Insanity

She tasted blood in her mouth. Sour and coppery and foul. But when she tried to spit it out, she found her head restrained, her arms clamped down with arches of metal. Frantic, she looked around, desperate for some answers. Why was she tied down? What happened?

A familiar face came into focus, kneeling down before her. A little penlight flashed in his hand, causing her blink, and try to move away. But she knew that face, and that was a comfort. She thought maybe, she even loved that face. He'd always been kind to her, since she was little.

"Daddy?" Her voice sounded harsh and rough. Worn and ragged. Had she been screaming? "What's happening? Why am I tied up?"

"Shhh." Her father patted her hand. "It's quite alright. You've had a little bit of a mishap, Katty. We're just putting you back to rights."

She tried to remember. She'd hit her head? Maybe? No, no, someone had hit her in the head. Someone in red. She'd been unarmed, defenseless. "Where am I?"

Her father used the edge of his purple cape to polish his monocle. "You're home. You're treatment shouldn't last much longer, Katty."

That didn't sound right. Katty. The name wasn't right. But, that's what he's always called her, from the time she was old enough to understand what a nickname was. KittyKat had become Katty as she'd grown up. He patted her hand again, and rose, disappearing out of her line of sight. The room beyond was stark. A laboratory of sorts, filled with monitors and lights and dials.

I'll come back for her. Promise. She'd said that to someone recently. On a phone call? There was something about a dial tone. Who her though?

"Bathsheba?" she whispered the name as it occurred to her. Was that a cat? Did she have a pet she needed to get back to? She struggled to pin down the thought, but it wouldn't stay still. And just when she thought she had the connection, just when she managed to focus on the idea of blue-blue eyes, pain arced through her body from the top of her head to the soles of her feet.

At first she clenched her teeth against the pain, gritting them. But then, the scream erupted from her tortured throat. Her head flooded with images: birthday parties, dance recitals, blue ribbon at the science fair.

No, no, that's not what happened.

There was no birthday party at twelve years old. Because she'd gotten into a fist fight with the kids at school, and she was standing petulantly in court on the day they'd designated as her birthday. There was no cake; there was no pinata. No one sang a song. It wasn't right!

Between one scream ending and the next beginning, she had enough time to take a desperate gulp of air.

What wasn't right? She couldn't remember. She must have done something wrong. Something heinously wrong. What? It must have been truly terrible of her, for her father to put her through such pain. She began sobbing, the tortured screams of pain turning into agonized apologies. Mercifully, at some point, she blacked out, again.

But she dreamed. In technicolor, with full sensory input. The dreams crumbled at the edges, like a film reel exposed to heat. There was a cornfield, and a cold beer, and someone with eyes so blue it make her heart ache. There was laughter over coffee, a wonderful and comfortable sense of camaraderie that splintered down the center.

The pain stopped. Her mind struggled for awareness, to grasp at the splintering edges of reality. Voices shouted around her, hands grabbed her by the arms and pulled her out of the harsh metal chair. Her father's voice cried out in anguish as metal struck metal with a clang and screech.

"Stop! Stop! You can't do that!"

"Vamanos, vamanos! Our three minute window is closing, ese!"

"We can't move her, yet! We don't know the damage."

Gunfire. An Uzi. A Beretta. How'd she know those sounds? Know what guns that particular pattern of fire belonged to?

She grabbed onto the hands holding her up, struggled to force her eyes open. Her fingertips felt far away, as though they were no longer attached to her arms. The disconnection worsened like she was falling deeper into her body. The first spasms that crawled through her muscles were laced with pain. Noises around her blurred and bubbled oddly, voices distorting and fading in an out.

"She's seizing, you idiots! You interrupted the procedure! There's no knowing what damage you've caused!"

"Someone shut him up!"

"I know we're outta time, Snakes."

Hands framed her face, smoothed back hair from her eyes. Her lashes fluttered, eyes finally opening on command. It took her a few moments more to focus. Blond curls stuck out from under a dark knit cap. Eyes bluer than blue bored down into hers.

"Thank God, Kirsty..." His voice was deep, but quiet, no more than a whisper. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, and it felt right. Her eyes fluttered shut again, when he looked away from her. "I've got Ricochet; we're good to go."

She was gathered up, nestled against a strong chest and carried out. Behind her, she heard the sound of gunfire continue, and then a bright laugh.

"Semtex? Hell yeah.. let's go out with a bang!"

Kirsty. That was right. That name sounded better to her than Katty. She rubbed her eyes, before shielding her face against his shoulder. She'd sorted out who she really was, but she wondered why she couldn't remember his name. It seemed so important to her.