Hey everyone. Here is one more shorter chapter for you that was supposed to be part of the last chapter. I hope it's ok. I kept tweaking and changing, but there comes a point where you just have to stop fucking with it sometimes.
Thank you so much to Morrowsong and Idcam for the reviews! As always I love hearing from you guys.
A bit of a warning here, our girl becomes rather a little, um...unhinged, in this one.
Heather stared at the dead clock on the wall as if she could will the second hand to tick tick tick with her mind. Now a full-time resident of Cypress Creek Psychiatric Hospital, Heather was relieved that she had the faculties to measure time - or it seemed she did. The days appeared to meld together and one was becoming indistinguishable from the next. It was a swift revelation that these establishments didn't prevent one from wishing to take their life, but merely thwarted one from doing so. While there were one or two truly tormented souls taking residence here which was quite harrowing and at times frightening, most like Heather, simply seemed to be bargaining over life in a losing gamble.
Heather remained to herself and tried to drift through the day as unobserved as possible. She endeavored greatly to steer clear of many of the other patients, whether they seemed friendly or otherwise. She refused to participate in any and all therapy sessions be they within an individual or group setting. That is, she refused to speak. Her presence was mandatory and included in her daily routine. Some days it wasn't always a structured therapy, but a brief check-in. Regardless, she was mum on all counts. It was petty and counterproductive, she knew, but somehow she didn't wish to give her captors the satisfaction. In spite of her "poor progression," as her therapist had dubbed it, Heather was contented that she had managed to largely ghost under the radar. Nearly an entire week had passed since she had been committed to the facility.
During dinner on her sixth evening of residency, however, a girl approximately her age sat down beside her and stared at her as if trying to bore into her soul. Heather continued on in ignorance of the girl's presence until she detected a blunt object poking her in the thigh under the table. Puzzled, Heather peered downward to glimpse a crude tool that she could only surmise came from the thin metal frame of something such as a window screen. How she was able to procure it, let alone even have the privacy to do so, was beyond Heather's comprehension.
The girl poked her in the thigh once more and Heather stared at her, mouth agape, eyes blinking in bewilderment. She didn't dare to peek underneath the table again for fear of drawing attention, but the girl attempted to thrust the object into her hand. Stunned by the other girl's action, Heather nearly let the apparatus slip from her grasp. Fortunately, she rescued it before it clattered to the tile floor.
Heather peered at the girl in a perplexed manner. This was her first proper look at her. Heather realized they were in the same therapy group. Hair dyed a sunny blonde was growing out of mousy brown roots and a pair of amber eyes was staring back at her. Heather glanced down as the other female ran the tip of her index finger horizontally across her inner thigh a few times.
It took a few moments for Heather to deduce the girl's indication and she felt her heart stop for a moment. Panicked at the thought of being caught red-handed, Heather discretely thrust it back towards her as she shook her head. "I d-don't do that," Heather muttered so weakly it was barely audible. Her throat felt hoarse from the vocalization. She had scarcely uttered more than a few dozen words since being admitted.
The girl furrowed her brow and fixed her eyes on the angry scar located on the inside of Heather's left wrist.
Heather stood corrected. Yet it wasn't as though it was a consistent practice for her. That was an isolated incident with a single-minded purpose. Even Heather's poor justification wasn't recompense for the contrition she was experiencing. She was well aware that the ritual could at times produce a type of euphoria akin to drug and alcohol use in order to numb the pain. However, despite every ordeal that she had been subjected to, she still had the fortitude not to succumb to its enticing liberation.
Nonplussed, the girl took back the instrument. She covertly tucked it into the waistband of her pants with a shrug. Although she said nothing, it was apparent to Heather that the girl was passing judgment on her, as though she had refused a swig from the bottle or a hit from a blunt at a party.
Heather was relieved to turn back to her unappetizing dinner unhindered – not that she'd had much of an appetite for the last several weeks as it were. She couldn't stomach the unpalatable fare in front of her, so she got up and took it to the waste receptacle. Somewhere in Heather's altruistic heart, she felt a twinge of guilt over being so wasteful, yet it didn't even seem fit for consumption by a pack of stray dogs.
She received an expression that was nothing less than a scowl from an orderly who eyed her undisturbed tray, but she pretended not to notice and proceeded to dump the shameless excuse for cuisine before depositing her plastic tray into the bin.
Heather pondered briefly whether she ought not to inform an orderly of the girl's makeshift contraband instrument. It took but a moment for her to decide against it. Who was she to meddle in the other girl's affairs? Creating an enemy of the girl or any individual in the facility would likely prove to be tremendously foolhardy, at any rate.
In the rec room's meager library, Heather found an ancient and battered copy of The Great Gatsby. Her heart clenched when she recollected that this was the tale she was reading the day she had met Kevin. (Properly that is. It was highly probable that they were in the vicinity of one another once or twice during her younger years, but she could hardly recall.) It had already been Heather's third read-through at the time, but clocking in at under fifty thousand words, it was a swift excursion.
Heather drew the book in close. Despite being such a harrowing and tragic parable there was something so familiar and oddly comforting about it, like a beloved childhood fairytale.
Heather claimed the large plush chair in the corner and opened the front cover. On the first flyleaf, an unknown person had rendered a crude drawing of a phallic object in black marker. Heather snorted her disapproval of this individual's artistic talents and the uncivilized manner in which they would defile a book and turned to the first account given by Mr. Nick Caraway.
Soon others filed in and the room became filled with a consistent din. The excessive beep, beep, beeeep of someone cursing on a reality television show. People laughing too loud and two people arguing in hushed whispers over a card game. Heather did her best to drown all this out. Usually, she had no problem at all in doing so, but she found it a challenge as of late. Her brain had not quite felt the same since the incident. Her thoughts were often foggy and muddled. Part of her hoped she would recover in time. Another part of her didn't see the purpose in wishing to recover, for she was convinced that she was continuing her descent into madness, slipping away slowly but surely.
It had been nine days before Heather's parents could convince Reves to visit her. Her parents had come to see her twice already. This would be their third visit. Heather was surprised when she learned that Mr. McMahon had given her father some time off. She was even more shocked that he chose to take it. Yet she wagered that her mother may have been more influential in that decision than she let on.
Reves approached with her signature grimace, one which faltered and caused her to stop short once she saw her sister's gaunt form. The younger girl's usually bright face had a sickly pallor and she was much too thin. Meekly, Heather met her gaze as the two girls stared at one another for a long moment.
After which, the scowl quickly returned to Reves' visage as she plopped down into a chair at a folding card table that was furnished for visitors near the center of the room. The usual visiting area was being renovated so patients had to take visitors in the rec room.
Heather forced a faint smile when her mother kissed the top of her head. She didn't want to smile. Truth be told she didn't want to be subjected to look at them, any of them. They were a reminder of the outside world and everything she had failed at, every way she had let everyone in her life down.
"How are you feeling sweetie?" Sara asked as the rest of them took a seat.
"Okay," Heather murmured as her eyes focused on a small nick in the card table's vinyl covering.
"You aren't eating," Mark commented in his gruff voice, which was, surprisingly punctuated by an almost genuine concern. "Can't say I blame ya. That stuff's probably like jail food, but you can't just waste away to nothin'."
"You look like a corpse," Reves finally spoke. Not one to mince words, she said exactly what was on her mind.
That earned Reves a seething glare from both her parents. Mark looked like he was about to erupt on her, but thinking better of it, his jaw set in a hard line as he turned back to his youngest.
Heather willed away the tears that were already threatening to fall. Not five minutes and they were already reading her the riot act over one thing or another. She didn't want visitors. She didn't want anyone to remind her of how she had horribly screwed up, how she had failed and would continue to do so. She just wished to be left in solitude.
"Jeremiah's been wanting to come," Sara began, steering everyone to a different topic, "but they only allow family members."
Thank goodness, Heather thought with little reserve. She was uncertain that she could ever face Jeremiah after her stunt. Her mother had told her of the grief that she had caused Jazzy and it left her feeling utterly horrendous.
Sara looked at her daughter who remained stoic. She thought the mention of her friend at least attempting to see her would cheer her up but it did not.
"You're brothers said maybe they would come next time. They only allow so many people at once " Sara tried continuing the conversation.
Reves snorted and rolled her eyes but said nothing.
Heather glanced at her mother as though she was telling an old wives' tale that was too incredulous to believe. Her mother knew her brothers didn't care for her any more than she truly cared for them. She wished she could have, but they had bullied and tormented her most of her life just as so many others had. Goodness, even the three individuals sitting before her were culpable when it came to such mistreatment.
"Yer doctor told us you ain't making any progress in yer session," Mark commented after a minute of silence.
Heather ignored his erroneous grammar. "That is because I don't have anything to say," Heather stated in a blunt and deadpan manner. Her tone was zombie-like but her eyes cast a serious and detesting gaze upon him.
Mark's jaw clenched again. If it could be believed, he was becoming increasingly unsure of how to respond to her, given that she had been behaving in ways that he had never witnessed in her prior.
"Well how do you expect to get better?" he pressed.
Heather lowered her gaze. This time her visage didn't express a look of scolded contrition as it normally would, but of impatient agitation. It was irksome how everyone preceded to tell her what she should do in order to "get better", yet none of them knew the waking torment she had endured up until this point.
The family fell into silence again for several minutes until Sara finally spoke. "Mark, maybe we should give the girls some time by themselves?" she suggested to her husband.
"For what?" Mark grumbled in a confused tone.
Sara shot him a look. "It's a girl thing," she explained. Sara knew how close her daughters were even if they hadn't been showing it. She knew Heather had been missing her sister. She also knew that Reves was still quite upset over Heather's actions and maybe they needed to talk it out.
Mark let out a rumbling sigh. "Oh, alright," he said getting up from the table.
Heather cast a silent but pleading glance at her parents. From the way Reves was glowering at her, she knew she did not wish to be left to a private conversation with the other girl. But since she remained mum, her parents rose and sauntered off to the sitting area where the couches were.
That left Heather with no alternative but to meet the ire-filled glare of her sister once more. Heather wrapped her arms around her lithe frame. It was always too chilly in this place but with her sister's icy glare on her, it felt even more so.
"You are angry with me," Heather finally spoke, cutting through the silence. Her voice was matter of fact as opposed to her normal quaver of beseeching forgiveness.
Reves stared back at her, arms folded over her chest, anger radiating from her. "I just..." her voice was soft at first then it trailed off. "Is all this over that gigantic idiot?" Now the venom was being spewed and her words sank into Heather like a pair of fangs.
A scowl of her own came to Heather's face. He was certainly not a gigantic idiot. Not to Heather. "It's more complicated than that," she replied dryly.
Reves gave a huff. "You act like you're the only one that's allowed to be sad around here. Like I didn't lose something in this whole ordeal as well." Reves paused a moment as if searching for the words. "Like I didn't almost lose you," her voice cracked, but the venom remained. "Do you think it's fair what you're doing to everyone? Did you even think about him in all of this, who you claim to love so much? Did you take into account how he would feel?"
Sitting there, listening to her sister's admonishments, Heather felt like a coiled spring that was being stretched further and further as she attempted to maintain her composure.
Reves continued, "No. Because you're being so self-absorbed!"
SNAP!
Heather saw red as she abruptly bolted to her feet, knocking over the metal folding chair with a clang. "Don't bring him up as if any of this matters to you! Loss? What do you know? I've lost everything thanks to you assholes!" Heather shrieked at the top of her lungs. Despite her borderline emaciated state, Heather snatched up the flimsy card table and flung it across the room as though she were She-Hulk.
Reves jolted out of its path at the last moment as one of the table legs narrowly missed her face. "What the fuck is your problem?" the blonde demanded. Horror and alarm were evident on her countenance as she took a couple of calculated steps back.
The tiny dark-haired girl released a shrill cry that was feral, and certainly unhinged before she made an attempt to lunge at the older girl.
Within the blink of an eye however, she found her attempt impeded, as both of her wrists were captured, by some colossal phantasm, one after the other, and brought into a crisscross position at the front of her body. She was bound tight, clamped in the person's overpowering hold.
"That's enough, girl," the voice was firm and commanding. There was no mistake it meant business, but it didn't hold its usual menacing tone.
She already knew the voice, but when Heather craned her neck to glare up at her father, it only served to exacerbate and fuel her rage. She began flailing violently and kicking her legs in a futile attempt to break free of his grasp. "No! No, fuck you! Fuck all of you! I hate you! I HATE EVERYONE!"
She did. At that moment, she hated them all. They had taken away the one person who had actually given a damn about her; who had actually listened to her and made her feel seen. On top of that, they labeled him a monster. No, they were the monsters! They were the devils she had been attempting to rid herself of all this time.
Mark held tight as Heather jerked to and fro like a wild animal caught in a trap. She was surprisingly strong given her petite frame and weakened state. All that pent-up fury inside such a tiny body.
It didn't take long, however, for her to tire out. She stopped struggling and began heaving out deep gasps. Mark wasn't trying to hurt her, but contain her little bout of rage. Just then he saw a group of three orderlies approach.
"Sir, we need you to step away please," the first addressed him.
Cutting his eyes to them Mark saw the gigantic syringe that he was holding. "What the hell is that?" he demanded. It looked big enough to knock out a damn horse.
"It's perfectly safe. It's just a little sedative to help her calm down from her fit," the man assured him.
Mark was thrust into a frenzy of his own now. He glowered at the men. "That's the type of shit you people do in here? Hell no!"
"We just do what's best for the patient, Sir. Now, if you would cooperate with us..." the man said with contention in his voice as the three of them stepped forward.
As they did, Mark retreated a couple of steps, with Heather still in his arms. "You better back the fuck up, or you'll find that damn thing so far down your throat, they'll have to surgically remove it!" Mark roared, his voice booming and bouncing off the walls of the rec room.
The men froze in their tracks, the apprehension clearly etched on their faces as they heeded the behemoth's menacing words. The man brandishing the syringe lowered it, rightfully not wanting to be on the receiving end of the giant's wrath.
Heather's panting had given way to wracking keens and Mark pulled his focus back to her. This is really what he had made of his daughter? Well, she fought back so she was more like him than he realized. "That's enough, girl. No need for all that carrying on. It's alright. Everything's gonna be okay," he spoke to her in a strange and placid inflection, the way he might have spoken to her as a young girl during one of those rare times that she had broken through his iron exterior and he let himself show her true affection.
"No, it's not okay!" Heather wailed. She was in full-blown sobs now. Her tiny body trembled violently. "It hurts. It hurts so terribly. Make it stop!" As though all the energy had been zapped from her body, Heather began sinking to the floor and her father drifted with her, still holding her loosely in his grasp. "Make it stop. Please!" Her tiny frame writhed in some phantom agony.
"Everything is fine. It's alright," Mark repeated to her, not sure what else to say. Being comforting and empathetic obviously wasn't his strong suit so he did the best he could even though he was out of his element here.
After some considerable time, her mournful wails began to wane into pitiful sniffs. The quaking of her shoulders and her gasping breaths were subsiding. Reality was slowly pulling her back into its folds.
The entire room was so silent one could hear a pin drop. It had been so ever since Heather bolted up with her ireful outburst. Everyone had frozen, standing in hushed awe at the little mousy girl's display of fury.
Mark got to his feet stretching to his full stature, a little self-conscious that an entire room of people were gaping at them. Sure, he was used to people being awe-struck when they saw The Undertaker at a live event or even at an autograph signing, but this was an entirely different matter altogether. He never liked airing his dirty laundry or personal matters in public and now here they were on full display like some sideshow attraction.
"What the hell are ya'll gawking at? Nothing to see here. Mind your own damn business if you know what's good fer ya!" Mark's voice boomed throughout the area.
Some people heeded his warning and quickly turned away trying to pretend as though they were never gaping at the spectacle in the first place. Others did a less subtle job of returning to themselves, giving noticeable side eyes to the scene. A few brave or foolish souls continued to stare at the entertainment provided for them.
Ignoring the strangers, Mark turned to his wife who had come to stand behind Reves with her hands on the young woman's shoulders. The younger blonde stood immobilized. She was both terrified and dazed as black mascara tears streaked her pale face.
"Where the fuck is that crackpot shrink?" Mark demanded, referring to the psychiatrist who presided over Heather's case. "This place is fucked. We're taking her out of here today. I told you this was a bad idea," Mark bellowed. "And call Clarence up. I'm probably going to need him."
With that Mark stormed from the room on a destructive warpath, looking for the psychiatrist's office.
Once the giant had left and the main orderly finally regained his wits, he sounded the alarm signaling a threatening and dangerous situation.
It didn't take long for the police to arrive at the facility. They swiftly detained Mark and placed him under arrest for making threats of violence, disorderly conduct and possibly inciting a riot. As Mark was being placed into the back of the squad car, Sara was now outside with Reves as they watched their husband and father being carted away.
"Tell Clarence to meet me at the jail," Mark yelled to his wife.
Sara nodded although she was thoroughly pissed with her husband. They were supposed to be visiting their daughter, not having him show his ass and get arrested! Even for the trouble, Sara was secretly overjoyed to see her husband finally take up and defend his daughter for once instead of vilifying her. She wished he would do the same for Reves.
All in all, he was right. This was a horrible place and Heather needed to be home in a familiar place after everything that had happened. Not stuck in a place like this where she was all alone and scared. She could continue therapy as an outpatient - but with a different practice that didn't treat their patients like wild animals to be sedated.
Following the altercation Sara and Reves were forced by the authorities to exit the premises as well; leaving them no choice but to leave Heather behind in that dreadful place until all the paperwork could legally be drawn up.
As they were pulling out of the parking lot, Sara got on the phone with Clarence Whithouse, the family attorney.
Reves looked back at the facility with its neatly trimmed hedges and deceptively cozy exterior. She loathed the idea of leaving her sister in a God-forsaken Hell hole like that, even if the little brat did try to attack her.
Regardless, Reves was still angry at her. She was furious that she was being so short-sighted. Couldn't she see how much she mattered? What was she going to do if her sister really had died? Her thoughts were selfish she knew. It wasn't as though she was ignoring her sister's agony. She just wasn't very tactful at expressing her thoughts and feelings at times. She knew she would have to apologize when Heather came home. It wasn't something Reves was used to or fond of, but she had taken the wrong approach and she knew it from the start. Damn her, she just couldn't stop herself when she got started sometimes.
Reves tried to tune into her mom's conversation with Clarence. She hadn't been paying any mind, lost in her own thoughts. "That bull-headed motherfucker," she heard Clarence gripe through the speaker.
The young blonde released a chuckle filled with mirth. Daddy Deadman was in jail. That was pretty hilarious. And yet, ironic – deliciously so – considering the crime that had landed him in the slammer was defending his own daughter from a bunch of threatening men.
That was a kind of dousey if I do say so myself. Did you expect any of what happened?
Sadly, this will likely be the last update of the year as obviously, stuff is happening and I haven't even started the next one. Please wish me luck. I know I have said it before but I really want 2024 to be THE year for this thing. If I don't post another, much love and happy holidays, everyone!