Bleeding Sanctuary
By: Holly Rose E
Summary: OC-infected. To be unique isn't always that great. The Brotherhood and X-Men are locked up in a Mental Institution, and uncover some mutants and some humans. The Objective: Live long enough to get out.
Rating: PG-13, likely to be upped.
A/N: Sweet Mother of Pepsi. SEVENTEEN reviews for a PROLOGUE?! I about died of shock. Lucky I didn't, else I wouldn't finish it, now would I? I made this one longer, because you're special like that.
*****
Chapter One: Numb
Can't you see that you're smothering me
Holding too tightly, afraid to lose control
Cause everything that you thought I would be
Has fallen apart right in front of you
~Linkin Park
*****
She's staring at him, wondering just how they would be able to make this work.
He wasn't an old man, not overly so, somewhere in his thirties or early forties. He had a nice, pleasant smile, showing that he really wasn't here to judge or scorn.
Some may not believe that, but it was God's-Honest-Truth.
"So," he began, that charming, unnerving smile plastered to his features, "it says here in your profile that -"
She tuned out, not wanting to hear his drabble. She was in a loony bin because of her bastard of a father, pure and simple.
She nearly bit her lip, glanced at Dr. Perry, and decided it best not to. She'd heard from Trevor that the man was very astute, and a bit of an empath. Trevor had been here longer than she had (if only by a few weeks) but she trusted him; he was a good boy to be around.
But then a thought came to her, nearly snapping her head back from the force: What does it matter? The rules in here are different from the rules out in the 'Real Earth', as one girl had so bitterly and affectionately called it. All they could do here was put her into solitary.
When her father had dropped her off, he had smiled sadly, promised to come and visit her, and hugged her tightly as only a father really can. She, however, had remained emotionless, not feeling a thing as he said these words to her, or gave her a hug that she would have - under normal circumstances - welcomed back with just as much energy.
But now, she was so tired.
Her mother had died a year or two before, leaving Leila Press in a state of utter shock.
Her shock wasn't quite what the medical doctors would call exclusive or whatnot, with their high-tech babble. She went about her daily business as she always did, except now she was detached, just sort of floating through and pasting a smile to her face every day before she left her room, prepared to take on the world and deceive all that everything was perfect today.
And then one day... she had just slipped.
She'd been clinging onto a mountain, rocks and dust of ages falling past her, into a depthless crevasse below, where she would land
[no, you'll never land, you'll just keep falling and falling forever and ever, there is no escaping, you psycho bitch, god, you're so fucking disgusting, you don't deserve to live, your father doesn't love you and your mother's dead because she didn't find anything worth living for, you deserve to die, you're so disgusting, you failed!]
She'd never know; even if she *did* land, it would probably only be on jutting, broken pieces of the mirror.
But when she did, when she tried that one last time to reach the top to save herself from forever dangling there precariously on the waning stones, it collapsed underneath the gentle touch of her fingertips.
After her father had gone to get the weekly groceries for the two of them, she'd sat in the bathroom, staring at the mirror that hung on the door for what seemed like hours, just staring at her reflection in a trance. She saw nothing there when she looked, all she saw was this empty space where a person should be.
A bubble built up inside of her, welling up from her stomach, tingling at first. It began to burn horribly as it reached her chest, mashing her lungs, feeling her ribs poke into the vital organs. She choked as it consumed the space of her throat, a gigantic ball of emotion that she could neither swallow nor cough up.
Instead, in a fit of fury and panic, she swung her fist out, right into her nonexistent reflection, smashing the glittering piece to shatter into a million tinier ones.
She coughed, a small portion of the ball escaping, but where that left, more came, until it consumed her, escaping through her pain-wracked coughs and gasping sobs, through the crystalline ice tears that fell and danced together unceremoniously onto the glass.
She saw the salty water perch and languidly lie there, sometimes joining together to form one, and only saw that.
Her other senses, her mind mostly, had shut down.
When she came back to her mine, landing with a horrifying crash, she stared at herself, covered with tears and blood and glass.
Her father was home by then, and Leila was too weak to get up and run, or at least try to salvage whatever dignity or shred of sanity she had left.
He found her, and had lived in torment wondering whether or not she'd try it again.
She had, and he had brought her here.
"Leila?"
Startled out of her reminiscing, she blinked at Dr. Perry, cocking her head to give recognition.
"I have an idea about what we can do for our sessions, seeing as you are verbally handicapped…" he started.
She nodded, only half-listening to him.
***
He awoke slowly, not fully coming to. A jab of pain flared up his left arm as he made to move it to help prop himself up.
A needle, connected to an IV bag, and he knew; he'd dealt with this before. He was being intravenously fed.
Blinking emerald eyes stared passively at the ceiling, which was veined with cracks and dotted with holes and stains, many a chip in the long ago painted lavender.
'Pastel,' he thought, 'as always. The soothing colors of the world my ass.'
He shut his eyes near painfully, and thought long and hard, the drugs they had apparently given him still kicking with full effort. He must have got caught…
[that is so gross, why do you do that to yourself? do you have any idea, Jesus, you're so thin, how do you do it? that's disgusting, god I am so FAT!]
… throwing his food out again.
He bit his lip, refusing to let his tears come, to melt the ice inside and let it flow out onto the religiously white bed sheets.
Oh, how he loathed the medical ward. It had never been a top spot to visit on his summer vacations. But more and more, he found himself in these beds that were all the same size, the rooms all the same colors, and the nurses with all the same smiles.
He was here in the Happy House for one reason: He was too damn smart.
After his parents divorced when he was around the influencing age of seven, he stayed with his mother permanently, forever playing with his new toys and watching whatever Saturday Cartoon happened to be on.
At his father's apartment, TVs and toys did not exist - they belonged to a distant and far away land. They forever read and played chess and checkers, which really brought out the thinker in little Trevor Greer.
He even became quite the genius in solving the impossibly stubborn and simplistically complex Rubik's Cube. He eventually grew fond of word puzzles and the like.
By the time he reached the fifth grade, a teacher he came to resent with a great passion in the following years, suggested that he take a test to see how apt he was.
He was moved up by two grades.
Now, since he was too smart, he was scorned - by his previous peers, and by his new ones, because whenever a child is placed into an older one's classroom to be there permanently because they had the intelligence to be there, the older ones feel threatened, inferior.
And so, Trevor began to purge under the strain, his throat burning and his stomach - for the first two or so weeks - growling and screaming at him to feed it.
Soon, he just stopped eating all together.
Even his mother could not help but notice the change in Trevor, who shoved the food in his mouth and gulped it down like any teenage boy is prone to do and going to the bathroom immediately after, it became routine for their two-person family. When he suddenly became picky, wrinkling his nose at every tiny thing his mother offered to prepare for a meal, or proposed to eat out.
And when he did eat, it was only a few bites, more likely less than that; whenever his mother wouldn't look, he'd grab a napkin and fold the food into that, shoving it into his pants pockets. This was how he had been able to refuse treatment here at the 'Tute until just now.
His mother tried to get him into clinics; few would take him because of his gender (how many boys on average became anorexic anyway?) and eventually his mother was without enough money to pay them.
She dropped him off here, coming to visit once a month.
Trevor hasn't seen his father since he was admitted.
His first real friend he'd made, the only one who actually decided he was worth advancing to, was Donovan, and what a character he was.
"Greer, Trevor, how nice to see you awake." said a nurse - Rachel Eastman -walking in briskly, his folder opened in her hands. She read over his profile quickly, and looked at him, lips pursed tightly before smoothing out into a large smile as she began to talk to him about what was going to happen to him now.
-End Chapter One-
Hey guys, hope you liked Chapter One okay. I'm not really sure about it, I'm reverting back to an old writing style and evolving it at the same time.
But yeah, Dr. Perry belongs to Phobia, Leila Press to cheeky-bear007, and Trevor Greer to Radical Ed 85.
Until next time, love you all muchly.
-Holly
By: Holly Rose E
Summary: OC-infected. To be unique isn't always that great. The Brotherhood and X-Men are locked up in a Mental Institution, and uncover some mutants and some humans. The Objective: Live long enough to get out.
Rating: PG-13, likely to be upped.
A/N: Sweet Mother of Pepsi. SEVENTEEN reviews for a PROLOGUE?! I about died of shock. Lucky I didn't, else I wouldn't finish it, now would I? I made this one longer, because you're special like that.
*****
Chapter One: Numb
Can't you see that you're smothering me
Holding too tightly, afraid to lose control
Cause everything that you thought I would be
Has fallen apart right in front of you
~Linkin Park
*****
She's staring at him, wondering just how they would be able to make this work.
He wasn't an old man, not overly so, somewhere in his thirties or early forties. He had a nice, pleasant smile, showing that he really wasn't here to judge or scorn.
Some may not believe that, but it was God's-Honest-Truth.
"So," he began, that charming, unnerving smile plastered to his features, "it says here in your profile that -"
She tuned out, not wanting to hear his drabble. She was in a loony bin because of her bastard of a father, pure and simple.
She nearly bit her lip, glanced at Dr. Perry, and decided it best not to. She'd heard from Trevor that the man was very astute, and a bit of an empath. Trevor had been here longer than she had (if only by a few weeks) but she trusted him; he was a good boy to be around.
But then a thought came to her, nearly snapping her head back from the force: What does it matter? The rules in here are different from the rules out in the 'Real Earth', as one girl had so bitterly and affectionately called it. All they could do here was put her into solitary.
When her father had dropped her off, he had smiled sadly, promised to come and visit her, and hugged her tightly as only a father really can. She, however, had remained emotionless, not feeling a thing as he said these words to her, or gave her a hug that she would have - under normal circumstances - welcomed back with just as much energy.
But now, she was so tired.
Her mother had died a year or two before, leaving Leila Press in a state of utter shock.
Her shock wasn't quite what the medical doctors would call exclusive or whatnot, with their high-tech babble. She went about her daily business as she always did, except now she was detached, just sort of floating through and pasting a smile to her face every day before she left her room, prepared to take on the world and deceive all that everything was perfect today.
And then one day... she had just slipped.
She'd been clinging onto a mountain, rocks and dust of ages falling past her, into a depthless crevasse below, where she would land
[no, you'll never land, you'll just keep falling and falling forever and ever, there is no escaping, you psycho bitch, god, you're so fucking disgusting, you don't deserve to live, your father doesn't love you and your mother's dead because she didn't find anything worth living for, you deserve to die, you're so disgusting, you failed!]
She'd never know; even if she *did* land, it would probably only be on jutting, broken pieces of the mirror.
But when she did, when she tried that one last time to reach the top to save herself from forever dangling there precariously on the waning stones, it collapsed underneath the gentle touch of her fingertips.
After her father had gone to get the weekly groceries for the two of them, she'd sat in the bathroom, staring at the mirror that hung on the door for what seemed like hours, just staring at her reflection in a trance. She saw nothing there when she looked, all she saw was this empty space where a person should be.
A bubble built up inside of her, welling up from her stomach, tingling at first. It began to burn horribly as it reached her chest, mashing her lungs, feeling her ribs poke into the vital organs. She choked as it consumed the space of her throat, a gigantic ball of emotion that she could neither swallow nor cough up.
Instead, in a fit of fury and panic, she swung her fist out, right into her nonexistent reflection, smashing the glittering piece to shatter into a million tinier ones.
She coughed, a small portion of the ball escaping, but where that left, more came, until it consumed her, escaping through her pain-wracked coughs and gasping sobs, through the crystalline ice tears that fell and danced together unceremoniously onto the glass.
She saw the salty water perch and languidly lie there, sometimes joining together to form one, and only saw that.
Her other senses, her mind mostly, had shut down.
When she came back to her mine, landing with a horrifying crash, she stared at herself, covered with tears and blood and glass.
Her father was home by then, and Leila was too weak to get up and run, or at least try to salvage whatever dignity or shred of sanity she had left.
He found her, and had lived in torment wondering whether or not she'd try it again.
She had, and he had brought her here.
"Leila?"
Startled out of her reminiscing, she blinked at Dr. Perry, cocking her head to give recognition.
"I have an idea about what we can do for our sessions, seeing as you are verbally handicapped…" he started.
She nodded, only half-listening to him.
***
He awoke slowly, not fully coming to. A jab of pain flared up his left arm as he made to move it to help prop himself up.
A needle, connected to an IV bag, and he knew; he'd dealt with this before. He was being intravenously fed.
Blinking emerald eyes stared passively at the ceiling, which was veined with cracks and dotted with holes and stains, many a chip in the long ago painted lavender.
'Pastel,' he thought, 'as always. The soothing colors of the world my ass.'
He shut his eyes near painfully, and thought long and hard, the drugs they had apparently given him still kicking with full effort. He must have got caught…
[that is so gross, why do you do that to yourself? do you have any idea, Jesus, you're so thin, how do you do it? that's disgusting, god I am so FAT!]
… throwing his food out again.
He bit his lip, refusing to let his tears come, to melt the ice inside and let it flow out onto the religiously white bed sheets.
Oh, how he loathed the medical ward. It had never been a top spot to visit on his summer vacations. But more and more, he found himself in these beds that were all the same size, the rooms all the same colors, and the nurses with all the same smiles.
He was here in the Happy House for one reason: He was too damn smart.
After his parents divorced when he was around the influencing age of seven, he stayed with his mother permanently, forever playing with his new toys and watching whatever Saturday Cartoon happened to be on.
At his father's apartment, TVs and toys did not exist - they belonged to a distant and far away land. They forever read and played chess and checkers, which really brought out the thinker in little Trevor Greer.
He even became quite the genius in solving the impossibly stubborn and simplistically complex Rubik's Cube. He eventually grew fond of word puzzles and the like.
By the time he reached the fifth grade, a teacher he came to resent with a great passion in the following years, suggested that he take a test to see how apt he was.
He was moved up by two grades.
Now, since he was too smart, he was scorned - by his previous peers, and by his new ones, because whenever a child is placed into an older one's classroom to be there permanently because they had the intelligence to be there, the older ones feel threatened, inferior.
And so, Trevor began to purge under the strain, his throat burning and his stomach - for the first two or so weeks - growling and screaming at him to feed it.
Soon, he just stopped eating all together.
Even his mother could not help but notice the change in Trevor, who shoved the food in his mouth and gulped it down like any teenage boy is prone to do and going to the bathroom immediately after, it became routine for their two-person family. When he suddenly became picky, wrinkling his nose at every tiny thing his mother offered to prepare for a meal, or proposed to eat out.
And when he did eat, it was only a few bites, more likely less than that; whenever his mother wouldn't look, he'd grab a napkin and fold the food into that, shoving it into his pants pockets. This was how he had been able to refuse treatment here at the 'Tute until just now.
His mother tried to get him into clinics; few would take him because of his gender (how many boys on average became anorexic anyway?) and eventually his mother was without enough money to pay them.
She dropped him off here, coming to visit once a month.
Trevor hasn't seen his father since he was admitted.
His first real friend he'd made, the only one who actually decided he was worth advancing to, was Donovan, and what a character he was.
"Greer, Trevor, how nice to see you awake." said a nurse - Rachel Eastman -walking in briskly, his folder opened in her hands. She read over his profile quickly, and looked at him, lips pursed tightly before smoothing out into a large smile as she began to talk to him about what was going to happen to him now.
-End Chapter One-
Hey guys, hope you liked Chapter One okay. I'm not really sure about it, I'm reverting back to an old writing style and evolving it at the same time.
But yeah, Dr. Perry belongs to Phobia, Leila Press to cheeky-bear007, and Trevor Greer to Radical Ed 85.
Until next time, love you all muchly.
-Holly