-Scarrlett Fang Limit the First
PS Note, evertime there is ???? that is a ruler, and the POV switches, you can tell who's POV you are using by the descriptions.
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"Eh- Don't cr-" I struggled to find the right words to comfort her. Man, I had always been bad at this kind of stuff. Yet so good, others told me. I had no idea how me stuttering could be soothing.
I looked back at Scarrlett. "There's nothing wrong with having scars, and if it's the memories that you're worried about, well… Think about it this way, every scar has a memory, and when you think back on it, if it's a bad memory, the scar is a symbol that you made it through that bad memory, and you're here where you are today." Wow, either I just sounded really deep or looked really stupid.
I closed my eyes, for a moment, slumping down, sitting on the cold floor, with my back against the bars. I heard Scarrlett's sobs shrivel down to whimpers, and then I heard shuffling. When I opened my eyes, she was sitting with her back to the bars on her side, to my right. Then, without warning, she began to talk… about things that are almost too horrible for words, things that a person cannot do to someone without leaving with a guilty conscience, things that she had to suffer being put through.
"You have no idea what they put me through, but soon you will. They inject me with foreign chemicals, just to see how I'll react. Can you call someone a human being after they find joy in doing that to me?" She explained to me, through hiccups and whimpers.
"It's cruel, this place. Is it some kind of test lab?" I asked, not questioning about the part where she told me that I would know soon what she's been through, even though I already guessed that.
"Cruel? That situation was one of the nicest. You want cruel? Try this, they burn me with acids to see how long it takes my skin to heal. Weeks. Weeks, I sit, crying out in pain, wishing for something to take the pain away, even death."
"What kind of evil person would be behind such abominations?" I asked, rhetorically.
"An- And," she seemed to be stumbling over her words, wiping flowing tears off of her cheeks, "the worst of them all, the cause of all of my nightmares, they'd make me crazy. They would, they-, they'd-," she paused to wipe away a new wave of tears, starting to sob again. "They'd do things like put me on a treadmill, and tell me t-that if I didn't run without stopping for two days, they would kill someone i-innoceeeeeeent," her last word leading off into a huge sob, and then she proceeded to pull her knees up to her chest, and lay her head on them, sobbing on her jeans, making them turn a dark navy color.
I spilled the bucket of poison. Or beans. Actually, I prefer the bucket of dead scientist brains. There I sat, crying in my lap, while Brennan watched me with an expression of worry and pity. I had spilled it all after I started sobbing for a second time, every instance where they had hurt me, I told him everything, in between sobs, whimpers, and some hiccups.
That night, or so my body told me, dragged on, while I spent hours and hours blabbering, and Brennan continued to comfort me, and at one point started rubbing my shoulder through the bars. Normally, if they had struck a stranger in the cell beside me, and he had tried to rub my shoulder, I would've beaten them through the bars, any stranger, but Brennan. Because he no longer felt like a stranger, at all, I felt like I had known him for years.
I'm not sure when I fell asleep, but at least I did, I hadn't thought that after sobbing I would find a way to close my eyes at all. And when I did fall into my sleep, I fell into something more. Yeah, you guessed it, a nightmare. One that I've had many, many times. But this one was different. How? I'm not quite sure.
This dream's very blurry, I thought. Of course, it was always blurry, but this time it started to clear up a bit. There lay a little girl, on the very top of a hill, ext to a tree. She seemed to be around the age of 5 or so. The sky was dark and cloudy, a dark grayish-brown color haunting the sky. My view then focused on the little girl, who looked terribly deformed. Scars ripped her face, stitches everywhere, parts of her face distorted. Then she spoke, and before she said anything, I already knew what her lips were speaking. You did this to me, she taunted. You did, how could you? How could you do this to me? And she repeated these lines over and over, until I felt myself slipping out of the horrid image and back to reality. Ok, ok, not reality, but something that was supposed to be reality, and failing horribly. I didn't open my eyes or move at all, I didn't even release my tight grip on the bar I was holding on to, not wanting to wake Brennan, snoozing next to me, in his cage, I could hear his steady breathing. I knew that I had cried while "dreaming" because my mouth tasted like I had just eaten a cube of salt, or two, or thirty.
I tried going back to sleep, but fears of nightmares kept me awake, and I thought about my most recent nightmare, that had just occurred.There was something different, something was not the way it usually was. But whatever this was, it eluded me while I racked my brain trying to figure it out, and at the same time trying to fall asleep. Finally, I started drifting off from exhaustion, when I realized what it was that was not like usual. In the dream, there were rays of light starting to come out of the clouds. Rays of light- hope……
I woke up with my neck at a super crooked angle, refusing to relax. At first, I didn't really try moving around, being too lazy to move. No, it was more like I had no reason to move. To think, to talk, to breath, to do anything. Finally, my body revolted to no movement, and I began to shift myself, suddenly realizing that I had been holding on to a bar. It felt warm, I must have been holding on to it for a long time. Then realization hit me. THAT'S NO BAR! I had been tightly gripping Scarrlett's hand all night long.
At the sudden shock, I had made a quick, small movement, causing Scarrlett to rest her head on her other shoulder, and suddenly she held on to my hand tighter, but she did not wake up, or at least not as far as I knew.
When she her grip on me tightened, I hesitated, for minutes I held on to her hand, wondering whether I should let go or not. But, as if on command, Scarrlett released my hand, the tips of her fingers still resting in my hand. Well, good enough, I thought, and sat there, letting my mind wander freely onto topics like waffles, and weekends, and found myself suddenly wishing to be holding someone special's hand. No, not Scarrlett.
