Chapter 2: Burning the Black Candles
Summary: A memory, a phrase, a girl, a plan, and a third of his soul. Years later, Artemis is trapped in a psych ward and will do anything to escape.
Notes: I love this fic. My plans for this have changed drastically, and I now have a lot of elaborate plans for this fic that will probably never happen. I would like to make a three-part series about how three girls (Madison, another girl, and Holly) impacted Artemis, which are at the moment called Depth Perception, Red Light Zenith, and of course Telephone Wires.
Um, all the things in French are not necessary to the story, (if they are, they are translated nearby--I don't speak French so sorry if it's not perfect) no worries if you don't speak it (like me), but Madison needs her little expletive now and then and it's semi-amusing if you want to look them up. I don't live off reviews, so just review if you want, though constructive (not necessarily positive) feedback would be nice. To whoever asked: I don't think it'll be M/A, just because Madison's going to have problems. Anyone who's read A Beautiful Mind will find strange similiarities. Sorry about the language but they're both eighteen, and real eighteen year olds talk like that. Rating is PG-13. Madison's superficiality will be her undoing. Mm. I do like this.
PG-13 for language, mild sexual content.
Disclaimer: Artemis belongs to Eoin Colfer, as do his memories. I'll claim Madison and her weird, immature, antisocial self. ...hey, she's kinda like me...
"I've recently become interested in witchcraft," Madison told her psychologist.
Dr. Tolin didn't deserve this. He was a nice man, with a young wife and a son who loved video games. He insisted on positivity in his therapy sessions, including playing games with the client, casual, curious conversation, flattery, an ego treatment. He wanted to become friends with his clients so they would open up to him. Madison, he didn't like. She talked with her friends all the time, over the phone, chatting about nail polish and gossip and quoting Monty Python, jibbering in French half the time. He knew; he monitored all her calls. But she wouldn't talk to him. For the three years she had been in 'the Home', as they called it, she had never once said anything to him about her schizophrenia or her crime.
And now--this. The Home allowed patients to wear what they wanted, to create a home-like atmosphere, to make them comfortable and feel like they weren't in a mental hospital, and, of course, to save the expense of buying and maintaining uniforms. Usually, Madison wore jeans and a nice, casual shirt. Today, she had walked in with black, baggy pants, a black hooded sweatshirt with an anarchy sign, hood up around her face to hide her hair. Her makeup was dark, eye-heavy, making her look either evil or like a lost little child, he couldn't decide. And now she was talking of witchcraft.
"And why have you become intersted in witchcraft?" he asked, trying to sound interested.
"I like the idea. Gaining powers from the earth, identifying with the elements. I think my power is Darkness."
Dr. Tolin didn't know anything about witchcraft and frankly didn't want to, but he had to try. "Darkness?" he quibbled. "Why darkness?"
"Darkness is everywhere, especially here. My rom is so dark at night, and I'm tired of fighting it...it's so much easier to accept it."
Dr. Tolin's mind was racing. As soon as he got out, he'd make a full report, and get some lamps in that girl's room. Lots of lamps. "Why do you think you have to fight the darkness?" he asked.
Madison ignored him."I'm becoming attracted to pagan ways as well," she said. "Druids, ancient rituals, early Great Britain type of stuff. A woman's body as a temple, powers of the moon." She smiled as she said it, although her hood hid it. Donc ironique. "Festivals and things to celebrate sex. I think it's a much more open-minded view than what peple have today. They looked on orgies as a sign of worship, not a thing to hate."
"And you suddenly find yourself liking this open sexuality?" Dr. Tolin asked calmly.
"I want to celebrate being myself and who I am," Madison said innocently. "I feel like I'm repressing my sexual nature."
"And what about a relationship? Sex is best when a steady, or at least reliable, relationship has been reached. Sex for its own sake isn't good for you," Dr. Tolin said quietly.
"I don't think this is what it's about," Madison said. "I mean, I feel like I'm being repressed here. A camera is in every room, watching everything I do. They're even in the bathroom. Je ne peux pas prendre une foutaise sans étant regardé. It's like...what's the book? Big Brother, with all the cameras?"
"1984," Dr. Tolin said automatically. "So you think that you are under constant surveillence? Paranoia?"
"I am not paranoid. I really am under constant surveillance," Madison protested. Dr. Tolin wrote something down. He had already filled five pages with highly unsettling obeservations. "Everyone here hates me. I don't have any friends at all. Being schizophrenic is better than this." She winced at that. She hated talking about her schizophrenia with this man, who was like a predatory butterfly. Large, smiling, and evil. She didn't want to tell him anything, but it was all part of the plan. If she mixed in a little truth with all that other bull she had fed him, he might actually swallow it. "At least then somebody would listen to me."
Dr. Tolin patted her on the shoulder and she stiffened. "I'm listening to you, Madison," he said gently, sensing a breakthrough. "I can't wait to hear what you're going to say next. I'm here for you."
Madison stiffened. "But you're not her," she said, and plan or no plan, she would not tell him anymore. "This session is over. I'm going to go finish my research on Druids." Standing up, she left the room and slammed the door behind her.
---
Artemis was in the hallway, sitting at an armchair, apparently reading Moby Dick. "It is not necessary to slam the doors," he said pointedly.
"I was diagnosed with OBDSD," she said, leaning against the wall. Artemis looked at her questioningly and she smirked. "Obsessive-Complusive Door-Slamming Disorder."
Artemis rolled his eyes. "This is no time to be cute," he said icily. "Or ever, for that matter. Don't you have somewhere else to be?"
"Yes, in fact," Madison said cooly. "My books are waiting for me in my room. The nurses change at three o'clock and I told Cindy yesterday to bring me Jane Eyre. She should be here by now."
Artemis nodded. Three o'clock. "Well, then, I suggest you go," he said cooly. "My appointment is in a few minutes, and Cindy should have brought you--what was it? Oh, yes, I remember. Jane Eyre. How childish."
"Oh, go see your psychologist," Madison spat. "Maybe he'll beat you into being sociable."
She walked down the hall briskly, ignoring Artemis completely. A black camera in the corner followed her steps out.
---
There were three nurses and two guards on duty in Artemis's hall of the building, which was affectionately nicknamed 'The Hellhole' by the boys therein, though it was in reality comfortable and bespoke of elegance. The halls were plain wood paneling and armchairs dotted the hallways, as well as tables where some of the boys played cards, though not Artemis. The rooms were white, with lofty ceilings and wood-paneled floors. At one end of the hall, there were elaborate French doors leading to a balcony where one could look down on the gardens--the only place not to have audio bugs and video cameras. At the other end of the hall were two doors--one set of double doors leading into the common area and the rest of the establishment--and one door, small and metal, stainless steel. There was no lock on the inside, no way to unbolt it. That door went into the staff area.
The three nurses of the Hellhole switched around duty periodically, taking two days at a time, with Sunday having one of the regular staff nurses watch the hall. Carol came on Mondays and Tuesdays. She was a strict, statesque, motherly woman, who would take requests for books but not video games. She always told Artemis to eat more and get out in the sun, and treated him like a child. He disliked her immensely. Joan came on Wednesdays and Thurdsdays. She was small, dark-haired, middle-aged, and boring. She took requests for everything with a bland look, and ignored anything the boys were doing, which was fine by them. The third nurse was Amanda, who came Fridays and Saturdays. She was almost afraid of the boys, especially on Fridays and Saturdays when they got rowdy, and pushed her big glasses up on her nose, often squinting at the list she was supposed to be writing of their requests.
The guards weren't there in the same way a ghost wasn't there. They were everpresent, ready to be called out at the least sign of any incidents that might occur. They were trained in crowd-control, both former police officers. John Mataris had been a bouncer before joining the police, and had three years on a SWAT team before a knee surgery had forced him off the squad. Matthew Prewett had been on a riot squad in New York City before retiring to go into college, with a minor in Psychology. Both men were highly trained in how to treat prisoners who Started a Scene, which usually meant taking them away to speak with Dr. Jackson, who ran the Home.
Dr. Jackson was not a bad man. But if you were called to Dr. Jackson's office, you were going to Have a Talk and be reminded How This Was Not A Place To Come To Have Fun, It Was A Place Of Punishment and then reminded, with that little quiet voice he had, exactly how nice the punishment was now and wouldn't we all like to keep it that way?
And that wasn't all. The students section of the Home was very nice, with elegant dark wood paneling inside and marble terraces outside, with lovely gardens professionally kept--behind stone walls. Not any of this shabby chain-link wire-fence nonsense, either. These were real stone walls, very slick and very tall, with niches seven foot up the wall where black video cameras rested. To give the Home some credit, these did not watch the garden, or at least watch it closely enough to tell what the occupants were saying. Just enough to know when Johnny had gone on a killing rampage, and definately enough to know if anyone had tried to climb the wall.
Inside, it was even more impenetrable. The students had the entire back half of the building--a wing on the far left side of the building for boys, on the far right for girls, a large common area inbetween; including a large library, filled with pyschologist-approved books, a modern, comfortable cafe style cafeteria, several large airy classrooms, a marble paved swimming pool with a lovely mosaic ceiling, and a mini-observatory on the second floor.
But to get into the front part of the building from the back was impossible. There were only three doors into the front part of the building, all stainless steel with a stainless steel frame, and reinforced metal walls behind the wood paneling. None of them had a handle on the inside. One was near the entrance to the boys wing, where it was handy to have for laundry and such, and another like it at the slightly smaller girls wing. The only other one was on the second floor, in the group therapy room.
To any inmates trapped within, it would have been totally impenetrable.
But Artemis Fowl was bored. He needed a challenge.
---
"Now Artemis," Dr. Ribdan said, pencil poised on his notepad, "Have you ever read the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy?"
"I'm sorry?" Artemis said, coldly, more insulting than polite. "You are asking me if I have read a book that was written in what was possibly the worst literary structure ever?"
Dr.Ribdan wrote something down. "I was wondering, Artemis, what you thought of the idea of the universe being random."
"Illogical," he said immediately. "A fantasy created in the chaos of one person's mind for entertainment value because he could think of no legitimate plots."
"Yet many people hold Douglas Adams to be a genius," Dr. Ribdan pointed out.
Artemis snorted, showing his utter disdain of that line of thought. "A genius at being able to be totally illogical," he said disdainfully, coldly. "If living in utter chaos is a qualification for being a genius, and if so I am utterly unaware of it."
"Kids these days," Dr. Ribdan said to himself. "Too much dark sarcasm in the classroms."
---
"Damn!"
Geoffry Abdul was frustrated. Beyond frustrated, in fact. He did not like Economics in the slightest, and his homework was offering no cooperation. He slumped. Who cared what supply and demand had to do with the Gross-Something-Or-The-Other? And sales and marketing was totally beyond him. Why did the government demand so much tax? Who cared? Six questions, only six questions. Not that much. But when he had seen: "You own a newspaper business in a small town. A large grocery store moves into the town, and ninety percent of the people in that town begin to go to that grocery store for all their groceries. The town has three previously existing small groceries that take out ads in your paper, which account for 30% of your income. Explain the effects of this grocery store on the town, how it will effect you, and how you should change your marketing strategy to deal with this.", he's nearly vomited.
"Economics?" a cold voice asked. Geoffry turned around.
Oh no, he wanted to groan. Not Artemis. Artemis Fowl. Who had sent John Amerdon, who could benchpress 100kilos, gibbering in terror. Who acted like a bloody vampire, with that pale skin and that black hair. Who stared at you and steepled his hands and turned you inside out and found you an insignificant speck of dust he was walking over. Not Artemis Fowl.
"Erm, nothing," Geoffry said hurriedly, slamming the book shut. "Nothing, just having some trouble, I'll get it worked out, thanks for your time, I think I'll just go to my room now--"
Artemis ignored him, sitting on the table across from him and opening the book. His face was expressionless as he read question one. "Elementary," he said with a sniff. He glanced at Geoffry's paper, which was full of eraser marks and doodles on the side. "You don't understand it?"
"No," Geoffry said, half defiantly, half afraid. "I mean, so the business moves in, okay? What does that have to do with you? You're supposed to be running a newspaper, not a grocery store. It doesn't affect you."
"Not true." Artemis laid the book down and tapped the paper. "You run a newspaper, true. But there are three grocery stores in the town who put ads in your newspaper weekly--it says so right here." He tapped the paper. "Forget about the newspaper. If you owned a grocery store, how would this effect you? Suddenly a store comes in that is ten times bigger than you. They can sell the exact same thing you're selling at half-price, and they're open twenty-four hours and have a restaurant in the store, too. Do you think people are going to still go to your meager grocery store?"
"No," Geoffry snorted. "Course not, it'd be stupid when there's the big nice place on the corner."
Artemis cringed inwardly. Such stupidity! It's for the plan, he reminded himself, and kept his face expressionless. "Right. So you, the owner of the grocery store," he said, barely able to keep the condescention out of his voice, "suddenly are running out of customers. No one is buying at your store. You barely have money to keep the store stocked. So how are you going to afford an ad in the newspaper?"
"I'm not," Geoffry said slowly. "I won't have enough money."
"Right," Artemis said, and this time there was a hint of disdain in his voice. Acting! He was not meant to be an actor. He focused. "So you own the newspaper, and suddenly the grocery store owners can't afford to put ads in your paper."
"You're only running at 70%," Geoffry said. "You don't have as much money coming in and you can't fill your ad spaces."
Artemis was impressed. From someone like Geoffry, this was high-level thinking. "Yes. And with only 70%, you can't put out as many newspapers. You're losing money."
He sat brack, watching the wheels in Geoffry's brain turn, then pushed the paper towards him. Geoffry begain to write, and Artemis surveyed him critically. Dim. So dim. Madison had said that he was moderately attractive--'cute' was the word she had used--but there was nothing under that curly brown hair, and no intelligence inside his pretty blue eyes.
He wasn't even really a good patient of the Home--he hadn't committed any crimes or done anything wrong. Madison, who had known him pre-psych-ward, had told Artemis about him: drugs. Heavy into Ecstasy, bad girlfriend, sampling cocaine and in deep shit when his father had found out. His father was also closeminded and certain that this was some sort of psychological disorder on his son's part--that he had somehow screwed his son's brain and done something to turn him to drugs. He had spent so many years in psychiatric school, counseling kids with problems, that he had never considered that a good kid could just get pulled the wrong way.
But still. This boy was, unknown to the other members of the Home, one of the most priveleged members. His father was Dr. Abdul, who had been good friends with Dr. Jackson back in psychiatry school, and as a result, Dr. Jackson allowed him to go out with his family unbugged.
---
but her world just keeps spinning backwards and upside down
Madison sighed and finished the circle, setting the chalk in the center. Black candles were at each corner of the pentagon she had drawn inside, and she knelt in the middle, smiling securely since her back was to the camera in her room. Oh, she was having fun. Artemis might be a horrible actor, but if Madison had a major failing, it was that she loved drama. And had slight schizophrenic homocidial tendencies, of course.
But still. She had had connections--before the Home, of course. She had known everyone. And luckily, she had known Geoffry. It was how she had been recommended to the Home, after all, through a friend of her father's. And a few of those connections had been Satanic, or at least heavily into gothic symbols.
I mean, honestly, she thought frankly. A low-cut slutty blood red evening dress? White face and blood red lipstick and black eyeshadow? How is that supposed to call on the demons? But she wasn't commplaing. At least, not where the cameras could hear her. But it was impossible to get any suitably occult books at a psychiatric hospital.
She sighed where the cameras couldn't hear, and turned, lighting each candle faintly. There was a heat shimmer near the ceiling, that flickered after she lit the candle, but she assumed it was the match. Turning around, still kneeling in the red dress, she lit the other candle, then on around the circle until all five black candles were burning. The heat shimmer near the ceiling moved a bit as the wind she created when she turned blew it around.
Her hair was long, the blond-red spiling over the red dress and her pale skin, making her look unsuitably happy. I'll have to dye my hair, she was thinking, but then faced the first candle. In what she hoped were suitably occult tones, she intoned: "Je ne crois pas en toute cette connerie, mais nous envoie des conseils, grand terrier de l'OH de la puissance de jet." Well, Spray Power wasn't really suitably translatable, but the gist was there: I don't believe in all this bullshit, but send us guidance, oh great terrier of Spray Power.
Managing to keep a straight face, she turned to the next candle and began the real prayer. M'envoyer la technologie," she whispered in French, which she was willing to bet that the staff could translate. Send me technology. Next candle. "M'envoyer un orage agréable qui débarassera de leur électricité et allons unmonitored juste assez long." Not quite as reverent, but more to the point: Send me a nice storm that will get rid of their electricity and let us go unmonitored just long enough. A solemn bowed head at that candle, then a quarter-turn that she tried to make solemn enough, though it ended up looking ridiculous. Ah, well, the show must go on. Cogner hors les fils téléphoniques." Knock out the telephone wires. And finally, the last candle, the tallest, where she was supposed to complete her prayer. "Artemis," she said, without knowing why. "M'épargner de cette prison, si vous vraiment êtes Dieu, ou quoi que la divinité occulte que je prie à. Aider ceci réussit." Save me from this prison, if you really are God, or whatever occult deity I'm praying to. Help this succeed. Not very occult, but heartfelt.
Sitting back, she closed her eyes. The heat shimmer near the ceiling still hovered, and there was quick wind, a sound of slamming doors down the hall. When she opened her eyes, all the black candles were extinguished.