ST. JUDE'S SANITARIUM, KENNEDY

The clock on that wall spoke to him; its arms stretched out like some bastard had stapled the poor soul in place through the heart. Time: it had always puzzled him. Who controlled it? They all ran by what the needles said, what label was stuck on the pill pot. The slop of today's shit feast as it slapped the plastic trays, cleaned after every 'meal' and re-used, each patient with their very own. Did anyone ever look at the time? Did they care? Was their time the swallow and spit, was their time the piss brought on by the special juice, was it when they gathered in their circles to talk about yesterday's news and years old feelings which happened twenty four hours before? He sat, and he stared at that clock, his eyes hooded, head tilted up a little, mouth open. Saliva ran from the corner of his lips and he was their statue – a monument to madness. Every second that passed he saw as the third hand twitched to the right.

That was what a second felt like – nothing at all. But they counted up, and it widened his eyes and panicked him how quickly they shot past. Seconds became minutes and within minutes they became hours. His head cocked to one side, observed the infinity long movement of the minute hand. It never stopped; it was only when you watched you saw that. Like the crack in the wall, it was something he'd never seen before. He'd watched time pass a thousand times, but never like this. This time passed even when nothing at all happened. Even as he sat with a vacant stare. The sound – that tick - it was a hammer on slate. It was so loud it made him flinch.

'Penny for your thoughts?'

'I don't know if I'll have any later on.'

She knelt down beside him, and took his hand, she placed it in her lap, and held it delicately with her fingers, studied it with intensity that felt like it was burning him.

'Searching for my future?'

'Remembering what you feel like,' she admitted. AJ bit her lip and looked up to him, one of those hands drifted to his face, moved his crazy hair from those crazy eyes. 'Remembering what you look like.' She leaned in gently, her face to the crook of his neck, nose barely an inch from his skin; her gentle exhalations made hairs stand on end. 'What you smell like,' she moved a finger to his split upper lip and traced it slowly. 'What you sound like, and...' she caught herself, and he found their gazes locked.

'And?'

'What you -,' she leaned in, her eyes dropped to a close; he could damn near hear her heartbeat. It hammered louder than the clock, ticking their precious seconds away. She knew him so well, why take the trouble, the time to memorize him? Her touch bruised, and as she came closer, he was static. Her lips, they looked like someone had blistered them with heat – she'd always been soft before. So soft, he could remember watching her talk, studying those lips. 'What you taste like...'

She was inches away; he could feel her breath on his face, the anticipation as her mouth moved closer, closer to his.

'What happened to you AJ?'

She stopped, 'What?'

'When Regal took you away...when I left, what happened to you?'

'What does it matter? It happened...we're here now Dean. The past is past, the present is now. This future you have...it's coming closer and closer and we can't stop it and you want to talk about the past?' her long hair flowed over her shoulders, the very passage of time itself, moving further and further away from the point of origin, the very beginning, and drifting, lonely and long through existence, no real purpose, other than to move, to grow, to continue.

'It's what matters to me AJ,' Dean's hand reached out, the rough bud of his index finger against her lower lip, pressed hard, watched how she recoiled back. 'What did he do?'

She sat on her feet, fingers laced in her lap, stared emptily at the wall before her; saw straight through the other bodies. There was no one else in that room apart from her, the white all around a canvas for the memories, the horrors he saw reflected in her eyes.

'He came to find me in my room. Told me something was happening, that people were breaking into St. Jude's, that the orderlies were rounding everyone up. He told me I had to go with him, and that we were in lockdown. I wanted to find you, told him so...but he refused to let me look. I tried to fight him...but the needles found me. I saw lights Dean...they were so pretty above me, but then I saw him too. He laughed at me Dean...'

'I don't...'

He stopped. Yes, he did. He saw it all in her face, the way she couldn't look at him, the hand which drifted to her stomach, as if something had been cut out of her long before. A piece of her that was missing.

'AJ...' he pulled her in, a gasp of breath escaped him, he held her close, her head on his shoulder, the world between them forced to compress as their two hearts collided. That was it, the story of the evil which lurked in the halls of St. Jude's. There were no ghosts; there was no madness except in what was inflicted. He knew the devil; he'd tasted his flesh. If he let her go now, she would forever be in the clutches of lunacy, of the nails which tore her skin, the hands which stroked her flesh and her hair. That called her one of my very favourites. 'I'll kill him. I'll kill him.'

She shook her head as he rocked her. 'It's the past Dean,' her voice was hollow, 'don't take it personally...it wasn't the first time.'

He became still as stone, as marble, as the entire void that was space. There was no explosion, there was no astronomical bang, nothing but the cold hard truth as it slipped from her tongue and into his ear. The sickening realization was the earth in his gut; he'd never noticed before. He'd never stopped and looked at her, really looked through those brown orbs and seen the agony which hid there, the screaming young woman, violated and damaged. He'd been too selfish to ever see, because he'd wanted all her love for himself, and never thought to give anything back but his loyalty.

'Dean, it's not your fault.' She had him by the shoulders, looked him dead in the eye. 'You have to believe me. None of this is your fault. You understand?' she shook him hard. 'It's not your fault, you've never done anything to hurt me, you've never done anything wrong.'

He couldn't summon words.

'You made it easier, just by being there. You were my distraction, my project, Dean if it weren't for you I would be dead. I'd have let him beat me. I'd have found my way into that special cupboard; I'd have swallowed every single needle, crushed and sniffed every drug. But you reminded me that I had something to be thankful; your friendship, your trust, your goddamn beautiful face, Dean I never forgot you, not a single hair or scar. You stayed with me even when you were gone, and every time it happened, when he crept into my head, you were there too, fighting him off. You're my happiest memory. The brightest spark. To me, Dean, you are colour.'

Salty water rolled down his face, her cheek. Bewilderment settled in his eyes, he couldn't understand, couldn't take it in, and couldn't comprehend. She'd never said so much. But every word had been with so much, like she'd taken her soul and crushed it between her two hands, used the dust to forge every letter.

Seconds, precious seconds were wasted. He couldn't use them to tell her anything, words were caught in his unsuspecting throat that was so dry he thought he might choke. Her admission, her truth, it drove through minutes and ploughed through the drum of that clock. He could feel her against him, her hands as they twisted and gripped the shoulder fabric of his scrubs. Her fear, her loathing, her love, her madness, her brilliant and beautiful insanity, all manufactured by those walls, by the devil in the details.

'Say something,' she whispered, 'please for the love of God say something.'

But there were no words. Nothing he could say could express the turmoil, the bittersweet snap of his heart and mind. He didn't have rational thought, he had emotion. He had a thousand armies behind every sneer and every raised fist; he had a terrified child behind his fear. He had a woman in his arms for the curious and crushing feeling that hurt his heart. She was against him, he held her so tight he didn't want to let go, and when he knew it wasn't enough just to hold her, he pulled away. He saw her.

After all the time they'd shared, and all those precious seconds which had slipped through his rough hands and damaged fingers, all the minutes that had been wasted on shit that didn't matter, and the hours spent fighting battles he thought were worth it, he finally saw her.

'You're red.' He whispered. That was what he saw. He saw scarlet heat and hateful blood, he saw loving crimson and burning spirit. 'You're red and you're war.'

Her lips were battle forged, and their touch was like the full bellied cry of victory. He tasted her tears, felt every piece of old and new skin of her mouth. There was nothing gentle about the truth. Her breath was stale. Her kiss hurt him, but pain was nothing. War; that was life, that was reality beyond the walls where you could see stars in the sky, and you paid for every second you walked the asphalt. You picked your wars, and he'd been through so many for stupid, forgettable reasons, but he memorized her as the door opened, as the men in white poured in, as rough hands gripped him and pulled him back, as she screamed and bucked and kicked and called his name. He found his face pressed against the carpet as the fibres clawed his skin and stitches. They forced on the restraints, held up that shining needle to the light. But a face interrupted those false stars, a sneering, laughing face.

'It's time Mr Ambrose. And I'm so very, very looking forward to this.'

He saw her as the needle went in. He saw her fight. He saw her blistered lips. She was red. She was war. She was red. She was war. She...was red. She was war.

She was red.

She was war.

She was red.

He...they...she...this...this was war.