The doctors proved themselves human on Sunday, six days after B's admission. They let him leave for A's memorial service. But, even as he slipped into his funeral outfit (which consisted of his only black article of clothing, a long-sleeve tee shirt, and a well-worn pair of jeans), he was consumed by a wish for vengeance.
He took solace in having someone to blame. But Watari was careful to avoid visiting in-person whenever possible, perhaps in an effort to hide from his accuser. It was all the old man's fault, B told himself. It was all Watari, who was blind to the obvious behind those stupid thick glasses. Watari took the brunt of his hate, his depression, his fury. As he should.
But B knew too much now to look at Wammy's as a home. To him, it was a slaughterhouse, a nightmare. And Watari was all too aware of that. Too cowardly to reveal the true nature of the Second L Program, he deemed B insane and sent him off to an asylum. That was B's understanding, anyway – whether he truly was sane or not was of little concern to him.
Nurse Gertrude walked him to the hospital doors, his IV trailing behind him. Her bulky frame swayed with every step, and her presence was less than comforting, but at least Hunter was too busy to chaperone. B was weak, and he struggled to keep up with Gertrude's lazy pace, but she showed a brief glimmer of mercy by holding the door open for him. He stumbled out into the overcast day, taking the hospital parking lot in, not knowing if he would see it again after today.
A familiar black limousine had pulled up to the wheelchair exit ramp. The backseat window rolled down, as if beckoning B inside. After an exhausting trip down the ramp, the teen pried the door open and tumbled inside the car, Gertrude following reluctantly.
The ghostly characters floating near the driver's seat caused acid to rise in B's throat. Quillish Charleston Wammy.
Panic flooded his veins. He had to get out of the car. He had to get out of the car. He began to squirm from his seat, only to be blocked by a sitting Gertrude. She had just fastened her seatbelt, and had closed the limo's left-backseat door. Realizing that he couldn't negotiate over her in his current condition, he spun to face his own door. No sooner than he had clutched the release handle, Watari locked the car, and B was trapped inside. He was thrown back into his seat as the limo accelerated, and let out a small whimper as his neck slammed into the headrest. Only now did Gertrude seem to notice his plight, and she gingerly detangled his IV from his seatbelt.
He sighed, and collapsed back into the car seat, the adrenaline rush effectively wearing him out. Helpless, he stared blankly out a window, watching as they passed through a small suburb.
An uneasy, formal silence hung over the limousine. It lasted until they pulled into the driveway of Wammy's House.
"There is a bouquet in the trunk if you would like it, B," Watari mumbled as he parked.
B didn't reply. A soft rain had begun to dampen the windows, and he thought it fitting; a bright, sunny funeral wouldn't do A's memory justice. Mute as ever, Gertrude shifted herself, shoving open the car door and snapping her seatbelt loose. She stood from the limo ungracefully, her flabby form swaying in the slight breeze. After steadying herself, she extended a hand to B, who took it disdainfully. He was yanked from his seat, his IV tipping over and tumbling awkwardly from the car.
As Gertrude re-adjusted his IV, B smoothed his shirt and scanned the eerie skyline of Wammy's. A sick nostalgia flooded him, his emotions so intense that they actually began to cancel each other out. The fact that he was here wasn't particularly interesting, nor his short-lived freedom from psychological captivity. But the nagging idea that today was A's funeral… It was almost too surreal to believe.
Gertrude had finished with him, and she led him by the hand, following Watari (B chuckled grimly at that; it was the nearly-blind leading the nearly-blind). They entered Wammy's House, shuffling solemnly through the stuffy corridors. After a few minutes of what seemed like aimless wandering, Watari showed the caravan to the main dining hall.
The hall was packed with Wammy's kids, each dressed in their dark Sunday best and seated chapel-style in rows. The funeral actually looked legitimate; the Wammy's lunchroom was originally the surviving half of an ancient church. At the back of the massive chamber was a coffin and a few pounds of flowers, along with an intricate wreath and a few candles. In Memoriam was scrawled in delicate calligraphy on a banner that hung from the ceiling.
Looking dismal and out-of-place, B padded meekly down the aisle separating the two sections of benches. He suddenly felt the questioning stares of a hundred children, their disapproval burning like acid. The air was buzzing with whispered rumors. Silent and stripped of his dignity, B approached A's coffin, Watari and Gertrude blending smoothly into the background. The IV needle tugged at his wrist, and he cursed it, sending gasps through the ranks of younger children.
He did look the part of crazy mourner, they all thought. His hair was frizzed, he was still attached to his IV, and he walked with a characteristic slump. Maybe those silly stories were true. Maybe Beyond Birthday had lost it, just like A.
He stood over A's coffin for a few eternal seconds, just confirming that it was, in fact, reality; that he was awake, not trapped in some horrific nightmare. When that truth made itself unavoidable, he broke into angst-ridden tears. Still utterly silent, he cried over A, letting the heartbreak and grief out with every breath. The other orphans just stared, watching the grim spectacle without empathy.
A minute or so passed before B collected himself enough to speak. His woe boiled to seething contempt, the feeling of his emotions switching gears all too familiar. He spun from A to face Watari, who was watching mildly from the back of the hall. B took a few spiteful steps towards him and pointed, his voice cracking severely as he screamed.
"You! This is all YOUR FAULT! You have no right to be here. You don't care about A, and why should you? He's just a failed experiment. And, thanks to you, that's all he'll ever be."
"B," Watari replied, his tone even. "I realize that these last few weeks have been difficult, but you don't need to make a scene."
He curled his lips back into a snarl, hissing with rage and taking a few more steps. "You could never understand what A was to me! He was more than a friend – he was a lifeline. He gave me a purpose, a new lease on life. I loved him. I LOVED HIM. He died for you. And you can't even shed a fucking tear!?"
B turned to face his captive audience of Wammy's residents. "Don't these children deserve the truth, Watari? They'll understand someday, I have faith. But how many more will you send to their deaths, striving to be L – no, to be above L? How many funerals will you preside over, just to tinker with your latest invention? I assure you… I don't know. But I never want to find out."
He paused, collecting his thoughts. "Children of Wammy's, heed A's silent warning. Strike down the Second L program, and question your superiors. Ask if L, your idol, your example, your purpose, is a title worth suffering for – you will suffer, I can promise you that! Refuse to see things as L wants you to see them. Only then… will my best friend have died for a reason."
Watari was solemn, shaking his head wordlessly. His expression was grim, as if he was mourning not only A's demise, but B's as well. After a long silence, he motioned to Gertrude, waving her towards the door. Obediently, she turned to B.
"Time to go."
He narrowed his eyes. "Oh, no. You're crazy yourself if you think I'll go back there." He gestured at her dismissively, raising an open hand to her and letting his arm fall to his side. His gaze never left Watari.
"As for you…"
He paced towards the old man, a vicious smile growing on his lips. His eyes held a glimmer of true madness. He cracked his neck, screamed, and lunged for Watari, fingers curled into claws.
"I'll rip your fucking eyes out, so you can see how blind you are!"
Almost at once, he felt the bulk of Gertrude's body thrown haphazardly upon him. She had tackled him, her lab coat draping over him like a sheet over a fresh corpse. He was knocked off-balance, and toppled to the floor, landing a few feet from Watari's shoes. In an instant, she pried his hands behind his back. His hospitalization had left him physically weakened, a disadvantage he hadn't anticipated or prepared for. The feeling of defeat all too familiar, he struggled, cursing and writhing. Her grip held, and she pinned him to the floor.
A moment later, he felt a jab of sharp, unnatural pain, something he was able to identify as an injection near his shoulder. Tranquilizer drugs flooded his senses, numbing them, and he felt himself slipping away. His body twitched uncontrollably, his breathing in shallow pants. He gagged. The world spun around him, and, as the darkness began to close in, he let out a final, horrific shriek. Throughout the ordeal, Watari managed to stand perfectly still. The last thing B was able to process before blacking out was the old man's soft, condescending voice.
"Now, now, B. You're upsetting the other children…"
White. B was so sick of white. White sheets, white beds, white walls, white skin in white uniforms. And, naturally, what he awoke to was more of the same.
He was lying down, his IV dangling above him. Painfully bright surgical lighting shone down on him, and he squinted his eyes, his headache intensifying. Instinctively, he tried to sit up.
Something held him. He panicked, and jerked upwards, to no avail. Craning his neck, he stared down at his chest, terror quickly spiking in his veins.
They were restraining him. Thick leather belts crisscrossed his chest, binding him firmly to his bed. He struggled vainly for a moment or two, finding that he was completely immobile.
Why were they restraining him?
Gertrude approached his bed tentatively, seemingly out of the blue. She stared down at him, her bulky being looming over a captive B. She sighed for a moment, then shook her head, almost apologetically.
"You couldn't behave, could you? …Ehh, not your fault, I guess."
She turned away from the bed for a moment, to a nearby tray table. B could barely see it, but took a mental note of the terrifying supplies it held - most notably, a vial and sterile hypodermic needle. Callously, her look of human-like pity quickly vanishing, Gertrude unwrapped the needle, and filled it with clearish liquid from the vial. Her movements grew robotic, as years of training kicked in and morality wavered.
They were going to medicate him.
B writhed in horror, desperate to escape. He clung to the childish hope that enough thrashing would free him, but the bindings held firm. He panted, and his blood roared in his ears, true terror overriding all else. He grunted and cursed, hysterical with fear.
Oh God oh God no no no no oh God please no don't let them please god have mercy don't let them don't I haven't done anything wrong don't let them drug me
His vision blurred, and he grew lightheaded, watching helplessly as Gertrude edged closer to his IV. He screamed with fright, eyes wide. Tears streaked his face, and he heard his heartbeat freeze. Cold and uncaring, Gertrude slipped the needle through the faux skin of the IV, and injected B.
His muscles spasmed suddenly, his entire body thrown into uncontrollable convulsions. He gagged on his own saliva, animalistic panic overtaking all coherent thought. His gurney shook with the force of his throes, and he stared up at Gertrude, helpless. He shook and shuddered for minutes, the agony of the contractions unbearable, before Gertrude reached for another hypodermic. She emptied it into his IV, before taking a cautious step backwards, to watch B's pain in silence. A miniature eternity passed before the muscle relaxants began to take effect, and B's eyes slid closed, his body and mind utterly ravaged.
Hunter stared blankly at B, taking occasional notes as his patient vomited. B sobbed with hatred as he was sick, nurse Gertrude obediently holding a bedpan to his face.
"I'm sorry, Beyond. But you have to keep taking your meds."
B wiped his lips, his nausea briefly fading. He sniffled, unable to restrain his tears. "Please… Please don't give me more drugs… Please, I'm begging you, as a human being, don't inject me again." He motioned to Gertrude to bring the bedpan close again.
Hunter sighed, feigning sorrow. "You are here because you are socially unfit. You have proven that you cannot thrive in mainstream society. This is the treatment for such a condition. I'm sorry that you suffer side effects, and your dosage will be smaller next time."
"You…" B paused, coughing. "You're trying to break me… Make me lose my mind. You'll just flood me with drugs, until I do exactly what you fuckers tell me to."
"Beyond," Hunter asked calmly, jotting down a few extra notes. "How long do you think you have been here?"
"A week, maybe eight days." As sickness overcame B again, his fury receded.
Hunter shook his head softly. "Six months, Beyond. You've been on antidepressants for the last four months or so, and antipsychotics for your hallucinations since last month. You're sick now because a nurse gave you an overdose."
"Was I sober for A's funeral?" B barely managed comprehensibility, his shoulders shaking with each sob.
Hunter's eyes were dead. "Sorry; I don't know." He stroked B's hair gingerly, forgetting his dislike of the gesture. "Probably not."
B felt a new wave of nausea, and ducked away from Hunter's hand, pulling his knees up to his chest. He closed his eyes, and yanked his blanket up over his head, praying for sleep or death to take him.
((A/N: Shitty excuse for a chapter, I know, but both of my exes have been harassing the hell out of me, and, like I said before, I no longer have a beta. Critique. PLEASE. I'm entering a contest soon; I need all the tips I can get.))
