The Prisoner.
Her eyes fluttered open, and all she saw was white.
The walls were white, the floors were white, the ceiling was white.
Her bed was white, the sheets were white, the clothes she wore were white.
Everything was white.
She swung her thin legs over the side of her bed, sleepily rubbing her pale blues. Another dreamless night had passed, but she wasn't complaining; she never desired to dream.
Yawning away the remnants of her grogginess she shuffled over to the shower. The hot water pelting her skin was always refreshing in the morning; she closed her eyes and pressed her forehead against the glass, listening to the water swirl into the drain in between her feet.
Minutes later she stepped back into the white room, wearing a plain white dress. She bent over to pull on her sandals before moving to the opposite wall to part the light grey curtains covering the wide window. The moonlight emitting from the strange, heart-shaped moon casted a silvery glow on her pale features, making her look almost ghostlike, imaginary. Non-existent.
There was a long table in the centre of the room; multiple pieces of white paper were strewn all over its wooden surface, covered with drawings of people, places and things she had seen in random images that would pop into her head at unexpected times during the day. Pushed off to the corner were boxes full of crayons - the only indication of colour in the entire room besides her light blue sandals.
She made her way towards the far end of the table, her hand running along the smooth surface of the white wood. Her eyes momentarily paused on the small white vase in the centre of the table, occupied with white flowers. She wondered if they were real - probably not, since she never had to replace them before.
She sat at her usual white chair, tucking herself in towards the table and reaching for a blank piece of paper. As she extended her arm to grab one of the crayon boxes her eyes wandered around the table, examining her previous pieces of art: each image was doused in colour, and there was hardly any white space. She pulled out a black crayon, short and stubby from overuse, and tapped the end of it against her chin, her eyes wandering towards the ceiling. What should she draw today?
"Ah," her voice was very soft, almost childlike. She pressed her crayon to the paper and her hand immediately began to work its wonders: shapeless lines and curves weaved together to create a heavily-detailed drawing of a clock tower looming over a town so large the houses looked like they were cramped together. The big white void behind the clock tower was bothering her, so she reached for her other crayons.
Half an hour later she leaned back to observe her progress: the town was not coloured in yet but behind the clock tower was a brilliant sunset layered in varying shades of red, pink, violet, orange and yellow. A small smile crept up on her delicate features, satisfied with what she had done so far, and reached up to mechanically flatten her hair. There was a rebellious strand of hair somewhere at the back that managed to curl outward somewhat, no matter how many times she would comb it, and she tugged on it in frustration. Giving up for now, she sighed and returned to her drawing.
Sometime later she leaned backwards in her chair, staring up towards the ceiling. Her arms were limp by her sides; her right hand was still holding onto a red crayon. She wished she knew what time of the day it was; even with a window in the room it was hard to tell because it was always nighttime. She missed the sun, though she only had very faint memories of how it felt like to be under it. She leaned forward once again, stooping over her drawing; more than half of the houses underneath the clock tower were coloured in now.
A soft click broke the deafening silence, and her flaxen head jerked towards the door. A tall figure shrouded in black emerged, followed by a couple others. They were all wearing the same black cloak and their faces were concealed behind similar black hoods.
"Naminé," The tallest one had a deep, almost monotonous voice; he pulled his hood off, revealing dark skin, long silvery hair and scorching sulphur hues. The way he bellowed her name made her want to crawl back into bed and cower under the covers, "You are looking well."
The faint memory of standing beside him on the shore popped into her head, and she twitched.
The shorter figures who followed him also removed their hoods; one had a cruel simper on her pixie-like face, and blonde hair. The other had a feathery coral mane; his features were not as devious as the woman's but that did not necessarily mean he looked kind either.
"It's time to start," The tall one said. She stared at her lap, biting her bottom lip, "Are you ready?"
Naminé only nodded once; the coral-haired man approached her slowly, running a gloved hand across her shoulders. He bent over to place his lips by her ear. "There's nothing to be afraid of, little girl," His velvety voice murmured; she could hear the smirk in his words, "So don't tremble. You're in good hands."
"Ugh," The woman's nose was up in the air, "You're so creepy, Marluxia. Let's just get on with it so we can get out of here. I've got better things to do than sit around and watch some kid finger paint, or whatever."
"It looks like she's gotten started without us," The coral-haired man, Marluxia, picked up her partially completed drawing and examined it closely, "Look." He flipped it over so that his companions could see.
The man with the strange eyes chuckled. "She's good." He turned towards the entrance. "I'll leave you to your own devices, then." He disappeared behind the door, closing it. There was a quiet click.
The woman's sneer deepened; she pressed an index finger underneath Naminé's chin, forcing her to look up. The woman's eyes were cold, hazel-green slits. "Looking at you always gets me so angry." She turned to face Marluxia, who was distractedly scouring the other drawings scattered around the white table, "Why do you think that's so?"
"Maybe because she's got a knack for drawing pretty pictures." He chuckled and raised his head to smirk at her. The woman rolled her eyes.
"Oh please," She grabbed the drawing of the clock tower and looked at it for a few seconds before tossing it back, "Like drawing stupid pictures will help me with anything." She turned to glare at the younger girl, who reverted back to staring down at her lap. "Useless."
"Now, now, Larxene," Marluxia tutted, he leaned back against the table with his arms crossed, "Play nice. Naminé's a great help to our organization."
"Whatever." The blonde woman spun on her heel and moved to sit down on a nearby chair. She rested her chin in her hand and twirled a lock of hair around her finger. "So, what now?"
"We help Naminé, of course." Marluxia approached the youngest of the three; Naminé's eyes slowly shifted towards her drawing. He bent over again, his face uncomfortably close to hers. "What was it that you were drawing earlier, little one?"
She fiddled with the hem of her dress, trying to avoid his eyes. "Erm," She hesitated, wracking her brains for a good enough answer, "I-I don't know. It...it sort of just came to me."
Larxene rolled her eyes, but Marluxia pressed onward. "Came to you? In what, a dream?" He caught a wisp of Naminé's platinum blonde hair in between his fingers, studying it closely. She swore she heard him mutter, "Hm, split ends."
"N-no, I don't...I don't have dreams. Sometimes during the day I get...images. Pictures. They come to me and I draw them." She absently reached for her stray lock of hair and pulled on it. "I...don't know where they come from."
"Interesting," Marluxia had let go of her hair and was now stroking his chin, "Perhaps Vexen and Zexion should be informed of this. They might find it useful in their research."
"What, the fact that some kid Superior picked off a random beach a couple of weeks ago has random hallucinations? Yeah, that sounds useful!" Larxene threw her hands up, "Really, what part does she play in all of this?"
"Well, obviously she has some sort of a power," Marluxia explained exasperatingly, as if he had done this before, "And the images she creates...it's clear they're of some importance. We've been to the places and seen some of the people she's drawn; she has to have some sort of connection with what we're looking for."
"Uh huh," Larxene did not look impressed, "Well, when you find out what that connection is come back and see me." She stood up so quickly she nearly knocked her chair over. "I'm bored - maybe Axel or Demyx can entertain me. Later."
"Larxene," Marluxia protested, "You know you're supposed to stay here and help."
The blonde shook her head and smiled the same cruel smile she had on when she first walked into the room. "Nah, it looks like you're doing fine on your own."
"Superior won't like it if he hears this."
"Then let him hear it." Larxene waved goodbye with two fingers before shutting the door behind her. Marluxia sighed and shook his head, his tendrils of pink swaying deftly about his face.
"If there ever comes a time when Nobodies can age, make sure you grow up to be nothing like her."
--
The daily experiment ran for a couple hours; it usually comprised of Naminé simply drawing whatever came to mind while Marluxia (and sometimes Larxene) observed her from a distance. The coral-haired man wasn't exactly kind; he was a little too touchy for her liking, but at least he showed her some respect. Everybody in the Castle That Never Was acknowledged the small girl as their hostage, a prisoner kept in the highest floor of their large headquarters, but they hardly did anything she could consider cruel - mean, yes, but not cruel. For some reason Larxene, the only female of Organization XIII, was different. Harsher. It was as if she looked at her as some kind of lesser being instead of a living companion.
"Looking at you always gets me so angry." Her cutting words were embedded into Naminé's head later that evening, long after Marluxia had gone. The girl sniffled as she neatly stacked her drawings into a small pile. What had she done to impose such hatred? Was there something she wasn't remembering?
She had no memory of a life before the Organization; she couldn't remember having a home, a family or friends. She couldn't even remember what she looked like until she glanced into the water…
She remembered waking up in that small, dank cave. She remembered walking out to see the bright blue water and the warm sun and the clean sand. She remembered the man in the hood - Xemnas, or Superior or whatever - and how he promised to answer all of her questions if she came with him.
She remembered walking through the strange purple and black fog. She remembered seeing the castle for the first time. She remembered him talking to her about things she never heard of before: light, darkness, Heartless, Kingdom Hearts…
She remembered him giving her a new name.
"Naminé," She whispered to herself as she put away her crayons, stacking them on top of each other. It sounded so unfamiliar, so foreign. "Naminé," She whispered again, walking towards the bathroom to change for bed.
She glanced into the mirror and studied her appearance; she noted how pale her skin was, how big her eyes were and the fairness of her hair. She slowly reached upwards to touch her cheek, and her reflection did the same. For some reason she felt as if she wasn't supposed to look like this. Her hair wasn't supposed to be this light, this long. Her skin wasn't supposed to be this pasty. Her eyes were the wrong shade of blue.
She re-emerged minutes later dressed in a simple pair of short shorts and a thin top with spaghetti straps - all white, of course. She was still pondering over her name as she stepped out of her sandals, pulled the curtains over her window and crawled into bed, pulling the covers to her chin and staring up at the blank ceiling.
"Naminé." She whispered a third time; for some reason it didn't sound right.
If it didn't sound right, did that mean she had another name? Was she supposed to be someone other than a helpless girl sitting alone in a stark white room, doomed forever to draw pictures for mysterious hooded figures?
She didn't know why, but the corners of her eyes began to sting. She curled up underneath the sheets, wrapping her arms around her legs and pressing her face into her knees. She didn't like crying; she hated the ache that burned her throat and the irritating itchiness in her eyes. She hated how her stomach felt like it was clenched up in a thousand knots. She hated this white room and how it was so quiet all of the time. She hated Larxene, Marluxia and the others who kept her here. She hated how she felt so vulnerable under Xemnas' stare. She hated the feeling of being isolated from everyone else. She hated how she felt so lonely and incomplete.
As quickly as it came, however, the fire that roared inside of her dissipated. Hate was such a strong word. Naminé couldn't hate; she didn't have it in her to do it. It was too powerful of a feeling, and she wasn't powerful at all. She really didn't hate everything, but she was getting fed up. She wanted something different. Somewhere to go. Someone to care for her. Someplace to come home to.
She thought of the places she drew in her sketchbook and wondered if she had ever been to any of them. Maybe one of them was her home? She pictured the faces of the people she drew and wondered if any of them were her friends. The ache inside intensified and she hugged herself tighter; her tears streamed freely down her face, dripping onto the sheets. She slowly unwound one of her arms to press a hand against her chest. She felt no pulse, no rhythm. This only brought more tears.
A Nobody - that was what Xemnas called her. That was what Xemnas called everyone in this strange place. How could they exist without a heart? A heart was vital to every living being, was it not? How could she exist right here, right now, if there was no rhythmic beating in her chest? How could these tears be coursing down her ashen face when she wasn't supposed to be feeling any sort of emotion?
She swiped at her eyes, sniffling and rolling over on her stomach. Crying always made her feel tired afterwards, for some reason. Maybe it was because she put so much energy in trying to stop? She didn't know how these things worked.
Exhaling shakily, she closed her eyes and pressed her face into her pillow, dreaming black dreams.
How was she hurting so much when she didn't even have a heart?
--
A/N: This chapter was partially inspired by The Postal Service's This Place Is A Prison.
