"By a Thread" - section 3 `Kayla`
(Note: This section is also a bit older an in need of revision)
[Kayla]
She had never thought about writing before until all she had left was pen, paper, and silence. All her life, Kayla had lived around boisterous friend and a generally loud family. The labs were desolate of sound. When she had been first brought here, she figured the distinctly plain, sheened black journals were simply another trick for the BML to keep track of their prisoners. Maybe it was true, but people left to themselves need that small level of communication, even if it’s talking to themselves. Or hell, maybe it just helped keep them quiet.
So, to keep herself from going insane, one day she started the project: encoded poetry, stories, or random thoughts of someone who wasn’t her, just in case they were looking. Soon enough stacks of black bindings piled upon the steel desk. A new one arrived every month. Six bindings, each slowly crushing the one beneath it till the thin pages cracked and split. It was hard to look at each day, but it was the only true way to keep time. Her mind felt like it was starting to loosen from its cover, the edges of her memory bending and tearing slowly away hour by hour, under the weight of time. How long till her threads started unraveling and the pages of her sanity were to be ripped away from her? Or would they simply fall out of order all on their own?
If anything the stack represented, possibly the greatest research into the workings of this place. The psychological community had been trying to get access to the labs for years, and with the information she had been collecting, she’d be famous. Even better, they offered her a respite from her windowless prison by “allowing” her to be a staff member. Keeping her for the sake of Jesiah was only useful in making him behave, but it seems the head of this place didn’t believe in losing money unnecessarily. She was as good as any psychologist they could have paid, and she wouldn’t overstep the bounds, like someone from the outside. She would squirm though the layers of this place’s hell and when she escaped, she would bring Jesiah and everything she needed to tear apart this place.
But today was just another was just another day and the writer’s pen tapped against the blank page. “Damn dreams,” she muttered, dropping the pen and leaning back in her chair. Kayla sat at her desk, thinking of a new way to begin her latest concoction of words. But the dreams clouded her head and had once again, interrupted her daily routine. In her prison, it had become a small sanctuary. Not that the routine was anything special really; the woman always woke up at eight in the morning, got out of bed, brushed her hair and wrote before Frank let her out to do her job.
This morning was full of anxiety and anger. Only after throwing her brush against the mirror, shattering it and kicking the wall, did the sound of Jesiah screaming her name, her real name, fade. But she knew it would come back if she didn’t write down the thing which haunted her. Sighing she picked up her pen and began to write.
‘Darkness turns to light and reality dissolves into silk clouds of pink and blue hues, and I end up floating effortlessly through this place with only a flitting shadow to chase me. As I slow a dangling silver thread drops in front of me, capturing me in its embrace, and I’m tugged towards and unknown destination. The shadow grows closer and I fly, faster and faster, till it feels the thread will break. But it holds strong, daring only to frays at the edges, leading me to the door of the past.
I hear light breath that I can’t ignore, for it is him, slumbering in peace. I open the door without a sound and watch the shining string attach to his wrist, but any happiness there might have been is lost by the shadow now growing steadily behind me. I run to him, and see his eyes open, but blood red replaces his once sky blue eyes. The shadow has already infected him. I watch the door slam shut, keeping the shadow at bay, as I shake him and call out his name. His eyes flick towards me, and as if the he has woken from some evil spell he sits up and flings himself into my arms. We hold each other tightly and don’t speak a word, kissing and simply being. But eventually the door creaks as the shadow pushes against it. He speaks my name and forces me to let go, only to move in front of me.
The door groans and finally gives as the shadow floods in and wraps its ugly black tendrils around him. They wrap around his body and neck, covering his torso, legs, and arms. He tries to speak to me, but his mouth soon becomes covered and by then the tendrils grab a hold of my wrist. I can see the agony in his eyes as the shadow drags him away, and forces me to follow. The clouds turn black and my once peaceful dream, once again, has turned into a nightmare.’
Finally the woman let the pen drop from her hand, slowly, onto the desk. She pulled her slipping hair back into a strict ponytail, only a few curls escaping its grasp, and leaned back in her seat. Jesiah would be disappointed. He would mock her for losing her cool to something as simple as deranged dreams. She wouldn’t lose, not to this place.
[Kayla]
She had never thought about writing before until all she had left was pen, paper, and silence. All her life, Kayla had lived around boisterous friend and a generally loud family. The labs were desolate of sound. When she had been first brought here, she figured the distinctly plain, sheened black journals were simply another trick for the BML to keep track of their prisoners. Maybe it was true, but people left to themselves need that small level of communication, even if it’s talking to themselves. Or hell, maybe it just helped keep them quiet.
So, to keep herself from going insane, one day she started the project: encoded poetry, stories, or random thoughts of someone who wasn’t her, just in case they were looking. Soon enough stacks of black bindings piled upon the steel desk. A new one arrived every month. Six bindings, each slowly crushing the one beneath it till the thin pages cracked and split. It was hard to look at each day, but it was the only true way to keep time. Her mind felt like it was starting to loosen from its cover, the edges of her memory bending and tearing slowly away hour by hour, under the weight of time. How long till her threads started unraveling and the pages of her sanity were to be ripped away from her? Or would they simply fall out of order all on their own?
If anything the stack represented, possibly the greatest research into the workings of this place. The psychological community had been trying to get access to the labs for years, and with the information she had been collecting, she’d be famous. Even better, they offered her a respite from her windowless prison by “allowing” her to be a staff member. Keeping her for the sake of Jesiah was only useful in making him behave, but it seems the head of this place didn’t believe in losing money unnecessarily. She was as good as any psychologist they could have paid, and she wouldn’t overstep the bounds, like someone from the outside. She would squirm though the layers of this place’s hell and when she escaped, she would bring Jesiah and everything she needed to tear apart this place.
But today was just another was just another day and the writer’s pen tapped against the blank page. “Damn dreams,” she muttered, dropping the pen and leaning back in her chair. Kayla sat at her desk, thinking of a new way to begin her latest concoction of words. But the dreams clouded her head and had once again, interrupted her daily routine. In her prison, it had become a small sanctuary. Not that the routine was anything special really; the woman always woke up at eight in the morning, got out of bed, brushed her hair and wrote before Frank let her out to do her job.
This morning was full of anxiety and anger. Only after throwing her brush against the mirror, shattering it and kicking the wall, did the sound of Jesiah screaming her name, her real name, fade. But she knew it would come back if she didn’t write down the thing which haunted her. Sighing she picked up her pen and began to write.
‘Darkness turns to light and reality dissolves into silk clouds of pink and blue hues, and I end up floating effortlessly through this place with only a flitting shadow to chase me. As I slow a dangling silver thread drops in front of me, capturing me in its embrace, and I’m tugged towards and unknown destination. The shadow grows closer and I fly, faster and faster, till it feels the thread will break. But it holds strong, daring only to frays at the edges, leading me to the door of the past.
I hear light breath that I can’t ignore, for it is him, slumbering in peace. I open the door without a sound and watch the shining string attach to his wrist, but any happiness there might have been is lost by the shadow now growing steadily behind me. I run to him, and see his eyes open, but blood red replaces his once sky blue eyes. The shadow has already infected him. I watch the door slam shut, keeping the shadow at bay, as I shake him and call out his name. His eyes flick towards me, and as if the he has woken from some evil spell he sits up and flings himself into my arms. We hold each other tightly and don’t speak a word, kissing and simply being. But eventually the door creaks as the shadow pushes against it. He speaks my name and forces me to let go, only to move in front of me.
The door groans and finally gives as the shadow floods in and wraps its ugly black tendrils around him. They wrap around his body and neck, covering his torso, legs, and arms. He tries to speak to me, but his mouth soon becomes covered and by then the tendrils grab a hold of my wrist. I can see the agony in his eyes as the shadow drags him away, and forces me to follow. The clouds turn black and my once peaceful dream, once again, has turned into a nightmare.’
Finally the woman let the pen drop from her hand, slowly, onto the desk. She pulled her slipping hair back into a strict ponytail, only a few curls escaping its grasp, and leaned back in her seat. Jesiah would be disappointed. He would mock her for losing her cool to something as simple as deranged dreams. She wouldn’t lose, not to this place.