A/N: Thanks for reviews! Sorry it's been a while...did a major major move, and a bunch of other stuff.
Chapter 2.
The man is now driving a black Oldsmobile, his eyes darting to and fro between the road and the girl in the passenger's seat of the car. Her head lolls on her neck; her eyes are half-lidded. The injection she'd been given last night is slowly wearing off.
She gazes out at the passing, rain-sodden scenery outside her window with dull, vacant eyes. Her face is even paler, if that is possible; her dark hair is parted into two pigtails on either side of her head, and the expression she wears—like her clothes, stained pajamas—is the same that she has worn since seeing the woman's body the other night: tragic.
Outside the car, the sky is as grey as her heart, and the rain falls steadily on the drowning landscape. The droplets hit the windshield in great splatters, making a plopplop sound. Intermittently, the wipers cross this expanse, with a shrup shrup.
The engine whines as the car begins to travel uphill, all eight cylinders straining at the increased workload. The man leans forward to read a sign on the right; she sees it a few moments later.
Sutton Facility for the Mentally Insane.
The girl blinks, surprised at the burning in her eyes. She realizes that this strange, foreign emotion is intense longing, a fervent wish to actually be insane.
Yanking the steering wheel roughly to the right, the man says something under his breath. The tires spit gravel everywhere; turning the engine off, he leans over the back of the front seat, and fixes her with a stern and wary look.
The girl is silent, since her voice is dead. She levels her wide, distressed eyes on the man, and he grins back, pleased with himself.
Ca-click!As his door opens, and with a groan, he steps out.
Two people are already crossing the parking lot to meet them. All the girl can see is their starched, white uniforms. She scrambles for the handle of her door, her face infused with panic, her lips forming words: no,no!
Suddenly the barrier gives way, and she falls out of the vehicle, her hair like a black cloud that highlights her bloodless skin.
Thump,thump,as her knees hit the gravel. She looks down at the glistening pebbles around her, then up, meeting the eyes of the attendants.
She sees pity.
It's raining quite hard now.
…
BRRRING!
The man's fingers leave the bell, and the receptionist looks up, from behind her glass cage. She picks up a clipboard and passes it to him through the slot in her prison; he accepts it with a nod, takes a pen from a cup beside the window, then heads to the waiting area, his gaze on the form he is to fill out.
In the strong grip of the attendants, the girl waits, her features stiff and frozen in a wide-eyed expression.
Her guardian begins to scribble.
"L. Kinney…Female…seventeen…" he murmurs aloud; as he passes the girl, her eyes fall on the clipboard. She can see checkboxes that are marked off: Violent, Danger to others,Unable to adapt to social situations…
The girl swallows, her eyebrows drawing together.
She watches as the clipboard is passed back to the woman, and then hears the noise:
ERRRR! CHINK!
Nearby, a set of heavy metal gates open at the touch of a button; the attendants tug on her arms, indicating she is to move into her new prison. For a moment she fights wildly; she is punched in the stomach, and then she ceases, hanging her head and allowing them to drag her in.
KLANG!as the gate closes behind them, a very final noise.
…
The asylum smells sterile; the walls are a gloomy off-white, and all the fixtures are made of metal. Overhead, the light is harsh; colors seem less vibrant under its glare. The girl's throat is tight. She has never been in so miserable a place.
A nurse appears; a stack of cloth is shoved toward the girl, and she is forced to accept it. A gown.She swallows, and watches as the woman reaches out and takes the suitcase containing her worldly possessions from one of the men restraining her.
They move forward again, toward another gate. In front of this is a man, his golden-brown eyes fixed intently on the girl that is being brought toward him. His arms are folded, and his handsome, even features are set in an expression of brooding. He appears to be in his mid-twenties, his medium brown hair bearing no hint of gray.
As the group reaches the man, he switches his gaze to the girl's guardian. "You're the father?" he asks.
"Step father," the older man says, in a curt manner.
"That's right," the first says. His voice bears a hint of an English accent, though vague; probably a refugee from the war, or a second-generation Brit. "We talked on the phone."
A plastic name tag on the white coat he wears says that his name is Xander Rice.
The two men nod at each other, in recognition. The younger one bows his head, and flips through the forms on the clipboard.
The girl's eyes focus on something wrapped around the British man's neck: a key, gleaming slightly in the dim lighting of the corridor.
"Okay," the man says, breaking her gaze as his hand snaps around the key. "Bring her in. We're going to take her into the theater." He turns, and begins to open the gate behind him. "Dr. Frost's going to want to take a look at her."
The girl is lead through, and hears the gate KLANGG closed behind them. Rice increases his pace so that he is now leading them down the hallway. They turn, and pass a section with many steel doors on either side; through these, the girl can hear the muffled sounds of laughter and screaming.
A few moments later, they reach a large set of push doors, and Rice pauses, grinning. "So this is what we call 'the theater'." He seems to find the term to be mildly amusing.
They enter into a large room, filled with a stage, and some plain looking cafeteria furniture. There is a large stage in the front, on which is an ancient looking four-poster bed, and beside it is a chair. Both of these are situated in front of what looks like a background prop.
"The theater?" Her guardian asks, in a disapproving tone.
"The kids use this place to be social. Dr. Frost uses it to help them deal with their issues. 'Therapy', she calls it." He grins again. "It's pretty entertaining, watching them act it out, or whatever. Dr. Frost seems to think it will help them, but I'm not so sure. But whether it does or doesn't won't matter much to you, since once we take care of a little bit of business, there won't be any of that for this one."
"Good," her guardian says.
"She'll be in paradise, if you know what I mean…and all of your troubles will be over, right?" Rice grins, again.
Papers flip behind the girl.
Her eyes lift toward the woman on the stage, who is now leaning over a record player, inserting a large vinyl circle. Her light hair is almost white, and is swept back into an elegant bun; she could be called beautiful, if her features weren't so lined and careworn.
"I know we said fourteen hundred over the phone," Rice whispers, "but I'm taking a really big risk here." He pauses. "So it's going to have to be two grand, even."
"What the hell are you talking about? Don't try and cheat me…we had a deal!"
"I said…Father…I'm not going to tell you what to do, clearly you're a man who can take care of yourself. I don't know what you did to this girl, and frankly, I don't want to know. But what are you going to tell the detectives when they come snooping around? I'm sure they'd love to get her side of the story."
On the stage is a bed, situated behind the doctor. Sitting on this bed is a boy, about the age of the girl. He is holding his knees to his chest, and is looking down at his feet. He has dark hair, like hers, sticking up in all directions.
Behind her, the guardian considers. "Yeah," he says, finally, and pulls out his wallet. Money changes hands, and the girl continues to stare ahead.
"I am going to start your music," Dr. Frost is saying to the boy, on the stage. "You're safe up here. It is all…safe. Let yourself be free. Relax, and just…let go."
She flicks a switch on the record player, and music begins to play; a gentle, warbling tune that almost lulls the girl into sleep.
"Here's the other thing," Rice says, behind the girl. "I don't have an on-staff surgeon who does lobotomies—"
"What?" the older man hisses.
"—but, there just happens to be one coming in. He'll be here in five days. So I'll just forge her signature…I've done it a thousand times." His voice has dropped to a calming whisper, as he nods toward the woman on the stage.
The girl's eyes lower, and she stares at nothing now.
"It's like we talked about," Dr. Frost tells the boy. "You control this world."
"—told the police she lost her mind when her mother died," the girl's guardian is saying, his voice gruff. "The truth is a little more…complicated."
The boy looks across the room, with a weary expression, and for a moment their eyes meet; faded blue and terrified green. There are purple bags under his.
She closes her mouth slowly, as with his eyes he silently tells her what to expect.
"Let the pain go," Dr. Frost tells her patient. "Let the hurt…go." She pauses. "Let the guilt go. What you're imagining right now…that world you control…that place can be as real as any pain."
"…don't want her to remember a thing." The girl's guardian is saying.
"Don't worry…she won't even remember her name when I'm done with her," Rice promises.
…
The next few days pass quicker than the girl would like, the last days in which she is to remember her life. The last days of her life.
She sits in the theater, at a table all her own, her green eyes staring into thick space, her mouth held slightly open with all the screams she'd like to make but can't. Around her the others talk, whisper, giggle.
"…fresh meat," a girl off to the side says. She is scruffy-looking, with brown, almond-shaped eyes, high, flat cheekbones, and a shallow nose. These foreign features are covered with pale skin, and are framed by unevenly cut dark hair.
"Don't!" her neighbor says. This one is pretty, with brilliantly red hair sprawled all around her in greasy locks. Her skin is freckled, and she has big, luminous blue eyes, almost too big for her face.
Across from these girls is a dark skinned boy. His eyes are almost black in color, and his full lips and broad features are set into a sullen expression. He doesn't speak.
"Hi," a voice says, very softly on her left. She turns her head very slightly, and sees the boy that had sat on the stage, that first day. The horrible day, the day that came after she'd died, and left this shell to walk the earth.
She can still smell the blood on her fingers.
He looks like he wants to say something more, but he doesn't; and when the girl opens her mouth, her voice isn't there. She clears her throat, trying to make a sound, but all that comes out is dry air.
All they can do is exchange desperate looks. Help me.
"I—I saw you come in," he whispers finally.
She nods, slowly. Yes.
He nods, too, his eyes still on hers. They seem bruised. "I think…before…we could've been friends. Maybe. But…" he trails off, and she understands, before here.
The girl's lips part. "Yes," she mouths.
"Be QUIET!" A voice barks, in a heavy accent of some kind that the girl can't identify. The source of the noise is an enormous dark-skinned woman at the end of the hall, presiding over the patients, and she is dressed in a nurse's uniform. Her nametag says KimberlyMuran.
Both the girl and the boy start, and exchange guilty looks. Then they look away, and that is all.
…
Gritting her teeth as salty tears streak down her cheeks, the hot fluid blinding her, the girl cries silently, her arms folded across her chest in a mummified pose. She lies on a sort of couch, while the kind woman, Dr. Frost, tries to soothe her.
"I can't help you if you won't talk to me," she says softly, the clipboard in her lap gripped tightly. She looks like she longs to reach out and stroke the girl's forehead, but she restrains herself, the box checked Dangertoothersstanding between them.
On the doctor's desk sits a bottle of Chanel No. 5, her mother's favorite brand. It seems to glow around the edges, slightly; a golden outline.
Her tears had started upon seeing it.
...
As they walk through the asylum, the girl's senses become unbearably bright. She sees heavy lines around each object, as if they are outlined in ink of some sort; living, moving ink. Passing the open door of Rice's small office, a golden glow stands out; turning her head, the girl sees an emergency evacuation map.
They reach the end of the hallway, and the guard leaning against the window of the guard booth looks up, flipping the silver zippo lighter in his hand as he lights his cigarette. The girl's eyes slip past his bulky figure to the sign on the glass behind him; All doors open on detection of fire.
In his hand, the zippo begins to shine around the edges, with a gentle golden hue.
…
"Hey, sweetheart," Rice says.
The girl looks up from the toilet she is cleaning with a brush, her eyebrows drawn together. The key on his chest is outlined in the same golden hue of earlier, and it dangles just within her reach. Taunting her with its freedom.
"Come with me now," he tells her. "We're going to make the pain go away…make it all go away! Wouldn't you like that?"
NO!she tries to scream. NO!NO!NO!NO!
All that comes out are small puffs of air.
Rice grins. "Maybe you'll be able to talk again, too."
…
"Goodness, what's this…the twentieth today?" the doctor murmurs, wiping his forehead on his sleeve as he enters the room, in which the girl is sitting, strapped tightly to a metal chair. On either side is an orderly, and they both wear somber expressions.
"Right…she's strapped in well?" he asks.
"Yes, Dr. Xavier," one of the assistants say. "She won't move an inch."
The doctor reaches to the table, and lifts a shining metal mallet with one hand. With the other, he grasps something that bears resemblance to an ice pick.
"Keep her head tilted back," he instructs, bringing the tools towards the girl's face. Her wide eyes burn an intense green in contrast to her deathly pale skin. What a pity, the doctor thinks. She's a very beautiful girl. Hopefully the operation will give her some relief.
She says nothing as the pick works its way into her tear duct, finding the fragile area of bone. He reaches back with the mallet with an expression of tense concentration, their eyes lock for a moment, and then…