Entry Four: This Guy Might Not Be Directly Responsible For My Problems, Though I Seriously Doubt It.


When I am more awake than usual, I struggle my eyelids open, pulling at the heavy hooks of sleep that have sunk into my flesh, and am confronted by a blotch in the purity of surgical white and dried-blood-brown. This takes the form of a leering young man, colored in pasty pinks and strawlike golds and a sheen like plastic that settles over his surface.

He greets me passionlessly, his voice a monotone, and I get the vague sense that I should know who he is, that I should recognize his name beyond a twinge of a memory that could well just be a muscular spasm.

"And you can just fuck off, too," I say, in answer to his I trust you are well, only I can't, because they've left the gag in my mouth, keeping me stretched open and dry.

"I'm sorry, what was that?" There is definitely emotion to him now, though it is not a good emotion on him, though it is a little better than emotionless was. It's some kind of amusement, something sick and twisted and destructive, and it shines out in his face and his voice and the jerky-twitching-excitement that quivers through his hands and limbs.

I don't like seeing him like this. Whole. It's easier to deconstruct him mentally, to tear him into little pieces of bone and gore in the arena that is my mind, the only free space left to me. I would consume his brain, and that would be the greatest contribution to society it ever made, in feeding me.

Maybe I'd get my magic back if I did that. Do you think I would? Do you think that that would return the thing they stole from me? Maybe it would. It wouldn't even go halfway to making up for all the things I've lost because of them – my virginity, for example, and any remnants of sanity I might have cherished – but it might be a start.

Shit, is he here to rape me?

… Wait, who the fuck is he again?

He must have seen the look of confusion on my face, for he is saying, with a faint smirk, that my name is Clarabelle, I am clinically deranged, and that is why I am in the Sanctuary for Lunatics. He is the doctor in charge of my case, and fuck I'm hot so he's just going to slip the bandages apart and help himself.

He accompanies his words with actions and I do not doubt for a minute that he is the one that should be locked up here, but this world has never had any sense of justice, so I merely try to stop myself from breathing. I am aware of the fact that I'll faint before I can actually die from suffocation, but it's better than nothing.

I've changed my mind, Valkyrie. I am definitely blaming you for this.


A/N: I suppose Fletcher exists here after all.

~Mademise Morte, September 11, 2011.