He hates roaming these halls after dark; but he keeps it to himself. It would do him no good to complain about it to anyone; as if he had anyone willing to listen to his hangups.
(As if he'd willingly tell anyone, either.)
It's an easy job. That doesn't mean it's ideal. Or that he's ever felt comfortable. The hallways always feel twenty degrees colder than his quarters. And he enters and exits the rooms so swiftly he's beginning to wonder when he's going to be questioned about whether he's actually doing his job.
Half the time there isn't much to clean, and he isn't allowed to touch or interact with the patients. They're so drugged up half of the time they usually just lay there. It works well for him. Not many of them question or speak to him, usually ignoring him entirely. The ones lucid enough to acknowledge him are the ones that usually get pinned by an orderly or two while he rids the room of whatever item it is they've destroyed that day.
He's only in charge of keeping the general state of the hospital tidy. It's the nurses and medical personnel who are in charge of the actual patients that they treat there.
If anyone who works in this place is going to be questioned about the effectiveness of their roles, it isn't about to be him.
Sometimes he finds himself embarrassed, overcome with regrets and frustration. Once upon a time he'd turned his nose up at the idea men who elected to work these worthless occupations instead of seeking out a truer and higher purpose.
He'd served proudly and well. Climbed the ranks quickly, men falling in line after him as he talked his way to his successes.
Some days he wants to go back in time, even if only to wring his own neck. The cocky, smug bastard had been a fool.
Wrapping three working fingers around his mop handle, he silently cleans the floors.
A door slams at the opposite end of the hallway and Jasper jumps, the harsh noise piercing straight through him. It takes him a few seconds of steady breathing to regain his bearings. He pretends not to notice the way the doctor and the orderly glance strangely at him as they pass. He simply stands still, hunched in on himself as to not attract too much attention—a difficult feat; he towers over most of the other staff—and waits.
They were in the little girl's room. It's the only one he hasn't gone in yet. (He hates going in there. She's always too lucid. Too aware.)
But now that the doctor is gone he quickly finishes cleaning the hallway, gathering his supplies and making his way down the freezing hall.
She's not waiting for him, like she usually is, sitting ramrod straight as she stares at him from her cot in the corner of the room, pupils blown wide from whatever medicines are flowing through her system.
Today she lies prone, entirely unconscious, curled in on herself. He moves much quieter at this, not wanting to wake her. It's mainly for his own benefit—he hates how she stares at him most days. Most people take in his appearance with either disgust or sympathy echoing back on their faces. Most people never stare for too long; even the patients here.
The girl stares constantly. Never taking her eyes off him when he enters to spend a quick three minutes sweeping and mopping her tiny space.
He's glad for the break in her surveillance. He'd felt particularly antsy when he'd woken that morning. He'd barked back at one of their more insane patients—a man who just wouldn't shut up when Jasper had walked in—and had been on edge ever since. Guilt still dances on the edge of his mind for shouting at the old lunatic.
Of course, he's heard people do far worse through the thin walls.
He tries not to think about it.
It's when he turns to leave, the girl's room marked off of his mental checklist, when he hears it.
It's spoken so softly it's almost a whisper, falling from her mouth in the midst of her sleep. But it's so clear, cutting through the haze of his day, he almost drops his supplies.
"Jasper."
He half-runs back to his quarters, work decidedly done for the day while he forces his heart rate to slow.
He doesn't know what he's afraid of, and for hours he berates himself for his cowardice. But even now, as he watches dust settle on the windowsill, the sun not too far from rising, his fear is planted firmly in his chest.
He's half-certain the specific doctor that tends to the girl doesn't even know his name. Only a handful of nurses ever introduced themselves to him, and in turn, him to them. He's entirely certain that most of them never bothered to remember it.
When he's spoken to it's usually under the name "caretaker" or "janitor", both terms he's beginning to respond to without even thinking. He's alright with this. Anything to keep his mind off who is his—who he was. Anything to distract him from what it is to be a person.
He hasn't heard his name spoken since the week he was hired, nearly three months earlier.
Days later, when he's made his way around the entire building, working his way back to her floor, he eyes her door. It's the last one on the left at the end of the hallway. Usually, he works his way from there back toward the stairs.
Today he skips her room.
He doesn't care if he's reprimanded, and truly he could avoid the room for a month with no one noticing. She's among the most tame of the lunatics and he's never seen her leave the bed. There are no messes being made; her impact on her surroundings is insignificant.
As his mind wanders, he realizes acutely that skipping the room indefinitely may not be wise, but he knows his employer would never notice, or care.
And he fully plans on never seeing her again.
It's night the next time he's in the hallway. It's always easiest to start in the rooms and clean the hallway piece by piece as he travels back toward his exit.
Tonight he's halfway down the hallway when he feels it.
The hairs on the back of his neck rise and suddenly he want to hold very, very still. He doesn't know what compels him to look—there is no sound, no passing wind, nothing but a feeling—but when his eyes find the figure standing at the end of the hallway, he feels his blood freeze in his veins.
He blinks a few times. He's seeing things. He has to be.
It's the silhouette of a man. He is tall, a towering shadow against the far end of the hall. He takes an even step toward one of the rooms and then his head turns.
Jasper has one second to acknowledge the red glowing eyes, glaring at him in the darkness. He blinks, and the man is gone.
It's several seconds of stillness, staring frozen into the darkness, before he gathers up his supplies and leaves.
His steps are slow and uneven, his work once more left abandoned as he walks through the hallway. He's trying not to think about the man, but it's a futile effort.
The red eyes are burned into his psyche.
He feels haunted as he lets the door to the stairwell close behind him. He doesn't know what possesses him to turn, but when he does, his eyes stare through the tiny sliver of window carved into the door, and he feels the ice in his veins painfully.
It's the little girl.
She's outside her room.
He blinks again and the man is there again, standing behind her, red eyes glaring toward him.
When he blinks once more, and the silhouette disappears, he runs.
He avoids the entire floor for almost eight days before one of the nurses irritably tracks him down across the campus, informing him that there are a surplus of soiled sheets that need to be laundered. And two rooms, she notes to him quickly, are vacant now. In need of a proper scrubbing before new patients arrive.
He moves slowly, gathering his supplies up as he readies himself to make his way back to the haunted hallway.
He's always prided himself on being a man of logic, not one to waste time on the unexplainable. On things that didn't make sense.
But he's positive he's seen a demon in this hospital, and there's nothing he can do now but pray the bright sun outside is enough to keep this monster at bay.
He wonders if spending so much time in such close quarters with the crazies is starting to alter his mind as well. There hadn't been much left to his state of mind after the war took it's toll, but he's certain he possessed some shred of sanity before taking up this job.
He's dreamt of the demon every night since finding it. The little girl's screams sound the same in each dream, and the guilt that he wakes up with each morning is imaginary. There's nothing normal about the heaviness of the emotion that he feels when he lets his mind wander to her tiny frame.
Declaring a room vacancy carries the same meaning as pronouncing the dead.
He's certain, as he makes his way toward the hallway, that one of two things have happened.
The monster has driven two people truly mad, long past the point of saving. Or they've been murdered by it.
Either way, he can feel the death in the air when he finally makes his way to the fourth floor. It's something that only a man who has been at war would know.
He starts with the vacancies. He'll finish up the floor quickly after that and then be out of there…
The first room is already mostly bare. He gathers the dirty linen from the corner, and it only takes him a handful of minutes to tidy the place. There had been an old, withered man in this room. He'd groaned and moaned with some sort of pain or agony, day in day out.
Whether the man's pain was mental or physical, Jasper could never tell.
The next room is directly across from the little girl's.
He doesn't realize he's trembling with relief until he's fumbling with his key ring, opening the door to the room. All while trying to ignore the fact that she's still there, alive, behind the door across from this one.
But his feet grind to a halt as he moves to place his supplies down in the doorway. The room is riddled with gore. Whatever happened in here was not a quiet, easy passing.
There is blood splattered against the wall and bed frame, a pool of it lying cool and hard in the center of the room.
Instantly, he checks his own hands, still scarred and withered, but clean. He doesn't realize he's breathing heavily until a sound rips him from his panic.
It's a knocking, and it's so light but so clear. He knows immediately that it comes from the girl and when he moves his feet, nearly dragging them behind him, he's suddenly in front of her door.
He can't find her at first, staring through the tiny window, but when she moves backward into his sight, he startles. He'd been staring directly over her head.
She doesn't flinch at his reaction, continuing to move backwards until she's beside her tiny cot.
Her eyes, usually so wide and black look different today. It's when he realizes he can see the blue in them that his eyes falls to the rest of her face. Her cheeks are hollow and her skin tone is sallow, but there's more life to her today than he's ever seen. Her black hair is a complete mess, cut close to her scalp.
She's tiny, he notes as he takes in her entire appearance for the first time in months, but as he looks up at her face again he forces himself to finally turn away.
There is no smile on her face, but in her eyes the emotion is unmistakable.
It takes him over an hour to clean the room across from hers, and even as he's done there's still a stain on the tile. He'll have to inform his employer that it might take another day of scrubbing to get it up fully, and he hopes that the room isn't needed by the night.
When he tells the bearded man this, his frown deepens. He says nothing, only nodding, his expression severe. Jasper knows better than to ask the patient's fate. It will not do him any good to know, so he keeps his morbid curiosity to himself.
He picks a spot to stare at on the man's bright white coat, waiting to be dismissed.
The doctor grunts, clearing his throat. "I know this place groans at night. Full of whispers and noises. I need you to keep an eye out for anything. People, animals, anything wandering these halls that doesn't belong. Can you do that for me, boy?"
Jasper nods firmly, straightening up to the best of his ability—old injuries still groan at the effort—his tongue heavy when he speaks. "Yes, sir."
"And make sure those doors stay locked."
"Always, sir."
The man nods again, still frowning, and waves his hand toward Jasper. It's as much of a dismissal as he needs. He tries to keep his posture upright and his limp minimal as he turns and walks out of the office. But despite his cool demeanor his mind is running wild.
He doesn't know why he doesn't tell the man of the demon he saw.
But he's not looking to be committed, too.
He returns to the hall the very next day. He had been tired as he'd made his way down the west side of the hallway the night before, quickly cleaning the rooms after he'd scrubbed yellow cloths until they were a rusty red shade. When the sun had began to set he'd called it a night, reporting to his employer, not about to stick around to see what nighttime had to offer in that haunted hall.
It was early today. Earlier than he usually arrives as he makes his way down the hallway, one room at a time, slowly approaching the end. He figures that in getting this portion of the hospital finished with early, he'll be able to move on and salvage what's left of his day without nervousness plaguing him.
He knows he's going to have to see her again and he silently prays she's sleeping.
Of course, she isn't. He meets her eyes before he unlocks her door, and when he closes the two of them in there, his keys suddenly feel very heavy at his hip.
She's staring, like she always does. Something is different though, and he hates the feeling of being watched as he quickly cleans.
"You missed a spot."
He freezes as she speaks.
She's never spoken to him. Other than the night she'd whispered his name the only time he's imagined her voice is in sleep, when nightmares add her to the growing list of things that haunt him in the night.
Her voice is high and bright, but it's not a child's voice. He forces himself to look at her, ignoring the mop in his grip. It's strange to look at her and finally feel as if he's seeing her.
Because he quickly realizes she's not just staring, she's also seeing him.
He can't help but find himself wondering whether they're changing her treatment methods when she shifts on the bed, pulling her feet underneath herself to sit on them. It only gives her a few inches of height, and he's still towering over her where he stands, only feet away. But for some reason the motion unsettles him further.
Slowly she lifts a skinny arm and points a finger behind his feet. He almost doesn't want to look, afraid that if he takes his attention off of her, she might try something.
What, he doesn't know. Still, he feels like a fool for looking, and hates that she's right. A triangular dry spot on the floor hasn't been touched with the dampness of the mop.
He clenches his jaw shut and quickly runs the mop over the spot. Turning back toward him, he sees it again; the smile in her eyes. Only now, it looks ready to burst forward across the rest of her face as well.
He can't help the swell of confusion that stuns him when he registers how happy she looks. He simply tries to blame whatever medications they likely have her on.
"Sorry," and the smile breaks through. She coughs, trying to his it behind an elbow. "I know men don't like being told how to do their job."
"S'fine," he rasps the word out, not knowing what else to say. He knows she's a crazy person and that he's not supposed to talk to her, so now he chews his lip, knowing he needs to tread lightly. But he can't help but feel compelled to give her more than that. He tries to clear his throat silently, but instead he makes an almost-painful sounding grunt. "I want to do it right."
"You do," she's quick to assure him. "Things get dusty when you're gone for too long." She coughs again, and it's more genuine this time. He waits for her to stop. "Makes the air in here stale."
He tips his head toward her, "My apologies, ma'am." When he lifts his head back up, he forces himself to immediately look away from her. He can't believe how happy she looks.
It's the most lucid he's ever seen her and for a split second he's struck with the fact that if it weren't for their setting, this would seem like a normal conversation.
A normal girl.
But she's not. She's sick. Even outside of the asylum setting one look at her would've let him know she's not a healthy person. With the amount of nurses and orderlies warning him against interacting with the patients, he has to remind himself that this girl might seem normal, but she's not.
"Thank you," she breathes the word out with a smile as he gathers his items and turns to leave. It's a strange feeling that envelopes him as he turns and nods to her once more.
He doesn't understand the foreign feeling that lingers in his chest for the rest of the morning, not fading until night is almost upon them, but he clings to it.
Winter will not end for almost two more months. The bitter cold is still holding all forms of life hostage in the outside world, plants frozen over in order to preserve themselves. But still, he has to make himself familiar with the tasks he'll be performing come spring.
He realizes one day, with acute disappointment, as he's cleaning off a set of dirty tools, that he'll need to split his time evenly between the inside and the outside of the building. Less time cleaning should've invigorated him. But less time cleaning means less trips to that haunted hall.
Less opportunities to see the girl's face.
He nearly embeds a pair of shears into the far wall of the service shack, suddenly overwhelmed with the anger he feels at himself and at what he's become.
He'd once been a proud, handsome man. With soldiers under his command and the promise of power warming his chest.
Now he creeps along halls, cleaning up after society's most pitiful, with a lunatic becoming the brightest beacon of hope for him.
It's shameful.
Wringing his hands out he stands and exits the shed. The service area is dead and brown. He won't have grass to tend to for several more weeks. He still has more time to wander and clean and see her.
No matter how much he hates himself for the disappointment that blooms as he thinks of his want, he knows there's no ridding himself of it.
He knows this in the same way he knows the sun will soon set and then rise by morning. It's an inevitable fate.
Eyes lifting toward the large, brick hospital, his eyes trail over the windows. They settle on one, second from the top, all the way to the left. He stares for a few minutes before moving on.
He wants to blame loneliness, but maybe this is what was meant for him all along. A long road that leads to a depressing end. Longing after a girl he doesn't know whose mind is lost.
There's a particular smell to each of the wings of the hospital, and sometimes to each floor, too. Most of them are rotten, dirty smells. Some are stale but not unclean.
The patients are categorized and labeled accordingly. There's the sick and weak and there's the dirty and lame; those two categories of patients occupy the entirety of the top floor. (It's his least favorite one to be on—death and sorrow linger too heavily in the air.) The bottom floors are reserved for the more unseemly patients. There are the agitated, and then the almost-quiet.
He isn't sure how the lines are drawn to make those two distinctions, but both groups are noisy on most days and intolerable on some.
The floor she's on—the quiet, these patients are called—usually is cleanest. Partly due to the fact that these patients were the least prone to violence, the most left alone, and generally quieter in their lunacy.
And partly due to the fact that he makes any excuse he can to clean it.
He has only seen the girl a handful of times in the past couple of weeks. During his first visit after their encounter she'd been unconscious again. He lingered a few minutes, hoping she'd speak his name again, but instead he was left disappointed.
The following two times had been much like the beginning. She'd sat up, wide-eyed and staring, her pupils blown wide as she barely registered his presence. Each time he left, he did so with his disappointment heavier than the last time.
But he knows that those eyes aren't normally so hollow. And he knows that she knows his name and can hold a conversation, so he simply keeps visiting her.
It's later than usual this night when he visits. When he steps foot in the hallway he has to actively remind himself that he's there to work. That he has a job to do. But on this night his work is a little sloppy, and his cleaning is a little less thorough.
He fears she's still caught in a haze so he saves her room for last. That way, if she is sat up and stunned, he can still linger for a handful of minutes.
He unlocks her door and swiftly closes it behind him. He doesn't even register the fact that his supplies are still left out in the hall, all he can think about is how she's sitting up in her bed, but she's seeing him.
He holds his breath as he stares at her and she smiles and he swears he's never felt such warmth.
"You came." She says it as if she's been expecting him, and his heart rate quickens at the idea, no matter how preposterous.
He nods quickly, wishing he had something to do with his hands—he'll have to retrieve his supplies from the hall but he doesn't want to interrupt this moment. He'll do it in a minute. "I have a job to do."
She looks past him, as if also noting his lack of supplies and her smile grows wider as her eyes drag toward the closed door. "Do you now?"
Now, he's embarrassed. He ducks his head and quickly lets himself out of the room (it's a miracle he doesn't drop the keys) to quickly snatch up his items. By the time he turns back toward her, closing the door behind him once more she looks to be on the verge of laughter.
How badly he wants to hear it stuns him…
"I never introduced myself," she smiles politely before she's hopping down off of her bed. He knows he should back away from her approaching form but he can't help how blissful his relief at her awareness has made him. She holds out a hand as she approaches. "I'm Alice."
The moment he lifts his hand and takes hers in his own, he knows something is happening here that is irreversible. That this is a path he will not be able to turn back from. But her cold, bony hand feels like it belongs, grasped tightly in his scarred, crooked one.
He brings her hand to his mouth, brushing his lips against her knuckles and she sighs happily at the movement.
"I've been waiting for you."
He visits almost daily now. He is nervous that a nurse or doctor will comment, or that he will be needed elsewhere and they'll find him with her. But nobody glances twice at him as he creeps through the hallways. It doesn't matter if he has his supplies or not. He's simply become part of the scenery for these workers.
Their oversight serves him well.
He never stays for long. He'd nearly lingered for close to ten minutes the night before, only to have paranoia creep up on him, forcing him out of the room and back to his quarters swiftly.
Whether it is a testament to his growing instability or proof that he doesn't truly understand what it meant to be 'healthy', the more time he spends with her, the more normal she seems.
She speaks longingly about her Mississippi home. She speaks about not remembering much—the treatments, she claims, leave holes in her memory—but of missing the feeling of home and the warmth and comfort of things being in their right place.
There are people, too, she claims. She can't recall faces and names. Only emotions. It pains him to see her seek out names in her memory only to find nothing, but she's always quick to recover.
He never asks her why she's there or what her ailments are. It works better to simply ignore her sickness and enjoy her company. It's a twisted way to see things, but he takes pleasure in their daily chats. And if anything, Jasper is selfish and a fool to boot. He'll easily ignore the reality of their situation if it means he gets some sort of joy or satisfaction from it.
She's lying prone that night when he enters the room. He's only brought a few rags and some cleaner; only to give him an alibi if he's discovered and questioned.
It pains him to see her face scrunched up, and when she whimpers unconsciously, Jasper settles himself against the far wall and waits. He can never predict what her state will be before he enters, and if this is another day he spends silent, staring at her prone form, then so be it.
He wishes there were something he could do, especially when tears find their way to her face as she cries in her sleep. There's a place in his ribcage that ages as he watches each tear streak down her face onto the bed beneath her.
It's when she cries his name that he can't stand by idly anymore. He's beside her bed in an instant, one hand on her shoulder, the other reaching for one of her curled-in fists. He's crossing countless lines now, but he doesn't let that stop him.
The only thing he cares about is the tiny, broken girl on the bed in front of him.
"Alice," he tries rousing her from sleep, "it's okay. Alice. Alice."
She sits up with a gasp and it takes her a few seconds to realize his presence. "Oh," she cries, tears flowing anew, "you're really here this time."
The statement should make warning bells go off inside his head but instead he nods, refusing to release her hand as she firmly grips him back.
And when she leans forward and presses her lips against his, he feels like he's flying.
Later, at night in bed when he recalls the encounter, he'll realize that the only place he's flying to is straight down to hell. Especially for allowing himself to attach himself so fully to this sick girl.
In the following days he has to actively force himself to do his job. He works as efficiently as ever, and faster, too. Anything to give him just a minute more of time with Alice.
He starts bringing her things. Little gifts that won't be found. A red ribbon he'd found in the lobby. A tiny flower bud, unblossomed. Almost daily he brings her extra food, smuggled in napkins and tucked in his pockets and beneath his shirts. She's so skinny that he begins to let her health become his primary worry.
It's a foolish fear to have. To worry about her health would kill him. She was in the hospital for a reason, he reminds himself during moments he feels fury at himself.
It's six days after their kiss when he wanders into the room and finds her awake, but still crying.
He swoops in quickly, hands carefully wiping away tears as he shushes her. He knows that when the patients are too loud at night the nurses make notes. And when that happens their sedation increases. He doesn't want Alice lost in a medicinal haze. He wants her awake and alive and aware.
"No," she whimpers as she grips his wrist and shakes her head. "I can't. You need to go."
He's stunned, he only blinks back at her, wiping another tear away with his stump of a thumb. "Alice?"
"There's no saving me," she sobs. Quickly she lifts the sheet to her mouth and bites down on the fabric as if trying to suppress the noise. She knows as well as he does that making noise does not bode well. "There's nothing you can do. You need to go. To leave me here. To leave me alone."
"Alice," he's shaking his head before she can finish speaking. "What happened?"
"You're going to get killed."
He pulls away slightly at that, looking down at her strangely. He stares at her splotchy red cheeks and tear stained face, and at her beautiful eyes. He cradles her head in his hands and he can't help but notice how it looks like a monster is holding a doll. She's almost perfect in his eyes.
Which is why he can't seem to wrap his head around her words.
"What do you mean?"
"You have to leave me be," she sniffles, sitting up straighter and pushing his wrists backward. "I'm nothing. I'm going to be gone soon."
"Alice," he disregards her dismissal, hands cupping her cheeks more firmly this time. Maybe this is some sort of crazy paranoia, some type of bizarre episode, but her fear and her pain are real. Her tears are real. It's enough for him. "You're scaring me. What do you mean?"
"He's coming," she whispers, knowing that her tears will amplify her voice if she speaks, "he's coming for me."
His mind is racing a million miles an hour. "Who?" And suddenly the red-eyed demon comes to mind and his blood turns cold.
"It doesn't matter."
"When?"
"I don't—" she's silent for a few seconds, staring, and Jasper feels his panic bubble up.
"Alice?" He grips her by the shoulders and shakes her lightly. "Alice?" His voice is as firm as he dares it, not wanting to be overheard. The last thing he needs it someone to come investigating. But suddenly she's gone. She's not there and he can't understand what's happening.
"You have to leave," she says when she comes back to herself, almost a minute later. "I'm having a visitor later." Her words are almost curious over the information, and Jasper feels ready to burst.
"No, Alice what—"
"It's okay," she assures him breathily, and the relief in her body language is loud, "he's nice. I promise."
"Who?" He demands. If there's someone visiting her, someone 'nice' and able to soothe her fears—it's not you, a voice taunts in his head, it's not you—he needs to know what's happening.
"He protects me. He's protected me." There's a pause. "He will protect me," she whispers to herself.
"Who does? Alice?" He demands to know what she's talking about. To know who she's in danger from. To know what in seven hells was going on. "Is it whoever is coming for you?"
"That's my friend," she assures, and suddenly she's calm, a relaxed expression falling over her face. "He won't hurt me."
Jasper can't grasp what's going on. "Who is coming for you, Alice?"
"It's okay," she smiles at him, and the juxtaposition between her bloodshot eyes frightens him, "It's going to be okay. For a little while."
He wants to question her again, to shake her shoulders until her words start making sense, but his mind is hurdled into a different direction when she starts kissing him.
He can almost taste her happiness, and when she pulls him closer it's enough to distract him from the fact that either there's a real threat here or he's just being dragged down into her insanity with her.
As he wraps an arm around her, kissing her back, he hates how he hardly cares.
When insanity is so intoxicating, it's hard to resist.
But when he leaves her that night, he doesn't really. She kisses him calm and bids him farewell, promising to see him in the morning. There's something he doesn't trust about her words and soon he finds himself pacing in the stairwell. It's nearing the top of the hour so the nurse will be by soon for bed checks.
He busies himself for several agonizing minutes. He even leaves the hospital, escaping to his quarters on the edge of campus. He hasn't been in possession of a gun since he returned from war, and the only knife he has is a hunting knife, but it will do. Crippled and ugly or not, Jasper knows that if anything tries to hurt Alice in the night, they won't succeed.
The nurse doesn't even glance twice at him as they pass one another on the stairwell, and the second she's reached the floor beneath them he quickens his pace.
He feels his hair stand up on end and freezes, only feet from the door to the hallway. Its a feeling not unlike the first time he saw the demon.
But this time it's not just a crazy girl that's on the other end of this feeling, it's Alice. His Alice.
He'll face down the devil himself if it keeps her safe.
He moves slowly, carefully, opening the door and staring down the long, dark hallway. It's quieter than usual. No crying, no muffled mumbling drift passed the doors and down the halls. It's so silent he's certain the only sound he can hear is his own breathing.
There's an urge that nearly overcomes him. An instinct to flee that strikes out of nowhere and leaves his heart pounding loudly in his ears.
Suddenly, he hears a commotion from the other end of the hallway.
"No," it's loud and firm, and Jasper's heart sinks when he recognizes Alice's high voice. "You can't leave."
He picks up his pace, not trying to be silent anymore. Someone is in Alice's room. Someone is with her. His footsteps are suddenly louder than the muffled argument coming from her room but when she shouts, he nearly breaks into a sprint.
"If you leave, I die!"
His hand finds the doorknob first, but as he reaches for his keys with his other hand the knob turns.
He's struck dizzy with the speed in which everything happens. One moment he's staring down in horror at the unlocked door, the next, he's in the darkness unable to breathe, unable to put his feet on the ground.
"No!" Alice shouts again, only now, she sounds so much closer. "Put him down! Leave him alone!" And the sound of her distress is what makes him force his eyes open.
Red eyes stare back at him.
Jasper tries to gasp, but can't. The demon has it's arm extended, gripping his throat as it lifts Jasper in the air. He grabs the creature's forearm, squeezing and yanking and tugging, but it's no use. It's like stone beneath his hands and doesn't move an inch.
"Why is he visiting you at night?" The demon's voice is deep and accented and it doesn't take it's eyes off Jasper. Every-so-slightly it grips Jasper's neck tighter.
He gasps in pain.
"Please Kumboh," Alice pleads, her voice softer this time, "that's him. That's Jasper."
"You said you wouldn't contact him. That you'd stay quiet." The demon inhales deeply, before exhaling something that sounds like the growl of an animal. "I smell you all over him." It's head whips around to look at Alice, and Jasper wants to scream at it. To demand that it leave her alone, that it look at him not her.
"I'm sorry," she cries, "I couldn't—I can't," she sniffles, "I'm so lonely. I can't let him slip by me."
"You realize this complicates things, don't you?"
"You know I'm not an idiot. I don't expect you to treat me like one now." Alice's voice is as fierce as he's ever heard it as she snaps back at the demon who holds him in it's grasp.
"Did you see him coming?" Alice is silent and Jasper's vision is beginning to blacken at the edges. "Did you know this would happen?"
"Not until a few minutes ago." She confesses quietly. "Please put him down. You can just send him off."
"You have much, much explaining to do, child," the deep voice growls before the demon's red eyes are back on Jasper. He wishes he could gather the strength to spit in it's face, or do anything. Instead, he feels his hands begin to slip away as consciousness leaves him. For a split second, he swears the creatures red eyes flash white. All he can hear is a booming, commanding voice.
"Go."
He wakes with a start, a cold sweat across his brow, his heart racing from his nightmare. It takes him several minutes to climb out of his bed, and when he does he goes straight toward the sink at the edge of his room.
Splashing water on his face he forces himself to calm down. He was no stranger to nightmares, especially ones that concerned Alice, but this one had been so vivid. So utterly, bone chilling and terrifying.
He knows he needs to see her.
But his boss finds him while he's making his way to the main building, reminding him that the pathways need to be cleared by the end of the day. Jasper swears inwardly, knowing it's a task he'd meant to do the previous day before he'd gotten too caught up in rushing to visit Alice.
He knows it's going to be hours before he sees her and he tries to keep calm despite it.
He works hard and tirelessly through the morning and most of the afternoon. By the time he's back in his quarters, cleaning the dirt and sweat off his mangled body he's exhausted. His hip is aching—something it hasn't done since the injury healed—and he feels haggard.
The nightmare had been weighing heavily on his morning and every time he thought to Alice he found himself feeling sick.
It isn't until he's staring in the mirror, at the bruising around his throat, when he feels the Earth begin to slip out beneath his feet. It isn't in a fit of dramatics that forces him to fall to the floor, but instead the crushing weight of their terrifying reality smacks him off balance and he's suddenly scrambling.
Hurriedly, he dresses himself. Before he leaves he checks his room. The hunting knife is where it always is, and he begins to question his own sanity again. He laces his boots as quickly as his fingers can and he's off.
He moves as quickly as he can without attracting suspicion. Even going so far as to pretend he can not hear a nurse as she calls to him from the bottom of the stairwell. He can hear her tsk to herself and go on her with tasks, but he knows she'll track him down eventually.
He nearly runs headlong into her doctor as he swings the door open.
"Ah," the man quickly sidesteps, reaching an arm out to steady Jasper before he could stumble forward further. He's smiling apologetically as if he'd been the one rushing through the hospital, "perfect, actually. We have a new vacancy, last room on the left." The doctor releases his shoulder before clapping it, smiling politely as he moved to leave.
He stands there for what feels like hours. He's sure only a minute or two have passed before he's moving his feet forward, dragging himself toward the room.
He had to have heard the man incorrectly. That was Alice's room. Alice would be in there, and things would be okay and he'd be able to move on with his day.
But when he gets to the door, it's already propped open, ready for cleaning.
The bed is bare. The room is lifeless.
Dragging his feet forward he searches for any sign of her. It's when his eye catches the red ribbon, hanging from the windowsill that he fears he might collapse.
His grief is slowly swallowing him, threatening to overtake the disbelief that's causing a pounding in his head and a stinging behind his eyes. With even, miserable steps he approaches the window, allowing his shaking hand to reach for the ribbon.
It's stuck in the window. He tugs again and it refuses to budge. For some reason he's suddenly desperate to free this ribbon. The windows are usually nailed shut, so he reaches for his key ring—he could probably just use one of them if there's enough of a space between the wood and the nailhead. But when he starts looking for any nails, he realizes they're gone.
No, not gone. He spots one on the floor in the corner. Reaching out he lifts the window, catching the ribbon before it can fall out of it or to the floor.
It's there he sees it, traced in the dirt between the long-unopened window and it's frame.
115
He feels crazy as he moves, not even bothering to close the window, or the door, as he walks down the hall and out the door and down the stairs and toward the first floor.
It's not a floor he frequents often. This is where the sickest of the patients usually are put; the agitated and the almost quiet. This is one of the floors where orderlies are required to accompany him on his room cleans. One man shoots him a strange look as he passes him in the hallway, but Jasper keeps moving, eyes tracing over the numbers before he freezes on the spot.
He sees her, at the opposite end of the hallway, being escorted by two nurses around a corner and out of his sight.
The overwhelming urge to chase after her is extinguished as he reminds himself that it's okay, she's okay. She's alive and that's all that matters.
But she's been moved to a floor with higher security, and he doesn't understand why.
Reaching up he rubs his throat, ignoring the soreness and tugging his collar up higher. Whatever has happened, he's determined to find out.
He doesn't want to get her in any trouble, but he hasn't seen her in two days and hasn't spoken to her in six. The head doctor offers the chair across from his desk but Jasper elects to stand. His words had never failed him in his previous life. They couldn't fail him now.
Once upon a time it had been easy for him to get others to trust him. An old, tired doctor couldn't be too hard of a case to crack…
"The window was broken," Jasper reports cooly, trying to seem casual about the entire thing. "I repaired it, nailing it back shut but," he forces himself to hesitate, to look nervous, knowing that the older man's eyes were going to take in every imperceptible movement on his scarred face. "It's just… there's no way someone could've done that without the proper tools."
The man makes a thoughtful noise, "Are you implying our security isn't enough?"
"No sir, but I do wonder what could've done that." He forces himself to look more nervous than he actually feels, knowing that the doctor will likely express pity at this veteran finally opening up, "The girl that had been in that room would've never been able to accomplish such a thing."
"The ill can sometimes do things that surprise us. Even me," he nodded, "if I'd known she'd damaged the window I would've moved her sooner." He says it out loud, almost to himself. "You never noticed any tools or equipment while in there?" Jasper shakes his head. "And you never left anything behind?"
"Never, sir. I worry too much about their safety to allow such a mindless oversight."
"Your an honorable man, son," he smiles thinly. "But again, exercise caution. Sometimes the sick can be a lot stronger than they look. I've caught my fair share of sharp elbows and blind punches to know that letting your guard down is ill advised."
Jasper nods, "Yes sir." Look away, he orders himself. Now, look down. Now, look back up. Good. The man looked curious at Jasper's body language. "She's been moved into ward one? Is she dangerous now, too?"
"Ward one patients aren't dangerous," the man scratches at his beard before waving a hand. "Not usually. This one's more of a danger to herself," he hums, thumbing some paperwork on his desk. "When their psychosis becomes unmanageable, it's best to keep them where the walls are thicker and the doors are heavier." He reads some paper that's in front of him on his desk and Jasper has to force his eyes to remain on the doctor. He can not mess this up.
He grasps at his own fingers, fidgeting anxiously. "I find that it's easier to tidy around them when they're not in the room," he comments. "Is it possible to match my schedule with their treatments so I can make more effective use of my time?"
The man sits back, making an amused noise in the back of his throat. "That would eliminate my need to sacrifice some of my muscle." He shrugs, his brain likely calculating what could be accomplished with more orderlies put to work. "We only perform treatments between nine and eleven. If you can come up with an adequate schedule to make sure all the rooms are getting cleaned each week, I'll look it over and give you the okay."
"Yes sir."
"You'll need to set aside other work to make sure these hours remains free."
"Of course, sir."
Minutes later, Jasper is attempting to remain calm as he walks back to his quarters. The determination flowing through him powers every step. He's going to figure out how to speak with Alice, or he's going to spend the rest of his days there trying.
Within two days, his proposal is approved and the orderlies are reallocated to other parts of the hospital.
He works his way down the hallway and is hit with irritation when he realizes that by the time eleven rolls around he won't be making it to Alice's room. He will only have time to clean thirteen rooms that morning. Hers is the fifteenth.
Waiting outside room 113 he waits for the man to be removed and escorted to his treatment. It's difficult not to listen as he screams and pleads and begs the orderlies to let him go. The man promises good behavior, promises silence, and prays loudly and brokenly as they eventually drag him from the room.
He doesn't know what treatments consist of, and knowing that Alice receives some form of 'care' from these same people makes a heaviness form in his gut.
The next morning, he does much of the same. When Alice is finally emptied out of her room—her gaze is long that morning, unaware of her surroundings as they cart her by him—Jasper moves quickly.
He still doesn't know what she is waiting for. Her haunting words, warning him that something (someone) is coming for her, weighs heavily on him during every waking moment.
He makes sure that only she will see the way the red ribbon just barely shows from underneath the far corner of her mattress. Tucked safely beneath her bed pad and tied tightly to the ribbon is his hunting knife.
If he can't adequately protect her, he desperately hopes she'll be able to do it herself.
There is a plan behind all of this. He tells himself this during moments of doubt. Whenever he fears that his weapon will be discovered or that her treatments will finally send her further over the edge of whatever cliff they have her teetering off of, he tries hard to remind himself…
There is a purpose to it all. To him attaching himself to her. To her odd quirks (that he refuses to believe are proper insanity). There is a reason he left her the knife. But as the days pass, he can't exactly recall what it is.
She's covered in blood the next time she sees him.
He swears he's hallucinating when he opens his eyes to her looming above him, clutching his knife to her chest with one hand as she pulls at his arm with her other. There isn't an ounce of fear in him at this sight. Not of her at least. But for her, he's suddenly petrified.
"Alice," he croaks out the words as he shoots out of bed as quickly as he can. Her words are falling from her mouth so quickly and so softly that he can't make them out. "What happened?"
"Run," her words finally catch on a sob, "we have to run."
In seconds his boots are on his feet, her hand is in his, and they're running across the back of the medical campus, heading straight for the woods. There's still nothing but still silence coming from the hospital—whatever has transpired hasn't made any true impact on the staff or patients, yet.
Her breathing is heavy as she chokes back sobs as they run, and Jasper can't think. He can't focus on anything other than the feeling of her small hand gripping his for dear life as they run as fast as they can.
"This is not the way things are supposed to go," she sobs, pulling him after her after several minutes of running. There are no paths in these woods. For all Jasper is aware, they don't lead anywhere. He can't bring himself to think about what their destination might be, because that would lead him to think about the consequences for any actions that have been committed tonight.
Instead he runs and runs, even after his leg screams at him, even while his old hip injury forces his movements to look jerky and wrong.
When a voice bellows toward them, he swears he feels the life suddenly fall back into him.
"What have you done?!"
Alice's feet skid to a halt the same moment Jasper reaches over and skillfully plucks the knife out of her grip. He turns it toward the source of the noise with one hand, pulling Alice behind him with his other. He isn't shocked when the demon is suddenly approaching them, it's movements looking oddly human as it stalks towards them in the dark.
It's eyes are glowing as brightly as ever and Jasper has to bite back the instinctual fear he feels. He has to protect Alice. It doesn't matter why or from what.
"I'm sorry," she sobs loudly, "It was the only way, I swear it. It was the only way."
The monster stops in it's tracks, glaring past Jasper, not once glancing at him or at the weapon he brandishes. Then, it sighs.
"What are our odds?" It asks quietly, head turning to glance back into the darkness. "How long do we have?"
"If you do it now there's a chance," Alice words are incomprehensible to Jasper, but he clings to every one. Her words sound confident, like a plan of action in the mess they're somehow in. "If we wait any longer we'll all die."
"This will take days, little one," he growls slowly. "Do we have days?"
"Maybe," her words are quieter now. "I'm not sure. I'm sorry. All I know if that this gives us the best shot."
"And he makes a difference?" Finally, the demon acknowledges Jasper's presence, glancing at him as if sizing up an animal.
"He makes all the difference."
The demon straightens up to its full size then, inhaling deeply and closing it's eyes. "Very well, then…"
"Jasper," Alice pulls at his arm until he's facing her again. He doesn't want to look away from the monster standing across from them, but when her hands are on his face and then suddenly he's being yanked downward and she's kissing him, Jasper nearly drops the knife. Too quickly, she pulls back, "Will you trust me?"
"What's going on?" He forces the words out, and that's when he acknowledges the fear that's rooted him to his spot. "Alice—"
"Please trust me," she nearly begs. "I'm sorry. Its the only way."
"What do—"
He never has the opportunity to finish his sentence. In fact, he doesn't even complete the thought. Suddenly, anything he was about to say, anything he has ever said in his twenty-two years of existence, have never even mattered to begin with.
The only thing that exists now, is pain.
He's known what it's like to feel his flesh rip and shred beneath weapons made by those uncaring about anything beyond power and destruction. He's known the taste of blood and metal, the feeling of pain beyond what he ever could've anticipated.
The fires that ignite him now make his past pain feel insignificant. It lasts for hours, or maybe it's weeks. His sense of time is skewed and warped and gone. He can't hear anything other than his own screaming, and he prays that someone finds him and has mercy on him. He hopes that a passerby will find him and put a bullet in his skull and free him from the hell he's trapped in.
He calls for Alice in his more lucid moments. She'd asked him to trust her, he remembers during these moments. But he wonders what there is about this excruciating death he was supposed to be alright with.
It's when the fires are out and the burn has centralized itself to a point just behind his throat when he finally falls awake with a gasp.
The first thought he has is that the pain has receded, but his second thought is how vivid the memory of it is and how the burning that he still feels, while insignificant in comparison, is fierce.
It isn't until he takes in his surroundings—and everything is so bright and clear that it takes him a moment to register the fact that it's still nighttime, only the moon is out now, where it hadn't been before—that he realizes Alice lies on the ground beside him.
It's almost instantaneous, how quickly he's able to be on the ground with her, pulling her prone form into his arms. Her eyes are blank, unseeing ahead of her and Jasper is struck with the fact that he simply knows that her pulse is slow, barely even there.
(It doesn't even register with him that he can hear it, the noise as clear as day.)
She's dying, he realizes, panicked. She's still wearing her thin hospital gown, but the blood coating the front of her and her arms is dried, browned with age. And there's more blood now, caked against the back of her neck where he holds her carefully.
He feels no warmth as he runs the back of his hand against her cheek. She's dying, he repeats inwardly, his panic overwhelming all other thoughts. She's dying, and there's nothing he can do about it…
He can't explain his actions next.
The sound of footsteps in the distance forces him to his feet. Clinging to her tightly he lowers his stance and growls, the sound ripping itself from somewhere deep in his chest. A noise he can't help but simultaneously fear and revel in.
Whoever is coming here, they won't get anywhere near her.
It's nearly impossible for him to lower her back to the ground, but he does it after a long, lingering moment. He has to keep her safe, he realizes acutely. This is what was meant to happen.
The knife on the ground between him lays forgotten as he turns and bares his teeth. He doesn't know how he knows it, but he'll rip them to pieces entirely with his hands if they think of even looking at his Alice.
It's seconds, or maybe it's minutes—time is passing strangely, he thinks—when the movement in the distance ceases and he can feel the surprise as if it's his own. A tangible thing, but so easy to recognize. Whoever is deep in these woods is not expecting him.
He puts himself between Alice and the noise he hears. When another low, growling noise pulls itself from it's chest, he doesn't shy away from the way it makes him feel; powerful, wild, dangerous. Instead he hopes that whatever is heading his way is ready to die, because nothing is getting anywhere near Alice.
"Stop," a woman's voice hisses in the night, and that's when Jasper realizes there's two presences out there. One thick with curiosity, another vibrating with panic. "Let's go, the old one is dead—"
"He ruined my hunt!" A man's voice snaps angrily; the air stings suddenly, the words hitting Jasper like the sting of a whip. "And for what? To die like an animal? Why?!"
"Now is not the time," the feminine voice warns, "one fresh one is fine. Two is a death sentence."
"I'll kill her or—"
Animalistic noises take over then, and the verbal argument is ceased while the two presences scream and growl at one another.
Jasper stands at the ready, angry and shaking and feeling as if he could chase them down and frighten them away himself. But Alice is still on the ground behind him, still staring, and it's when he realizes the two presences are fully gone that he notices the silence in the woods.
No growling, no bugs chirping, and no heartbeat.
It doesn't even strike him as strange that he can pinpoint the fact that Alice's heart has stopped, instead he's panicking as he gathers her back into his arms, agony tearing through him like he's never felt before, knowing that he's failed her.
She's dead and gone and—
She wakes with a gasp.
What forces him to his knees is a sensation he won't have the words to adequately describe for months after.
A warmth falls over him, so strong and so all-encompassing he's stunned into silence and submission. It's intoxicating, and it takes him seconds to realize that Alice's hands are on his face again, her palms cupping his cheeks. It takes him longer after that to finally stare back into her eyes, meeting her gaze from where she looks up at him.
Her eyes are so red they practically glow in the dark.
He can hardly bring forth any alarm at the sight. He isn't worried, he isn't scared, but he feels soothed in a way he can't articulate, even to himself.
He feels like he's seeing her for the first time, and as she stares back at him, her perfect lips rounded in a silent 'oh', it looks like the same goes for her.
But seconds stretch, and Jasper has to force words out—the soft warmth he's feeling has rendered him entirely unwilling to move; he doesn't want the sensation to ever stop—so eventually he lifts his own hand, pressing it against her own cheek.
"Alice?" He asks, and he's sure his voice has never sounded so clear.
There's a sudden recognition in her eyes and then, an eruption.
The warmth crescendoes and he's suddenly hit with more. He feels electrified, his skin buzzing at a frequency different than his chest, with the warmth spreading through him physically and mentally. It's happiness, elation, awe, euphoria, and something he can only describe as hope.
And it's all coming from her.
"It's you." Alice finally speaks, her smile as bright as her eyes. "Hi."
He laughs then. Relief forming genuinely despite the barrage of joy he's undergoing from her. There's surprise when he kisses her, but mainly delight. And when she laces her fingers behind his neck, pulling him in closer, he focuses on that last emotion as he thinks about this tiny girl that he loves so deeply.
It's easy to ignore how they got there with everything feeling so insignificant now; the world clearer in every sense of the world. But with Alice in his arms, he feels so hopeful it hurts.
And if hope is the dream of a waking man, he thinks, then he's spent his entire life asleep.