful. She likes to help people and do useful things. She used to do that often, she thinks. She used to be helpful. She used to have a job and rules and things to do. She nods at him and tries to sit up straighter. She tries to think why she feels so awkward in her own skin.
"I need you to tell me where the others are, Jemma," he says.
She frowns. She doesn't know about any others. Sometimes, in her lucid moments, names occur to her. Names attached to faces attached to stories attached to something much, much bigger. A feeling inside her, something warm and fluttery and sweet. There's a word for that feeling, she knows. It's always on the tip of her tongue but she doesn't ever remember because it's so far away. She's so far away from them. That's what she tells him. He frowns at her in return.
"I know they're far away, Jemma, but I don't know where," he says. He tries to smile at her again but it doesn't meet his eyes. "Do you know where they are?"
She shakes her head. "I'm sorry. My head feels fuzzy. Maybe… if you stopped the pills…" She pauses. She reaches her hand out to him. "Ward, I want to help. Please."
He sighs and ignores her hand, instead weaving his fingers into her hair. He presses a kiss to her forehead, gently. "I know you do, Jem. But when you come off the drugs, you do crazy things." He moves one of his hands, and his fingertips brush over the bandage on her arm. "I don't like it when you do crazy things, Jemma. I want to keep you. Understand?"
"I understand," she says, voice little more than a hoarse whisper. Her hand drops back into her lap and her eyes fall away from his, stinging with tears. He makes another sound, somewhere between exasperation and despondency, and rakes his nails along her scalp before he untangles his fingers and steps back from her. He's almost at the door when she finally looks up again. "Ward?"
He turns back. "Yes, Jemma?"
"I'm sorry," she says. Her hand, the hand she reached out to him, smoothes over the fabric of her dress and the bump underneath. He nods, and the door slams shut behind him.