Another thing he wouldn't argue was downing his glass- or trying to. Halfway through he had to call it. These were not shot glasses and whatever this was, it went down a little harder than juice. "What is this?" He asked, reaching for the bottle to inspect it.

He doesn't really expect conversation, though he's aware he's not the only one out there. The words have him choking back a scoff, though he's somewhat amused. He makes an exaggerated show of looking over one of his shoulders and then the other.

"Sorry," He said. "Was looking for whoever might have a gun to your head forcing you to finish it. What's your game, then? Trying to piss mommy and daddy off?" Typical kid.

The question is poised drily, though Art has to laugh as he watches Keller hack up a lung.

The hospital had fences. Guards. Patrol.

Forks and knives were outlawed.

So were belts and shoelaces.

But he was allowed normal clothes... just nothing with elastic. His shoes were slip on. His shirt was plain. His hair had gotten long, though he was allowed to visit the barber, so he remained respectable. It wasn't prison... but it wasn't freedom either.

He looked ... tired.

Shepherd, which by now is what he answered to exclusively, rarely received visitors now that his lawyer was no longer required to the same extent as when he was actively on trial. There was no great-aunt that felt the call from the lord to visit her wayward great-nephew, no friend that thought that Shepherd would benefit from a visit. After he was legally deemed competent enough to stand trial and answer for his crimes, what support he had was gone. He sat with his lawyers during the trial, listened to the gruesome details of that night and then suffered with the knowledge that what he had done was the consequence of months of torture driven by fear and religious bullshittery that ultimately broke him physically and then emotionally and then spiritually ... and finally, his mind gave out, and he snapped.

In order to gain sympathy for Shepherd, his defense team argued against Julia and Michael Senior, painted Julia as an overbearing, overly religious woman who saw the devil when she should have seen her son and what could have been helped with medical intervention and support. Experts came to the forefront to argue for and against him. The stories about him barely sounded like him. He was said to have been the perfect son (he hadn't been, like all kids, he made his mistakes), and then he snapped. His diagnosis, schizophrenia with psychotic tendencies (295.30 Schizophrenia, paranoid type, was the official ICD-9 diagnosis.

It wouldn't be for a few more years that he'd be rediagnoises with G40.209: Localization-related (focal) symptomatic epilepsy with complex partial seizures, not intractable, without status epilepticus and F06.2: Psychotic disorder with delusions due to known physiological condition and his lawyers would argue that the torture his parents put him through amplified the behaviors called Epileptic Automatism and he lacked the ability to be aware of what he was doing, but that wouldn't be for years, for now - he suffered with the idea that he had somehow knowingly murdered three of his family members.

He sat at the table in the common room, he was allowed a book. He was reading Small Gods by Sir Terry Pratchett and had just gotten to the line that said “That's why it's always worth having a few philosophers around the place. One minute it's all is truth beauty and is beauty truth, and does a falling tree in the forest make a sound if there's no one there to hear it, and then just when you think they're going to start dribbling one of 'em says, incidentally, putting a thirty-foot parabolic reflector on a high place to shoot the rays of the sun at an enemy's ships would be a very interesting demonstration of optical principles.”

When he dimly heard his name being called. He lifted his head. He heard his name again. He stood up, tucked his book under his arm and walked over to the desk. You have a visitor, Shepherd. He turned to walk towards where he normally met his therapist when he heard no, you're going to the family room.

In over a decade, he never went to the family room (that he could recall). He didn't know where it was. One of the techs came and fell into step next to him - he was one of the friendlier ones, an older man with a round belly and a soft face, he liked to talk about his family - especially his grandkids. Shepherd had given up trying to tell him not to talk about personal life with people who were actively in a forensic psychiatric hospital due to crimes committed against the public, but the old man liked to talk, and Shepherd ... Shepherd could listen.

He was let into the comfortable space, and he looked around. Still no cords to lift or lower the blinds. Nothing sharp. Nothing that he could hurt himself or others with, but it was painted in warm, soothing colors. There were plastic bottles of water labeled for our guests left on the counter, and the window that the nursing team could look in on didn't dominate the space. For the first time in years, he didn't feel like a tiger in a zoo.

We're gonna bring in your brother, Shepherd. Just hold tight for a second.

As if Shepherd could do anything else.

So, Shepherd awkwardly stood away from the door, remained in clear view with his arms wrapped around his middle, and he waited.

It had been a thought in the back of his head for months, now; since last year, even. There had been this headline that had caught him off guard. A piece of shit, neglected little magazine rack near the entrance of a run- down grocery mart that he’d run into for a pack of gum and a bottle of water. He’d stopped dead in his tracks, the automatic doors triggering to let him out as his eyes stuck on the big, bold letters plastered across thin paper:

15 YEARS SINCE THE SLAUGHTER ON ANTIOCH STREET. WHERE ARE THEY NOW?

That and the picture of a stranger both foreign and familiar had been what had really stoked the embers. At this point Art couldn't have even told you what that particular paper had said, but it had all snowballed from there. Weeks. Months. He'd spent more time than he cared to admit pulling up articles, searching for keywords, looking up schizophrenia, looking up psychosis, looking up demonic possession, looking up ghosts. Typing ‘Michael Shepherd Jr.’ and sifting through what latest blurbs popped up. Poking through forums. Scanning the comment sections on news sites and youtube and social media. Opinions and accounts spun together until he didn't even know what to think.

This was not the first time his brain had gone down this path, contemplating what had happened that night, why it had happened, but it was perhaps the first time he hadn’t fully withdrawn from it with an executive decision that it didn’t matter. He’d done it. He was bad. Fuck that guy. Case closed. ‘The family slayer.’ Of course he was bad. How much could the finer details even play into it? There was no excuse for killing your mom and dad and brother.

Art went to school, he studied for his future. He came home, he studied this element of his past. They’d talked about it in therapy.

These questions had all been fairly easy to answer: You've been bringing your oldest brother up a lot lately. Do you want to talk about that? …I see. And what sort of things have you found? What do you think? You want to talk to him? – I know. I think so. A lot, and I don’t know, and yes.

This one was a little harder to admit: What do you hope to gain from talking to him? Answers…? Understanding. He’d scuffed his tennis shoe on the floor restlessly, feeling his heart rate pick up, the sound of the seconds ticking by on the clock sounding louder and louder and louder. Yes. He knew picking apart the finer details wouldn’t change anything. Yes, actually, he accepted what had happened. It’s not like it… he didn’t finish that thought. She looked at him like she knew the end of it anyway, because she did. Again he said I know it won’t change anything. She kept looking. He said, I know that not all things can be fully understood, picked apart with clinical precision, dissected. I know it has been fifteen years. I know I might not even learn more by going to him. I want to go anyway.

She said: Something you've mentioned more than once is a fear of, quote, 'being like him.' You have stated this as a part of your reasoning for seeking therapy and working toward self improvement in other aspects of your life... 

And, okay. He knew where that one was headed. He said: Don’t. Did she listen? Of course not. Predictably. Her eyes had been kind but she’d carried on and lanced a wound he hadn’t really wanted touched, because that was what she was paid for, to help him think through the things that he didn’t– couldn’t?-- handle, not on his own.

Three weeks ago, as he’d started creeping closer to actually doing this, she’d said: I think we should talk about what you might feel if you meet him and encounter any similarities. Even if those similarities are harmless. 

He didn’t think that conversation had helped as much as she’d hoped it would.

Twice before he’d made it to the bus stop and chickened out. Another day. Maybe next time. Today, he’d finally done it. He’d spent the entire ride feeling like he was going to puke. He’d loitered outside for twenty minutes, feeling visiting hours tick by with cold sweat beading on his skin. He’d gone in finally, and he’d half expected not to make it any further than the front desk– being strangers went both ways– and part of him would have been okay with having that excuse. Oh well, he’d tried.

Empty pockets. They’d taken his shoelaces away, but the pants and the t- shirt passed inspection. He'd followed along down one hallway and then another, and there he was.

All Art could do at first was stare.

It was disorienting, putting a presence to this figure he'd built up in his mind. Like the main character in a story come to life, suddenly here and real and tangible, except he was just a man standing there looking rather small instead of painting a picture of a slasher- flick villain. Question's poured in Arthur's brain abruptly, like a dam disintegrating instead of springing a leak. He sucked in a breath, bit his tongue, broke eye contact-- without letting him out of his sight or turning his back on him-- and edged further inside the room.

"Uh..." He said, the very definition of eloquence. "Hey. I didn't... sorry, I don't think I was actually expecting them... or you...? To let me in." A beat. A burst of nervous laughter escaped him, a strained grin reflexively made its way across his face... but shit, if there was ever a person you could freely not give a flying fuck about their opinion of you, this was him. In the flesh. He paused for another brief moment and then retrieved a bottle of water and found a chair to flop in to, more because his knees were weak as shit than anything else.

"I'm Art. Arthur. Do you remember me?" Do you want to kill me?

the night still felt almost too young to belong truly to itself. something that was now stretching out with every hour that was yet to burn in absence, or presence. maddie stepped out from her break and slipped back behind the bar as though she had never left, settling into the role she wore perhaps too easily. the feline curve of her smile wound its way back into place, her eyes brightening just enough to catch and keep the necessary attention, and an open ear that remained offered to whatever strange confessions or fleeting little amount of joy came her way.

there was still time before close, plenty of it honestly, and she moved as she needed. shoulders brushing past the other bartenders in an easy form of familiarity whilst her hands worked on instinct alone, barely needing to register the orders as they met her. her laughter broke through the haze of the process where it mattered, even almost something real at the right moments, whilst her gaze skimmed the room in a quiet form of awareness, ensuring the space remained as it should.

eventually, the night softened just for a moment. the crowd thinned, and the noise dipped into something quieter as if the hush had been called upon by will alone.

and maddie tipped the bottle in her hand, topping off the glass of one of the last stragglers still by the bar without a draw of attention to it. her hip rested lazily against the counter now, posturing loosening now that it was possible. a brow arched in an invitation, subtle at best, but still there, and her voice followed easily.

“penny for your thoughts, love?” maddie reached for another glass, pulling it towards herself without a second thought. “last call on charity.”

More often than not, Art kept busy on his nights off. He'd handle all the responsible adult stuff that he never quite seemed caught up with, he'd play hockey, he'd go clubbing, he'd hang out with someone. Very rarely did he let his time lapse without company of some sort these days. If he let the silence grow too loud, darker things started filtering in.

Like the book. Like the movie. Like the tension in his family. Sometimes like work.

Tonight was one of those nights where his mood had just kept tanking downwards. He considered himself pretty good at shrugging work off and not bringing it home but that last shift had been one code after another, weird shit all night long and burnout was sparking at the edges.

It'd be fine. He'd get over it. But maybe what he needed to get over it was to just fucking wallow for a bit... and booze. That'd help too, he figured, and hey-- he was right. The world blurred at the edges, the tightness in his chest turned to something hollow. Nothing was fixed, but it felt a little more manageable. For the night.

Dying people and dead people and traitorous bitches spinning tall tales about those dead people for profit was the last thing he needed to lay on a bystander, even if part of him did consider tossing it all out there when the bartender questioned him. You asked. He averted his gaze from where it had been glazed over and trained sightlessly at the wall to land on her. With some effort, he diverted his thoughts and offered a fleeting smile.

"I don't think a penny goes very far these days," He quipped instead, downing a drink and savoring the burn. "Inflation, you know? You definitely make better tips than that. But hey, do you think I should get my cat a cat? Like, a best friend for while I'm at work and whatever? ...I think I should get him a cat."

samira  exhales  and  a  trail  of  smoke  escapes  between  her  lips,  the  cigarette  now  resting  at  her  side.  every  day,  she  thinks  people  are  over  what  happened  to  her  and  every  day  she  is  proved  wrong  by  yet  another  boring  tabloid  magazine  that  has  nothing  better  to  write  about  —  samira  has  half  a  mind  to  take  a  lighter  to  the  stand  and  burn  it  all  down  but  she  knows  prison  would  not  be  a  good  look  on  her.

the  feeling  of  being  watched  sends  a  shiver  down  her  spine,  the  '08  survivor  far  too  familiar  with  the  feeling.  samira  looks  towards  where  she  thinks  the  other  is  at  and  is  met  with  a  pair  of  curious,  child  eyes  instead  of  judgemental  grown  ones.  the  woman  smiles  (  even  if  it  doesn't  quite  reach  her  eyes  )  and  takes  another  drag  of  her  cigarette  as  her  eyes  keep  themselves  glued  to  the  child's.

for  the  first  few  moments,  it  was  cute.  after  half  a  minute,  it  started  to  annoy  samira.  she  is  not  blind  to  the  way  the  mother  of  the  kid  looks  at  her,  either,  no  doubt  aware  of  who  she  is  —  just  like  everyone  in  this  fucking  town.  her  smile  now  disappears,  leaning  down  to  talk  to  the  child  at  their  level.  ❝  if  you  keep  staring,  little  girl,  i  might  have  to  eat  you.  ❞  samira  knows  the  weight  those  words  carry,  especially  with  the  rumours  that  can  never  leave  her  and  the  rest  of  the  survivors.

the  sound  of  the  child's  cry  is  music  to  samira's  ears  and  she  smirks,  even  as  she  looks  at  the  mother's  expression  —  a  mixture  of  anger,  shock  and  fear.  samira  watches  as  they  hurry  away  from  her,  a  small  chuckle  resounding  before  she  takes  another  drag  of  her  cigarette.

her  eyes  meet  a  passerby's,  not  even  aware  of  how  long  they'd  actually  been  there.  ❝  kids,  am  i  right? can't even take a joke.  ❞

Today, he'd lasted all of five minutes before closing his laptop and heading out. It was a nice enough afternoon, and these days he spent less time appreciating the great outdoors than he should. His limp wasn't heavy today, though it was never fully gone, and he didn't feel the need to bring his cane. Still, by the time he made it a few blocks to the coffee shop and got himself a drink and a muffin, the bench outside was a welcome break.

He could have done without the... people watching aspect of it all. This, he reflected, as he took a sip of his coffee, was why he often chose to keep to himself in what moments he had in between droves of students. Not for the first time, he was grateful that the kids he taught were at least not actually children... imagine that level of shrieking all day. Shudder. Though, to be fair, in this instance it was sort of understandable. He huffed a laugh.

"In my day," He said, fully aware of just how ancient that made him sound, "Shit, it was common knowledge not to bother scary ladies if you don't want them to cook you in to a stew. I'm not sure which of them you scared worse, though. You're going to have all the mothers at the PTA meetings gossiping about you now."