I don't own the rights to Bad Seed. This is an alternate ending to the movie. If you haven't seen it before you might want to avoid this fic until you see it because of spoilers. All OFC's are products of my own imagination. Any resemblance to people living or deceased is purely coincidental.

Chapter 1

Jonathan Casey made his way down the tiled hallway of the hospital. He avoided eye contact with a woman in a hospital gown and bathrobe. She was twisting a strand of greasy bleached blond hair around her finger, muttering to herself. He saw the panicked look on her face, and the way she moved closer to the wall, terrified he would touch her. Lucy, a robust woman in her late forties, dressed in white scrubs, came out from behind the desk. She gave Jonathan a reassuring look before stepping between him and the woman.

"You're okay Kathy. Everything is just fine. Why don't we go to the TV room? You like the TV room."

He waited until Lucy guided the woman down the hall and out of sight. He stalled because he didn't want to hurry to his final session with Dr. Fisher. He thought about Kathy. She heard voices and talked to them more than she talked to living breathing human beings. Although Jonathan was out of his mind when he came here he wasn't like Kathy. The only voices he heard were haunting memories of people no longer with him. And then there was his own voice, telling him how he screwed up Art's and Emily's life. His guilty voice was the loudest. Jonathan had stayed in his room during those early days. The nurses had a hard time forcing him out of bed. He didn't want to talk to anyone. He couldn't open up to any of the other patients because in his mind they had real problems, all he had were ones he created for himself. He used sleep as an escape, hoping one day they would let him out so he could finally end it all. Months of therapy had changed that. He didn't have too much hope for happiness in the future, but he had grown to accept his fate. What changed for him was the fact that he realized he deserved to suffer and killing himself was a cop-out.

With the hallway now empty he had no excuse to keep the doctor waiting. Slowly he dragged himself down the corridor. At the opposite end of the hallway, away from the patient's rooms was a counseling room. The walls were painted the same antique white as the rest of the hospital. The entire place was a sea of dull white. Even the chairs lacked color. The windows were curtain less, covered only by blinds, beige and boring. The paintings, nailed firmly to the wall, were faded watercolor prints, easily forgotten and not worth a second glance. The door to the counseling room was the color steel grey and housed a single wired window. Jonathan knew it was fire safety glass popular in old facilities as this one. The door was a key card entry with a buzzer inside. Jonathan used the knuckle of his middle finger to tap three times on the glass. A buzz and lock release was his only answer.

Dr. Fisher was occupying a hard plastic chair, sitting behind a table. The only other piece of furniture in the room was another plastic chair. The man continued to stare at a folder while gesturing with an open hand for Jonathan to sit down. Jonathan barely settled into the chair when his doctor began speaking.

"Son, you tried to kill yourself. I want to make sure you are prepared for this."

He remained silent for a long time thinking about his life and what happened before landing in the mental hospital. He didn't need the trigger that Dr. Fisher threw at him. Emily. Emily was gone because of Art. And Art, well Art was gone too… because of Emily.

Jonathan finally looked up. He had studied the doctor over the last six months. He knew every line on his face, every dark spot on his thick fingers. He had grown accustom to his tweed suits, nauseating cologne, and the way the man sounded like he was snoring while he looked down at his charting. "I would be lying if I said I was one hundred percent ready Dr. Fischer." Jonathan picked at a nick in the pressed wood table top. He had done that very thing every day for the last one hundred and eighty four days.

Dr. Fisher nodded; his cue for Jonathan to continue talking.

At first Jonathan thought these conversations should be two sided so he would barely talk. He waited for the doctor to tell him how to feel, and how he should deal with everything that happened. He didn't understand that therapy was a way for him to figure it out on his own. The session always ended with Dr. Fisher giving him tips, pointers, and sometimes exercises to do to work through the pain and loss.

Still feeling awkward Jonathan ran through his plans. "All the arrangements are made. I'm staying at the group home for now…until the house sells."

"You are still going to sell it?"

Jonathan looked at Dr. Fisher wondering if he heard judgment in his voice. "You don't think I should sell the house?"

The man looked up at him, stopped writing and made eye contact. He steepled his fingers, pen still in hand. "How do you feel about selling the house?"

"Dr. Fisher, for one second could you stop being my doctor? Just give me some friendly advice. I don't have anyone. No family, no friends that I can ask if I'm doing the right thing."

Dr. Fisher looked back at his chart talking to it more than his patient. "Jonathan, the patient doctor relationship…"

"No… no you're right, forget I asked. I think I'm ready to go now." Jonathan stood up; he extended his hand to the man, thanking him for his help.

.

.

The process of discharge was long. Jonathan spent that time looking out the window in his room, wondering what it would feel like to once again be on the outside. By late afternoon two orderlies escorted him to the lobby. They had the decency to call a cab for him at least. Jonathan climbed into the backseat, taking one last look at the brick building he called home. He only seen the exterior once before, the day they brought him here. He counted the windows on the second floor, finding the one he spent countless hours staring out of. Somehow he didn't feel sad for leaving, quite the opposite. He felt like he was escaping from prison. He worried that if he didn't leave now they would come out and drag him back inside.

"Where to?" The cab driver barked as if he was annoyed.

Jonathan realized the man had asked him a couple of times prior to this one. He gave his address out of habit. That wasn't right, he was supposed to go to the group home, but as the driver headed in the direction of his house Jonathan decided he would finally go home.

He forgot about the lock on the front door for the Realtor. Luckily for him it was easy enough to climb through a window. The house didn't look the same. Everything he had owned was packed up in boxes, stored in the crawl space. Jonathan pulled the ladder down climbing up into the attic. He hoped maybe he could find a change of clothing for himself and some personal items he needed. Most importantly he wanted to find his journal. He froze, unable to pull himself up into the small space because he was confronted with a box directly in front of him. Written across the side in black marker were the words, "Art's room" Images of finding Art dead flashed in Jonathan's mind. Then the memory of Emily came. He wasn't the one to find her yet he could see it clearly. His overactive imagination wouldn't quit creating the scene of her hurt, and lying on the floor dying. Jonathan barely touched the rungs as he climbed back down. He pushed the ladder back up and slammed the hatch closed. With shaking hands he grabbed his car keys, fleeing the house.

After a couple of tries his car roared to life. Jonathan had twenty five dollars in his wallet and five grand in the bank. He assumed his credit card was still good. There was no way he could stay at the house. He realized that now. He also didn't want to go to the group home. That seemed like a good idea when he was locked up. But now…now that he had a taste of freedom he wanted to spread his wings and see if he could make it on his own. He didn't know where he was going; he just knew that he wasn't going to spend a lot of time staring at the four walls again. There was always a motel and if he couldn't get a room he would sleep in the car tonight. Thoughts of Emily and Art swirled in his mind, painfully dancing across his memory. He had to say goodbye sooner than later or risk ending up the way he was back when they locked him up. The trouble with saying goodbye was each time he tried the memories refused to leave him alone.