The Case files of Massacre Asylum

[Miss_Vivi]

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From what they'd been able to piece together the fire had been started in several places all over the asylum. There was no way to tell exactly where or how it all began, but the investigator had his suspicions.

It had been a month. A month of combing through the wreckage of Massacre, meanwhile these women, their insanity, their words, and stories had slowly crept into his consciousness, had begun to take over his life. He hadn't slept in days and his dinner clinked in the glass in his hand. Fingers wiped the stubble on his chin.

Who did he feel like tonight?

His loins ached for Trista, she had a way of reaching from her grave and twirling her fingers about his lust and creating a yearning for her unlike he'd ever felt for any other woman, or his mind who constantly sought out the puzzle that was Tessa, he wanted to understand her, like he understood his own fragile sanity.

Fragile.

He'd never thought of himself as fragile. Not until these women had cut him open and laid his thoughts out bare, women like Marisa, with her impish grin and the Teddy bear that directed her fingers into the investigators thoughts leaving those fingers bloody and the investigator weak.

They called to him. Made him pine for them. He couldn't stop hearing their voices in his dreams, or in the corner of his eye, just before turning, he'd hear the soft giggle of Alicia, or feel Shannon's eyes on him.

He was barely sleeping. Sleep was worse. His fevered dreams of them, how they'd crawl across his bed and grind him, he'd wake up hard, breathless, sweating and could do nothing but reach for the files.

Reading their words was like a balm.

He didn't even notice that he was growing weaker.
When he lost his job, he took the files with him.
He couldn't stop.
The words, their stories haunted him, whispered his name when he wasn't thinking of them.

He had tried reaching out to Celeste, he had tried talking to her, begging her to help him be free of these memories, these women. She had slapped him and told him to let them go, and to never visit her again. He had crawled away in tears.

A few weeks later he found that with the right amount of xanax and alcohol in his blood he could walk the halls of Massacre. That he could touch these women, that he could touch Caitlyn and Jessie though they shied away from him, afraid. He listened for the click of heels on the floor and trailed behind Trista, he wanted to touch her. He did. She fucked him on her desk. It was better than it was in his dreams.

He listened to these women.
He loved them.
They loved him.
He couldn't leave them.
They needed him.
He could feel their claws in him, when he wasn't with him.


They found him a few weeks later.

"DON'T READ THESE FILES"

It had been written in blood, dried and caked on the walls, the mirrors, the dried brown remnants could be followed throughout the dingy apartment. There were several problems with the investigation.

The former investigator had been killed. His throat slit.
There was no blood on his hands, so the words were not his.
He hadn't fought or struggled. There was a smile of sorts on his almost serene face, though it had been stretched from the rigor of death, so that now the smile seemed almost manic. The files in question were filed neatly next to him, one of his hands almost caressing the files.
The door had been locked and bolted from the inside.

No one noticed the Teddy Bear in the corner.

The files were packed away, waiting for the next witness to their insanity.


"Care to join us?"
"Care to read us?"

 

[Miss_Vivi]

Reserved.

 

[thestruggle]

Emily​

Sometimes she was aware of the dark. The nights of bottles, the nights of fucking, the nights of Joss – it was always Joss. Those bundled sheets of sweat and perfume, and she'd arched her back creeping up the pillows, climbing. Emily had followed with her lips on her girl's spine, looking to connect right through to her synapses, feeling their fingers meet and entwine. Forced back down into white cotton, smoking candles, windows thrown open. What did she care if someone heard? Let them hear. She came together then, Jocelyn brought her together, she held all the pieces in her hands. Smiling, her mouth in the hollow of Jocelyn's throat, feeling whole.

Feeling free.

Because oh God, she loved her, she could hide inside her. Coming back around again, hearing Joss in her ear, panting and laughing. She could bring that alive in her, and she did, kissing her way down her calves. Emily's blonde hair was soft against those pale thighs, against her hips, just all over. All over, couldn't get enough. Wasn't her girl pretty? Wasn't she just? Clever teeth dragging down her neck, her collarbone. The unprotected aspects of wrists. The promises they kept. The promises she made.

Emily would curl around her, two cats, candles blown out. Jocelyn's cries circled around the room, fit up nice against her. Little secrets in her ear. A kiss on a shoulder. Her girl's glorious curls were drifting over her flesh, damp but drying. She smelled like cinnamon.

“Just stay with me. Stay with me.”

“I'll never leave.”

Never leave.

The lights flickered over her head, passing down a hallway. Quick clip, quick moving. A man walked next to her, talking over her, another man. They were talking in stanzas, esoteric verse. Blood loss, blood something, iron levels, iron deficiency, stitches, current medication. Her tongue felt like a dried up leaf in a dusty hollow. Nothing wet for miles. She thought of ice cubes and was thirsty.

“Can I – Can I have a drink?”

Her voice, so weak and pitiful. What was that? That wasn't her. She couldn't even get her voice to leave the rolling thing she was on. Soft, though. Antiseptic smell, an undercurrent of something dank. Her vision felt dark and glowing around the edges. She didn't want to look that way. Could she sit up?

“No. Please, so thirs...ty.”

Syllables dragging on her tongue, faulty syntax. Her fingers twitched then, and she remembered she had arms. Hands, too. Wondrous and attached, nimble. Her limbs wouldn't move, though. Something was keeping them from autonomy. What was it? She felt like she would be angry about that if she could muster the energy. Emotion battered against whatever her restraints were, feebly, a sickened tiger in a cage. She lifted her neck. She arched her chin. Plastic looking armrails. A blue blanket that looked like someone had crocheted it. Very white sheets. Specks of something dark on them.

She looked up, panicked, suddenly expecting dirt to cascade from the ceiling. Were they underground, were they caving in? Was she trapped? She realized then that the men were nervously silent, and one reached out a hand that bespoke of familiar confidence.

“Alright, let's just lie back down, that's it. Nice-”

This was placating. Fuck him! Where the fuck? Hospital? Those specks. This was subduing.

“What is that? Is it-” Her voice, hoarse and rising, still slurring. Her whole body protested; she didn't want to move, she just wanted to stay in these sheets and lie back to sleep. It was all coming apart. Coming apart. She couldn't sleep, why wouldn't they tell her? A burst of something flew into her spine, she felt her legs come to life. Blinking frantically, eyes wide open. She tried to reach her hand up to rub her palm hard, grind it into her eye socket, clear this dust. Hands wouldn't cooperate.

“The tag got approved, here's the dose.”

When she was aware of the dark, the same song always played.

The blankets were kicking loose, writhing, something was under them. She was about to scream that something was crawling up her shins when she realized those were her legs. Those were her kicks. She hooked her toes, feeling her muscles reignite, pulling, dragging.

“Get Mendoza, we have to get her in, now. Pop that cap, pop the cap, man!”

The blankets tugged down.

Pack up
I'm straight
Enough

”That's -”

Oh, say say say
Oh, say say say
Oh, say say say

”-blood.”

Oh, say say say
Oh, say say say

Because it was. Because those bandages on her arms were thick and bulletproof gauze. Because her nails were caked with nasty crimson gunk. Because there was a hospital bracelet.

Because.

Because, where was-?

And if those nights could stretch, far beyond, carry them both, they would have been happy. Emily didn't mean it when she snapped, but it was always too late to take back. It was always too late to retract her wrist, to stop her arm, to still that blind flash of rage. It was a sleeping snake, but never far from the surface. It took so little. But Jocelyn was unfair.

It was unfair. She made those wisecracks, she told people lies. She told people those lies about Emily, didn't she? She said Emily mistreated her, that she scared her? But Emily loved her. Didn't Jocelyn understand what she'd been through? Didn't she? Beaten down her whole fucking life, left alone, no one to fill it. But Jocelyn fit, see? She tasted like peaches. She felt good around her. She cauterized a gaping wound, because wasn't that exactly what had been there before? Emily's life had been a wasteland, full of refuse. She knew Jocelyn had dipped her hands down like benedictions. She had carried Emily to safety. And Emily believed in her, too: pushed her up. She supported her, encouraged her.

Things seemed like they had been getting better. The bruises around Jocelyn's arms had faded. Or nearly faded. But it was okay, Emily was drunk, they both did crazy things when they were drinking. They both got a little rough. No reason for her not to come home, not at all. But that one night, Jocelyn disappeared. She didn't come through the apartment door, even though Emily had texted her over and over. The phone stayed silent. She paced, and smoked, and paced, and smoked. If she could just get her skin to quit crawling.

If she could just sleep. Just shut her eyes for five minutes. Five goddamn seconds.

Straight to voicemail, straight to voicemail.
Over and over.

Made off
Don't stray
My kind's your kind
I'll stay the same

Near dawn, Emily had drifted into an uneasy slumber. There had been no messages. She sent one to her girl, said she was coming to find her. She could be hurt somewhere. She could be with someone somewhere. She could be out away from Emily somewhere, and she was. The sky moved from stars to gray, but barely morning. Neither day or night. And Jocelyn's key turned in the lock.

Why didn't the door just stay shut?

”Is it her blood? Is it her fucking blood? My blood? My-” Emily gasping, choking, kicking at the hated sheets. She didn't want to be wrapped now, she didn't want them touching her, she didn't want—if they touched her, she would tear them, she would bite because-

-where had she been? The night was over and here she was with an oversize purse, eyes all red? She was crying now? She was crying, she had been out, Emily had been worried. Emily felt herself coming apart at the seams.

Jocelyn thought she wouldn't be home. She had come...

“...grab some things, I just—it's not working anymore, Emmy, not for--”

“How can you say that?”

How could she say that?

“How can you, how can you say that? I love you, so much, you're a part of me. You're... you can't say that, it hurts. It hurts, no, just... put down the bag, please? Talk to me, please?”

Jocelyn trying to grab scattered articles in shaking fingertips, her body twisting away from Emily as her hands reached out to grip her waist.

“I can't talk, let me go. Let me go! Jesus!”

Emily was crying now, tears smudging her mascara and wetting her cheeks. Jocelyn tore from her, broke free, backed away across the room.

“You, you're fucking crazy. You know that? You can't even talk about these things like a human being, you don't own me. You don't fucking own me. I'm leaving, I'll come back for the rest of my stuff with my brother later.”

The bottle, then, there. The bottle of Stoli on the table that had been icy but was now empty and dull. Don't think, don't think, her fingers around the neck. Up, up, across her head, a dull thunk—don't bottles break right away—and then again. Joss falling, falling on the coffee table. Not even a cry, just a low moan at the first, then knees brought down. Head gashed. Her hand reached up, so slow, touched the blood.

Blood then.

Emily should have known then that blood was real, but it wasn't enough. Jocelyn was trying to crawl away.

“I told you not to fucking leave!”

-she couldn't take it. Didn't they know she would fly apart? Didn't they know she would hurt them? Her hands were still restrained, and now her knees were held down by the taller man.

“Here, hold still, there we...”

Something fine and sharp in her arm, the soft crook of skin. Jocelyn had kissed her there, eyes so dark and full.

“...there we go.”

”...can't go.”

She couldn't let her go. Her hands were on Jocelyn's neck, she had punched, she had pummeled flesh. Jocelyn was always crawling, always twisting, always trying to leave. Fucking yank her back, but Joss hadn't started crying until Emily straddled her. Her fists connected, her knuckles scraped a tooth. Emily scratched, her teeth sank into her skin, she got up and howled at the walls. Would she just stop? The whole room seemed to warp on itself. Her pupils felt huge. The world could be going a mile a minute, and she would never know. Emily could feel better, Jocelyn would make her feel better, make it happen, why was she trying to leave? The bottle came down and this time the bottom cleaved open, biting into skin that pumped red. Emily just wanted her to stop, just stop, stop it stoppit--

Mouth rolling, tongue rebelling. She would tell them. That blood would never come off.

“Joss? Jocely... Joce... Joss.”

Her neck, flexed and tight, began to relax. What was left to fight for?

“Emily.”

The voice croaking her name wasn't Jocelyn. It couldn't be Jocelyn.

“Emily, I loved... loved you.”

Emily looked up from where she was hunched over, clasping her knees. The Stoli bottle rested between her bare feet. The scratches on her arms bled sluggishly. How had they gotten here? How much time had passed? Jocelyn lay on her side. Blood clotted in her eyelashes, her eyebrows. Her lips seemed thrice their normal size.

“Em... Emmy?”

Jocelyn's phone chirped from somewhere in the wreckage. Her dark eyes rolled from where she lay on the floor. Her breathing, shallow, seemed to quicken. What?

Why?

Emily felt some dark knowledge pass into her hands then. Barely thinking, had she even been thinking? Did she just get from point to point by wishing? Kicking aside the shards of wood, splintered pieces, coffee table busted. Fancy phone. Smartphone. She picked it up. Touched the screen. Password.

“Password. It's still Emily. It's still me.”

Shaking her head, smiling, finger scrolling, scrolling...

Scroll.

The hand with the Stoli bottle flexed violently. She balled it into a tight fist around the glass, brought it up to scrub at the mess of eye makeup. Black smeared against her palm. It smeared on the container. Tears trickling, easing.

“Who's Ryan?”

Jocelyn closed her eyes.

And that black creeping was back, reversing, the whole room was round fuzzy shapes. Please, she tried to say, I loved her.

Walking back towards Jocelyn, the bottle held loosely in her hand. The song she selected from Jocelyn's phone playlist. It said Ryan's song next to it. It seemed appropriate.

Pack up
Don't stray
Oh, say say say
Oh, say say say

Shoving the black leggings down hips and Jocelyn slapped at her, energized. The sound she made was ghastly. Her thighs were pinned under Emily's knees. The sound. She'd never forget the sound. Emily couldn't name the look in her eyes.

It was, she later guessed, heartbreak.

”That's the third time she's had to be dosed. They'll probably say go completely to Haldol. Hopefully we'll get closer to lucidity as the dose gets approximated. Then she'll get the transfer to Massacre. This was her fourth or fifth attempt, post trial at least.”

The restraints were applied, tightened. The two nurses stood back and watched her, crescents of white showing at her eyelids. Her head was angled down. One of them adjusted it, his fingertips sliding gently under her chin. Her breathing was evening out, although the pulse in her neck was still rapid.

“What'd she do, anyway?”

His companion looked up from where he was making notes on her chart. His face was dispassionate.

Later, when they found her, the blood had pooled across the floor. The song had been repeated, with a red thumbprint marking the phone's screen. Jocelyn was cradled in Emily's arms. When they pulled her away, the weeping had shrank to laughing. Grown to weeping. Shrank to laughing. Rose to laughing. Laughing, and weeping. Over and over. She knew it would be that forever.

”She raped her girlfriend with a vodka bottle.”

The man looked in shock at his coworker. “How can you say it like that?”

A shrug.

“How else do you say it?”

Sometimes she was aware of the dark. It didn't matter. In the dark, Jocelyn draped her brown curls across Emily's face. She kissed away every single tear. She would stay with her. She stayed with her. Wasn't her girl pretty?

Wasn't she just?

They don't love you like I love you.

 

[Miss_Vivi]

Some days it was so quiet.
Even footfalls were hushed on the linoleum floors, authoritative words were spoken behind boring tan files with colorful labels. Heels that had clicked so very proudly on the floor became hushed as well. A collective held breath for the silence to crack.

The stillness descended heavily on the shoulders of the insane, who shuffled around with it like the blankets they stole from their beds.

Some of them were afraid to break it.
Like it was a tangible thing that they could fold up within themselves and take it, and keep it, and use it to silence the shrieking within. They whispered to themselves, and glared at those who dared to peep louder than they deemed necessary. Their silence was their weapon and they pressed it against the throats of the noisy. Silence was demanded, bullied, and never crossed. The white coats never saw it.

Some of them danced with it.
Their happiest moments when the screams died, when the crying subsided. Sliding up and down the floors within the joyous death of noise, the protected. The quiet was their friend, to be held and cooed at under the watchful eyes of the nurses who never understood the inaudible shaking laugh that these women employed.

Some days it was quiet.
Some days it wasn't.
Some moments chaos tiptoed through the halls and touched each of the women, inciting them to new violence, louder screams.

Bitch keep it up and I will yell louder than you, I will cut myself deeper, I will bang my head harder and nothing, NOTHING the white coats will do will stop me from winning this competition with your shrill voice.

Stop it!

I hate you!

I hate myself!

Make.
IT.
STOP! Make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop. Why won't it stop?! Stop hurting me! I'm not doing anything! Shut her up! It wasn't me! I promise, I promise, I'll st

op! NO! NO! NO! I don't want to,
please. please.please.please.please. I won't. I won't. Don't. Don't. I'll stop. You're hurting me!​

The shouts from the staff mingled and frolicked with the screeching that echoed down those halls scented with bleach and the decay of the human mind. Doors to the head doctors would be shut against the noise, one ignoring the bedlam, one delighting in the noise, for once it was the same noise that she lived with minutely, intimately.

And then they'd die.
The sounds.
The silence back.
The staff would breathe, tiptoe from the rooms where their dear girls were bound and sleeping, for now.
A collective sigh of relief.

Some days it was so quiet in Massacre.

 

[Britwitch]

Something for the background

“It’s lovely to meet you Marisa, really, it is. I’ve heard so much about you.”
A bright and overly sweet smile.
“So, do you think you could tell me about Teddy? Could you tell me when you met Teddy?”

If you go down in the woods today you’re sure of a big surprise,
If you go down in the woods today you’d better go in disguise.
For ev’ry bear that ever there was will gather there for certain because
Today’s the day the Teddy Bears have their picnic.

“Oh I’ve had him since forever.”
“What do you remember most, about when you met?”
“He was very soft.”
“What else?”
“He seemed very big, but that’s possibly because I was so small.”
“And when did he start talking to you Marisa?”

A frown.

“He does talk to you, doesn’t he?”

A deeper frown and fingers stroke brown fur.
“He doesn’t want me to talk to you.”

“What is he saying Marisa?”
“That you should stop asking questions you don’t want to know the answers to.”
“But I do want to know.”
“No, you don’t. They want to know and they can’t know. They wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me, Marisa. I might understand more than you give me credit for.”
A laugh, not a pleasant one.
“I know…I know that, Teddy…but we’re cleverer, you’re cleverer…yes, yes I saw that too…”
A whisper, too quiet to be properly heard.
“What was that Marisa?”
A flash of angry eyes.
“Did it sound like I was talking to you?”

Ev’ry Teddy Bear who’s been good is sure of a treat today,
There’s lots of marvellous things to eat and wonderful games to play.
Beneath the trees where nobody sees they’ll hide and seek as long as they please
That’s the way the Teddy Bears have their picnic.

It’s odd how sound proofed walls are a double edged sword, how they provide security and privacy for those inside and yet they also stopped help from coming, from hearing the cries.
Strange how two way glass intended to facilitate greater opportunities for observation from the ‘outside in’ mean that the one banging on it and screaming for help has no idea that the person on the other side is no longer there. An emergency somewhere else…bad timing really…
How reflection shows wide terrified eyes and a girl with a wicked smile dancing closer. Something bright, too bright in her hands.
“Marisa? Where did you find that? Put that down. Shit. Please…put that down…! You don’t have to…oh god…I won’t ask anything more. I swear! Oh god no…!”
And through it all a Teddy Bear sits serenely on the table.

If you go down in the woods today you better not go alone.
It’s lovely down in the woods today but safer to stay at home.
For ev’ry bear that ever there was will gather there for certain because
Today’s the day the Teddy Bears have their picnic.

“At six o’clock their Mummies and Daddies will take them home to bed because they’re tired little Teddy Bears…” Her childlike voice hung in the air as she skipped back to her room.

Another session left unfinished.

Another doctor who would never leave.

Another interview suite that would need to be cleaned, a broken chair with a blood stained leg still rolling slowly back and forth beside a cooling body.

Another day when Marisa and Teddy played one of their favourite games.

 

[IvoryTigress]

Background that inspired the post...

Jessie

The floor was foul. Cold. Filthy. The pipes in the ceiling leaked, bathing the concrete floor in a mixture of mildew, mud, and blood. Drop by Drop. The dripping of iron-tinted water was the only sound besides the squeaking of a single light bulb swinging from wooden beams and the stifled sobs of a child trying to be silent.

Lying naked, shivering, and bleeding on the unforgiving stone, a fifteen year old girl cowered. She was curled into the smallest ball she could manage. Salty tears trailed down her cheek bones to the drain beneath her face. Deep chestnut locks were tangled, damp, and knotted with mud. Strands of hair stuck to her face and neck, anchored to her skin by blood, both dried black and fresh crimson. Her once pale skin was painted black and blue. Angry lacerations spilled her life down the drain. White, sticky streaks of fluid crawled down her thighs, draining from a previously innocent opening so abused it tore.

Her arms were drawn into her chest, a vain attempt at protection. Her body trembled violently from fear and the beginnings of shock. Swollen chocolate eyes looked up at the man standing over her. He was tall, always so tall. But from the floor, he towered. Loomed. His features moved in and out of view with the swinging light. His sleeves were rolled up past his elbows, his black slacks unzipped and flared. A leather belt was wrapped around his hand, the silver buckle hanging by his thigh. A large drop of blood slipped off a piece of flesh embedded within it.

He was done with her, she knew. Experience told her so. The satisfied look in his dark eyes, eyes that matched her own, eased her apprehension. If she stayed quiet enough, the pain would end. She could drag herself out to the garden hose to clean up. He just had to turn and walk up the stairs. She held her breath, trying desperately not to whimper, to not give him a reason to stay.

But small, dainty fingertips appeared, trailing down his arm. Those fingers slipped the leather from his hand. Her face appeared over his shoulder, her lips brushing over his cheek. A fresh wave of terror washed over the girl. The smile that twisted the woman's lips was more sadistic than the look in the man's eyes ever became. The woman spoke as she slipped around him, the bloody belt in one hand, a broken off broom stick in the other. In her words, the girl knew true despair.

"My turn."

The man chuckled softly and his heavy footsteps carried him up the creaking stairs. The woman stepped forward and the girl cowered, scooting back. But her movements were slow, pained by the desecration her body already endured. It only made the woman's smile widen.

"Yes. Run. Make me chase you..."

The girl watched with terror as the belt rose above the woman's head. Fresh tears streamed down her cheeks and she pleaded.

"Please, Mother!"

But the belt fell. It fell over and over, as endless as the steady drip, drip, drip of the leaking pipes...



When it finally ended, the girl lay motionless on the floor, the broom stick left to sodomize her long after the woman had gone. Exhausted, beyond pain to the point of numbness, the girl floated. The light still swung, making the shadows move around her. Mesmerized, she watched as they began to dance with a purpose outside of the confines manipulated by the traveling light. They lived and breathed on their own. Glowing crimson eyes opened and slid over her.

Welcome, Jessie. We've waited for you....

"We've waited for so long...

_____________________________________________________


Rain pattered softly against a window caged by steel. The sky was grey, almost black with the fading sun. Jessie stared blankly out at the endless hills of green that surrounded Massacre. It was the freedom she'd never have. She was chained by society, chained by her mind. Lost in her memories, she didn't even register the voice beside her.

"Jessie."

She sat on a stool in front of an artist's easel, bathed in the light from a bright LED lamp set up just for her. The corner was her place in the art room, a reward earned for good behavior. She was grateful. In the light, she was safe. Nothing bad ever happened in the light. It was the dark that brought pain. Even though she knew light couldn't exist without the dark, she planned on doing whatever she could to stay out of it.

The fine-tipped brush in her hand dangled precariously between her fingertips, the paint long since dry. The canvas before her was an angry array of dark colors depicting the room that held her mind captive. In the middle of the painted scene was a halo of light, a small baby's rattle resting in the center. The rest of the painting was filled with scarlet eyed creatures trying to claw their way through the halo.

Though forged by an uneducated surrealist's hand, the image was unmistakable. Jessie was gifted, but her work reflected the inner workings of her mind. The canvas, and the many before it, would have sold in any gallery. But, instead, it would be cataloged, examined, and then placed in storage as part of her case file. Only those with access to her medical records would ever see it.

The orderly beside her, tired of waiting for her response, placed a hand on her shoulder and shook her gently. The simple touch instantly snapped Jessie out of her trance. The brush fell from her hand and clattered against the floor as she yanked her shoulder back. She looked fearfully up at the woman, figments of her memory still floating in her mind.

The orderly tightened her grip to keep Jessie from falling. Her eyes were kind, her smile soft. Her name was Pam and she had never been anything but nice to Jessie.

"Easy there, sweetheart. You'll tip the stool. Come back to us, now. It's okay, you're safe. You're in the art room. You've made another beautiful painting, see?"

Jessie crossed her arms over her chest defensively, but glanced at the canvas. The room was in her past. It couldn't hurt her anymore. She let out a slow breath before looking back up at Pam, nodding softly.

"I'm sorry. I didn't meant to be difficult."

"I know you didn't, sugar. Come on. The doctor is changing your medication. She asked me to bring you to her."

Jessie smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. She had lost faith that medication could keep the shadows away. Shadows and darkness existed everywhere, even inside the mind. Drugs helped, but they couldn't save her. She knew it, deep down in her heart. But it never hurt to try new things, especially when they might be her only hope of having a life of her own. She wanted that, wanted it more than anything in the world. She wanted to be free.

So, she rose from the stool and followed Pam out of the room. Hallways were always tricky. There were people and carts and windows with curtains. Avoiding the shadows was hard when they constantly changed. She hopped over tiles, squeezed through narrow gaps, and put her back to the wall to edge around corners. It stole all her focus.

The longer they walked, the more her medication began to wear off. The shadows began to scurry like rats around her plain, white shoes. She shivered, trailing her fingertips along the words tattooed in her forearm. It wasn't until Pam stopped that Jessie realized they had passed the doctors' offices and they were completely alone in the hallway. They had ventured beyond the places Jessie was permitted to go.

Unease and a familiar sense of wrongness settled into her chest. The room Pam had stopped in front of had "Equipment" stamped on a shiny silver plate beside it. Jessie had walked down that path before. Perhaps not at Massacre, but it was still the same road. The path never changed, no matter what scenery it traveled through.

"This isn't the office of Dr. Massacre or Dr. MacNair," Jessie said quietly, her tone somber.

Pam turned around slowly. "No, it isn't."

The orderly's gaze locked with Jessie's. Same path. Same look. The eyes were different, but what was behind them wasn't. Jessie was an old soul in a young body. She knew the game before Pam even made her first move.

"If I resist, you'll lie on the report. They'll take away everything I've earned with good behavior."

Pam's lips curved in a wicked smile. "You're so smart, Jessie. You -are- a good girl. So, keep being good."

There was nowhere to run. There never was. No escape. No one to hear her screams. Even if there was, they would pay her no mind. Crazy women screamed all the time. Young girls screamed all the time. No one ever came. White knights didn't exist. Jessie had accepted that. She wasn't sure why she thought she was safe at Massacre. She shouldn't be surprised, but, in that moment, the disappointment, the despair, the hopelessness, devoured her. She couldn't stop the single tear from sliding down her cheek, but neither could she find the emotion for more. She was already falling into the place where she felt nothing, where she was numb to everything but the shadows.

Taking her silence for perverse consent, Pam turned and unlocked the door, opening it for Jessie. Her feet moved forward a step or two before she froze. The room was little more than a closet, and there were no signs of overhead lighting. The crimson eyes that peered out at her were too numerous to count.

Pam's gaze narrowed at her hesitancy. "I thought you were going to be a good girl, Jessie."

"I can't go in there. There isn't any light," she whispered, suddenly terrified.

"I don't fall for your bullshit with the light. You are going in there. The manner in which it happens is up to you, but make no mistake, you're going in."

Pam's voice had grown hard, cold. Jessie barely noticed. She couldn't take her eyes off the shadows. The inky creatures began to move. She could hear their laughter echoing around her.

Yes, Jessie.
Come in.
Come here.
Come home.

She shivered and crossed her arms over her chest.

"Please don't make me go in there. Please. I'll give you what you want. I won't fight. I won't scream. I won't tell anyone, I swear. Just, please, don't make me go. I can't go in there," Jessie pleaded, the desperation evident in her voice.

She wants you to come see us.
We can see it in her mind.
The things she's going to do to you can only be done in the dark.
There isn't enough light in the world to illuminate her intentions.

Pam didn't wait any longer. She fisted her hand in Jessie's hair and dragged her into the room, slamming the door shut behind her. For a moment, it was silent in complete darkness. Jessie stood, motionless. Pam's fist twisted painfully in her hair, but she refused to move, couldn't be moved. Pure, white terror had seized her mind.

She gets you, and then we get you.
That was the deal.
The dance with devils.
Dance for us, little Jessie. Dance.

The shadows collapsed around her, little scarlet eyes skittering over her body. Frigid electricity scorched her skin and she jumped, slapping her hands down around her body. A quiet squeak left her lips as she tried to shove them off and away from her. Pam grunted as she caught a slap from Jessie every now and then in attempt to control her flailing arms.

"Stop fucking fighting me, bitch!"

Pam shoved Jessie against the wall so hard that the back of her skull connected and she fell to her knees, dazed and confused. Those brief moments were enough for Pam to grip Jessie's shoulders and slam her knee into the girl's midsection. Jessie fell forward with a grunt, curling onto the floor as she tried to remember how to breathe.

Her legs were yanked straight and she was flipped on her back. She whimpered as Pam's face closed in on hers. Her eyes were adjusting to the dark. Her head throbbed. Two pairs of crimson eyes peeked over Pam's shoulders.

"I've got a scalpel, bitch. These clothes are coming off and I don't give a shit if I cut you. You cut yourself more than enough for no one to bother taking a closer look. So, go ahead, cunt. Keep wiggling."

Yes. Keep wiggling, little Jessie.
Wiggle for us.
Bleed for us.

The creatures on Pam's shoulders jumped down onto Jessie's face. Her skin burned, itched, tingled with sharp, shooting little pains.

"No!" she screamed, fighting to get the creatures off.

She succeeded only in hitting Pam. Her nails scratched down her attacker's arms and along the side of her face. But the knife still sliced through the flimsy, white scrubs. The struggle made the cuts unclean. The knife bit into her skin and dragged. It poked directly into her body, painfully sharp and blissfully sweet, since it momentarily erased the feeling of the shadows crawling on her. The stained scrubs were soon in shreds and, suddenly, the creatures were gone.

We just wanted to taste you.
And now we want to watch.

"Spread your legs, cunt."

Shaking with fear and pain, Jessie complied. Pam didn't hesitate. She shoved carelessly inside and began to pound. One finger, then two. Three. Four. Her entire fist shoved in, tearing Jessie's small body. She squirmed. She whimpered and tried not to sob, ever muscle in her body tight as Pam began to fist fuck her. She bit her bottom lip so hard to keep from screaming that it bled. Her body stretched and shredded to accommodate the brutality she didn't know how to stop. It was familiar pain, but intense none the less.

Kill her, Jessie.

Jessie shook her head violently. "No. I won't. I can't."

Kill her.
End her.
Now.

"No!"

"Am I not fucking you hard enough, you little slut? Fine!"

Jessie couldn't stop the cry when she felt fingers push into her second opening.

Kill her, Jessie.
Here. We'll even give you the tool.
It's right here.
Feel to your left.
Kill her.

Jessie slid her hand along the floor to her left. Her palm wrapped around the cold handle of a wrench. Dancing figures pulsed closer. She tightened her grip as she heard Pam moan, felt the pace quicken.

"Christ, you're so fucking tight..."

Kill her.

Jessie shook her head.

Kill her!

"No!"

Do it!

"I can't! I don't want to hurt anyone!"

KILL HER!
KILL HER!!
FUCKING KILL THE BITCH!

Jessie's hand moved before she could stop it. The wrench connected with a sick, wet thud. Pam stopped moving and slumped her full weight on Jessie, still buried deep within her. Laughter filled the room and the creatures danced all around her.

Good girl.
How does it feel, being fucked by a corpse?
We know you like it.
Our turn!

Every shadow in the room dove into Jessie. They squirmed their way into her through her cuts, her nose, her mouth, her eyes. She screamed, then. She screamed until her voice broke, which was long before her mind ever did...