This is OOC, because I'm pretty sure that Olivia and Alicia don't have mental illness in canon. Also may do a sequel to this, if anyone wants one.

"I'm slipping underneath—so cold and so sweet."

—Never Let Me Go, Florence and the Machine

Trust me.

She is a Siren who can lead people underwater with these words.

In modern society, people aren't known for their intelligence. If you're a hormonal boy and a beautiful, charismatic girl kisses you and asks to come with her, chances are you will. It's not like she's going to try to kill you or anything, right?

By the time she's officially diagnosed with psychopathy, she's killed four people. Her parents balk at the idea of sending her to an institution—it's disgraceful to send their pretty, perfect daughter to a mental hospital—but she has to go.

For this, she spits in their faces on the way out.

"Why'd you do it?" the girl next to her asks. Waves of blonde hair fall gently down her back as she stares dully into the mirror, but the question is tinged with curiosity. As far as Alicia can tell, she's perfectly normal; no random screams, no evidence of hallucinations, not even an attempt to escape from the straitjacket she's in.

Alicia remembers to answer the question and shrugs. "It's kind of fascinating, I guess." She laughs humorlessly as she says, "The therapist didn't think the same thing."

The blonde glances at her, and Alicia notices the scars weaving their way across her arms, dotted with freckles. "You got a therapist?" She coughs for a moment, and the dark-haired girl is pretty sure she sees blood splattered across the jacket, but she can't find herself to care. "My parents never bothered."

Alicia raises an eyebrow, almost appreciating the fact her parents cared enough, but then remembers she doesn't care about them. "What're you in here for?"

"Bipolar disorder," the blonde says, shrugging. Her legs swing back and forth like a child's, even though it seems odd, because they're long enough she has to lift them up so they don't touch the ground. "You?"

"Four gravestones," she says in a cheerful, almost sing-song voice. It's meant to be morbid humor, but the blonde nods and accepts it. She can't help but feel a twinge of annoyance. "So, what's your name?"

"Olivia. You?"

"Alicia."

One day, she's casually walking around her cell, counting the number of stickers pasted on the wall. She's not sure why they're there in the first place, and no one else has them, but no one seems to care. Despite her condition, she's been labeled as low risk—she hasn't shown signs of self-harm, and she's not physically dangerous.

Sobbing echoes through the hallways, and her eyes widen before she slams herself against the bars of her door.

"You know," she says conversationally as the blonde girl sobs on and on, clawing at her straitjacket, "you almost got me in trouble. They thought I was trying to escape, but I was the one who alerted them to something being wrong."

Really, she's trying to hold herself together as more scars form on Olivia's arms, and she pretends she isn't scared out of her mind when the girl attacks the attendant with her teeth and knocks herself unconscious banging on the door with her head. All of the deaths Alicia has caused are bloodless, drowning or poison or suffocation, and the sight of the blonde's head bleeding is a little too much for her to handle.

But she's a psychopath, so she's not supposed to care, and everyone assumes she's not disturbed.

"You have no idea what it feels like."

As far as the uncaring staff of the hospital knows, a psychopath is the best person to play therapist for a girl set on tearing herself to pieces. She pretends she isn't staring at the other girl's belly while she paces around.

"You don't know," Olivia insists. "You don't know what it's like to completely hate yourself, to hate everything." She points at her face, almost poking herself in the eye. "Did you know I tried to stab my nose once and had to get a new one? I almost killed my brother in a temper tantrum. And the hospital bracelets. . ." She hiccups. "They thought I wanted to slit my wrists, but I just wanted to get them off." Her voice rises higher. "And then he comes with his stupid grin and it's disgusting how I'm helpless to do anything in this straitjacketand now I'm freaking pregnant!"

Alicia just raises an eyebrow and asks if she really cares about proper language in an asylum.

"Do you feel anything?" Olivia shrills. "I thought you might! I thought you might care!"

She wonders why the staring (female because the last male to come in almost got his eyes clawed out) attendant isn't doing anything. Her eyes are wandering back and forth, and really, what is this, a soap opera?

"You were the only person in here who was nice to me!"

Really, she wasn't, she thinks, she just asked a few questions. Her gaze is casual, uncaring, and Olivia snaps.

"I hope you're okay," says the attendant (insincerely), applying disinfectant to the scratch marks on Alicia's perfect face. Honestly, if they want her to never trick a boy again, they should just leave a really big scar. "The poor thing's going to off herself any day now—"

"Thanks," she interrupts. "But could you leave? I'm a little bit shaken; I need some alone time."

There's no such thing as alone time here, with the security cameras, but she's never needed guards. Low risk, she reminds herself. The attendant nods, having better things to do, and is gone.

Alicia sinks to her knees, pressing herself against the walls, and screams until the pain of her lungs makes tears come to her eyes. It's not that she cares; it's that she wants to.

The closest thing you have to a friend was raped and they haven't even fired the attendant who did it. Why can't you feel anything? Why can't you feel anything?

Olivia dies in childbirth. The baby is raised in Alicia's cell.