A/N: IT LIVES! THE ART OF SUICIDE LIVES! I am so very sorry this update took so long, it's been a long time in the making. I finally got a bate reader, but they had a lot on their plate and I think she may have forgotten about me. So anyways we all need to thank JuneGrayson because without her this update would not have taken place, thank you hun you're the best! I also want to thank everyone who reviewed the last chapter. Your encouragement and kind words make writing this story easier and I hope this chapter was worth the wait. I also promise the next chapter won't take as long it's almost finished. Please let me know if you see a difference in my writing I've been taking some classes and really working on improving my over all grammar and sentence structure.
I also started another story of the horror persuasion, so I'll leave you a little snippet at the end if you're interested.
Chapter 14
Break the Chain
"The faded verse, the ones we left behind
The fractured hand that hold, the lives we live
The story still unfolds, to rises above it all"
-Bella Morte
Part 1 of Journal Entry #6: Stone by Stone
Houses are built on solid ground and set on sturdy, flat foundations of stone and concrete, so they can weather storms and other harsh conditions. Giving them the ability to withstand the tests of time and provide shelter to those who need it. That being said, I have come to the conclusion that I have built mine upon sand, far too fine and delicate to support any foundation that attempts to stand on it. Unable to stand even in the gentlest of rainfalls as my foundation crumbles and erodes with only the greatest of ease. Then once the storm passes and the waves recede from the mangled shoreline, I'm left among the ruins with nothing more than a few bricks with which I must rebuild my life with. The bricks themselves have the potential to hold strong and withstand their tests, but they must be laid on a proper base to do so. So why, then, do I continue to rebuild my life on sand?
That is the vicious cycle of my life. I build it up to be fragile and weak. I do not prepare myself for the fall or brace myself for how hard I'll crash. These actions are what fuel my self-destruction, and create my unstable willow branch I never cease to fall from. That is the definition of insanity, you know, to continue to commit the same actions and expect different results. If this is true, and I don't doubt it is, then that must mean I am indeed insane.
In the last forty-eight hours I have learned a lot about myself, I still don't know why I continue to carry out these actions. However I realize I need to embrace change, try to move forward and stop living my life in the past, like my mother did. In any event, I have begun using a blue crayon instead of the purple one. This has little to do with the fact that my loyal friend has seen me through the beginning of this journey and has recorded countless details of my experiences here. It has more to do with the fact that I need change, which is what I've been told as of lately, not only by my doctor, but also the one person I didn't expect to see. I know it's not exactly the most notable change in my life, but it's a start.
As for the details of what I've gone through in the last forty eight-hours, I'm not entirely sure where to start. I have so much to recount from the last few days and so little patience. But I guess I'll pick up where I left off. After I finished my last entry, I picked up my things and made my way to the nurse's station, which I now realize I have not yet described. It's about a ten by ten room with a large Plexiglas window, much like the ones you see in police stations. I find this a bit funny, because we're constantly told we're not prisoners, yet the nurses have a place to hide, just in case there is a riot (yeah whatever). Once I approached the window, one of the nurses noticed I was far from stable and immediately got up from her chair. I was still crying almost uncontrollably and hyperventilating, nearly unable to breathe. She left the safety of the station and came to see how bad the situation was. She looked concerned, but was trying her best not to overreact, as I could tell she didn't want to alarm me any further.
She asked me what was the matter and I explained to her, to the best of my ability, what was wrong. However this was far more difficult than one could imagine, since I was trying to explain through short, haggard, breaths and many tears. I was hardly able to speak a single word, so forming a full sentence was difficult under these circumstances. Not to mention the pounding migraine that was beginning to establish itself. She looked a little overwhelmed and asked me who my doctor was. I was barely able to manage that task and even then, she looked as though she could hardly understand me. She told me to sit down and to stay put while she went back into the nurses' station.
After she left I slid down the wall in defeat and hugged my legs while resting my forehead on my knees, trying my best to hide my eyes from light. When she finally came back, she informed me that she had called Dr. Graves and told him of my current condition, adding he would be coming up to see me as soon as possible, and that she'd been instructed to place me in an isolation room until he got there.
I began to pull myself off the floor as I was informed I could not bring any of my things with me. The nurse continued that she could put them in a locker so they'd be safe until my return. Since she wasn't sure how long I'd be gone for. With that I sadly handed over my books and beloved journal. It's funny how something as simple as a journal and a couple of crayons can mean so much to someone. The fact is, you aren't allowed many possessions here, and the few you are allowed tend to become your lifeline. I literally felt as though I was giving that woman my very soul and I suppose in a way I was.
After she locked my things up away from my reach, she took me back to the isolation ward. The cold white hallways were blank, lacking comfort and personality, which was exactly what they were meant for (to be plane). The truth is in a place like the isolation ward, less is better. One, because less things means a less overwhelming atmosphere and two, fewer things means fewer ways someone can kill themselves.
She led me to an unoccupied room and told me to sit down while I waited for my doctor, then left me to my misery. I remember looking around the room. It was almost identical to the one I spent my first two days in. There was no door and the white walls were almost maddening, as their stark color amplified my migraine. I looked around a bit frantically, hoping to possibly find a window, but I was not granted such a privilege. Not only did the room lack that comfort, but it also lacked a clock. That meant I'd have no real concept of time which was actually quite nerve-racking. The other room I was in also didn't have a clock and in its absence, seconds felt like minutes and hours felt like days.
There wasn't really any furniture, aside from the hospital bed, which only had one flat pillow and a very thin sheet. I just sat on the bed and sobbed uncontrollably, trying to catch my breath. My face burned with intense anxiety and my body began to shake uncontrollably. I honestly thought I was dying; that every part of me was fraying and unraveling at the seams. I felt as though my body had finally reached its breaking point and there were no longer any living parts of me left to salvage. I feared the plague had finally taken over and my humanity was gone.
After an unknown period of time, I heard footsteps entering the room. I looked up, taking time out of my self-loathing and distress, to see none other than Dr. Graves standing in the doorway.
"Oh God, Raven," he said, making his way to my bedside. He knelt down in front of me and placed his hands on my shoulders so that he was now at eye level with me and continued, "Raven look at me." I pulled my head up slowly until I was eye to eye with him, as he said, "Listen to me. I need you to take a deep breath. Can you do that for me?" I nodded and took a long, staggered breath as Dr. Graves continued, "Okay good. I need for you to tell me what you see, alright?"
I once again nodded and I responded with, "You."
"Good, what else?"
"The… wall."
"Okay, what color is the wall?"
"W-white," I mumbled, as I began to feel my breath becoming less haggard and my heart rate started to slow down.
"And tell me something you see on the wall."
"The… door...way."
Dr. Graves continued to ask me to either point out or describe more objects in the room, though there were not many. But I was eventually able to breathe at a more stable pace, though I now felt the exhaustion sinking in. My chest was rising and falling at a slow exerted rate as Dr. Graves turned to pour me a glass of water.
"Here. You need to stay hydrated," he said, handing me a paper cup.
"How did you know that would work," I asked in a tired voice, "what was that?"
"A cognitive diversion," he said with a clever smile, "an anxiety attack is the body's natural defense mechanisms kicking into action, because your mind is telling it there is a potential threat," he said, while handing me some tissues to wipe my tears with. "Your mind has been overwhelmed, and as a result, the constant stress and panic triggered an anxiety attack."
"So how does that little trick work?" I asked before taking a sip of my water.
"By distracting your mind from the thoughts and feelings that are causing your body to release the hormones, which are triggering the fight or flight response."
"Fancy," I said sarcastically, but slightly impressed, "where did you learn that?"
"College," he said simply, with a nostalgic look on his face, "I had my fair share of anxiety attacks back then."
"You?" I replied, a little surprised. Dr. Graves always seemed so put together, so thinking of him falling apart made him seem a little more human.
"Yeah, I hit a slight rough patch, had a bit of an identity crisis, that whole song and dance," he leaned against the wall. "I'm not perfect, Raven. Nobody is and I had to learn that the hard way."
"You never intended on becoming a psychologist, did you?" I asked, catching a glimpse of something that stung of regret.
"I'm not gonna get into that right now… So what were you doing when the anxiety attack began?"
I paused and took a moment to consider my response. I didn't want to bring up my journal, mostly because I was afraid he'd wanted to read it. And since I didn't have it in my possession, I couldn't be certain that no one would.
"I was just thinking and I just got overwhelmed, I guess."
"What were you thinking about?"
"My friends, my situation, my life and my mother."
"So you were thinking about your lack of control over your situation?" he said, though I don't think it was really a question.
"Maybe."
"And how you don't even have basic control over your own body, now that you're here?"
"How the hell do you know that?" I sighed in frustration.
"Because it's my job. To know." He shrugged. "I can learn a lot about a person just by looking at their actions."
"So what have you learned about me?" I asked still frustrated, but cynically intrigued? "And be honest, I can handle it."
He looked me in the eyes and said dryly, "You lie a lot."
I furrowed my brow, "What makes you think that?"
"Because you look to the left a lot." His voice was flat, but very honest. "You also tend to pause before answering almost every question and sometimes, but not often, your words say one thing, but you shake your head in contradiction."
Son of a bitch, I thought rolling my eyes. I couldn't believe he could see such things in my body langue. Am I really that easy to figure out?
"I wouldn't say that I lie a lot," I said in a gravely monotone, "I just don't tell you everything."
"So you tell me a lot of half-truths." He responed as though there wasn't really much of a difference (which there isn't). "Which means you still fabricate your answers."
"Yes," I took a deep breath and looked away. "But I wouldn't go so far as to call it lying."
Dr. Graves looked a little disappointed with my answer, as though he thought that maybe I'd come to my senses and admit holding back a good portion of the truth was wrong. The ironic part was, if he knew the truth, would he understand?
"Raven, the problem with your theory is you're not addressing your problems, and more importantly, you are lying to yourself. You can't face who you are if you keep telling yourself it's not real; and on top of it, I know part of it is because telling the truth is something you can, in fact, control."
I wish I could have seen the look on my face, because I'm sure it was priceless. I was more than shocked, because I never really thought of my need to keep the truth to myself as a need for control, but it was actually the truth. Dr. Graves was completely and one hundred percent correct, and I didn't even see it that way until he'd pointed it out.
"I really fucking hate you sometimes," I said without even thinking about my words. "You know more about me than I do sometimes, and you shouldn't. Nobody should!" I ran my fingers through my hair and shook my head furiously. (I was so frustrated that if my powers had been functional, I think every damn light bulb within a one-mile radius would've met an explosive end. I was that aggravated.)
"Raven, I only know what you tell me, which isn't much." He said sarcastically, "and because you don't tell me everything, it makes it hard to help you find solutions. You need to learn to trust me."
"But, I don't want to," I said, rubbing my temples as my migraine began to erupt in all its furry. "And why should I trust you?"
"Because I haven't given you a reason to not trust me," he responded, clearly frustrated, and in all honesty he was right. He, as of now, hadn't betrayed me, or made me feel like any less of a person. To be honest, I think my whole problem is that he knows so much about me, yet I know nothing about him (which I find really unnerving.)
Dr. Graves crossed his arms and unconsciously began to grind his teeth. "Alright, I have an idea. Since you lack control over your situation, I'm going to give you a choice." He kneeled down in front of me, once more putting himself at eye level with me again. "You can either go back to the medium ward or you can stay the night here, in isolation, by yourself."
"Can't I just go home?"
He rolled his eyes, "Not gonna happen." I could tell he was getting a little annoyed with me. "Plus, I'm giving you a choice here; so be grateful and pick one before I choose for you," his voice was that of a stern father.
"Is this a test?"
"No, pick whichever one you think is best," he said, once again putting on his, 'I'm not bullshitting you,' face.
I was a little shocked. It seemed like he was trying to give me a real choice, and the fact that he was letting me decide what I thought was best for me was oddly unexpected.
"You think I know what's best for me?"
"Yes. You're more practical than you think you are. Now make a decision," he said a bit shortly.
"I'll stay here," I replied, slightly unsure this was a legitimate show of good faith, or just a tool that could be later used against me.
Dr. Graves smiled and said with relief, "That is a very wise decision. I'll have one of the nurse practitioners come in and give you something for your migraine."
"How did you know I have a migraine?" I inquired with surprise.
"Do you really wanna know?" he asked dryly.
"No," I replied with another visible eye roll, knowing the answer would probably make me even more frustrated than I already was.
"Good, cause I wasn't gonna tell you," he replied with a weary drawl, and left the room.
I was once again alone and found it quite refreshing. I hadn't really had any time to myself without someone hovering over or around me. It was nice to finally breathe emotionally, without taking in anyone else's thoughts, feelings or anything else for that matter. I could finally sort through my own fears and my own madness. I could just deal with me.
I hadn't meditated in nearly three weeks; I didn't have the strength or the privacy while in the hospital. Here, I couldn't even take a shower by myself, let alone find time to mediate. I could barely even isolate my own anxiety from everyone else's, so to try and balance it would've just been futile. Not only because of how jumbled everything was, but I couldn't even begin to concentrate.
Finally the nurse practitioner came in and asked me some generic questions about my migraine. I told her that it felt like I had a vice on my head, and it was starting to affect my vision. I also mentioned that I was becoming extremely sensitive to light (so the fluorescents were not helping my situation). She left, returning a few minutes later and gave me a cup with two small white pills in it. I looked at them for a moment with a critical eye. I wasn't really sure what they were and was a bit curious as to what I was about to take. It was then the nurse said that they were only extra strength aspirin and added that she thought they'd reduce the pain. I again looked down at two white pills and pondered whether asking her for information would even be worth it. I responded by swallowing the two pills, and handed her the paper cup, with a miserable thank you. Before taking her leave, she told me that if I were to stay in isolation then I'd have to wear a hospital gown. I remember rolling my eyes in distaste as she placed one on the bed beside me. She left the room for a few minutes to give me some privacy while I changed out of my knee-length leggings and black Misfits baby tee. Once I'd put on the gown, I folded my clothes, and put them in a neat pile for the nurse to collect. When she came back in, she placed them in a bag and told me she'd have them put away with the rest of my things. She added that if I needed anything else someone would be coming in frequently to check up on me and left me to my very much appreciated solitude. (Thank God!)
I finally laid down on my (very uncomfortable) hospital bed and waited for the medication to kick in, which (to my surprise) actually did about thirty or so minutes in. I was then able to think a bit clearer as the migraine began to lift. After about an hour it was almost reduced to a dull headache (almost being the keyword) but I could still easily work with it. I turned myself on my back and looked up at the ceiling, trying my best to shield my eyes from the harsh glare of the light. With a sigh I closed my eyes, took a nice, deep breath, and slowly began to center myself. Now normally I would sit up to meditate, but I was far too tired to do so and I didn't want to attract attention to myself. I just wanted to be left to my thoughts and if that meant lying down to meditate, so be it.
It was a bit tricky at first. One's mind is more like a muscle than one might think. When you cease to exercise it, much like a muscle, it loses its strength and flexibly to a certain degree. In layman's terms, my mind wasn't exactly functional and it needed to be eased into the stability and concentration required to reach a proper deep state of meditation. After a few of my own cognitive exercises, I was able to reach a meditative state and began to sort through my mind, after all it had been through. Now I can't even begin to tell you how long I remained in this state, but it was probably hours. My mind was a place of ruins, filled with rubble, shattered like glass. It seemed my emotions had been wreaking havoc on the plane of my existence, and by the looks of it, they had the more manic emotions leading the charge. And people wonder why I can't trust myself?
Mentally I walked beneath a darkened sky, as Autumn's voice descended upon me with the foliage caught up in the wind. There was not a figure in sight. Yet I knew I was not alone under the night sky, for among the many stars that filled the infinite void above me, were a pair of unnatural eyes hidden among them, but unmistakably present. The scent of ash filled the air as the looming smoke assaulted my vision with every step. After making my way through a ridged forest of Hitchcock- inspired trees, the image of a house, still burning in the distance lit the night in a marvelous fashion.
The flames seemed to refuse to extinguish themselves, and from what I could see they probably never would. I guessed the house represented the broken feeling I hold for the family I no longer, and never actually, had. The house symbolized my tainted origin and the cruelty behind it. My mother traded in her abusive father for a group of people who used her need to be loved against her, promising her a family and unconditional love from a man who promised to protect her. What she got was a sadist, incapable of love and protection, who only wanted her for the purpose of having a child who he was also incapable of loving or caring for. The sad thing is I don't know who's worse. My father for being what he was created to be. Or my grandfather for simply not being the man he promised to be when he decided to have a child. Is it possible they're both equally evil for making the decision to have children, but not having the decency to put their daughters' best interests before their own? These questions I'll never have answers to, and those flames will continue to burn for as long as I continue to breathe, and possibly even when I cease to.
The landscape was complex and mostly illogical to physics in this world, but in my mind, it reflects my illogical existence. I am a being that should not exist, yet I do, why is that? This question goes beyond my suicide attempt and far beyond my depression, because I truly shouldn't exist. I am the hybrid between a human woman and a demonic male, not even of the same species or the same world for that matter, so how is my life even possible? The only explanation I can come up with is human imperfection and the fact they can be corrupted gives an abomination like me, the ability to be created. My suspicion is only confirmed by the fact that I'm not capable of creating life and to be honest I find relief in that. I would not under any circumstances want to pass down my genetics and repeat this vicious cycle with another tragic life. Even if I can't change my ways for the better, I know I will not be scarifying another daughter and this cycle will end with me.
These were only some of the things I had to sift through, during this mediation session, all while taking in the symbolic displays around me, including the season that was present. Autumn. It represents maturity and the coming of age, as well as the time before sickness and death. But more importantly, it represents wisdom, and Autumn's voice was telling me that through this experience I needed to learn and take in the wisdom of others. However, my mind in this state is hindered to learn, which means I need to strive for spring, so I may possibly grow the violets I was not given.
When I finally came out of my meditational state, the light in the room was dimmed and less harsh, indicating it was now well into the night. The halls were calm and quiet as only my breath could be heard as it escaped from my lips. For the first time in weeks I finally felt calm, my emotions were no longer screaming. They were only, but a dull whisper now, to the point I could hardly hear their chatter. I soon fell fast into a dreamless sleep, which I was surprised came without the aid of a sleeping pill.
The next morning I truly did feel much better. My head was clear, my thoughts weren't clouded by those of another's, and my emotions were under control. However though I felt much better, I was not looking forward to being thrown back with the flock of emotionally unstable people.
Now, for the most part, I would say that a portion of my fellow patients are actually quite normal, and are here due to unfortunate circumstances. Like Jack for example; aside from just being a complete shit show, he is not actually crazy. He may be a lot of things, but he isn't by any means certifiable. He just said the wrong thing, to the wrong shrink, (that being Dr. Quinzel,) and now by no power of his own is stuck here until he's seen fit to be released. However, there are others who are just plain out of their minds, and this is only one more stop on the "crazy train" for them. For instance, this woman Rita; she's is a paranoid schizophrenic who absolutely hates men. She does not only spend most of her days alone talking to herself, but if a man even looks in her general direction she becomes frantic and violent because she's horrified of them. It's obvious she's spent most of her life being abused by countless male figures in her life, and it's quite heartbreaking to see. I only know this because even though she is incapable of telling me these things verbally, I can still feel them in her constant tension and awareness of every last man in the room. The rush of fear she projects whenever one moves near. To make this worse, she is not the only one who has some awful past that lingers with them, a lot of these people do. Maybe that's why we're all here, because life failed us all in one way or another.
Still as much as I didn't really miss my gaggle of misfits, I have to admit they are slightly entertaining, which was more than I could say for the wall I was being forced to stare at. I seriously spent most of the morning looking at that damn thing waiting for anything to happen, (which nothing did.) When I finally grew bored of that thrilling experience, I moved onto trying to figure out how to fashion my sheet into a noose, so that if need be, I could hang myself out of boredom. Luckily for me, before I could figure out how to conduct such a feat, I was graced with another visit by my dearest doctor.
"You look bored." He said nonchalantly, not realizing I was contemplating proving that one could actually die of such a seemingly harmless experience. "Did you have a good night?
"Yes actually I did, I feel much better."
"Good, do you think you're ready to rejoin the group?" he asked, but I was hesitant to reply. Knowing I could either stay there and go mad from boredom or be driven mad by madness. And well to be honest I would've rather have been beheaded at the merciful hands of the guillotine, but that wasn't an option.
"I guess I'll go back to the herd." I said with a sigh as my doctor's face fell slightly. It was clear he knew I wasn't happy about it, but there wasn't a better option. However, I noticed there was something off about him. Normally he would've at least had some sort of witty comeback to lighten the mood, but he seemed just as unenthusiastic as I was. "You don't seem thrilled?"
He took a deep breath and leaned back on the doorframe as his facial expression seemed to fall a bit darker as he said, "You have a visitor."
"Richard's here already?" I said raising my brow in a touch of excitement because of how bored I was.
"It's not Richard," Dr. Graves said dryly.
"Seriously, I told him to tell the others not to visit me yet, does that boy ever listen?"
Dr. Graves turned his head inquisitively, "So you want me to tell him to leave?" Dr. Graves said cocking his head in an.
"Who is it?"
"Bruce Wayne," his voice became flat as he replied.
I raised an eye brow, "No, for real?"
"Adam West," he said sarcastically, causing my eyes to roll, "no seriously, it's really Bruce Wayne."
I looked up at my doctor (who apparently wasn't kidding) with surprise wondering why of all people Richard's mentor came all the way from Gotham to visit me. I mean I'd never met the man before, and to be honest he wasn't exactly the person the Titans ever ran to for help, so why now?
"I can tell him to leave, if you really don't want to see him?" Dr. Graves said, softening his expression, "It's your choice Raven, I'll do what you think is best."
"Do you know why he's here?" I asked, still having trouble finding a valid reason as to why he felt the need to see me.
"He said that his son sent him," the doctor crossed his arms, "do you know who that is?"
"Richard sent him?" I furrowed my brow, realizing that maybe the Titans wouldn't run to Batman for help, but Robin would. Especially if Robin felt he couldn't save the damsel in distress.
"You don't have to see him if you don't want to, it's up to you."
"I'll see him," I said and swung my legs over the edge of the hospital bed.
Dr. Graves showed me back to the medium ward, so I could get dressed and get out of the flimsy hospital gown I was forced to wear. Not that my yoga pants and tank top where any better, especially coupled with my black hoodie which I was only allowed because it no longer possessed a draw string. This is as presentable as I get, I thought looking at the reflection of the overly tired girl who stared back at me. I splashed some cold water on my face, in an attempt to wash away any anxiety that still lingered, but it didn't quite do the job.
Soon after changing, I followed Dr. Graves out of the room and down the hallway. He still seemed slightly put off, and I was beginning to think that maybe he was still a little upset about our little blow out from the previous day. He was somewhat colder than he would normally be and I couldn't help but feel as though he was on edge about something.
"Are you alright?" I asked in a removed manner, trying to see if his hostility was directed towards me.
"I'm fine Raven," he replied giving me a false smile, "just having a rough day is all." I could feel that though there was something wrong, it didn't have much to do with me, but it still had something to do with me.
"I can understand how that might feel." The elevator door opened and we both stepped out into the lobby of the medical ward.
"You probably could, but it's my job to understand you, not for you to understand me," he sighed leading me to his office.
"Yes, but you know it couldn't hurt."
These words caused him to look back at me and smile with some sincerity, "It actually could."
I looked at him with my eyes squinted, as though trying to see something too small for his words to describe and replied, "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing, I just have to keep the line between friend and patient clear. If I get too personal with you, then you could get the idea that we're friends."
"I know we're not friends, so you don't have to worry about me becoming attached to you, but if you'd let me see your humanity more, I might just learn to trust you." I replied using the trust card to my advantage for once.
He stopped and turned to face me, I could see something break in his eyes as he said with a light laugh, "That would mean we were friends."
I shook my head at him and the fact he was mostly right. I know in his line of work he has to keep the line between friend and care giver pretty clear, with little room for negotiation. A good deal of mental health patients can struggle with this line and if a care giver gets too involved it can become quite blurred. This lack of clarity can cause a patient to think of their doctor as more than just a care provider. In cases like these, the end result could be catastrophic for both, the patient and the doctor. However this is not so much the case for people like me. I don't make friends easily and I don't form emotional attachments to people in short periods of time, if at all. I'm quite the opposite. Therefore I need to see a person for who they are in order to trust them and even at that I keep a more realistic set of expectation. I know this man is my doctor; he is not my friend, because he is nothing more than my doctor. But it wouldn't kill him to show me that he is human.
"Well we're not friends," I said walking past him and rolling my eyes, "I get it, you keep up this front so that your patients can't become attached to you, but I promise you that I won't, I hardly even like you."
"Good, that means I'm doing my job."
"Then what does it mean if I hate you?" I replied, taking the lead in our conversation.
"That depends on why you hate me," he laughed ironically, "If it's because I'm making you see the error of your ways, then I'm doing my job. If it's because I'm not listening to you, or abusing my power, then I'm not doing my job."
"That sounds about right," I said referring to Dr. Quinzel.
"I know it does, but I can't help you if you like me too much, as well as if…"
"I hate you too much, I get it," I sighed cutting him as we approached the door. I looked back at him one more time before opening it. "But I still have to trust you doctor, and I really can't do that if I feel like you're hiding something from me."
Before he could respond, I opened the door and slipped inside the stark office. I could sense that my words provoked a wave of conflict over the poor man. He had to be ethical and moral, yet he knew that sometimes the line between moral and ethical was one that could be unclear. Maybe I was asking too much from him, maybe he thought I was trying to get him to falter and make a bad judgment call? Maybe we both just don't trust each other, I wouldn't trust me if I were him, and the truth was neither would him if the roles were reversed.
I closed the door noticing the broad, dark haired man inhabiting the room as he turned his head in my direction. I found myself a little startled at first, not because I wasn't expecting him to be there, but there was something dark in his eyes that caught me off guard. Yet as soon as I saw it, it faded away, but it was still enough to make me stop dead in my tracks.
The man smiled at me and I moved forward and slowly took a seat across from him. He was quite good looking with a chiseled bone structure and dark blue eyes that stood out against his jet black hair. As I observed his features I could tell he was observing mine as well.
I took a deep breath and gathered my curiosity as I said, "So you wished to speak with me Mr. Wayne?"
A/N: I hope you enjoyed that now as promised here is a passage from the my New Story Don't Break the Oath (a Teen Titan horror fanfiction)
Raven walked the dark street alone under the menacing moonlight. The old dirt road left little comfort as it was tunneled by thick trees, leaving a thin path that seemed to cave in on her. She felt uneasy as her steps quickened and the silence grew even more haunting with every step. Not a soul could be seen in sight and the only light was coming from the very few street lamps that dimly lit the way (most of which flickered and threatened to burn out, leaving her to the night's mercy.)
In the distance a faint symphony of voices could be heard singing through the darkness. Still, there was no one to be seen, but the shadows that loomed around her. Raven began to follow the voices as they grew closer. The singing was sinister as the lyrics began to reveal themselves as an old nursery rhyme. Their rhythm seemed unnatural and robotic leaving a chill on her spine that wouldn't subside.
As her steps brought her further she peered through the threes, looking for something that went unseen by her own eyes. Only finding more shadows looking back at her from their dark corners where she dare not go. After following the sound, she finally felt a presence that was close, too close. She paused and looked from side to side trying to locate the source of the voices.
She paused when she reached the end of the road to find an old abandoned house. The Victorian style structure stood tall in the night. Its white paint took on hues of gray in the blue cast of the moonlight with its windows blinded by plywood and nails. Leaving the house constructed in a dark eerie manner. As Raven stood before its darkness, she felt something familiar calling her in. Still she couldn't quite bring herself to enter the broken building, even with its haunting nostalgic nature pulling at her will.
Raven took a deep breath and turned around, only to find that she truly wasn't alone. In front of her stood three small children, each of them a different age. They stood directly under the flickering street light and didn't say a word. The tallest and presumed oldest stood in the middle, flanked by a small girl with pigtails, wearing a white dress and a slightly younger boy in overalls. In the oldest boy's hands he held a box that radiated of evil, which caused Raven to shudder. All three held their heads downward, keeping their eyes from her sight.
Raven wasn't sure why, but she found herself frightened of the three children in front of her. They seemed odd and unnatural, their skin was a stark white that lacked life and appeared slightly blue under the street light. As though the very warmth of breath didn't exist within them. Her fear only grow more as all three looked up at her to reveal the solid, black eyes that burned her with their sinister stares.
Raven gasped and drew back, holding her arm up like a shield. The children didn't move, but refused to take their soulless eyes off her. The tallest one held out the old box and said in a mature voice that lacked any childish virtue, "We are coming to collect you."
If you are interested in reading further please read Don't Break the Oath :)