Free Dreamer
I sew, I stitch, I weave, I mend,
To make you all believe again.
I see your passion, your desire,
Your very soul that burns with fire.
Dreams tell me what I need to know,
So my words and pictures can flow.
I unravel the plan that you devise
And publicize your cheats and lies!
I pull your stings, you pull my heart,
That's what it takes to conduct this art.
I fasten the pieces one by one,
To restore what has been undone.
I sew, I stitch, I weave, I mend,
I'll do anything to achieve your end.
To make you all believe again.
I see your passion, your desire,
Your very soul that burns with fire.
Dreams tell me what I need to know,
So my words and pictures can flow.
I unravel the plan that you devise
And publicize your cheats and lies!
I pull your stings, you pull my heart,
That's what it takes to conduct this art.
I fasten the pieces one by one,
To restore what has been undone.
I sew, I stitch, I weave, I mend,
I'll do anything to achieve your end.
[~Two years ago~]
Mr. Webster walked with a neatly fashion, an orderly strut some would say. His suit was pressed and free of wrinkles, his hair was combed, and his shoes sparkled in the twilight. He pulled out a golden pocket watch, thirty seconds to midnight, Mr. Webster was right on schedule. The castle, if you can call it that, before him was as dingy as he imagined it would be; unkept gardens and only one tower, but it housed only one person, a fugitive to be precise, so it really didn't pester him. Not even bothering to knock, Mr. Webster broke down the door and headed for the dungeons. No princesses in the highest towers this time, only prisoners in the darkest places. Walking briskly through the halls, he felt the temperature decrease as he descended another flight of stairs, Mr. Webster eventually came across an iron locked door that must have been placed when the weaver was brought here. Carefully magicking the lock, the door swung open to reveal a poorly fed, fifteen year old girl sitting cross legged on the floor while finger sewing yarn that sparkled. Mr. Webster gave the room the once over, the ceiling had strings strewn ever which way, which made the concrete slabs entirely invisible. There was a dusty pink sewing machine that had never been used, dozens of dream catchers hanging from the yarned ceiling, five spinning wheels, three of which were broken, one spinning jenny, and thousands of woven string all thrown about the room.
"What do you want?"said an indifferent voice that came from the magenta haired girl. She happened to be finger weaving at the moment, her hands were moving so fast, all Mr. Webster saw was a blur of flesh. He stood straight and gave his most splendid smile.
"Ah, Penelope, isn't it? How are you doing on this fine night?" The girl, irritated, stopped what she was doing, and turned around to meet his face.
"I don't have time for petty conversation. About three thousand little boys want to be dreaming about riding a skateboard, six million teenagers are about to have their first sex fantasy, and eight hundred thousand adults or going to see themselves die in the next three minutes. Now, who are you, and what do you want?" She turned around and faced the gray concrete wall again, her fingers worked like a machine to get the weaving done. Mr. Webster raised an eyebrow, but he had nothing to worry about, he's been given the cold shoulder before, nothing a little warmth couldn't fix. He ran his fingers through his slicked hair and walked to Penelope's side.
"Do you have any idea who I am, Penelope?" She rolled her eyes, wondering why he was humoring himself.
"A rich man with a proposition, you're not the first," was her answer. Penelope realized she forget to weave one of her fingers through the string's oval, she quickly fixed her mistake as Mr. Webster continued.
"But mine is unlike all the others you've encountered. Some have probably come for your skills in sewing, some have come for your clairvoyance, asking what would become of them, and some begged you to be their personal dream interpreter. You've turned down millions upon millions of dollars to do what you're doing now. But everything they offered you, you never wanted, you only crave for one thing only," he ended, knowing what her reaction would be.
Penelope stared at him, shocked at how true his words were, instantaneously, she was suspicious.
"Who are you?" She asked with genuine curiosity. He smirked and pulled out a rectangular piece of paper from his back pocket.
"I'm Mr. Webster, here's my card," he paused as she took it gingerly. "Penelope, you are so.... different from many I've encountered before. I hope to give you what you want, and, as payment, I wish to see you working for me. You won't be a simple seamstress, or a fortune teller like so many have asked you to be. You'll be traveling the world, and sent on, um, operations with others that possess a talent like you do. And, after you've worked for me, you'll get what you truly desire. What do you say?" She glanced back at the card, then at him. Penelope was about to say something when Mr. Webster pressed his index finger to her lips to silence her.
"Shh, shh. Take time to think about this. I'll come back tomorrow and we shall see what your answer will be," Mr. Webster left her thinking, the best way to leave a room, he would muse. He locked the door behind him as Penelope turned over his card and twirled it through her fingers.
"What do you want?"said an indifferent voice that came from the magenta haired girl. She happened to be finger weaving at the moment, her hands were moving so fast, all Mr. Webster saw was a blur of flesh. He stood straight and gave his most splendid smile.
"Ah, Penelope, isn't it? How are you doing on this fine night?" The girl, irritated, stopped what she was doing, and turned around to meet his face.
"I don't have time for petty conversation. About three thousand little boys want to be dreaming about riding a skateboard, six million teenagers are about to have their first sex fantasy, and eight hundred thousand adults or going to see themselves die in the next three minutes. Now, who are you, and what do you want?" She turned around and faced the gray concrete wall again, her fingers worked like a machine to get the weaving done. Mr. Webster raised an eyebrow, but he had nothing to worry about, he's been given the cold shoulder before, nothing a little warmth couldn't fix. He ran his fingers through his slicked hair and walked to Penelope's side.
"Do you have any idea who I am, Penelope?" She rolled her eyes, wondering why he was humoring himself.
"A rich man with a proposition, you're not the first," was her answer. Penelope realized she forget to weave one of her fingers through the string's oval, she quickly fixed her mistake as Mr. Webster continued.
"But mine is unlike all the others you've encountered. Some have probably come for your skills in sewing, some have come for your clairvoyance, asking what would become of them, and some begged you to be their personal dream interpreter. You've turned down millions upon millions of dollars to do what you're doing now. But everything they offered you, you never wanted, you only crave for one thing only," he ended, knowing what her reaction would be.
Penelope stared at him, shocked at how true his words were, instantaneously, she was suspicious.
"Who are you?" She asked with genuine curiosity. He smirked and pulled out a rectangular piece of paper from his back pocket.
"I'm Mr. Webster, here's my card," he paused as she took it gingerly. "Penelope, you are so.... different from many I've encountered before. I hope to give you what you want, and, as payment, I wish to see you working for me. You won't be a simple seamstress, or a fortune teller like so many have asked you to be. You'll be traveling the world, and sent on, um, operations with others that possess a talent like you do. And, after you've worked for me, you'll get what you truly desire. What do you say?" She glanced back at the card, then at him. Penelope was about to say something when Mr. Webster pressed his index finger to her lips to silence her.
"Shh, shh. Take time to think about this. I'll come back tomorrow and we shall see what your answer will be," Mr. Webster left her thinking, the best way to leave a room, he would muse. He locked the door behind him as Penelope turned over his card and twirled it through her fingers.
[~Now~]
"This job kinda sucks," whined Robin. She was blonde and cibopathic, whenever she ate anything, she would get psychic visions, while giving off that ditzy quality now and then.
"Now isn't the time to complain, now is the time to tell me why that pizza you ate gave you a vibe to go to Sovereign High." This was how things would usually go, Robin would get a lead, they'd both investigate, and Penelope was the kill switch, they'd get a text from Mr. Webster, and it was a job well done, next day they'd receive cash, and then go about their lives until another phone call came. Penelope's normal life.
"I mean, this job certainly has it's perks, but, don't you ever regret it?" Robin questioned. The magenta head thought about it for a moment, then shook her head no, she put her finger up to her lips in a gesture to silence Robin, it didn't work.
"Don't you remember what Shannon said, right before she-"
"I remember." Penelope sighed as the image of a fourteen year old, brunette empath got shot right through the left lung. A slow and gruesome death, and Robin and Penelope had to leave. The mission had failed, and they needed to get the hell outta there."Don't leave me by myself," Shannon pleaded, trying to use the last of her abilities to persuade both of them to stay until she died, but her energy was weakening.
"You know we can't do that," Penelope reasoned, but inside she was torn. Shannon was family Penelope never had, and she was dying right in front of her
"Then get out," she gasped as blood gurgled from her mouth. She began to choke, "Get out while you still can..." And the three became two.
"Maybe she meant that we were never supposed to work for Mr.-"
"I found the place," Penelope interrupted, Robin was saying too much, she was always a bit too talkative. Penelope pointed to a run down house with clothes lines strewn about, she smiled in memory, just like her cell. But inside the house, she felt dreamers, dreamers that will do anything to get what they want, and those are the ones you always need to look out for. Her phone vibrated, she opened it and read the words, Continue on. "Come on, Robin, this isn't the time for talking." The blonde quickly agreed and followed Penelope.
Hopping over trash cans and clinging onto rusted fire exits, they made their journey to the top of the gray apartment. Penelope was strangely reminded of New York tenements back in the 1900's, but she let that thought slide. The both hid behind the drying clothes as Penelope followed the scent of aspiration and hope. These people weren't going to stop until they got what they wanted, the real question was, what did they want? The trail ended at a termite eaten door that creaked opened. Robin made various hand gestures, asking Penelope how they should do this. She nodded and shook her head, but basically they were going to scout the people inside, knock them unconscious, do a typical mind meld, then kill them. Her phone vibrated again, and Penelope silently cussed at Mr. Webster, he was insane for texting her in the middle of a mission, but she read it anyway, No mind meld. She rolled her eyes, but said nothing, and ventured into the apartment. Well, nothing went smoothly after that, she encountered a six foot tall man with dark eyes and a backpack resting over his shoulder. He must have been about forty, fifty? He had a golden band on his ring finger, and an expression of guilt when he looked at Penelope. A revolver was in his hands, but Penelope stared right through him, and felt around in his mind.
"What is your deepest desire?" she asked, her eyes unblinkingly locked with his. He staggered backwards and his mind readily answered. To leave this place, to be safe with my wife, and to find my daughter. Penelope furrowed her eyebrows and got out two strings, both in the form of a circle. She began to combine them, like many children would and create something like a cat's cradle or other shapes; however, unlike many children, Penelope formed people and began to read it like a scripture. "You lost your daughter," she read the strings and conversed with him via thoughts. Yes, he confirmed. Foolishly, Penelope broke the connection and turned to Robin.
"He's harmless, why are we on this mission?" The man regained consciousness and fired his revolver at Penelope at point blank range. She held up her knitting and disintegrated the bullet, okay, it didn't matter who he was, Penelope was mad. Her dark eyes flashed, and once again, he was in another trance.
"What is your darkest fear?" She asked. His face contorted and he let out a deafening scream, the image of a beautiful woman and a newborn baby being stabbed over and over again by a monster played in his eyes. He yelled louder and he began to cry, he fell to his knees and eventually choked. Another victim who died of fright.
"Honey, what's going on?!" came a soft voice from the other room. Sneakers squeaked as a pale woman entered the room. Penelope would've simply done the same thing she did to the man, but something stopped her, and it was the color of the woman's hair, magenta... It could've been dyed, it could've been dyed! Penelope thought over and over, but as she saw the woman walking to her and cup Penelope's face in her hands, she saw her memories...
Penelope saw her father, whom she killed, shake her mother awake and point to an empty cradle, the baby was gone! In grief both of them struggled to overcome the loss of there only daughter. Penelope shared an image of her ten year old self in a white room listening to a teacher smacking his ruler on everyone's knuckles. The room was filled with twenty other students in white uniforms watching intently at how the man taught the class. When Penelope was thirteen, she watched five men who all dreamed of destroying the Empire State Building, she murdered all five of them, and was tried to live in isolation the rest of her life. Her mother had clipped out the newspaper article that reported the event. Two years ago, her parents were being hunted by a man named Mr. Webster, and they forever lived incognito. Two years ago, Mr. Webster recruited Penelope. The mind meld they both shared was so powerful and dangerous, Penelope felt hot tears running down her face, but she wasn't sad.
"Penelope, look out!" screamed Robin, waving her arms about to get her out of this limbo. The woman who cupped her face leaned down and whispered into her ear:
"I know you," were her last words as she hugged her daughter for the first and last time and took a bullet in the back of the head. Penelope's mother went limp and fell to the ground with a thud.
"Robin, get the hell out of here!" she commanded, Robin turned and opened the door just as a sniper got her right through the head. The two became one. "God Dammit!" just seemed appropriate at the moment. The window to the tenement shattered as a can rolled towards Penelope, spewing out yellow gas. She tried to run away, but, it was no use. Penelope fell halfway out the door.
[~]
"I'm quite disappointed in you, Penelope, I'd thought you'd be different," Mr. Webster chastised as he paced in front of her. Her eyes opened slowly and Penelope tried to situate where she was, and why she was suspended in the air. She groaned at the sudden light and closed her eyes again.
"You're ten times more brilliant than Robin was, and you had half of Shannon's brains. The two of you made a perfect team, and Robin was a bonus. It's quite a shame that I had to kill Shannon since she figured it out," he continued talking as if Penelope actually cared to listen to what he had to say.
"You mother-" Penelope slurred.
"Now, now," Mr. Webster interjected, "There will be none of that. I hope you get a chance to think about what you've done. How you ruined yourself by this one little operation and you decided to disobey me," he sounded like a parent scolding a child.
"They were my parents," Penelope said, trying to orient herself in this environment. It was then she finally figured out that she was encased in something.
"Although, I don't think I can blame everything on you, you did finish half of the job by terrifying your father, but nevertheless, you're still at fault," Mr. Webster continued, not even acknowledging Penelope's words. She felt a pang of guilt deep down in her stomach, she bowed her head to her chest and fought back tears.
"There, there, stop whimpering," he advised as he ruffled her hair, as if to comfort her. "All hope isn't lost, you of all people should know that. With five years of containment and another two years of training, you'll be back on the straight and narrow path once again," she moved her head to the side so he could stop touching her, he reluctantly recoiled. Penelope opened her eyes with one last effort and realized that she was stuck in a suspension of strings, a net of knitting, a labyrinth of strewn lies. She tried to move around, but she was firmly in place, like a fly cocooned in a spider's cobweb.
"Just remember the people you killed that didn't need to die. Remember the secrets that didn't need to be unmasked. Remember the tangled web you weaved when you first practiced to deceive. Now, goodbye my little puppet."
"You're ten times more brilliant than Robin was, and you had half of Shannon's brains. The two of you made a perfect team, and Robin was a bonus. It's quite a shame that I had to kill Shannon since she figured it out," he continued talking as if Penelope actually cared to listen to what he had to say.
"You mother-" Penelope slurred.
"Now, now," Mr. Webster interjected, "There will be none of that. I hope you get a chance to think about what you've done. How you ruined yourself by this one little operation and you decided to disobey me," he sounded like a parent scolding a child.
"They were my parents," Penelope said, trying to orient herself in this environment. It was then she finally figured out that she was encased in something.
"Although, I don't think I can blame everything on you, you did finish half of the job by terrifying your father, but nevertheless, you're still at fault," Mr. Webster continued, not even acknowledging Penelope's words. She felt a pang of guilt deep down in her stomach, she bowed her head to her chest and fought back tears.
"There, there, stop whimpering," he advised as he ruffled her hair, as if to comfort her. "All hope isn't lost, you of all people should know that. With five years of containment and another two years of training, you'll be back on the straight and narrow path once again," she moved her head to the side so he could stop touching her, he reluctantly recoiled. Penelope opened her eyes with one last effort and realized that she was stuck in a suspension of strings, a net of knitting, a labyrinth of strewn lies. She tried to move around, but she was firmly in place, like a fly cocooned in a spider's cobweb.
"Just remember the people you killed that didn't need to die. Remember the secrets that didn't need to be unmasked. Remember the tangled web you weaved when you first practiced to deceive. Now, goodbye my little puppet."
[~]
That night, Penelope was locked up in her cell, sitting cross legged in the middle of the floor and weaving through the scriptures that she held in her hands, tonight was going to be very busy. Almost everyone's desires were to be put on hold, everyone would have a nice dreamless sleep tonight, except for one. Where was he, where was he?! Penelope thought, working in the moonlight that shone from the small window fifteen feet overhead. It took her about ten minutes to find him, no one can hide from her. And the best part was, he was sleeping.
Oh, Mr. Webster, Mr. Webster, riddle me this! Are you afraid of the sky or the abyss? She could feel a laugh bubbling from her mouth as she saw him toss and turn in his bed, but he wouldn't be waking up any time soon. Penelope closed her eyes and prepared the most worst mind meld of a lifetime. She saw Mr. Webster struggle in his sleep, being engulfed by all his plans he ever devised, and watching them unravel right in front of him. Oh, the terror, the pain he had to feel, no remorse at all! It was simply sublime. He screamed, he begged for mercy, he pleaded for justice, but it never came. Mr. Webster died in his sleep that night.
"Interesting," said Penelope, as she learned what his true fear was.
Penelope sat up with a self satisfied smirk on her face, no one could ever get away from her. The strings that intertwined the ceiling fell down. She fastened herself to the strings and ascended to the top of her jail cell. She couldn't decide whether she felt more like the puppeteer, or the marionette. They both acted as one, and she couldn't deny that she played both roles throughout these series of events. As she reached the top she managed to crawl through the small opening that lead to her truest desire. One that Mr. Webster never gave her. Penelope inhaled the sweet night air, and opened her arms and started walking. She basked in her freedom, feeling eternal happiness. A camera stationed in the front of the castle followed her movements as she walked up the dirt path and into the quiet town and beyond. Penelope had her freedom now, and it was only a matter of time before they came and got her, but she could always dream, at least for one night, couldn't she?
Oh, Mr. Webster, Mr. Webster, riddle me this! Are you afraid of the sky or the abyss? She could feel a laugh bubbling from her mouth as she saw him toss and turn in his bed, but he wouldn't be waking up any time soon. Penelope closed her eyes and prepared the most worst mind meld of a lifetime. She saw Mr. Webster struggle in his sleep, being engulfed by all his plans he ever devised, and watching them unravel right in front of him. Oh, the terror, the pain he had to feel, no remorse at all! It was simply sublime. He screamed, he begged for mercy, he pleaded for justice, but it never came. Mr. Webster died in his sleep that night.
"Interesting," said Penelope, as she learned what his true fear was.
Penelope sat up with a self satisfied smirk on her face, no one could ever get away from her. The strings that intertwined the ceiling fell down. She fastened herself to the strings and ascended to the top of her jail cell. She couldn't decide whether she felt more like the puppeteer, or the marionette. They both acted as one, and she couldn't deny that she played both roles throughout these series of events. As she reached the top she managed to crawl through the small opening that lead to her truest desire. One that Mr. Webster never gave her. Penelope inhaled the sweet night air, and opened her arms and started walking. She basked in her freedom, feeling eternal happiness. A camera stationed in the front of the castle followed her movements as she walked up the dirt path and into the quiet town and beyond. Penelope had her freedom now, and it was only a matter of time before they came and got her, but she could always dream, at least for one night, couldn't she?
Okay peoples, some requirements you all need to know:
LITERATE!!!
Make it interesting!
Pm me, and AT LEAST, two well developed paragraphs as a response!
None of this ** - - crap!
I would like you to respond as one of Mr. Webster's colleagues, but you can also respond as someone who has a talent like the characters throughout this starter did, or both. Whatever you choose, make it believable and something I'm able to respond to!
If you don't like this one, I have several others in my journal you can use, or, you can use on of your own starters, but you must tell me if you do so. We can also collaborate on ideas as well.
LITERATE!!!
LITERATE!!!
Make it interesting!
Pm me, and AT LEAST, two well developed paragraphs as a response!
None of this ** - - crap!
I would like you to respond as one of Mr. Webster's colleagues, but you can also respond as someone who has a talent like the characters throughout this starter did, or both. Whatever you choose, make it believable and something I'm able to respond to!
If you don't like this one, I have several others in my journal you can use, or, you can use on of your own starters, but you must tell me if you do so. We can also collaborate on ideas as well.
LITERATE!!!
If Only
It pulsed. It breathed.
"How are we feeling today?" She gave him the popular noncommittal nod and stared at the room. Cot. Mirror. Sink. Book. Cards. Clothes. Block. White. Cot. Mirror. Sink... It shivered, and she sighed. She knew she would have to thank it later.
"The usual," Delilah croaked. Rubbing her eyes she looked away from her morning nurse. His chipper routine was not the best thing to wake up to every morning. On some days the Urge would take it a step further, move her arm, make it twitch. Punch him in the face, it would feel so good to wipe that fake smile off his face. So satisfying. The crunch, the blood, the moan, the security... Delilah groaned. She forgot about them, but It always reminded her, It caught her before she did something she knew she'd regret...
"You remember my name, don't you?" He asked in a way most people ask their Labradors to retrieve a frisbee. Delilah was debating whether the risk was worth the consequences, then answered without thinking.
"No," she said honestly. She cursed herself. You never say no, you smile, nod and say yes, then you get a good job or that's wonderful, Delilah. Why the ******** are you saying no? She nodded in agreement. It was right. For the life of her, Delilah couldn't remember the name of her nurse, but not for the reasons he would suspect. He wasn't worth remembering. Delilah knew he would come wake her up every day, feed her three meals, and see her off at night, for years to come. So yes, she knew him, did it matter if she didn't know his name? In this place, everything matters. The light in the man's eyes faded away, and he sighed. He looked truly upset, and that's when Delilah let her eyes wander to his chest where something shined. A name tag. His name was Sam, so easy and simple to remember. It chastised her all the way to breakfast.
"How are we feeling today?" She gave him the popular noncommittal nod and stared at the room. Cot. Mirror. Sink. Book. Cards. Clothes. Block. White. Cot. Mirror. Sink... It shivered, and she sighed. She knew she would have to thank it later.
"The usual," Delilah croaked. Rubbing her eyes she looked away from her morning nurse. His chipper routine was not the best thing to wake up to every morning. On some days the Urge would take it a step further, move her arm, make it twitch. Punch him in the face, it would feel so good to wipe that fake smile off his face. So satisfying. The crunch, the blood, the moan, the security... Delilah groaned. She forgot about them, but It always reminded her, It caught her before she did something she knew she'd regret...
"You remember my name, don't you?" He asked in a way most people ask their Labradors to retrieve a frisbee. Delilah was debating whether the risk was worth the consequences, then answered without thinking.
"No," she said honestly. She cursed herself. You never say no, you smile, nod and say yes, then you get a good job or that's wonderful, Delilah. Why the ******** are you saying no? She nodded in agreement. It was right. For the life of her, Delilah couldn't remember the name of her nurse, but not for the reasons he would suspect. He wasn't worth remembering. Delilah knew he would come wake her up every day, feed her three meals, and see her off at night, for years to come. So yes, she knew him, did it matter if she didn't know his name? In this place, everything matters. The light in the man's eyes faded away, and he sighed. He looked truly upset, and that's when Delilah let her eyes wander to his chest where something shined. A name tag. His name was Sam, so easy and simple to remember. It chastised her all the way to breakfast.
[~]
St. Audrey's Hospital for the Mentally Disturbed was a tough facility to maintain. It took nerves of steel, a quick mind, a calm demeanor, and above all, the ability to lead and make concise decisions. Whether that meant bending a few laws of the land or not, the job needed to be filled. Dr. Conroy, along with three psychologists, two medical doctors, four social workers, three Union representatives, and one new recruit, walked up the pavement that lead to a garden that contained cherub statues, trimmed bushes that looked like animals, and fountains. Above the entrance of the hospital was a motto frequently said by everyone who worked there. "We stay because we're burdened, we leave because we're finally free." Of course it was written in latin, and no one from the group asked what it meant, which pleased Dr. Conroy. The doors opened, revealing plush furniture and complimenting decor with colorful walls and a smile on every staff's face. Dr. Conroy smiled in return, winking at the lobby secretary and letting the group investigate his grounds.
"I hope you're all satisfied with that fact that St. Audrey is a caring and nurturing environment. Every staff member was selected based on compassion, understanding, efficiency, and the ability to follow orders. The facility itself is up to standard code, no health violations or abuse of patients. More than half of patients recover after spending at least five years here, and those who do not are comforted until their last days. Any questions?" Oh, there were several, mostly about the patients living quarters and how they all interacted with one another. Some about the building itself being up to code, considering it opened in the late 1800's. And one fascinated Dr. Conroy entirely:
"Are there any patients that you feel will never be recovered, Dr. Conroy?" It was plain curiosity, especially coming from the newest member of the St. Audrey family. Above all, it was an opinion, and doctors were notorious for giving their medical opinions, false ones that is. It broke Dr. Conroy's concentration, maybe even his vigor. He made a mental note to check this physician's record.
"Well, I believe that every patient has the ability to see the light of sanity one day. And my determination will make sure of it. At the moment, there will always be a few that give you doubts, but along what lines are you asking this question, Dr. Saunders? Emotional or professional opinion?" Dr. Saunders was taken aback, it was so polite how he asked, yet demanding and surprising, and now all eyes were on him to answer.
"I, uh, was just wondering if their was a specific person that worried you, for the time being," he stated, hoping that answer was sufficient. Dr. Conroy debated a bit and nodded.
"There is one that is quite troubling."
[~]
Delilah padded out of the cafeteria with Sam, shielding her eyes from the fluorescent lights. Breakfast, the same, bacon. Cereal. Milk. Bagel. Eggs. Bacon. Cereal. It twitched. Breakfast was nothing new. Sam held her arm with care, as if it was going to deteriorate into dust if handled roughly. Delilah felt like an elderly woman in a nursing home, she was being treated like one, only for insanity. Yet, in the prime of her youth, she was stuck in here. There was nothing wrong, she just fancied making lists of things in the room she was in, was that so abnormal? It sighed, and Delilah nodded in agreement.
"Would you like to go to the Sun Room?" asked her nurse. She shook her head again. The Sun Room was the only place in the hospital that had one wall that was a window. Sometimes Delilah would wake up early and come to the room to watch the sunrise, it was quite a beautiful sight, and very relaxing. No one else would be there. Now, however, there were several people about the room, sleeping in cushy chairs, playing board games, or walking about for no particular reason. Delilah would've played cards with her inmates, but today, the outside needed her attention.
She sat down. The sun was at a forty-five degree angle from Delilah, she had missed the sunrise. Outside the window was a cornfield, it swayed when the wind blew it. On the other side of the room there was a small round table that would normally display a plant, instead, there was a rectangular paperweight. It looked really heavy. Delilah stared back at the wall made entirely out of glass. One throw would do it, they would never find her in that corn maze. Noise erupted behind her, she turned to look. A paranoid kleptomaniac who was prone to delusions had brandished a knife and was threatening his poker mate to meet his bet and raise it. Delilah took a closer look and saw that it was a toothbrush he had, and it had been carved into a makeshift weapon. Security was on him. Now's your chance, throw it, you'll have a head start. Delilah thought. She stared at the paperweight, then the window, and her fellow inmate. They detained him, no, stripped him of his dignity. Knocking his toothbrush knife aside, he was handled with roughly, he tripped, and fell flat on his face. He cried out, insisting that the poker player had been bluffing. They dragged him out of the Sun Room, he'd probably have a night in Isolation. Delilah shivered. You see, that's what happens when you put a toe out of line! You don't want to end up like him, now do you? It asked. She shook her head, noticing that her nurse came to her frantically and escorted her out.
[~]
"Who is she?" asked on of Dr. Conroy's guests.
"Delilah Fay," he said with a sigh. The troop looked in behind the two way mirror, vigorously scribbling down notes in their pads, as if they were journalists. A pale woman with dark hair covering her face sat slumped in the room in front of them. Her hands rested on the table, they didn't move. Delilah's doctor sat opposite of her, glancing back at the mirror, wondering when he should be given the okay to start this conversation.
"What exactly is wrong with her, Dr. Conroy? What did she do?" said on of the psychologists. He rubbed his temples and answered.
"Two years ago she brutally electrocuted her father and brother. She claimed that they were conspiring against her and her mother. Delilah has also said that they were impostors that looked like her father and brother, aliens come to kill the human race, manipulated by spirits to begin another Holocaust, and that they were the ones that made her who she is today." Dr. Conroy rattled on, trying to remember the other scenarios Delilah has mentioned.
"So there is no definite reason behind her actions," Dr. Conroy nodded. The group looked once more at Delilah, wondering how someone so young could be corrupted. Her doctor stared at her, while she looked at his pen and paper.
"Why are you here?" Delilah's doctor asked.
"I'm insane, aren't I?"she said stoically. The experts in the other room were shocked. Usually when a mentally disturbed patient is asked why they're there, they usually make up a story, or see things as a complete hallucination. Acceptance is the first step to the road of recovery, so how could Dr. Conroy be worried about her?
"Why do you think you're insane?" the doctor said conversationally.
"Because you told me I was. Everyone thinks I am, so how couldn't I be?" she reasoned. The specialists were becoming confused.
"How did you diagnose her?" questioned one of the social workers.
"She is just humoring us at the moment. She's the quiet rebel around here. Even before she murdered her family, Delilah was a troubled child. Witnesses say that for hours she would be calling out what she saw, then repeating it when she realized that there was nothing more to report. At times, she would even repeat what people say, inducing fear and anger. Her history helped with our theory." Dr. Conroy stopped as Delilah started speaking again.
"I always knew I was... inadequate. I'm sorry I don't live up to your standards. Insanity is always an excuse. Oh, she looks over her shoulder a lot, that's because she's gone bonkers. Haven't you people ever thought that the things we do isn't because we're demented? Of course, that's an absurd thought! Why would I say it, because I'm insane."
Mouths dropped as almost everyone sat in wonder, pondering over her statement. Only Dr. Conroy and Delilah's doctor seemed unimpressed.
"Then why did you kill your father and brother?" her doctor stated.
"I didn't-" there was a sharp intake of breath, everyone was on their toes. Delilah stopped mid-sentence, she had already said far too much.
"Table. Chair. Two way mirror. Doctor. Window. Audience. Pen. Paper. Table. Chair. Two way mirror..." and on it went, repeating those words as fast as her tongue would allow, not tripping over them, and making them heard by all.
"What is she doing?" said the new recruit.
"Protecting herself," said Dr. Conroy. He bowed his head in defeat. He had vowed that he wouldn't lose this one. "She becomes like this when she let's her guard down. Delilah is always alert, why do you think she repeats those objects in the room. She's assessing everything. What to use, what to do with it, how it will help her. She's quite the MacGyver," he commented.
"Delilah, stop it!" her doctor became frazzled. And she stopped. Everyone was silent, waiting for her next move.
"Delilah, stop it." She echoed. Dr. Conroy swore to Kingdom come. That had been the one breakthrough, terminating her vocal shadow. Now it was back. She started to ramble on about the things in the room again, Dr. Conroy composed himself and explained.
"Delilah is one of the most erratic patients we have, when we think she's almost recovered, she gives us a turn for the worse. Then we start back at square one and rebuild. However, what I think she's doing right now isn't her, we haven't officially diagnosed it yet, but I believe she is schizophrenic. Something is telling her to act this way, to repeat and analyze." Delilah acted up again, this time, with force.
"Paper. Pen. Paper. Pen. Paper. Pen. Write!" She screamed, clawing at the metal table for it. This shocked them all, she broke the pattern. Nevertheless, the doctor reacted.
"Delilah! Stop it this instant!" She growled and hopped on the table, grabbing his lapels.
"What makes you think I want to stop?" Her bangs were out of her face. Delilah's eyes were a sight to see, they changed, pupils dilate then reduce. It varied in colors, her doctor couldn't even guess what they were. Before anyone could react properly, security came and took her away. To Isolation, of course.
[~]
Delilah was on the floor, feeling her other heart beat pulse. She couldn't remember where she was, but it was dark. There was nothing else to say about the room but the darkness. Nothing to talk about, nothing to repeat.
Delilah, It began.
Don't talk to me. I don't want to listen to you, she stated matter of fact.
You could've followed my advise, you know. You could've dazzled them with another twisted philosophy. Her head began to throb.
What was that crap about apologizing for not living up to their standards? I don't think I live up to your requirements. Delilah spat.
You don't understand, I help you Delilah, I keep you alive. You wouldn't have survived if it wasn't for me. I make you hesitate, I make you stop and think, It yelled. Her head thumped, like a heart. She could feel the imaginary pain swell like a balloon. It was unbearable. The blood rushing to her head, needing to feed her twin heart.
Who are you? Delilah asked.
Your sanity.
It left, for now, but it would return.
Delilah was alone in Isolation. It wasn't here to talk to her. There was nothing to repeat, nothing to echo, nothing to shadow. There was nothing. And with nothing came sleep. It wasn't pleasant, but it was endurable.
If only sanity was.
Delilah, It began.
Don't talk to me. I don't want to listen to you, she stated matter of fact.
You could've followed my advise, you know. You could've dazzled them with another twisted philosophy. Her head began to throb.
What was that crap about apologizing for not living up to their standards? I don't think I live up to your requirements. Delilah spat.
You don't understand, I help you Delilah, I keep you alive. You wouldn't have survived if it wasn't for me. I make you hesitate, I make you stop and think, It yelled. Her head thumped, like a heart. She could feel the imaginary pain swell like a balloon. It was unbearable. The blood rushing to her head, needing to feed her twin heart.
Who are you? Delilah asked.
Your sanity.
It left, for now, but it would return.
Delilah was alone in Isolation. It wasn't here to talk to her. There was nothing to repeat, nothing to echo, nothing to shadow. There was nothing. And with nothing came sleep. It wasn't pleasant, but it was endurable.
If only sanity was.
[~]
Okay guys, you know the drill.
At least two well developed paragraphs.
LITERATE!
No ** -- crap!
Pm Me!
You can be another patient or one of the doctors, but make it something I can respond to.
If you don't like this one, there are several others in my journal, just tell me which one you want to roleplay.
LITERATE!
At least two well developed paragraphs.
LITERATE!
No ** -- crap!
Pm Me!
You can be another patient or one of the doctors, but make it something I can respond to.
If you don't like this one, there are several others in my journal, just tell me which one you want to roleplay.
LITERATE!
