Perfect Insanity

not the Disturbed song. though I did rip off the song's name, because it partially inspired this. it's the beginnings of a book I'm writing. thought I'd run by you-all before I post it up on my writing forum. And I'll be more patient this time, Ravyn . So don't crusify me! Note: 'tis long, so be warned.

 

 

…Before…

Running through the streets, someone chasing her. Someone with a knife, or a gun, or a rope. Only a little girl, with a little boy by her side, running as fast as they can, but what if they can’t run fast enough? And his tiny hand slips from hers, because he’s stopped running. She turns to scream his name, the name she can’t remember now, and she sees their pursuer standing over him, lunging down with a shining blade, his crazed eyes glinting in the moonlight, foam around his mouth. But the little boy is calm, and while the man is coming down, he is moving to the side, his small hand rising to somehow catch the knife out of the man’s hand; and with a seemingly practiced motion he stabs the man in his medulla. Then he turns to the girl, eyes black and somewhere between unknowingly innocent and expecting praise. His hand is still on the knife’s handle, and the girl cannot breathe. She is alive, he is alive…but he has killed. He has done the very thing she feared would happen to him. She begins backing away from him, from his tiny, bony body, and he, confused, comes towards her.

 

She screams and runs from him…

 

ONE

And again, Sarah Grey wakes herself up screaming. She sits up in bed, fists clutching at the covers, looking around the shadows in her apartment as though someone is going to come busting out of them with a knife. After a second, she falls back, hands relaxing.

 

That nightmare again…

 

She’s been having the exact same nightmare since she was a little girl. Now she’s twenty-six, plenty old enough to stop having it, in her opinion.

 

Sarah rolls over to look at her alarm clock. Quarter to six; it’s about time to get up anyway. She sits up, finger-combing her blond hair. She reaches over to her bedside table to flip on a lamp, and gets up, stretching.

 

The calendar taped to the wall over her bed tells her it’s November third, 2008, and she remembers celebrating the night before. What about, she isn’t sure yet…her friend Sandy had brought a mysterious brown bottle that she all but force-fed Sarah. Another memory surfaces: puking in the bath tub.

 

Sighing, Sarah rubs her sore eyes and walks across the room to turn on her stereo. Instantly she jumps and turns it down; Sandy’s half-deaf boyfriend, Jake, must have been in control of the volume.

 

30 Seconds to Mars’s “The Kill” playing softly is Sarah’s background music as she brushed her teeth, until she turns the water on in the tub to wash it out. Thanks, Sandy… She also has her answering machine playing seven messages from her mother, all of which she heard last night but ignored. That’ll cost her. He mom doesn’t like being ignored

 

Then, she suddenly remembers why she was celebrating.

 

New job.

 

Oh no, don’t let me be late on my first day.

 

A little later Sarah is in a cab. The driver is gesturing wildly and urgently saying something in incredibly bad English, and Sarah nods absently at, apparently, the right places. Her mind is on her new job, the job she has wanted as long as she can remember. As Sandy reminded her last night, the job her entire life has led up to, all those years of psychology and nursing classes.

 

All her life, Sarah has wanted to help sick people. Not physically sick; mentally sick. She has a memory – her mother calls it a ‘product of her overactive imagination’ – of being in an insane asylum. She remembers being in a room with another girl, a teenager, who was strapped at her wrists and ankles to a chair. The girl’s eyes had been wide and panicked, and she had been convulsing as much as her constraints had allowed her to. Then a man in a long white coat – a doctor – came in and gave her a shot…and she subsided into a peaceful sleep. A miracle-maker, Sarah had thought. A peace-bringer. Ever since then – whether it was imaginary or not – she had dreamed of being able to give people such peace. Her dream had matured when she realized that drugs, like the ones the doctor in her memory used, were not a permanent solution. Sarah wants to be able to fully rehabilitate her patients.

 

Now the cab is pulling up in front of the Blacksburg Mental Patient Home. BMPH is really the place they send the hopeless cases, which varies from the innocent but irrevocably bonkers, to the criminally insane. Sarah sees it as the perfect place for her; if she can bring one of these people back from over the edge of sanity, she will have proven herself right: anyone and anything can be healed.

 

If only she hasn’t arrived late on her first day…

 

She tips the cabbie and rushes off before his mangled Spanglish can hurt her ears anymore, clutching the long, brown wool coat her mom gave her for her birthday last year over her dark blue sweater and blue jeans. There was a moment of panic before she left her apartment, until she remembered that she wasn’t given a uniform.

 

Sarah pauses at the door, takes a deep breath, and walks in. Instantly confronting her is a tall woman with short, curly blonde hair, a clipboard, and an outfit that looks suspiciously like a uniform. Sarah’s mind races; no, no, no, I wasn’t given a uniform, was I? I wouldn’t forget…

 

In exactly the tone one would use to say, ‘You’re late,’ the uniformed woman says, “You’re early.”

 

“Um…” Sarah swallows. “Is…um…is that a problem?”

 

Sniffing, the woman replies with, “You are Sarah Grey, I presume?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Hmpf.” She shrugs her starchy white uniform around and shifts her clipboard. “I am Mrs. White.”

 

Mrs. White looks Sarah up and down disapprovingly, and Sarah decides it might be time to start with the excuses. “I – I wasn’t given a uniform, so –.”

 

“Hmpf.” Mrs. White responds again. “There isn’t a uniform.” She motions down the long hall, and as if on cue, someone deeper in the building screams bloody murder. “They don’t care much what we wear.”

 

Sarah’s eyes shift slowly away from the woman, to down the hall. Somehow she feels a little misplaced. Mrs. White knows her name, but is it possible she’s in the wrong building? “They…?”

 

“The patients.” Mrs. White says stiffly, turning to walk in the direction of the scream. “Come along. You might as well make yourself useful since you’re here.”

 

“Mrs. White!” Sarah runs after her, trying to keep in stride with the woman’s long legs. “Um…Mrs. White, what do you do here?”

 

Mrs. White looks at Sarah coldly out of the corner of her eye. “I coordinate you caregivers. I will assign to you the patients you will work with every day.”

 

“You mean…I won’t work with any one person for long periods?”

 

“If you so desire, you may visit with them on your off-hours.” Again, Mrs. White seems disapproving. “However, it is not recommended.”

 

“Why not?”

 

Mrs. White’s face contorts into an ugly grimace. “These men and women are insane, Miss Grey. There is no hope for their return to society. How long to you expect the government to support them?”

 

Sarah walks the rest of the way in silence.

 

Mrs. White takes Sarah to a round room where five other people – all women except one – sit around a rectangular table. It’s an otherwise barren room, except for the door on the opposite side. After Mrs. White’s departure, one of the women smiles at Sarah and points after with her thumb.

 

“Don’t worry about her.” She says. “She doesn’t want to be here, but she’ll leave you alone if you leave her alone. Come on, have a seat.”

 

Sarah sits down. “You’re the other caregivers?”

 

Almost in unison, they nod. The one man, who has dark brown hair under a beat-up baseball cap, says, “And whatever she said about assigning you patients, don’t believe it. She never goes near the people.” His deep-South accent is almost laughable, but he certainly sounds like he knows what he’s talking about. He adjusts his cap authoritatively.

 

Another of the women introduces them. The man, Jonas; a thin, young woman with glasses and long black hair is Rachel; Clareece is the kind-looking black woman with very white teeth; the beautiful, impatient Hispanic is called Jessycat; and she herself, with tangled blond hair and a tired but cheerful expression of a new mother, is Jazmin. After Sarah introduces herself, Jonas stands up.

 

“Come on then. What’re we waitin’ on? We’re all here.”

 

The others stand up, and Sarah uncertainly follows suit. She follows them out the other door and down several staircases. Finally they come to a chain-link gate, where Jessycat types in a code.

 

“It’s 2342562782910.” Clareece says. At Sarah’s look, she smiles. “It’s long, I know, but there’s a pattern.” More slowly, she repeats, “234, 256, 278, 2910. See?”

 

“Oh! Yeah, I see. Thanks.”

 

“No problem. With luck, you’ll have plenty of time to memorize it.”

 

Jazmin turns to Sarah seriously. “I hope you know what you’re getting into here, darling. Some of the people are dangerous. I mean, Stacy, the woman whose spot you’re filling now, her personal charge was…not a pleasant man. Multiple murders, many more attempted. Uncountable charges of assault. They decided he was insane in court because he had no compassion for his victims; didn’t hate them, didn’t love them, didn’t love killing them. Don’t get me wrong, most of them are harmless, but there are those…”

 

“The Crims.” Jonas states ominously.

 

Sarah frowns. “Isn’t that a gang or something?”

 

Jazmin laughs. “Not in here. That’s just our little pet name for the bad ones. We call the good ones the Innocents.”

 

Sarah nods to herself as they step into a large, white room. There are couches and soft chairs scattered around, gathered around tables and three television sets, and in one corner a stack of board games is next to a table where a man sits, smoking a cigarette and playing solitaire. He looks up at their arrival.

 

“Hm. Here, are you? You certainly took your time.”

 

Clareece smiles at him. “We had to welcome our new friend, Wall.” To Sarah she says, “Sarah, this is Wallace, our head of security. None of the officers are here yet, but without fail, Wall shows up before any of us.”

 

Wall scowls good-naturedly. “And until my men get here, none of those loons are coming out. So you lot may as well just sit down and play quietly.”

 

Jazmin sighs, laughing. “The loons can come out, Wall. The Crims will stay in their rooms until all your big strong men get here with their tazers, but the Innocents are allowed. You know the rules.”

 

“Hm. Don’t have to like it.” Wall stacks up his cards, snaps a rubber band around them, and drops them in his coat pocket. “Very well, then. Send in the clowns.”

 

Jessycat holds up a hand.

 

“I’ll go.” She says with a heavy accent, and walks off through another door.

 

“Jazmin.” Sarah motions for Jazmin to come sit on a couch with her. “Can you tell me more about the man you were talking about before?”

 

“Stacy’s charge? Why?”

 

Sarah shrugs, though she knows exactly what her interest in him is. If she can cure someone like him, surely anyone’s mind can be healed.

 

“Hmmm…well, like I said, not a pleasant man. Quite young, though, younger than you, I’d say. About…oh, well, we actually had a birthday party for him last year, because he’d been being so good and cooperative. Clareece? Do you remember?”

 

Clareece looks up from her cell phone. “Hm?”

 

“Stacy’s personal charge. His birthday party?”

 

“I remember.” Jonas says solemnly. “Child went mad. Didn’t like the candles on the cake Stace made him, if I recollect rightly. Fire makes him antsy, it does.”

 

“Uhm…yeah, I remember.” Clareece says, closing her cell phone. “Look, I gotta go.” She smiles apologetically. “My son – he’s getting into trouble at school.” She shrugs sheepishly. “Teenagers. Speaking of which, the boy you’re talking about, he’s not much more than one. When we had the party for him, he was twenty-two. That was the year before last, though, not last year. Cause Stace retired last year.”

 

“Oh, that’s right.” Jazmin says. She waves goodbye to Clareece and turns back to Sarah. “Twenty-four, then. About your age, like I said. He’s something else, though: very intelligent, very quiet while Stace was here. You could’ve mistaken him for an Innocent while she was around. But at that party, she seemed very edgy, and when Stace brought out that cake…”

 

“Child went mad.” Jonas restated dramatically. Maybe it’s just his accent, but he seems quite melodramatic to Sarah.

 

“Mm-hm.” Jazmin agrees. “Lost it. Went on a rampage. Injured some of the Innocents, scratched Stace’s arm so bad it needed stitches. Took three of Wallace’s men to restrain him long enough for me to sedate him.” In the corner, Wallace grunts at the reminder of his men’s failure. “Well, the rules said he had to spend three months closed up away from other after a display like that. Stace was allowed to see him, but she was busy fighting the system to keep them from having him ‘put down,’ as they say.” Bitterly, she continues,” Put down like an animal, but less humane.” She sighs. “She kept them away from him, but her husband convinced her that the job was too dangerous. Now no one wants to go near the poor boy; I’ll admit I’m afraid of him, no matter how much I pity him. My pity goes out the window when I look in those eyes.”

 

“Wait – you said Stacy retired last year? It’s November. It’s almost next year. No one’s been inside his room since then?” Sarah asks incredulously.

 

Jazmin shake her head regretfully. “Men’ve slid food trays under his door, pull them back out after an hour. That’s the closest anyone wants to get.”

 

This could be harder than I thought… “Well, that settles that.”

 

“Settles what, dear?” Jazmin queries.

 

“I’m going to see him. Where is he?”

 

Jazmin just stares at her. “Honey, have you not heard a word I’ve said? He’s pure evil. Only one who ever had any effect on him was Stacy. If you go into that room with him, I’d lock you in, because you’d have to be crazy.”

 

“He needs help.” Sarah protests. “That’s why I’m here; I want to help people.”

 

“Maybe you should go somewhere else, sweet pea. These people are incurable. That’s why they’re here.”

 

“I believe that any damage can be healed.” Sarah says softly. “I believe I can heal those who other can’t. I don’t know why. I just feel like this is what I was born to do.”

 

Jazmin sighs.

 

“If you’re so determined.” She stands up and point at the doorway Jessycat went through. “Go on through there. You’ll probably pass the Innocents coming back with Jessycat. Now the doors are numbered, and you want to go into door thirteen. Then go down the hall. The numbers is that row start with six hundred fifty, and Stace’s boy is…well, I feel ridiculous saying it, but he’s number six hundred sixty-six.”

 

“The devil’s number.” Jonas intones. Jazmin shoots him an annoyed look, and in the corner, Wallace snickers.

 

“There’s nothing in the room he can hurt you with except for his bare hands.” Jazmin frowns. “And they’re cuffed together.”

 

“Cuffed –?” Sarah chokes. “His hands have been cuffed all this time?”

 

Jazmin shrugs, as though there was nothing she could do.

 

“You know,” Sarah growls, “that if he wasn’t crazy before, he will be by now.”

 

Again, Jazmin just shrugs.

 

Angrily, Sarah sets off.

Love it! And it's not just the title for obvious reasons There's something about the insane, albeit the criminally insane, that really captivate my attentions. The way you write is convincing, concisive and so easy to read. You set the scenes well. I really don't know how to critique you because you seem to have incredible direction and talent, far beyond anything I could possibly come up with. As for patience, well in this endeavour (writing) it's sort of par for the course

The only thing that really threw me was the name Clareece - and that's nothing to do with you but me, the setting and name brought immediate reference to Clareece Starling I think it was played by Jodie Foster in The Silence of The Lambs. Again, nothing negative about your story but that was my first impression. Other than that all good. That Mrs White seems quite a sterile lady doesn't she? Ominous that one... good stuff. Then again I'd expect nothing less.

you are unneccasarily nice to me. :-)

 

I've honestly never seen Silence of the Lambs, so the name thing is pure coincidence. I just sort of came up with it out of thin air. Strange, though.

 

Thanks for reading it. I'd post more, but I don't have much more, and I'm currently stopped at a bit of a cliffhanger. Maybe a little later.

you are unneccasarily nice to me. :-)

 

I've honestly never seen Silence of the Lambs, so the name thing is pure coincidence. I just sort of came up with it out of thin air. Strange, though.

 

Thanks for reading it. I'd post more, but I don't have much more, and I'm currently stopped at a bit of a cliffhanger. Maybe a little later.

Let's just say I am humbled when I read what you pen. I know praising other writers is a given, it's how we push each other along considering writing as an art leaves most of us as authors feeling somewhat vulnerable, but sincerely when I read yours I feel... well, envious isn't quite right but it comes close.

As for more, look forward to reading it. Again, patience required. Am all over the place at the moment, will check in when I can. Good luck

actually, complimenting other writers isn't as much of a given as it should be...some of the people on my writing forum can be downright savage. It's funny, I go from here, where people (ok...so I really only have 2 readers, but that's people) tend to praise me, to writingforums.com, where I need several suits of armor. well, not all the time, like I said, some people can be savage.

 

Anyway, my next post will be an update, I swear.

i like it, it's different to anything I've read before and it's interesting. The story has so many directions it can head down which is why I'm going to be interested to keep up and see where it goes.

Actually, good point, I just perused the halls at writingforums.com and lord, some of them are harsh! I could go on about the banality and benefits of both points of view, between encouragement and picking but we all know what it's like. It's the way of a competative market, of a competative world. Bottom line, if you enjoy what you do and are happy to share then I see no harm with it. Places like that seemed more geared towards fine-tuning the craft and that's fine too if a critique is what you're after. At least here people aren't that bitchy (generally) I think we're far too laid-back for that.

Needless to say I don't think I'll be posting over there (at above site) any time soon, am already feeling substandard, I seriously doubt a verbal lashing will help matters!

As for your story as Pete said has many avenues it can take, but the dark undertones get me. I like this genre really, if genre is what you can call it. Look forward to more.

ok, breaking my promise because I want to say thanks for reading to Peterdea. and to Rayvn, I do want to point out not everyone is harsh...but those that are, are verily. And the posts by SparkyLT were me, if you saw any. :-)

 

ok, the NEXT post will be an update. but i won't swear this time.

And an update it is. much shorter chapter this time. enjoy, guys.

 

 

TWO

 

Passing the Innocents and Jessycat earns Sarah quizzical looks, but she ignores them, walking quickly past.

 

How long? Unless I had come here, how long would this guy have been in solitary confinement? These rooms – they’re tiny, and he’s been cuffed for a year straight! It’d be enough to drive anyone over the edge. But he can’t be in very good shape after all this time…he can’t be too dangerous.

 

Door thirteen.

 

Room one sixty-six.

 

Sarah pulls the key off the wall next to the door and unlocks it. She slides the key into her jeans pocket and presses her ear against the door. There’s no sound, and for a moment she pauses in terror; what if he’s dead in there?

 

With this is mind, she slowly pushes open the door.

 

In the room, it’s pitch black. Finding a switch just to the right of the door, she flips it several times, to no response. The bulb must be burnt out. Sarah isn’t sure she wants to close the door and put herself in totally darkness, but she knows better than to open it and let the lights outside shine in. No doubt there is a rule against leaving patients’ – or inmates’, as the case may be – doors open.

 

She takes a deep breath to steady herself and closes the door behind her, and realizes that the room must be soundproof, or close enough. The faint sounds in the hallway – the Innocents in the distance, water running through the pipes – are cut off. Total sensory deprivation. My god. The room is soundless…except for a very quiet jangling. Slowly, Sarah reaches into her coat pocket and pulls out a lighter. She quit smoking a few weeks ago, but she hasn’t bothered to get the Zippo out of her coat. Blinking in the absolute darkness, she holds the lighter up and clicks it twice. The second time, it lights, sending an orange glow around the room. Predictably, the room is tiny and sparsely furnished. In fact, the only furniture is the narrow bed against the wall across from the door.

 

The man – or boy, he is somewhere between – sitting on the edge of the bed cocks his head at Sarah interestedly, slightly ferally. He wears the standard patient’s white cotton pants and long sleeved shirt, but the sleeves are ripped off around the elbow. He leans forward, resting his elbow on his knees, and though his thin fingers are laced, his hands are not locked together; the cuffs dangle uselessly from each wrist. His greasy black hair falls into pitch-black eyes that glint with cunning and intelligence.

 

For a second Sarah can only stare at him. She can feel him assessing her – deciding how great a threat she is to him?

 

“I’m here to help you.” She says finally.

 

He continues eyeing her steadily.

 

“Can…do you talk?” She tries.

 

He raises a thin black eyebrow. Sarah swallows; the slight movement terrifies her for some reason. In her mind she compares him to a wild animal, telling herself that if she doesn’t show fear, she will be safe. She tries to calm her heartbeat, and, in an attempt to seem comfortable, she sits down cross-legged in front of him, holding the lighter up between them.

 

“What do I call you?” She asks quietly. “Six hundred sixty-six?”

 

He smirks.

 

“No…” She says, more to herself. “A little too long, isn’t it? How about just Sixty-six?”

 

His smirk fades, and he regards her seriously for a moment. His eyes cut down. He seems to be looking at the broken cuffs, almost sadly.

 

“Can I –?” Sarah hesitates. “Can I see your hands?”

 

Without looking at her, he holds one hand out, wrist up. Sarah reaches out carefully to examine the broken chain.

 

“How did you break this?” She asks in amazement. But looking back up to his face, she sees the answer. “You’ve alone for a very long time.” She says softly.

 

He raises an eyebrow, but this time the gesture strikes her differently: instead of ridiculing, almost contemplative. Assessing again – deciding what she can do for him?

 

She stands abruptly, trying to take his hand, but he jerks it away. He looks up at her, suddenly mistrustful, but makes no move but to finger the part of the cuffs’ chain that she touched.

 

Carefully, Sarah holds her hand out to him.

 

“Sixty-six, you’ve been trapped in this dark little room long enough.” She says softly. Whatever he may have done before he came here, he doesn’t deserve this. This is torture. “Come with me.”

 

He rises slowly, gracefully. He is a little taller than Sarah standing. His near-perfect posture should tell her something about his childhood, but for now she would just be satisfied if he raised his chin. She cuts off the lighter and drops it into her pocket to open the door. Before she turns the knob, she feels Sixty-six’s hand slip into hers.

“How did you break this?” She asks in amazement. But looking back up to his face, she sees the answer. “You’ve alone for a very long time.” She says softly.

You've been alone for a very long time, perhaps?

Aside from that reads well. I found myself grimacing at the screen when she walked in with a lighter - I was like 'stupid girl, what are you doing?!' haha, typical. I am surprised that there was no other support there, I mean as dangerous as 66's supposed to be the rest seemed more than happy to see the new kid get mauled for want of a better word, their impassivity surprised me. Maybe working in an asylum has seen most of them lose touch with reality themselves to some degree, lose their empathy. I don't know, as sorry as I feel for 66 I don't trust him. And I trust the rest of Sarah's coworkers even less. Good tension. Great description. A little ambiguous as I said, from the basic set up you had of this evil protagonist that no one would go near to the naive stupidity of the new staff member to be so flippant with not just her safety but the rest of the establishment. Once I overlook that, it reads well. I know, it's not a factual account, but just wondering (and forgive me if I overstep my boundaries, am merely curious here) if he's as dangerous as you say at the start why everyone seems almost... casual about it. Is there an air here of mind manipulation at work, is he that evil I wonder? Anyway, ranted enough. As I said, great work. Intrigued to see what 66 is really like. He certainly gives me the creeps already and has barely so much as uttered a sound :spiteful:

Well done.

whoops, thanks for seeing the missed word. I always proofread my stuff, but I always miss stuff.

 

as to the rest of the 'rant'...hm, where do I start... ;-) ok, the reason they let her go alone is partially because they figure 66 is probably emanciated, basically out of shape, and maybe even catatonic. And, if he's not, they figure he'll suffice to scare some sense into her. I am honestly a little disturbed to hear you trust them even less than 66 though.

 

No evil mind control going on, interesting idea though. This is going to be one of my few books that stay rooted firmly in reality, or at least it's supposed to. They can be casual about it because they're used to it. There're other criminal psychos there (not sure yet if any of them are going to become important), and besides, 66 himself has been there (cough cough) for a very long time... Oh, and NEVER worry about overstepping your boundaries. They don't exist. As long as you can say one positive thing, be as critical as you need to be.

 

Glad 66 creeps you out. I was afraid with my main character's great naive sympathy it would be all to easy to forget the setting, 66's past, etc.

 

And one thing that might interest you...the "In here for a very long time" line was going to be 66's first words, but then I decided I didn't want him to talk just yet. So now I have to come up with some killer line for him. Open to suggestions :-D

agh, why do my colon-dash-parenthases never turn into smilies?!

agh, why do my colon-dash-parenthases never turn into smilies?!

Take the 'nose' dash away and it'll work

 

As for the rest, thanks for the explanation - though having said that it's not really necessary, it is your world you're constructing, so you're steering it, we're just along for the ride!

 

Now I will admit to some degree yes I almost did forget or should I say 66's past was in some way overshadowed by Sarah's child-like curiosity. Not a bad thing unless you wanted to create a confronting in-your-face story. This build up works too. As for trusting the crew less than 66, I guess I was wary of them from the introduction stage. May have been setting, maybe just me given how badly asylums creep me out (the old adage that the sane are in and the insane run the place) or maybe it's something else. Anyway, this may change of course. Have to see how this develops.

 

Oh and bravo for keeping 66 quiet for now. I think you did him justice. There's something horribly unnerving in silence, its why some of us talk for the sake of it, to break the awkwardness when there's nothing to break it so much... well done. Given the fact he's been alone for a while he may have devolved into a more childlike state, regressed developmentally, like people who bond with animals in the wild lose a touch of human communication... but given that he has no external interaction I'd think that his words would be carefully constructed. He would be a brooding thinker, maybe communicate more with facial expressions for now than say anything considering he has lived in essence in his head this past year with no real distraction or escape from it (there's a reason the Japanese etc used it in War as a form of torture and why we still use it in the current judicial system for the really misbehaving prisoners) - Maybe this initiation to physical contact (slipping his hand in hers) is reminiscent of this, like a child waking from a nightmare too scared to say anything but entrusting the 'adult' (Sarah in this case) to save him from it. Depends, you can take him in a few directions. Do you want a dark character we all fear or a misinterpreted man struggling to find sense in the world around him? How you see him is how we as the readers will. Right now he can go either direction. Of course, the fun part as the writer means you could make him swing back and forth through extremes, from outbursts of rage to whimpering mania and still fit the realm of a scarred 'insane' personality. Sarah and her crew are unfortunately a tad more rigid - this is why I like the vilains more... :spiteful:

 

Anway, yes, sorry for the rant. Just... thinking aloud. Now... off to work. Talk later

:) hah! :)

 

Actually, explaining it to you will probably help me understand it better. my brother is my usual sounding board, but I think my writer-talk confuses him sometimes.

 

you know, it's funny how silence scares people. I like silence. I like a lot of things that scare most people, which is probably why I don't often try for horror or anything like it. So I'm glad it's working.

 

as to 66's character, my most important thing is to keep him creepy, but also try and get the reader to sort of liking him. I'm not sure exactly how I'm going to do this, yet. But I can tell you he's a lot more stable than he seems. Argh (beat self with whatever's handy), I can't stand it when I do that. I don't mean to leave teasers or anything, sorry.

 

anyway, not sure when I'll post more, cuz I've been lazy recently. knowing someone's enjoying what I write helps me go faster, though. so thanks!

Next chapter...

 

 

THREE

 

The fluorescent lights in the hallway seem blinding after the dim cast of the lighter. Black, three-inch high numbers – 661, 660, 659, 658 – mark the white walls, flashing by as Sarah leads Sixty-six towards the common area. To prevent chewing on her lip with worrying about how the other caregivers and Wallace will react, she talks as they walk, though she tells herself it’s because her voice puts Sixty-six as ease.

 

“It’s been so long since you’ve been out, I’m sure the common room has changed since you last saw it. Everything’s white, like back here, of course, but there are cards, board games, even several TVs. And –.”

 

She suddenly realizes Sixty-six’s hand isn’t in hers anymore. She spins around to find him a few feet behind her, looking at her with a face totally devoid of expression. She blinks back at him, suddenly remembering Jazmin’s description of his crimes. Multiple murders… uncountable charges of assault…decided he was insane in court because he had no compassion for his victims; didn’t hate them, didn’t love them, didn’t love killing them…

 

Slowly, she says, “Sixty-six? What is it?”

 

He takes one step closer to her and holds his hand out.

 

Jazmin’s list echoes through Sarah’s head again. She realizes that in her enthusiasm to help him, she has very nearly forgotten that he is in an insane asylum for a reason. But she steels herself and cautiously takes his hand.

 

It abruptly clenches around hers, and she is shocked by his strength. He jerks her closer, pulling her to his chest, and his other arm goes around her torso with a force that squeezes the breath out of her.

 

“Sixty-six –.” She gasps.

 

Very softly, he whispers in her ear, “Don’t let go of me again.”

 

Strangely, his voice reminds her of a terrified little boy’s, and the part of Sarah’s mind that can stay distant and analyze tells her that his unexpected force is like a teenage boy who doesn’t yet know his own strength. It also tells her she needs to act soon before he snaps one of her ribs.

 

“Sixty-six, let go – stop.” She says hoarsely.

 

Not only does he not release her, his grip on her hand tightens even more. Her fingers feel like they’re about to break.

 

“Sixty-six!” She chokes. “You’re hurting me.”

 

“Don’t let go of me again.” He hisses rapidly.

 

“I won’t – please – stop it.”

 

Sarah grits her teeth. But at the very moment she thinks she is about to hear her hand crunch, the pressure is gone, and Sixty-six’s other arm slides to his side. For a moment she doesn’t move; then she steps back, careful to keep a hold of his hand, to look at his face. Expressionless, though somehow innocent.

 

Deliberately, she says, “Sixty-six, you almost broke my hand.”

 

He cocks his head and blinks. Then he steps forward to fold her hand between both of his, his expression uncomprehending.

 

He doesn’t realize he hurt me? Sarah hypothesizes. Doesn’t understand ‘hurt,’ at least in the physical sense? …Or just doesn’t care?

 

 

 

“Sarah!” Jazmin shoots up from her seat next to one of the Innocents. “How dare you – you bring him here? Wallace!”

 

Wallace has already left his chair in the corner and has a tazer pointed at Sixty-six’s chest. Without thinking, Sarah steps in front of him.

 

Wallace hesitates.

 

“Leave him alone.” Sarah says dangerously. “You’ve left him in solitary confinement all this time, and damaged whatever his mind was before. Let me do my job.”

 

“New girl,” Wallace says patiently, “I understand you wanting to help him. But you’ve never seen him in action.” Oh, haven’t I? “Besides, our rules say that the Crims can’t come out and mingle until the rest of security is here. We can’t make an exception for –,” he jerks his head at Sixty-six distastefully. “Him.”

 

At the motion, Sixty-six’s hand clenches into a sudden fist. Resisting crying out as her already-sore hand is crushed again, Sarah growls, “You made an exception to treat him cruelly and didn’t worry about it.”

 

Jonas stage-whispers, “Demon-spawn creature deserves everything he’s gotten.”

 

Sixty-six tries to start towards Jonas, and Sarah fights to hold him back. She glimpses his eyes, and though his intent – attacking the Southern man – is clear, they are blank and glassy, not stormy with rage or even sparking with annoyance. For a second, she can understand Jazmin’s fear of him. Then her own anger returns.

 

“JONAS!” She shouts. Every Innocent in the room who wasn’t watching already turns wide eyes to see Jonas calmly standing just out of Sixty-six’s reach, while Wallace tries to get a clear bead on him with the tazer. “Jonas, you’re not helping me any by provoking him.”

 

“Can’t be helped.” Jonas says simply, eyeing Sixty-six disdainfully. Realizing the futility of his struggle, Sixty-six retreats resentfully to safety behind Sarah.

 

“What can’t be helped?” Sarah demands. “He can’t be helped? Or I can’t?”

 

Jonas shrugs, acting as though her question is ridiculous, and turns to walk away.

 

Sixty-six breaks suddenly away from Sarah, shoves Wallace out of the way, and leaps on Jonas from behind. One of his arms circles the other man’s throat, while the other grabs his own wrist. Jonas chokes, falling to the floor and trying to wrench Sixty-six off, to no avail.

 

“Sixty-six! Stop!” Sarah yells, running forward to grab his shoulders. At her touch, he releases Jonas, who scrambles away, clutching his neck.

 

“Devil – child –.” He chokes.

 

Sarah wraps her arms around Sixty-six to keep him from going after Jonas again and turns to look at Wallace, who is holding his tazer up with a determined expression.

 

“Wallace!” Sarah objects, knowing what he is about to do. “Jonas provoked him! You can’t hold him entirely responsible!”

 

Wallace shakes his head. “I’m sorry, new girl.”

 

“Wall –!”

 

Just as Wallace fires, Sixty-six tries to jump out of the way. Sarah feels him start to move, then stop; because I’m trying to keep him here? But the slight movement is enough to skew Wallace’s aim.

 

Without even knowing what’s happened, Sarah is out cold. The sound that fills her unconscious ears: Sixty-six screaming.

 

 

 

 

“New girl?”

 

“Sarah…wake up.”

 

Sarah comes to on one of the sterile white couches. Wallace and Jazmin are hovering over her. Wallace seems incredibly distressed.

 

“What…happened?” Sarah asks fuzzily.

 

“You got hit with the tazer.” Jazmin explains gently.

 

“The…?”

 

“We use some pretty high-voltages. It knocked you out.”

 

“I’m so sorry.” Wallace says, miserable. “You moved, and one of the contacts hit you. Six sixty-six and you both got zapped.”

 

“Sixty-six!” Sarah sits up abruptly. “What did you do with him?” She demands. “I heard…”

 

“He’s being taken care of.” Jazmin says soothingly. “He’ll be fine. Though I don’t know why you care.” She adds, muttering.

 

“Jazmin, he needs help, and all he’s received here –.”

 

“I know, I know.” Jazmin scowls. “Help. Sometimes I agree with Jonas; maybe Stacy should’ve just let them have their way with him.”

 

“Let who have what way with him?”

 

“The government. When he went crazy last year, and they wanted to have him executed. Stacy fought so hard for him.” Jazmin sighs. “What about him had her – and has you – so concerned about his future?”

 

“I’m not sure.” Sarah says softly. “I can’t speak for her. But I’ve been studying and training all my life for this. I’m going to prove he can be rehabilitated, because if his mind, as terrible a thing as you call it, can be healed…anyone’s can.”

 

“Honey, I’m telling you, you’re trying the impossible.” Jazmin sighs. “That boy is just too messed up. He can’t be rehabilitated. He was born the way he is now – evil. Just thoughtless, mindless evil.”

 

Thoughtless, mindless evil. Sarah remembers Sixty-six’s hand sliding into hers in his pitch-black room, seeking some comfort. His little boy’s voice, “Don’t let go of me again.”

 

“You,” she says, “are wrong. He’s human, nothing more and nothing less. He has flaws, and they may be major flaws, but nothing you say can convince me he’s evil.”

 

“Honey, I don’t have to convince you.” Jazmin says sadly. “He will.”

well Nailz... I've never been good being a critic so I'll just say this in a very condensed form Nailz. It's good. I like it. Nice title and a nice job so far. Keep it up.

you just like calling me Nailz, dontcha?

 

Thanks for reading it.

I'd either call you Nailz or Sparky so take ya pick

It mattereth not; I respond to both.

Hey, ah, anyone who's been reading and enjoying this, if you want, check out and almost-full synopsis here: http://www.writingforums.com/fiction/99821-post-your-synopsis-2.html. Post #25, by SparkyLT (which is my penname.) It's an 'almost-full' synopsis because I left off the end...because I don't know the end yet. So anyway, just thought I'd give you-all the link, enjoy if you want.

Next part, if anyone's interested. I've fallen off 'new posts'! >gasp< Short one this time, just chumming the waters a bit to see if I still have any fans.

 

 

FOUR

Sarah’s mother maintains that she is just like her grandmother. Both her parents have black hair, where Sarah’s is blond, and her eyes are brown, though they have green and blue eyes. She is also shorter and thinner than her parents. When she was younger, she believed she was adopted, until her mother started describing her grandmother: petite, thick blond hair, brown eyes. And her temperament…

 

“Sarah, you really have entirely too much of your grandmother in you.” Sarah’s mother sighs. “I know you want to help the poor boy. I know he symbolizes everything you believe in. I know. But maybe you should back off this time.”

 

“Mom –.”

 

“I don’t want you to get hurt, that’s all. He sounds dangerous.”

 

“He hasn’t hurt me. I don’t think he will.”

 

Sarah has not, of course, told her mother about Sixty-six almost breaking her fingers.

 

“Sarah…I guess nothing I say is going to change your mind anyway. You have my support and love. For whatever it’s worth, that poor disturbed child you’re working with has my support and love too. I do feel sorry for him.”

 

Somehow, having her mother’s blessing makes the road ahead seem less rough. “Thanks, Mom.” Sarah says cheerfully.

 

Once Sarah gets off the phone with her mother, she immediately begins studying some of her old psychology books, planning for tomorrow. She needs to know more about Sixty-six’s childhood, what happened to him before he was committed to the asylum. She’ll have to ask Mrs. White – though the idea terrifies her – for his records.

 

It still frustrates Sarah that Jazmin made her come home. The tazer only knocked her out, she wasn’t hurt; she’s more concerned about Sixty-six, no matter what Jonas calls him. Demon-spawn and devil child…it’s no wonder Sixty-six went after him. It’s strange that he didn’t seem to really be angry, though. She flips irritably through one book, pushes it aside, and pulls another across the floor towards her. Maybe he’s in prolonged shock from something…they said he didn’t like fires, maybe – but he didn’t seem to mind my lighter. Hm…

I like Jazmin's statement at the end of 3, sent an ominous chill up my proverbial spine, so that was well done.

One thing I have to mention, maybe it's deliberate, maybe not, but these later posts are begining to read like 'screenplays' whereas the start was more literary, like a story. Am not sure if it's intentional, especially this later section (4) but it's what I picked up on anyway. It also might be worth formatting text that illustrates a character's inner monologue, purely to deviate attention, because there was a part in 3 specifially before the tazer episode when Sarah was defending 66 against Wall and crew that I could tell we had inner monolgue mixed with open dialog, and it can get confusing first read over. Just a thought. If you decided to forgo format, say 'that's what you think,' she frowned to herself or something equally as obvious (okay bad example, but hopefully you get what I mean).

Other than that am still enjoying this, though yes the latest update was sadly too short for my likings I have a voracious appetite for stories here, as you well know by now. But having said that I enjoy this character's premise (66) and wonder what Sarah will uncover about his true nature... nice work.

Hm...you may have something about the dialouge. I tend to get carried away with dialouge, it's so easy to type, and deep down I'm an incredibly lazy person. Plus, I've been writing more screenplay-ish stuff for a while now, and I've become strangely uncomfortable with regular format...

 

Thanks for reading, more a bit later. And if I do modify the dialouge any, I'll post the changes.

Mm, I had a hard time breaking this into smaller peices, so sorry if the ending is a little awkward. Also, if you see anything that should be in italics, and isn't it probably is, but in copying it I lose the foramtting. Just thought I warn ya. Enjoy :-)

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

 

A few hours later Sarah has fallen asleep among her old textbooks. She sleeps dreamlessly until the next morning, when her alarm clock radio wakes her up with Three Day’s Grace’s “Never Too Late.” Content that she won’t be too late, because of setting the alarm earlier, Sarah takes her time getting ready to leave. Then the thought of Sixty-six closed in the silent dark a moment longer than necessary rushes her.

 

At the asylum’s door, she cringes at the thought of asking Mrs. White for Sixty-six’s medical records, but takes a steadying breath and walks in.

 

Strangely, though, Mrs. White is nowhere to be found. No one is in the room the other caregivers met Sarah in the day before, so she walks on alone. It takes her a second to remember the code, but then she recalls the pattern: 234, 256, 278, 2910.

 

Walking into the large white common room, Sarah sees Wallace sitting in the same corner, this time drinking coffee out of a powder-blue mug, engrossed in the morning paper. Rachel, the quiet, black-haired caregiver with glasses, sits across from him with a pencil, maybe doing the crossword puzzle or word search. When neither seems to notice her arrival, she clears her throat noisily. Rachel throws down her pencil and half-stands before looking; then she freezes.

 

“Oh.” She says, surprised. “I – I was expecting Jonas. Usually he’s the first to get here.”

 

“After you, that is. And me.” Wallace comments absently, folding his paper. Then, apparently only just realizing Sarah is in the room, he concernedly adds, “How are you feeling?”

 

“Fine.” Sarah responds. “And better once you let me bring Sixty-six out.”

 

“New girl –.”

 

“Oh, really, Wallace, she’s got a name.” Rachel sighs, and to Sarah, says, “He called me ‘new girl’ for weeks.”

 

“Sarah, then.” Wallace corrects himself, annoyed. “Listen, you know I’m not allowed –.”

 

“I’ll have him back in his room by the time the others bring the Innocents out.” Sarah pleads. “And without Jonas here to rile him up…”

 

Wallace scowls.

 

“One condition.” He says.

 

He leads Sarah over to a specific table. Its top is something like a chain-link fence, with a pair of hand cuffs running through the links. He bangs the metal for emphasis.

 

“He stays hooked to this.” He says seriously. “I’m not having you say the wrong thing and him go psycho all over again. Clear, hm?”

 

Sarah nods. A small concession is worth getting Sixty-six out of the dark. She starts back to get him, and Rachel falls into step with her.

 

“I get here early to visit my aunt.” She explains, before Sarah can ask. “Wallace makes me wait until someone else is here to bring her out of her room, but I get here early anyway.”

 

“You’re comfortable having your aunt out with Sixty-six…?”

 

“Well, no.” She admits. “I’ll just go into her room with her for a little while. Once the others are here, and you put him away, I’ll bring her out.”

 

Broodingly, Sarah asks, “Why are you all so scared of him? He seems…almost seems just as scared of us.”

 

“He terrifies me.” Rachel confesses. “His eyes are just so – hollow. Empty. But, I noticed something strange, yesterday, when…well, after he attacked Jonas. He was blank when he was choking him like that, but after, when Wallace had the tazer on him. It looked like he started to move, and then stopped, for some reason.”

 

Sarah nods. “I know.”

 

“But…after you got hit. He was quiet, and you just shouted once before it knocked you out. But then he…he looked at you and just started screaming, such an awful sound. I don’t know how he was still conscious anyway. I thought, he thinks she’s dead, but it’s, well, sort of uncharacteristic for him to care. But he didn’t stop until Wallace’s men ran in and held him down for Jazmin to sedate him.”

 

“They drugged him?” Sarah growls.

 

“Be fair, they had no choice. They were unnecessarily rough with him, though.” She mutters. “They didn’t have to beat him. He wasn’t really fighting them.”

 

“They beat him?”

 

“Not – not hard. He was upset, but the fight had really gone out of him. I think –.” She breaks off.

 

“What?”

 

“Well, I don’t really know, it just seemed to me like he didn’t want them to move him away from you.” Rachel shrugs, confused. “Anyway, this is where we part ways.” She motions down Row 12. “My aunt’s down here. Patient 531, better know as Betty.”

 

Before she walks off, Sarah calls after her, “Wait, Rachel – how would I find out Sixty-six’s name?”

 

“You’d have to ask Mrs. White.” She says over her shoulder. “She’s out sick today, though, Wallace told me. I could probably find his files, if you want – she’s a stickler for organization – before we leave. If there’s not any more tazer accidents, that is.”

 

Sarah laughs and thanks her, and heads down Row 13. At Sixty-six’s door, she wonders briefly what condition she’ll find him in. She remembers Jazmin saying he was being ‘taken care of,’ but if Rachel says they beat him…

 

The room is dark again, but when she flicks the light switch, a single bulb flickers to life, illuminating the little room with a sickly yellow light. Sixty-six is curled up on his side on the bed, eyes open but dim. He doesn’t seem to register the light; his pupils stay dilated. With a burst of frustration, Sarah realizes that he’s still drugged. Also, a trickle of blood has dried running out of his mouth. In her anger, Sarah hopes for Wallace’s sake that Sixty-six only bit his tongue or something.

 

“Sixty-six.” She closes the door and steps quietly over to his bed. “Sixty-six?”

 

She sits down softly next to him, noticing the new cuffs that lock his wrists together, and gently touches his shoulder. After a delay, his eyes jerk towards her. He blinks a few times, also jerkily. His throat moves as though he’s trying to speak, but all that comes out is a faint, tiny moan. Sighing, Sarah reaches down to help him up into a sitting position next to her. He leans against her, arms circling her shoulders, and she realizes she can feel his ribs distinctly under the torn white shirt.

 

Just as she’s making a mental note to somehow make sure he gets enough to eat, his whole body heaves, and he leans over the edge of the bed just in time to begin throwing up. Sarah steadies him with one hand while sympathetically stroking his black hair with the other.

 

“At least you’re getting the drugs out of your system.” She murmurs. When he is able to stop for a moment and looks over at her guiltily, she lightly adds, “Besides, if the food in here is anything like hospital food, it’s better off on the floor.”

 

The joke is probably lost on him, but he must understand the tone; he smiles weakly before coughing more of the thick gray liquid – mixed with a little of what looks like blood – onto the stained, previously-white floor. He leans on her again, wearily, and she automatically puts her arms around him. The cuffs jangle when he wipes his mouth on a torn sleeve, as though trying to remind her where she is, but all they do is annoy her.

 

Sarah is satisfied to see a little focus back into his eyes, though they are half-closed and tired. She can only think: if Jazmin or Rachel could see him like this, would they still be so terrified of him? Would they be so terrified of a sick, drugged…little boy?

 

“My mother sent you her love and support,” Sarah says, mainly just to say something, resisting the urge to rock him back and forth like a baby. “Though I don’t suppose you felt it while they were drugging you up. I wonder if they pumped it straight into you, or if they hid it in the food? And I wonder who made the decision…Jazmin, or Wallace maybe?” She sighs, and gives into her urge. Sixty-six makes a small, contented sound. Sarah is sure that if he were a cat, he would be purring.

 

“I guess I’m not taking you out to the common area any time soon.” She comments, quietly because his breathing has evened out, and he is probably falling asleep. “You need rest, not sedatives.” More to herself, she continues, “And I shouldn’t disturb you. Besides, it’s not fair for me to devote all my time to one person.”

 

But when she tries to gently ease him back down, he wakes and curls a hand in her camouflage cargo pants, making a tiny, plaintive noise.

 

“Oh, fine then.” She murmurs, not really minding. Under her breath, she sighs, “Poor boy…”

 

Considering his history, Sixty-six is amazingly sweet. It’s odd that he can be like a small child alone with me, but when Jonas started provoking him, he instantly became an unfeeling, cold killer. The abruptness of the change was almost as terrifying as what the change was to.

“Sister…?”

 

Sarah looks down at Sixty-six, confused, not realizing at first that he spoke. He is half-asleep still, but looking up at her questioningly.

 

“Sister? Um…” Guessing at his question, she says, “I’m…not a nun.”

 

He shakes his head drowsily. “Brother…sister?”

 

“No. I’m an only child.” When he shakes his head again, she says, “I don’t know what you’re asking, Sixty-six. I’m sorry.”

 

He sighs deeply, slipping back into sleep.

 

Sarah continues rocking him until the motion makes her back hurt, and when she tries to lay him down this time, he is in too deep a sleep to object. Skirting around the gray sludge that, disturbingly, came out of a human being, Sarah leaves the room, making sure not to cut the light off.

Bumping. But at least I'm honest.