Bonjour Bitch

Time dissolved into a haze. You can’t remember the last time you slept, nor the moment you woke. The days blended together, stitched only by the dim glow of the lights overhead and the faint hum of electricity. Occasionally, the silence is broken with a hollow thud or the groan of the walls settling.

Your stomach twists in on itself, every ache sharpening against the dryness of your mouth. The air tastes stale, heavy with iron and the rancid tang of decay.

Then, Movement. 

A line of light slips beneath the door. Slow, deliberate footsteps echo down the hallway. You hold your breath.

The door groans open, spilling harsh fluorescent light into the room. It stings your eyes, forcing them shut against the brightness. Wheels clatter across the floor, the sound bouncing around the walls until it fills the space.

You open your eyes to stare him down with fury. He unbuckles your right hand. You get a good punch in before he grabs your throat and wrist. His eyes blaze as he pins you to the bed.

“Don’t make me sedate you,”

Fear permeates your gaze. You  struggle against the thread holding your lips shut, blood drips from the needle wounds.

“Still so stubborn,” he says, studying you with unnerving patience. “You desperately want to escape, I can read it on your face, the real question is.... do you want to?” His stare strips you raw, as though he’s peeling you apart layer by layer.

You thrash in bed and His hand tightens around your wrist. He paused for a moment before returning the restraint to your wrists.

“Still so much work to be done, I might as well make it easier for myself. Clearly time isn't working. Let's find something a bit faster shall we.” he chuckles as we rummage through the cabinets. Eventually he finds what he was looking for. A clear vial he draws up 2 mg, taping out a couple of air bubbles.

He doesn't bother telling you what it's before injecting it through the IV.

Your mind becomes fuzzy. Static creeps into your veins.

Jonathan watches waiting after what feels like half an hour of your body and mind betraying you and slowly shutting down. He unbuckles the restraints you can’t fight, you can barely think.

He guides you with a false tenderness. Your legs can't hold you, they drag beneath you as he places you in the wheelchair. Your breath becomes ragged and labored as You're wheeled out of the room into an unnaturally bright hallway and into a small lavatory. It was like something out of a horror movie cracked dirty tiles and a toilet in the far corner that looked like it had never been cleaned. A leaky faucet dripped into a bucket.

He unties your scrubs, leaving you exposed. With complete indifference he throws the bucket of water at you. The water is shockingly cold and the stitches on your mouth prevent you from gasping.

He turns back to the faucet and fills the bucket. You brace for the cold, but instead, he begins rubbing you with a soapy washcloth. The water is still freezing, and you start to shiver. Soon, you’re drenched in sudsy, icy water. He throws the remaining water from the bucket on you, then refills it and repeats the process.

He leaves you in the wheelchair. It's unsettling, the only sound is your chattering teeth and the leaking faucet.

He returns with a tray. You can see what's on it, you can hear the crinkle of plastic. You spot him in the corner of your eye. He holds a blade, a scalpel.

“Let's make sure you don’t starve.”

You look up at him with hazy eyes. 

“It will be easier without the stitches.”

He cuts the string from your mouth  removing it hurts almost as bad as putting it in. But you can't scream this time, only feel around your mouth with your tongue  and taste the dried blood.

“Sit up straight.” he demanded, as he adjusts your posture and lifts your chin.

“Breath,” he instructs, and you follow, taking a deep breath. Before a small tube is shoved down your nose and into your throat. Almost panic before the drug drags you back into the fuzzy warmth.

“Swallow” he directs. You obey, hesitantly swallowing the thin tube as it slid further into your throat and down into your stomach.

“You did so well.” He praised

He returned you to the bed. Fresh sheets caressed your skin. He changed out the IV bag and connected a tube and bag to the tube in your nose. For the first time in what felt like months your stomach wasn't aching and sleep felt safe. It made you angry but that part of you was sedated behind the persistent static.

The static never faded. You were dependent on him. He didn't see a need for restraints anymore. When you were alone you could only lay in bed unable to stand or think on your own . You were like that for days.

Eventually he started helping you rehabilitate your legs until you were able to walk with a cane. He gave you more freedom then.

 First you could go to the bathroom on your own then you could wear actual clothes.

Slowly he built your trust. His presence started feeling warm and almost welcome and when you started reaching for him. That's when he knew it was time.

He found you asleep outside his office.

“What are you doing my dear?” he asked

“Waiting.” you respond

“How long have you been out here?”He guides you up to your feet and escorts you back to your room .

You shrug in response. You didn't remember falling asleep.

He sits you on the bed. You stare blankly at the floor at his black slacks torn just above the ankle at his brown shoes in desperate need of a polish.

His bony hand lifts your chin, your eyes meet his. He smiles softly before his lips meet yours. Suddenly desperate, deprived of any social or sexual connection for what feels like years. 

The fire was lit, and his plan was working perfectly. Your world revolved around him.

Your hands tangled in his hair, you kissed him hard and desperate. You barely feel the pin prick of a needle in your side. Breaking away to take a breath he quickly discards the syringe and his lips make contact once again.

Your heart races as he pushes you back on to the bed. You fell awake for the first time in months.

You continued, moaning into his mouth as your arousal grew. He stripped you slowly. Until you were bare and desperate. Your eyes screamed it.

But he waited for you to say it.

Your arms wrapped around his neck as you placed kisses up his jaw line. to his ear

“Please" you whisper

“Please, what dear?”

“Please Fuck me.”

He turns to face you, his lips catching yours in another sloppy kiss; he moves to your neck leaving small marks that will be hickeys in the morning. 

He grasps your throat softly his blue eyes gaze at you with a deep hunger 

He migrates further down your body finding your nipple.

Your hands pull at his hair and soft moans escape your lips as he sucks and stimulates you.

He kisses down your body as his hands wonder.

His mouth finds that sensitive spot between your thighs, his fingers find your desperate tight hole.He sucks and licks as his fingers spread you wider. 

Your eyes roll back, and your moans echo through the halls. You grab at the pillows and arch your back as warm waves of pleasure wash over you. He stops right before you climax. 

“Please don't stop” You whine. He gently grabs your chin and kisses you softly.

“I'll be back shortly” he whispers before leaving the room, closing the door behind him.

You barely have a moment to catch your breath when your head fills with fog. A sharp pain penetrates your temple like a drill. Shadows grab at your ankles and wrist.

You scream and curl yourself into a ball in the corner so terrified to blink you look around the room frantically crying.

The Pain is overwhelming, your vision turns white only the shadows dance along the walls.  You feel like you’re dying, unable to move; you couldn’t scream anymore, but you hear him. His voice is low and soothing.

“You're so close just a few more moments, and you’ll be perfect, you’ll see just like I do. Just hold on beautifully.” he cooed.

It lasted for days. Constant pain only slightly dulled by morphine tortured by horrors long forgotten. 

When you came to he was there stoking your hair staring with that same curiosity. 

In a daze, you attempt to stand, and instantly, your knees buckle beneath you, sending you face-first to the floor. You attempt to catch yourself, but your arms don't reach out in time. Your shoulder hits the linoleum with a hard thud. 

You bite down on your hand, attempting to muffle your cries of pain. Fighting through vertigo, you manage to sit up and crawl to the door. It's locked from the outside. 

Remembering the small table, you crawl in hope of a key, a wire, something, anything to shimmy the lock open. 

Managing to stand leaning heavily over the table, there's nothing but a few bottles of pills sitting in the center of the table. 

The thought. A familiar thought crosses your mind. He's going to kill you, you're going to die here, you'd rather go out on your terms. You grab the bottle labeled pain relief and pry open the child-proof cap.

“Am I interrupting something?” His voice is stern and almost expectant. You can’t pour the pills fast enough. He grabs the back of your neck with surprising strength. He throws the bottle of pills across the room as you struggle to escape his grip. 

A smirk ghosts across his face. “That’s a lesson for another time, my dear.”

“Am I going to have to pad this room?”  

You scream and kick as he drags you back to the bed. He throws back against the mat and manages to cuff one of your hands. 

You lash out with your free hand, throwing a punch. He catches it easily, pinning your wrist “Why do you insist on fighting me?” he asks, voice edged with exasperation, like a parent scolding a child.

“Maybe because I don’t like being your experiment!”

He meets your glare without flinching. “Experiment? No. I’m keeping you alive.”

“You tried to kill me!”

His expression doesn’t shift. “If I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t have woken up this morning.”

You laugh bitterly. “You treat me like a chained dog. You don’t care if I live, you care if I’m useful.”

His eyes darken, grip tightens slightly before he exhales, regaining control “You’ve shown me what happens when I give you freedom. I won’t repeat that mistake.” He leans in, steady, coaxing. “Behave, and I might trust you without restraints one day. But right now, you’re a danger to yourself.”

Your chest heaves. “What. Do. You. Want?”

His answer comes too quickly. Too sure. “Because you need it. And I need you.”

Your stomach knots. “What the hell does that mean?”

Your patience snaps. “I’m tired of your games, Crane. What the hell is your angle!?”

Instead of answering, he leans. You brace for a strike, a threat, something. But instead, his lips brush your forehead in a dry, deliberate kiss.

It’s not tender. It’s not affectionate. It’s a gesture hollow of warmth, clinical in its execution, like a doctor testing a reflex or a priest marking a ritual. Yet the intimacy of it is unbearable.

NO!!

Why?! 

You’re too lost in thought to notice until it’s too late: your free wrist is strapped back down.

A glint of steel.

The prick of a needle.

A sharp hiss escapes your lips. “Ow…”

“I need blood,” he says flatly, watching the crimson rise in the vial. “Your health is important to me, despite your assumptions.”

“Important?” Your voice cracks. “Why would I ever believe that?”

He tucks the vial into his pocket, voice even. “I don’t expect you to believe me. But the more you resist, the worse this becomes. Trust is earned—behave, and you’ll find freedom.”

Tears sting your eyes. “And if I don’t?”

His hand cups your face, not gentle, not cruel—simply firm. “Then you’ll prove yourself to be more trouble than you’re worth. And I don’t waste time on things that aren’t worth it. Consider this your only warning.”

He restrains your limbs and collects the pills. leaving you in prolonged silence. You couldn't sleep, your thoughts raced as you stared skyward. 

He returned a few hours later with a cup of water. 

“Hows your shoulder?” he asked, uncuffing one hand to pass you the cup.

The dull ache pulses as you reach, but you don’t answer. You stare into your reflection rippling in the water instead.

“Are you in pain?”

“No.”

“Then I’ll examine you myself.”

“Don’t you dare touch me, you crusty skeleton.”

“I’ll start with your mouth.”

From his pocket, he produces a needle and thread.

Rage flares. You fling the water into his face and twist desperately at your restraints. He grabs your jaw, slamming you back down, pinning you with his weight. You claw and push with your free hand, but he catches it, pressing it above your head—an intimate, humiliating hold. Heat rises in your chest, shame and fury burning together until you can’t tell them apart.

Your pulse hammers in your ears, each beat urging you to fight harder, but his grip is unyielding, effortless. You are a ball of rage, thrashing, seething, desperate for freedom—yet every movement only emphasizes how powerless you are in his grasp.

He is the steady rhythm of unnerving calm, his breathing even, his face unreadable. It infuriates you more than any taunt could.

You want to scream, to spit, to break the silence, but fear of giving him satisfaction knots your throat. The rage claws for release, but his calm presence smothers it, as though he is rewriting the very tempo of your heartbeat, forcing you into his rhythm.

His gaze lingers as he shifts to secure your waist. Your eyes widen in distrust as the  flash of a metallic gleam catches the dim light. The needle looks impossibly thin, yet sharp enough to slice through the air. His other hand clamps your face in place, fingers digging into your jaw until it aches, forcing you to meet his steady, unblinking stare.

You can’t look away—not from him, not from the needle.

The point touches the corner of your mouth. A cold burn spreads as the steel punctures skin, a slow and deliberate intrusion that makes your stomach lurch. Your body jerks involuntarily, but his grip doesn’t falter.

Tears sting your eyes as the needle weaves through tender flesh, each pull dragging hot lines of pain across your nerves. A choked whimper slips from your throat before his hand forces your jaw tighter, silencing you. The pressure is suffocating—you want to scream, to thrash, to do something—but all you can do is endure as the needle moves again, and again, each stitch tugging you further into despair.

Your breath comes in ragged gasps through your nose, damp with tears. The copper taste of blood creeps along your tongue as your lips tremble against his unyielding palm. His voice is absent—there’s no explanation, no reassurance—only the quiet rhythm of thread pulling through flesh, as if your pain were nothing more than background noise to his work.

He finishes, wiping blood off the needle and tying off the string. He steps back to admire his work 

“You look rather pathetic like this. Easier to manage without your voice.”

You thrash, fight, but the restraints bite back.

His smile cuts sharp. “Good. Now you’ll listen. Because the punishments only get worse from here.”

You can feel your strength fading. Every muscle is raw, stinging, like you’ve been through a war. The room glows sickly green, the monitors casting eerie shadows that morph and twist. You can hear a frantic beeping and the slow whistle of oxygen past your nose, a chair move in the other room.

A light turns on and shines through the crack in the door. 

Your eyes wander around the bland room, blinking sleepily.

The door creaks open. 

He stands in the doorway. His lanky silhouette seems to vibrate slightly.

“How are you feeling this morning,"

You stare at him blankly, eyes are partially glazed over, meeting his sharp, scrutinizing gaze. 

You don’t respond, you can't respond, you can barely open your mouth.

He approaches your bedside, tilting his head in predatory observation. 

His eyes shoot to the various monitors displaying your vitals. Pulse is steady but slow, chest rising and falling evenly and deeply. He grabs a chair from the corner. He sits and takes notes. Your eyes lazily follow the lines of the ceiling. You drift in and out for what feels like hours before he speaks again. “Can you hear me,” his usually cruel tone suddenly replaced by one of intrigue.

Without thinking, you nod. 

His eyes ignite as if he's realized some golden opportunity.   

He leaned onto his elbows and spoke slowly, “Do you remember what happened?” 

You shake your head. But the terrifying images of the night flash through your mind.

His eyes narrow, he stands. his frame towering above your bed 

You meet his gaze with fading conviction. 

“I see,” he states with a chuckle that sends shivers down your spine. “This is just the start, you can lie all you like but I won't stop until I've dissected every part of you. When I'm done, you’ll know, you’ll understand,” 

Your head swims with his words. Anxiety filled your chest as you fought the weight of your eyelids. Fear what he was planning of what he might do was your only driving factor to staying wake 

"But the lessons will have to wait. I can see that you're struggling to stay awake. Rest well if you can,” left without another word.  

Your eyes close, and the nightmares return. 

- 

You wake only semi-conscious. The floor is cold. Your body won’t move. 

Every muscle ache,

-

-

your jaw a pulsing knot of pain,

-

-

Each breath a struggle that comes in intermediate shallow gasps that feel like acid trickling down your throat. Your fingers twitch, but the rest of you is paralyzed.

You want to scream. You can’t.

You stare unblinking down a long familiar hall. Moonlight streaming through the windows casting shadows that bend and writhe with living things. 

The light turns to an angry red that begins to gradually warp into green and yellow eventually making its way through every color before lopping back to red like a child’s night light. The slamming of doors and distant maniacal laughter can be heard. There's a low humming like a million insects flapping their wings at once. It's getting louder.

Something moves in the hall. 

Watching. 

Waiting. 

Distinguishable yet one with the inky black tendrils of darkness. The figure moves slowly, lurking and moving closer. You want to call out, to plead, to scream, but your body won’t let you.

The figure reaches out its thin fingers, coiling around you as it emerges from the shadows, hands pressing against your skin, cold and clinical, its eyes glowing red and white spirals that captivate and terrify. Your gaze moves to avoid them as much as possible, and your attention is grabbed by a voice—low, steady. The words jumble in your head, unable to understand or comprehend what's happening. 

-

- 

You can feel its breath on your skin.

shifting between the light and dark, its glowing spiral eyes locking onto yours. You can’t look away now. Shadows curl around it, twisting, pulling, reaching. The air thickens.

The Colors shift violently 

Red

Orange

Green

Something deeper.

Something impossible.

The creature crouches, impossibly large, its limbs too long and bending at odd angles. A hum vibrates through your skull, static swallowing your thoughts. The light warps again, the air compressing, and now you’re gasping, drowning. The thing lets out a screech, a sound that digs into your bones. Your body convulses, seizing, your vision fracturing—

A hand grips your arm. The smell of something sterile and sharp. It feels like a million spines stabbing into you. Then a hypothermic cold sets in, you're sweating ,but the chill of Siberia washes over you. A metal stab, not a lightning bolt, races through your system. 

-

Blackness.

You wake suddenly. The panic hits like a shockwave. You jerk against the restraints. The monitor beeps frantically. The metal cuffs bite into your skin, clatter against the gurney. You thrash, but there’s nowhere to go, no way out, no escape—

Every muscle is raw, stinging, like you’ve been through a war. Your chest rises, falls—breathing, something you haven’t been able to do in years. The room glows sickly green, casting eerie shadows. The beeping of a heart monitor. The slow whistle of oxygen past your nose. 

The world is holding its breath, and for once, you can take your time. “How are you feeling this…” he stops to check his watch before continuing “... early morning…”

You stare at him with an expression of confusion plastered on your face, taking in his appearance. He was wearing a white lab coat with several stains, a white button-up, and black pants.

“I see you're still in shock.” he states while approaching you.

“What happened?” you said hoarsely.

He sat at the edge of your bed and began examining you. “Those imbeciles couldn’t manage to catch you. Instead, they ran you into a trap I had set for the batman,”

He got up and walked to a table in the corner of the room. “That was 3 days ago, well– four now. You inflicted numerous injuries on yourself and ingested more than 5 times the recommended starting dose of my toxin.” 

He turns, heading back to your bedside with a glass of water and a handful of pills. He offers you a straw to drink the water, and you hesitantly drink half. Then he opens his hand and patiently explains what each pill is for. 

He puts his hand up to your mouth for you to take it. 

You refuse. 

He sighs, “If I hadn't found you when I did you would have died. I saved your life.” He gestured for you to open your mouth, and once again you refused, “If you do not take the pills, you will only cause yourself needless suffering.”

You shook your head in defiance. 

He let out a long breath in frustration before suddenly gripping your throat and tilting your head back, holding your nose closed and waiting. You held your breath. The pressure in your lungs builds quickly into an unbearable burn until, finally, you gasp for air. 

He thrusts the pills into your mouth.  Then he covers your mouth and nose in one quick stroke.  The pills sit on your tongue; the bitter taste makes your jaw lock up. Saliva rising and your lungs burning. A tear slides down your face as you dry swallow the tablets. 

He removes his hands and offers you the straw again. Watching you like a hunter waiting for the kill as you gulp down the rest of the water. You indulge in the way it soothes your throat. He pulls the straw away as you finish and walks back to the table. Returning a moment later with a cup of applesauce and a spoon. 

"You need to eat. I suggest you cooperate with my efforts to keep you alive. Otherwise, I’ll have no problem forcing another feeding tube down your throat." His tone is devoid of sympathy, just a cold, clinical reminder that your well-being is purely an obligation. He feeds you like you’re some pathetic, helpless thing, and the humiliation burns hotter than your hunger.

"I can feed myself. You Scrubby sack of hay." you snap, muscles straining against the restraints.

"I know," he replies smoothly, lifting another spoonful to your mouth, completely unmoved. "But if you’re waiting for me to take off the cuffs, don’t waste your breath."

You wanted to spit the food back in his face, watch it drip down that smug expression—but your stomach aches for nutrients. So, you swallow the applesauce, your pride along with it, seething and exhausted.

He finishes feeding you, adjusts your IV, and takes a few final vitals before he heads towards the door. Turning to face you, he says, “trust will be your ally, I don’t intend to harm you, but I will if you force my hand.” before leaving. He flashes a smile that brings shivers down your spine. A few moments later, the light under the door is extinguished and you're left in darkness.   

“The island is overrun with murders and people who would love to tear you apart piece by piece.”

You'd need protection, but even then, the facility is on lockdown. 

I’ll slip out only for a second,  find a weapon, return, and barricade myself in here as best I can. Simple. Doable. 

You ease the cell door closed behind you, hugging the wall as you creep toward the end of the corridor.

The staff room. You remember it from weeks ago, a fleeting glimpse through an open door while being escorted to therapy. A knife block had sat on the counter—small, but real, and sharp. If it was still there, untouched, it’d be your best shot.

The silence follows you, every footstep sending a hushed echo rippling down the hall. As your fingers brush the staff room doorknob—

The door creeks as you push it open.

The door swings open to a yawning void. Pitch black.

keeping your back to the wall. You move slowly, letting the darkness settle around you, letting your eyes adjust. Somewhere ahead, unseen in the abyss, lies the counter. The knife block.

One small steak knife remains. You take it. As your fingers graze the knob, a muffled voice drifts through the hall.

“So, who are we looking for?” a thick Brookline ascent echoed through the hall.

“I don't know some low security guy. Don’t worry about it, just grab anyone running with a gray uniform.” a secondary voice replied.

“I thought so, just Kinda worried I’ll mess up again. You know I can see to good without my glasses.”

“Don’t worry bud it's not that complicated, just look in some of these rooms and if you see something moving grab it.”

You assumed they were the henchmen with Scarecrow earlier. You had to make your escape now or never.

If you hid, they would find you. The knife in your grip offered an advantage, but against two towering men, it was meaningless. Cracking the door open with a small squeak, you spotted them down the hall; they were hugging as one man cried.

You hesitate in confusion. But before you can process, they spot you. No time to think now.

You run, tearing down the hallway, twisting through corridors, pushing your body to its limits. Your lungs burn, your muscles scream, but still, you run. The halls blur together, the silence behind you unnatural, suffocating. Even when the chase seems to fade, you don’t stop. You turn another corner—

And nearly stumble over a corpse. 

“Shit,” you whisper in between panting breaths 

A dead guard slumps against the wall, his vacant eyes staring into nothing. Your stomach knots.

Then the realization crashes over you—you’re lost.

You spin, scanning the halls. Every corridor is identical. Every door is locked. The same sterile walls, the same dim lights. The same dead man is watching you with unseeing eyes.

Panic grips you. You take off again, sprinting blindly, twisting and turning, desperate to escape this endless maze. At some point, your fingers slip, and the knife clatters to the floor.

You don’t stop.

But when the loss registers, fear tightens around your chest like a vice. You are unarmed. Exposed. The sudden vulnerability paralyzes you, a deer frozen in headlights. Your heart hammers, blood thrumming so hard your vision wavers. Your legs wobble, carrying you nowhere, stumbling through the void.

The silence is unbearable—broken only by your ragged breathing, each gasp echoing off the walls. And yet… it doesn’t sound like yours alone.

A shiver crawls down your spine.

You turn, expecting someone—something—to be right there.

Nothing.

But the feeling doesn’t fade. No matter how many times you look, it lingers. A presence just beyond sight. Breathing down your neck. Watching. Waiting.

You stagger around the corner, collapsing against the wall, your chest tight and constricting like a steel vice. Each breath is a desperate, shallow gasp, vertigo taking hold of you. But as you lift your head, expecting another identical hallway, your stomach lurches.

A mound of pale, writhing flesh sits in the middle of the corridor.

“What the actual fuck?” you ask the silent hall  

Hesitantly, you take a step toward it, seemingly forgetting about the pain in your chest. Getting a better look at it, you realize it has no real features. just raw, naked skin, an amalgamation of stolen limbs and eyes, jagged and misplaced. 

Eight appendages sprout from its gelatinous mass, a twisted collection of human arms and legs, each grotesquely bent, contorted at impossible angles. Bone protrudes beneath the flesh, pushing and stretching, as if everything inside has been shattered and hastily reassembled.  Its eyes watch you with intense curiosity. They follow your movements 

Then—it twitches. A single limb spasms, jerking upright before flopping uselessly against the tile. Another follows. Then another. A rhythmic, mindless pulsing, like a cockroach flipped on its back.

You stand in the middle of the hall, transfixed in confusion, disgust, and terror not entirely sure what to do. 

Then it erupts into motion.

With a sickening crack, its limbs snap to life in unison. It hoists itself up, balancing on its broken, wretched limbs, and before your brain can register the movement, it lunges.

You run, but it is somehow faster. Crawling like a grotesque parody of a spider, its limbs moving in impossible directions.

It reaches you and begins climbing up your legs; it doesn't matter how you struggle or fight, the creature's strength is three times yours despite its lack of muscle tissue.

It reaches your head, and you continue thrashing and clawing, trying in vain to get it off. Then, its hands clamp onto your jaw. Opening your mouth with immense strength. A sharp, wrenching pop echoes through your skull as it pries your mouth open, wider, and wider, far beyond what is humanly possible. Agony explodes through your head as your joints snap, your jawbone straining under the pressure.

It shoves itself inside.

It crawls into your mouth and down your throat.

The writhing flesh forces its way down your throat, stretching it, tearing at the tissue as it slithers deeper. 

Clasping your knees, fingers clawing at your own throat, desperate to pull it out, to stop the suffocating pressure. The cold tile is swarming with insects pressing into you. 

You are choking, gagging, your body rejecting the intrusion. Bile surges up, burning your esophagus, but the thing only burrows deeper. Tears stream down your face as dark spots flood your vision. Your stomach twists, heaves—vomit spills from your mouth, but it keeps going, keeps pushing.

You collapse to the floor, unable to breathe, your body shaking violently as vomit rises in your throat once more. 

Our lungs scream for air.

But there is none.

Only the suffocating, writhing horror crawling its way inside.

The world had faded, but your eyes remained open, fixed on a light dancing in the distance. 

-

-

When you surface, something is pressing against your face. The air is cold and dry, flooding your lungs. Beatles fly around the space, shadow figures loom over you, blurred, shifting, empty.

It's impossibly bright, and the light only seems to get brighter. Panic fills you as you try to speak, to move to reach out for help. Bolting up and choking, coughing in panic. 

He remains calm. Shushing you with a familiar condescension, hands guide you back to a firm mattress. The strength leaves you once more. It's hard to move. The pain, the aching, the bright unforgiving light as you feel your heart ripped from your chest.  

Hands, 

soft feathers, 

droplets of salty, sweet sweat,

insect wings.

All moving with an erratic yet harmonious rhythm —wrapping, pulling, prodding. You feel like a bug under a microscope, exposed to your sins as beetles burrow into your skin, down feathers stuffed in your head and mouth.

A low murmur. A voice you almost recognize. As a focused light burns through your eye, rendering you nearly blind when it dissipates. Shadows of demons and angels dancing in the binding spectrum of rainbow hues.

Pressure forms around your jaw. You recoil from the white hot pain. A loud whisper rings in your ear, and before you can process what was said.

A sharp pop. 

Pain running through your jaw. 

You try to jerk away, but hands hold you still. Holographic light flashes in your vision. 

Whispering of your sins and failures.

 -

Darkness coiling around you.

-

-

Dark Blue eyes.

The first month he just observed you. His eyes scrutinized everything, every move, every twitch and glance. It was fine at first you only saw him at meal time. He had two guards posted on either side of him. You couldn't confront him if you tried the seats in the cafeteria were strict; you could only sit and talk with patients in your unit. You went everywhere with them. 

The mixed group of 20 people that could barely be considered people any more were vegetables but at least it was quiet. One young girl was aware of her surroundings but never spoke. you didn’t know if she could or just refused. Another inmate was a middle aged man with bandages covering his face he kept to himself but would occasionally speak for a price.

The first time he spoke it was in warning he dropped his tray next to you, which slightly startled you. You were trying to eat, focusing on your meal trying to avoid the gaze of the mad doctor. 

“Avoiding him won’t do you any good.”

“What do you mean?”

“Give me that cookie and I'll tell you.”

You continued to look down at your tray judging whether you wanted to know, eventually after thinking a long while you gave him the cookie.

“The people he takes a liking to don’t tend to live very long, if you avoid him you’ll only intrigue him more. It's hard to get him to go away, only seeing one person live… well I don’t know if they lived, they just got away before he could get to her.”

“Thanks.”        

 The others  weren't very interesting. Not many of them had interesting stories when they spoke, they mostly murmured, but at least it was quiet, until nightfall of course when they would scream relentlessly.

Dr. Crane kept his interactions to just observing you, until he didn't. You were sitting in the library reading. To your knowledge only one unit was allowed in an area at a time with the exception of meals. But you felt his eyes, and suddenly you couldn't concentrate on your book. You looked up and sure enough there he was, his long legs crossed sitting in the shadows of the room, his glasses slightly obscuring his gaze and his mouth formed a thin smile. There were no guards with him; you were secluded in a remote part of the library only watched by security cameras. 

You stared blankly down at your book. He wanted you to talk first. You'd played games like this  before it was his challenge to you to stay quiet to bask in the uncomfortable silence. You knew who he was and what his deal was. He had taken a liking to you and that wasn't a good thing. 

You put down your book and took a moment to gather your courage before meeting his gaze. His subtle smile turned into a wild grin.

You stared at each other, no talking, no noise, he was unnervingly calm. His dark gray uniform seemed to make him blend into the shadow. He observed every aspect of you: the book you were reading, the way you were sitting, the way your eyes darted to the different aspects of his appearance, and the way you couldn’t quite sit still. It felt like an hour of silence before he stood and slowly walked out of the room. The interaction was deeply disturbing. You took it as a threat, a power play.

You didn't see him again until the riot. The high security wing was under riot watch and the entire facility was under lock down. You couldn't get out of your cell, and you thought that meant no one could get in. You laid in bed unable to focus on anything but the uneasy silence, and occasional distant screams. Most days you weren’t allowed to close the door as the technicians need to see each patient on their rounds, having the door closed seemed particularly unsettling now.

Then the door began to open. At first you assumed that the riot was over, that a guard was here to check in or a nurse was here to give you your meds. But as the nob turned slowly and the door creaked open you realized the riot was not contained, that the nightmare was only beginning.

His gaze now hidden behind the mask. but You knew what sick expression hid behind it. He approached you slowly and methodically. You tried to conceal your fear, you kept watching him waiting for his next move. 

"I tire of this game of ours. Let's skip to something more professional shall we." His voice was shrill and condescending.

"What do you want?" You barked

"Is it not obvious? I want to help you. The new hires are so unqualified for your case."

"We both know that's not true."

"I've read your case file. I managed to get a hold of it in the first week of your stay. A truly intriguing case, so unassuming I almost dismissed it at first. Tell me what torments you?"

"No." you state firmly

"Hmm, your resistance will only make this more difficult.”

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"You're trapped in a cage. I too was once trapped in the cage society put me in. I broke it and now I am free. Of course that makes continuing my research exceptionally hard sometimes, but moments like this where I can find exceptional subjects like you make it worth the push back."

“What is this about Crane?”

“Oh my dear, you're very ill and I am simply here to treat you.”

“I’ve heard of your treatments, and I’ll pass.”

“Very well…”    

He proceeded to plop onto the floor and curl into a tangled mess of limbs. It was at this moment you made the striking realization that you had no idea how old he really was. The thought crossed your mind that if he was any older than 40  he was early nimble and fit but if younger than 30 his merit as a professor and a clinical psychiatrist was to be questioned. The idea that the man sitting on the floor in front of you was somehow ageless was something you hated thinking about. 

Jonathan Crane had an age, had a birthday and a social security  number but scarecrow was somehow an omniscient god with no discernible features or age that constantly contradicts itself. At that moment the scariest thing in the room was not the crumpled way he was sitting, not the looming inevitability of facing your greatest fears, the most terrifying thing in the room was a looming idea in your head that the man sitting in front of you he wasn’t a man at all it was a shadow a great eldritch god hiding itself with the body of a man. Jonathan Crane hadn’t lost his mind; he hadn't had one to begin with.  

“How are you feeling today?” his voice broke you away from the spiraling train of thoughts. You looked to the door hoping you could outrun him but now two large men stood blocking the door, blocking any chances to escape the thing in front of you. 

“You may leave us.” he dismissed them without moving or breaking eye contact. They left and the door slammed closed. Suddenly as if instinctually you bolted to the door and attempted to open it. The door was locked and as you realized this you turned expecting him to be there ready to attack but instead he remained as he was sitting on the floor in this awkward position. “Come now child, the session has only just begun. Are you already so terrified?” His tone resembled something of comfort but was undermined by his indifference and intrigue.  

“What do you want?” you snarald back pressed to the cold door.

“What do you think I want?” he cocked his head in your direction 

“How am I supposed to know?” 

“I did tell you.” he stood his lanky form casting odd shadows on the walls.

“Why would I believe that?” you began to press yourself into the corner trying in a futile attempt to put as much distance between you and it.

 He continued to stand in the center of the room unmoving so much that you thought his voice might not have been coming from him at all “This is why you need my help. You’re a deeply mistrusting and paranoid person.” 

“I'm definitely not the only person with that problem here.” you say slightly to yourself

His head moved to glance in your direction “Are you asking why I chose you? Well the answer is simple, you're smarter than the rest. You can understand the concept but you're not so belligerent as to ignore it. You are a promising prospect.” 

You felt slightly prideful that he thought so highly of you but declined to show such “Is that a compliment? should I feel honored?” 

“You can feel as you wish, it changes nothing.” his tone was one of malice as he turned to face you fully.  

You hadn’t taken in his full appearance; you were focused on the mask and the scrutinizing eyes that lay beneath it. But now you saw him properly in the light. He was tall and relatively thin with strangely muscular arms and shoulders giving him a very triangular shape. His clothes were a slightly modified version of the orange uniform you had seen before. The orange pants are tied with a string makeshift belt and stitched up in seemingly random areas. His shirt now half gone exposing his sickly pale arms and abdomen, the absent half wrapped around his head as a hood and a noose hung around his neck like a necklace or bolo tie. Mask itself appeared to be made out of several uniforms sewn together with respirators and a large gaping hole for what you can only suppose is athletics? Accompanying the ensemble was his gloves which appeared to be a mixture of vinyl medical grade gloves, gauze wrap, and spare pieces of fabric.

“Damn you’re fugly.”

“Like you’re any better.”

“I am…I’m ACTUALLY wearing clothes you slut!”

 “...for you.” He murmured under his breath

“What…”

“Perchance what do you mean by what?”

You stare at him blankly, utterly bewildered by the interaction- in fact “bewildered” is an understatement.

“Let’s go back to the question- what do you believe I want?” he said eloquently.

“Now I’m just confused.” beyond confusion now.

“Perchance we elaborate on your history with such experiences.”

“The fuck does that mean.”

“The language is unappreciated and unnecessary, perchance we start with your feelings of inferiority?”

“CAN YOU STOP SAYING PERCHANCE? What is this? The 18th century? Old crone.. Losing your damn mind and your nonexistent muscles along with it.”

“That's an excellent place to start, why do you feel the compulsion to insult me?”

“BECAUSE I WANT TO LEAVE! Hello!? The lights are on but nobody’s home!”

“What would become of you if I allowed you to go? You are in a locked down facility  on an isolated island as, well, no one is coming for you. If you think you’ll last a second outside of this cell you're gravely mistaken the island is overrun with murders and people who would love to tear you apart piece by piece.”

“Like in here is any better…”

“Ah yes, pain rises in my heart- I thought you understood? I have no malicious intent with you.”

“Right…. Because you stalking me for the last two months isn’t malicious at all ...okay.”

“Stalking? Merely obtaining baseline behavior. tsk people these days can’t tell between the pros and the amateurs.”

“Still fucking creepy.”

“ Do tell me how we could have met in such a present circumstance? I believe observing is the fate that ties your predicament to the clutches of my hands- lest of course there is a different belief”

“Why are you here? why not just leave me alone?”

“Simple, I’m solely here because you are interesting- a black sheep from all the simpletons within this cage. As for why I won’t leave you alone, I don’t see a problem referring to my presence here.”

“Well I do so just leave me alone, please.”

“Very well as you wish.” He left the room with a dramatic flourish. As he leaves, something within the pit of your stomach doesn’t sit well. It was as if he planned out our interaction. The door now open and unblocked you had a choice to leave or stay.