AN: Okay, here it is, the final chapter. I'm sorry if anyone is disappointed with the way it ends, but I always planned to end it like this. I've had a lot of fun writing this story, and I really appreciate all the feedback you've given me. Thanks for reading, I hope you've enjoyed it.
Lisa's hair had grown considerably in the passing years, creating a stark contrast to the child she used to be. Ironically, she looked more youthful at the age of twenty-three, than she had done as a naive seventeen year old.
Having traded in her LPN badge for a green band emblazened with the letters SP, the woman had now become a specialist practitioner. Her mother had been proud, as expected, but the cracks were beginning to show behind that painted grin, a portrait of fallacy that never betrayed how the nurse truly felt.
Each day she would drag herself out of bed, scaling the mountain of doubt that led to Alchemilla, only to tumble back down each evening, teetering on a tightrope that threatened to snap at any moment, sending her spiralling into oblivion.
With time, Alessa had also changed. Physically a fourteen year old girl, her chest had blossomed with puberty, limbs lengthening as her dark hair lay splayed across the mattress. However, those haunted eyes remained in a constant state of turmoil, flickering between consciousness as she wavered in and out of sleep.
Sometimes she would twitch, her body spasming as damaged nerves acted without consent. The drip in her arm was filled with useless fluid, superfluous as it were to someone with the ability to live eternally.
Lisa regularly cried herself to sleep. Occasionally she heard Alessa sobbing. Dahlia came to visit once, and she could have sworn the child called out for her mother, a pitiful whisper that could barely be heard over the sound of her beating heart.
Though still horribly scarred, Alessa's skin had slowly started to heal, most likely a result of her otherworldly powers. She was more aware of her surroundings, pupils staring directly at her carer as the woman moved to change her bandages.
It unnerved the nurse, who continuously looked away.
Kaufman himself became far more withdrawn. There were days when he wouldn't even resort to blackmail, merely handing her the PTV when she requested it. Soon Lisa began to notice a pattern, aware that the director's mood would often sour whenever the older Gillespie required his attention.
Dahlia would often ring to discuss Alessa, and despite hearing only half a conversation, she knew who was speaking from the way the doctor reacted. Short-tempered and agitated, constantly deriding the mother for her complicated speech patterns.
She remembered watching as he irately slammed the phone back on the receiver, almost shattering the sturdy plastic as he stormed out of the hospital to deal with whatever menial task Dahlia had requested of him. When the man returned, he was carrying a vial of exotic fluid. Red in hue, not unlike liquid PTV, but somehow lacking the drug's familiarity.
She was under the impression that he didn't want Dahlia to know of it, for when he caught her spying, he demanded she keep quiet, ushering her out of his office whilst he concealed it someplace safe.
Aglaophotis. That was it's name. She didn't understand what it was for, but she had heard him mumbling incoherently from beyond the dense wood of his door, cursing Dahlia as he muttered something about a contingency plan.
A search of the library turned up little information, but she assumed it came from some sort of plant, similar to White Claudia. Regardless, she didn't speak a word of it to the director, refusing to further involve herself in his affairs.
She gave up trying to fight him.
One day she would summon the courage to expel all of her bitterness and hatred, only to later grovel on her knees when she needed a hit. How many times had she threatened to leave? Eventually, her words lost all meaning, and Kaufman simply shrugged them off, patiently waiting for the next time she would plead for another bag of white powder.
Sometimes her thoughts would drift to Travis, and she would ponder whether the man ever discovered the truth about the child, or whether he remained blissfully ignorant of the whole facade. Kaufman seemed irate whenever she brought up the topic, dissuading her from further pursuing the subject. He had, for unknown reasons, an inherent dislike of the man.
Day after day she would wander the bitter walls of Alchemilla, working like a well oiled machine that was slowly grinding to a halt. Care for Alessa, take a hit, go home, wallow in self-pity. It was a never ending cycle, as though she were destined to repeat the same routine for all eternity. A wretched and despondent existence.
Perhaps this was the reason she locked herself in the examination room one evening, head thumping from a combination of stress and withdrawal. Her entire body heavy with lethargy, like Atlas forced to carry the world on his back. Palms flat on a wooden desk, she keeled over to inhale the powder she had laid out.
It was a much larger dose than usual, a terrible risk resulting from the need to escape the drudgery of everyday life. At first there was a high, but the low swept her off her feet like a tsunami crashing down from above, powerful and overwhelming.
Images flashed before her eyes, visions of tattered bandages and weeping wounds transforming into vicious tendrils that whipped at her flesh. Horrid, blood soaked teeth grinned at her as insects emerged from every orifice. The room fell into darkness, and she fumbled for a light, watching as the room tunnelled into black.
She was drowning, but no amount of scrambling could help her reach the surface. Lungs full of water, or was it vomit? Choking, coughing, spluttering as brittle nails marked the tile, clawing desperately as her head hit the floor. Laughing voices, whispers, gurgling. A hellish chorus that drowned out the sound of her own fading pulse.
Then came a sudden jolt, and she was lost.
When she awoke, the lights were out. The door was jammed, and she couldn't seem to find a key. Bile rose in her throat, and she struggled to remember where she was, how she got there. Scared and alone, she hid beneath the desk like a cowering child, listening to the distant sound of mechanical whirring and eerie ambiance.
Cold sweat trickled down her nape, assuring her that the world she knew was gone, replaced with unyielding fear of the unknown. In the corner, she saw the figure of a girl draped in blue, flickering briefly before vanishing amongst the collecting shadows. Who was she? It was a face the nurse could not recall, though it held some semblance of recognition.
The handle rattled, door creaking open to reveal a bright light illuminating the darkness. A torch, bright and invading, caught her in it's sights, highlighting the kneeling woman straining to peer past the blinding beam.
It was a man.