he doesn't cry for us
WHO: Takaya, Katurian, and Alpha
WHERE: City asylum
WHEN: Saturday afternoon (forward-dated)
SUMMARY: Katurian and Takaya encounter each other in the psychiatric hospital. Alpha has other plans for them.
WARNINGS: Violence (?)
FORMAT: Paragraph to start, but whichever you'd like!
It took four days before he was let out with the others. Wednesday. Thursday. Friday. Saturday. He spent his first night in a padded room. The walls weren't the soft, pink cushions he'd seen in films, but clear plastic and foam, and when he screamed, no one listened. When they let him out the next morning and gave him a bedroom, his body wouldn't tremble anymore and all he could do was recite stories to himself, hollow 'once upon a times' that only reminded him of what he couldn't have. He had slipped from the edge the night he attacked Mary, and his stories were quickly becoming more important than sleeping, bathing, eating. The drugs kept him calm, but they did nothing to quell the unshakable desire to write. He didn't expect they would.
He lost track of time.
Screams in the closet. Feathers under his fingers. Dead children, that didn't excuse anything, more feathers, his stories ruined. Rebirth. A little girl going still in his arms. Was this all it took for him, in the end?
Saturday. In the morning, he had a visitor, and in the afternoon, they let him into the common room for the first time. He sat alone in a chair and just watched his hands, bandaged and useless, and he thought numbly, oh, this could be a nice story. His slow descent. If only he had a pen.
WHERE: City asylum
WHEN: Saturday afternoon (forward-dated)
SUMMARY: Katurian and Takaya encounter each other in the psychiatric hospital. Alpha has other plans for them.
WARNINGS: Violence (?)
FORMAT: Paragraph to start, but whichever you'd like!
It took four days before he was let out with the others. Wednesday. Thursday. Friday. Saturday. He spent his first night in a padded room. The walls weren't the soft, pink cushions he'd seen in films, but clear plastic and foam, and when he screamed, no one listened. When they let him out the next morning and gave him a bedroom, his body wouldn't tremble anymore and all he could do was recite stories to himself, hollow 'once upon a times' that only reminded him of what he couldn't have. He had slipped from the edge the night he attacked Mary, and his stories were quickly becoming more important than sleeping, bathing, eating. The drugs kept him calm, but they did nothing to quell the unshakable desire to write. He didn't expect they would.
He lost track of time.
Screams in the closet. Feathers under his fingers. Dead children, that didn't excuse anything, more feathers, his stories ruined. Rebirth. A little girl going still in his arms. Was this all it took for him, in the end?
Saturday. In the morning, he had a visitor, and in the afternoon, they let him into the common room for the first time. He sat alone in a chair and just watched his hands, bandaged and useless, and he thought numbly, oh, this could be a nice story. His slow descent. If only he had a pen.