Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
if i had a dick i would love to have a disappointing orgasm in the shower while thinking of something or someone that i felt i should not be thinking about & then stand under the water with my forehead against a wall watching the proof of my guilt & shame go down the drain
Running to Chibs when something terrifies (genuinely scared shitless) you, burying your face into his chest and wrapping your arms around him.
He's startled, you guys have never touched on purpose before, but he quickly holds you to him, a hand pressing protectively over the back of your head as he hushes your tears.
He's full of anger and slight panic, but he holds you to him as carefully as he can.
Nobody really notices when you start orbiting Chibs Telford.
It happens quietly.
Gradually.
Like something inevitable.
You end up beside him during parties because he’s calmer than the others. You sit with him outside the clubhouse because his company feels easy. Safe. You bring him coffee without asking how he takes it because by now you already know.
Two sugars.
Tiny splash of cream.
No one mentions how Chibs always looks for you the second you walk into a room.
No one mentions how his entire face softens when he sees you.
Mostly because Chibs himself acts like he doesn’t notice it.
But he does.
Christ, he notices everything about you.
The way you chew your thumbnail when nervous.
The little line that appears between your eyebrows when you’re concentrating.
The way your laugh sneaks up on you unexpectedly, like even your joy is shy.
And maybe if he were a better man, he would’ve kept more distance.
But he’s selfish enough to keep letting you sit beside him.
Selfish enough to keep wanting more.
Even if he never acts on it.
You know Chibs is protective.
Everyone does.
But usually it’s subtle.
A hand at the small of your back guiding you through crowds.
Walking you to your car after dark.
Quietly checking if you got home safe.
He never makes a big deal out of it.
Which somehow makes it worse.
Because every gentle thing he does sinks deeper under your skin.
And the feelings between you—
The almosts and maybes—
Have gotten impossible to ignore.
There are moments now where the air feels too thick between you.
Too charged.
Moments where his eyes linger too long on your mouth.
Moments where your hands brush and neither of you pulls away fast enough.
But Chibs always stops himself.
Always takes half a step back.
Like he’s afraid of wanting too much.
So neither of you says anything.
You just keep dancing around the edge of something dangerous.
Until the night everything finally breaks.
You’re driving home from work when you notice the truck behind you.
At first, you don’t think much of it.
Then it follows you through three turns.
Your stomach tightens.
You switch lanes suddenly.
The truck follows.
Fear crawls cold and immediate down your spine.
Maybe it’s coincidence.
Maybe you’re being paranoid.
Then the truck speeds up.
Your pulse starts hammering.
You grab your phone with shaking fingers and call the first person your panicked brain thinks of.
Chibs.
He answers on the second ring.
“Hey, lass—”
“There’s someone following me.”
The words come out breathless.
Instantly, his entire tone changes.
“Where are ye?”
You tell him quickly, voice shaking harder now.
The truck is still behind you.
Too close.
“You drive straight tae the clubhouse,” Chibs says immediately. Calm. Steady. “Do no’ stop anywhere else. Ye hear me?”
“I’m scared.”
That nearly kills him.
You hear it in the sudden sharp inhale over the phone.
“I know, sweetheart. Just keep drivin’. I’ll meet ye outside.”
The line goes dead.
And suddenly you’re gripping the wheel so hard your hands ache.
By the time you pull into the clubhouse lot, you’re genuinely terrified.
The truck slows near the entrance.
Then keeps driving.
But the fear doesn’t leave with it.
Your whole body is shaking violently now from adrenaline and panic and all the horrible possibilities your brain supplied during the drive.
The clubhouse doors burst open before you even fully park.
Chibs.
You’ve never seen him move that fast.
His kutte hangs open, expression sharp with fury and fear as he scans the lot immediately.
Then his eyes land on you.
And everything changes.
You barely get the car door open before you’re moving.
Running straight toward him.
“Chibs—”
Your voice breaks completely.
And before either of you can think about it—
Before all the careful distance and restraint can matter—
You crash into him.
Hard.
Your arms wrap around him desperately while you bury your face against his chest like it’s instinct.
Like he’s safety itself.
Chibs freezes.
Just for a second.
Shock.
Because you’ve never touched each other like this before.
Never openly.
Never desperately.
Then immediately—
Immediately—
His arms lock around you.
Strong.
Certain.
One hand pressing protectively against the back of your head, tucking your face tighter against him while the other wraps around your waist.
“I got ye,” he murmurs instantly.
His voice is rough with panic.
Anger.
Concern so intense it almost sounds painful.
“You’re alright. I got ye now.”
And God.
The second he says that, your composure shatters entirely.
A sob tears out of you.
Humiliating.
You hate crying.
But Chibs just holds you tighter.
“Shh,” he hushes softly. “Easy, lass. Ye’re safe.”
Behind him, you vaguely register the clubhouse erupting.
Tig demanding to know what happened.
Happy already heading for the bikes.
But Chibs doesn’t take his attention off you for even a second.
Your fingers clutch desperately at the front of his shirt.
He can feel how hard you’re shaking.
And something vicious rises inside him immediately.
Because someone scared you this badly.
Someone made you cry.
Someone made you run to him like this.
“Look at me a second,” he says gently.
You can’t.
Your face stays hidden against his chest.
“Sweetheart.”
The endearment slips out naturally.
His hand smooths slowly over your hair.
“You need tae breathe for me.”
You try.
God, you try.
But your breathing keeps catching painfully.
“I thought—” you gasp. “I thought they were gonna—”
Your voice breaks again.
Chibs’ stomach twists violently.
“Nothin’s gonna happen tae ye,” he says firmly. “No’ while I’m breathin’.”
The words come out low and absolute.
Like a promise carved in stone.
And for some reason, that finally calms you enough to breathe properly again.
A little.
Chibs keeps holding you impossibly carefully.
Like you’re fragile.
Precious.
He’s furious underneath it.
Furious enough his hands ache with it.
But every touch against you stays gentle.
Measured.
Because right now his anger doesn’t matter.
You do.
Tig appears beside him. “What happened?”
Chibs’ jaw tightens.
“Truck followed her.”
Tig’s expression darkens instantly.
“You see plates?”
You shake your head weakly against Chibs’ chest.
“It’s alright,” Chibs murmurs quickly before anyone else can question you further. “Ye do no’ gotta think about it right now.”
The protectiveness in his voice makes your eyes burn all over again.
Tig studies the two of you quietly for a second.
Specifically the way Chibs is holding you like letting go isn’t an option.
Then, wisely, he says:
“We’ll handle it.”
Chibs nods once.
Dismissal.
And Tig leaves without another word.
Because right now Chibs looks one wrong sentence away from violence.
Eventually, Chibs guides you inside.
One hand stays firm against your back the entire time.
Grounding.
Protective.
You’re still trembling slightly when he sits you down on the couch in the quieter office room.
But the second he starts pulling away, panic spikes again.
Your fingers catch his wrist immediately.
Chibs looks down at your hand.
Then at your face.
And something in his expression softens so deeply it almost hurts to look at.
“Alright,” he says quietly.
He sits beside you again immediately.
Closer this time.
Your body instinctively leans toward him.
Neither of you mentions it.
“You embarrassed?” he asks softly after a while.
You nod miserably.
“I kinda lost my mind.”
“No, ye didnae.”
“I literally ran at you.”
And there it is.
The thing neither of you knows how to address.
The closeness.
The instinct.
The fact that your terrified brain chose him immediately.
Chibs goes very still beside you.
Then he says carefully:
“Why me?”
Your heart stutters.
Because the answer feels far too honest now.
Because you trust him.
Because he feels safe.
Because somewhere along the way, you fell hopelessly in love with him.
Then Chibs exhales slowly like the words physically hit him.
“Aye,” he says roughly. “Always.”
Your breath catches.
He’s looking at you differently now.
Like the fear ripped something open between you both.
Like all the almosts are suddenly impossible to ignore.
“You scared the hell outta me tonight,” he admits quietly.
You blink.
“What?”
“When ye called.” His jaw flexes. “Thought I was gonna lose my damn mind before ye got here.”
Emotion climbs painfully into your throat.
Chibs rubs a tired hand over his face.
Then laughs softly under his breath.
“No’ exactly how I planned on this happenin’.”
Your eyebrows pull together slightly. “What happening?”
His eyes meet yours.
And suddenly the air changes.
Completely.
“Tellin’ ye.”
Your heartbeat stumbles hard.
“Tellin’ me what?”
Chibs looks at you for a long moment.
Like he’s finally too exhausted to keep pretending.
“That I’m in love with ye.”
Everything stops.
The room.
Your thoughts.
Your breathing.
Chibs’ expression turns almost grim afterward, like he’s waiting for impact.
“You do no’ gotta say anythin’ back,” he says quickly. “Christ knows I tried no’ tae feel it—”
You kiss him before he can finish.
Because you physically cannot hold it in another second.
Chibs makes this startled sound against your mouth before both hands frame your face instantly.
Then he kisses you back hard.
Desperate.
Relieved.
Like months of restraint finally snapped apart all at once.
His forehead rests against yours when you finally pull away.
“You sure?” he whispers.
You nod immediately.
“So sure.”
A slow smile breaks across his face then.
Beautiful.
Wrecked.
Completely helpless for you.
Then he pulls you into his arms again, one hand cradling the back of your head protectively while rain begins tapping softly against the clubhouse windows outside.
Saints, Sinners, and Sleepwalkers | Kit Walker x Reader
Series Masterlist Here
8k words
Expect Disturbing Themes
Chapter 6: Heightened Awareness
Morning always came too early in Briarcliff.
One minute the lights were out.
The next an orderly was banging on doors and shouting for everyone to get moving.
Kit had never gotten used to it.
Didn't think he ever would.
Hoped he’d never have to.
He sat at one of the cafeteria tables, turning his cup between his hands while the room slowly filled with patients. The coffee was terrible and the food wasn't any better.
Across the room, somebody was already arguing with an orderly. A tray clanged somewhere near the kitchen.
Normal morning. Normal for Briarcliff, anyway.
Kit found himself looking toward the doors. Not consciously. Not at first. Just one of those habits he'd picked up.
The same way he'd learned where the orderlies usually stood. Which hallways were busiest.
He looked for her.
The realization hit about the same time he spotted her.
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
There you were.
A little slower than most people. A little more careful.Carrying your tray with both hands.
Present.
At least this morning.
Something in his chest loosened.
Funny.
A few months ago he wouldn't have known if you'd shown up at all. Now he found himself checking.
Every day.
You hadn't noticed him yet. Or maybe you had. Sometimes it was hard to tell.
Kit leaned back slightly in his chair.
You spotted him about halfway to the table. Or rather, you spotted the way he suddenly stopped pretending to be interested in his coffee.
The corner of your mouth twitched. Just slightly.
By the time you reached the table, he'd already nudged the chair across from him out with his foot. Not looking at you while he did it. Like it wasn't intentional. Like he hadn't been waiting to do it. Like he didn’t do it every morning.
"Mornin’." His voice was rough with sleep.
You set your tray down.
"Morning."
For a few minutes, neither of you said much.
The cafeteria buzzed around you. Orderlies barking instructions. Patients talking over one another.
Kit stabbed at something that claimed to be eggs. "You think these get worse every day?"
You looked down at your own tray. "They're trying."
That earned a laugh. A real one. Not loud. Just enough to make something warm flicker in your chest.
Kit pointed with his fork. "Now that's optimism."
You rolled your eyes. "That's not optimism."
"It ain't?"
"No." You poked suspiciously at the eggs. "It's more like determination."
That made him laugh harder. For a second, several nearby patients looked over. Neither of you cared.
The conversation drifted after that. Small things. Nothing important.
The weather. A patient who had tried hiding bread in his sleeves again. The radio station that somehow always played the same handful of songs.
Kit found himself watching you while you talked. Not because anything was wrong. The opposite.
You seemed more aware than you'd been in days. Your eyes tracked the room. You responded without as long of pauses. Even your shoulders looked less tense.
Whatever happened in that appointment yesterday...
Maybe it helped.
The thought settled easier than he expected. You deserved something that helped.
Eventually breakfast ended the same way it always did.
Too quickly. Metal scraped against tables. People stood. The room began to empty.
You and Kit moved with the crowd. Falling into step beside one another without really discussing it.
The hallway was busy. Patients being shuffled from one room to another. Orderlies lingering at intersections.
The first day in a while that felt... normal.
A couple orderlies led the small group that gathered. Other patients that knew their routine too.
For a while neither of you spoke. Not because it was awkward. Just because it wasn't necessary. Your shoulder brushed his once when the hallway narrowed. Neither of you commented on it.
There wasn’t a need to.
“Y’beat me there the other day.”
“Huh?” You glanced at him.
“When we got stuck on laundry duty,” Kit said. “You had five minutes on me.”
You frowned slightly. “You were carrying twice as much.”
“That ain't the point.”
“It is if we're counting.”
Kit scoffed. “Now you're changin’ the rules.”
“You're the one who started keeping score.” A smile tugged at the corner of your mouth.
“That's ‘cause I was winning.”
“You just said I beat you.”
Kit held his finger up, “Once.”
You rolled your eyes.
Ahead, one of the orderlies barked for a patient to stay with the group.
The line shifted around a corner.
For a few seconds, all you could hear were footsteps and the occasional rattle of keys.
Kit glanced sideways at you.
“You seem better today.”
The words were casual. Too casual. Like he'd been thinking about saying them for a while.
Your smile faded. Not completely. Just enough to notice. “Do I?”
“Yeah.”
You looked ahead again.
The occupational therapy room wasn't far now. You could already see the familiar doors.
“Maybe.”
The answer came easier than it would have yesterday.
Kit nodded once.
Like that was enough. Like he wasn't going to push.
Your lips tugged up.
Then—
“Walker.”
The voice cut clean through the corridor.
The small group slowed.
An orderly stood several yards ahead, clipboard tucked beneath one arm.
Expression blank.
“Dr. Thredson wants to see you.”
For a second, nobody moved.
Then Kit looked toward the orderly.
“Now?”
“Now.”
The answer was immediate.
Your eyes flicked to Kit. His expression shifted. Not annoyed. Not worried. Mostly surprised.
“Guess work'll have to wait.”
The attempt at humor was weak. You knew it. He knew it.
Kit sighed dramatically before stepping out of line. “Save me a spot.”
Then he glanced back at you. Just briefly. Long enough to make sure you were smiling. Long enough to smile back.
The orderly cleared his throat and Kit rolled his eyes.
“Alright, alright. I'm comin'.”
The man didn't respond. Just turned and started walking. Kit fell into step behind him.
The sounds of the group faded as they continued down the hall. Slowly, the scrap of shoes and leaking pipes became the only sound around them. Not one word.
Not that Kit expected conversation. Most orderlies weren't exactly interested in making small talk. Still. The same Briarcliff sounds over and over drove Kit crazy.
His eyes drifted toward the office numbers they passed.
He'd never been called in by Thredson before.
Not yet.
The thought wasn't exactly nerve-wracking.
If anything, it was the opposite.
The man seemed decent enough. Hell, compared to Arden, he seemed downright normal.
Kit shoved his hands into his pockets.
Maybe that was a good thing. Maybe somebody would finally listen.
The accusation still felt ridiculous every time he thought about it.
Bloody Face.
A serial killer.
He almost laughed. If the situation hadn't been so miserable, he probably would've.
The orderly stopped outside a wooden door and Kit's attention snapped back.
A small brass plaque sat beside it.
DR. O. THREDSON
The orderly knocked once.
A voice answered from inside.
“Come in.”
The orderly opened the door.
“Walker.”
Kit took a breath.
Then stepped inside.
The office looked as you’d expected. Bookshelves. A desk. A radio playing some song in the corner.
Nothing about it felt like Briarcliff and that alone made Kit relax a little.
Thredson looked up from the file in front of him.
“Mr. Walker.”
His voice was calm. Professional.
“Please, sit.”
Kit did.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Thredson closed the file. Folded his hands together. And waited.
Kit frowned. “That's it?”
A small smile touched the doctor's mouth. “That's it.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Whatever you'd like.”
Kit stared at him. “You ain't gonna ask questions?”
“I imagine you'll answer the important ones regardless.”
That earned the faintest laugh from Kit. Not because it was funny. Because it was unexpected.
Most doctors came in with conclusions already written. This one seemed content to let him speak. So he did.
“I didn't kill anybody.”
There. Right out of the gate. No point dancing around it. The staff knew why he was here.
The smile faded from Thredson's face. Not judgmental. Attentive.
“I know proving your innocence is important to you.”
“I didn't do it.”
“Tell me what happened.”
Kit leaned forward immediately. “I came home and she was gone.”
The words left him immediately. No hesitation. Like he'd told the story enough times that the beginning always came first.
“Gone?”
“Our house was wrecked.” Kit swallowed. “Dirt all over, furniture overturned, a broken window. Looked like somebody tore through the place.”
“I thought of every stupid thing I could.” The memory still made his stomach twist. “A sudden storm or wild animal, ‘n she ran to the neighbors.”
The thought sounded ridiculous now. At the time, it hadn't.
“Then I found blood.”
For the first time, Thredson's pen paused.
“How much blood?”
“Enough.”
Kit looked away. His jaw tightened.
“Enough that I knew something happened.”
Silence settled between them. Not uncomfortable. But waiting.
“What happened next?”
“The police.” A humorless laugh escaped him. “After that, things got real simple.” He spread his hands. “House torn apart. Wife missing. Husband standin’ in the middle of it.”
His eyes found Thredson's again.
“Guess who they blamed.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Thredson asked:
“Do you believe she's dead?”
The answer came so quickly it almost interrupted him.
“No.”
Thredson's pen paused again.
“Why?”
Kit frowned.
The question irritated him more than it should have. Because everybody always wanted a reason. Something concrete. Something they could write down. He didn’t have that. Not really.
“I don't know.”
The words came out sharper than intended. A muscle jumped in his jaw. Then he exhaled slowly.
“She was my wife.” The office fell quiet. “I know Alma.”
“She’d fight,” his voice lowered slightly. “And she wouldn't leave.”
Not him. Not their home. Not without saying something. Anything.
Thredson watched him carefully.
“And if you're wrong?”
Kit's gaze dropped to the desk. For the first time since he'd started talking, he hesitated. Only for a second.
“I'll believe it when I see her.” His eyes lifted again. “Not before.”
The certainty in his voice surprised even him. Because it wasn't certainty. It was hope. Hope she was alive. Hope that she’d return. Hope that his life could still go back to normal.
And he wasn't ready to let go of that yet.
After that, the words came easier. Not because any of it hurt less. Because for once nobody wasn’t trying to stop him.
Thredson asked questions when they mattered. Then listened.
So Kit talked.
About Alma. About the home they'd built together. About neighbors he'd known his entire life suddenly looking at him differently. About deputies searching through everything he owned. About handcuffs. About interrogation rooms. About repeating the same story so many times he could practically recite it in his sleep.
Most of all, he talked about what came after.
The looks. The whispers. The certainty on other people's faces. Like the decision had already been made. Like the truth didn't matter anymore.
The whole time, Thredson remained quiet. Occasionally making a note. Occasionally asking a question.
Never arguing. Never telling him he was confused. Never telling him he was sick.
This doctor wasn't looking at him the way everyone else did.
At least, it didn't feel like he was.
And that mattered.
When Kit finally ran out of steam, the room fell silent again. His chest felt tight. His throat dry.
“You think I'm crazy too?”
The question slipped out before he could stop it.
For the first time, Thredson leaned back in his chair. Studying him. Considering.
“No.”
The answer came so simply that Kit just blinked.
Thredson adjusted slightly.
“Not in the way Briarcliff uses the word.”
Something in Kit's shoulders loosened. Just a little.
“You believe me?”
Thredson's expression remained neutral.
“I believe that you believe what you're telling me.”
Kit's jaw tightened immediately. There it was. The same answer. Just dressed up prettier.
His eyes dropped to the desk for a second before he looked back up.
“You think I'm makin’ it up?”
“I didn't say that.”
“You didn't have to.”
The words came out sharper than intended.
For the first time, something resembling sympathy crossed Thredson's face. Not offense. Not irritation. Just sympathy.
Which somehow annoyed Kit even more.
“I know what happened.” His voice was lower now. Steadier. “I know what I saw.”
“Mr. Walker—”
“No.”
Kit leaned forward. Not aggressive but determined.
“Everybody keeps saying the same damn thing.”
The room fell quiet. The radio still humming softly.
“They look at me like I'm confused.”
His throat tightened.
“Or sick.”
Another breath.
“Or lying.”
The last word came out harder than the others. Because that was the one he hated most. Lying. Like everything he had lost wasn't real. Like he hadn’t loved Alma. Like she wasn’t a person to him.
Across from him, Thredson remained still. Watching. Listening. Waiting for the frustration to burn itself out.
Eventually Kit sat back again. Dragging a hand across his face. Suddenly exhausted. “I'm not asking you to believe every part of it.”
A pause.
“But help me figure out what happened.”
For a moment, Thredson said nothing.
Then he nodded. Slowly. Reasonably. Like he believed Kit had asked for something entirely fair.
"I think that's a worthwhile goal."
The tension in Kit's shoulders eased slightly.
Thredson picked up his pen again. Made a brief note. Then looked back up.
"Can I ask you something unrelated?"
Kit shrugged.
"Sure."
"You seem to have adjusted to Briarcliff better than some patients."
Kit barked out a short laugh.
"That's a hell of a sentence."
A faint smile touched Thredson's face.
"I don't mean happily."
"No kiddin’."
"But most new patients isolate themselves."
Kit frowned. "What's your point?"
"I'm curious how you've managed not to."
Kit quirked a brow. "What d'you mean?"
"Most patients find something." Thredson's pen rested lightly against the page. "Something that helps them endure being here."
Kit thought about it. Then shrugged. "People."
Thredson's pen paused over the page.
"People?"
"Grace, at first." That answer came easy. "She ain't exactly friendly, but she knows how this place works."
A corner of Thredson's mouth twitched. "High praise."
"More than she'd give me."
That earned a brief smile from the doctor.
Kit continued.
"She tells you when you're bein' stupid."
"An admirable quality."
"Depends who you're askin'."
The smile lingered for a second before fading. Thredson made another note.
"Guess I got lucky." Kit said, almost mindlessly.
Thredson tilted his head slightly. “How so?”
Kit looked down at his fingers. “Got Grace, Sleepwalk—”
The word died immediately and Kit winced.
“Sleepwalker?” Thredson asked before Kit could continue.
Kit looked up.
There wasn't judgment in the question.
Just curiosity.
“Old nickname.”
The answer came quickly. Almost dismissively. But Thredson noticed the way his jaw tightened.
“Tryna get out of the habit of sayin’ it.” Kit let out a humorless laugh.
Interest flickered in Thredson’s eyes. “She doesn't like it?”
Kit considered the question. Then shrugged.
“Reminds her of somebody.”
Jimmy.
The name flashed through Thredson's mind immediately.
Interesting.
"Someone important?"
Kit hesitated. Long enough to answer the question without speaking.
“Yeah.”
Thredson nodded once. Like that was all he needed.
"You seem protective of her."
The words were casual. Observational. Not accusatory.
Kit frowned slightly. "Do I?"
Thredson gave a small shrug.
"You notice when she's struggling."
A pause.
"You remember things that upset her."
The doctor's voice remained calm.
Measured.
"Most patients don't pay that much attention to one another."
Kit sat back slightly. Thinking. Because when it was put that way...
Maybe he did.
"I don't know."
The answer came honestly. Kit looked toward the window. Searching for words.
"She..."
His brow furrowed.
"She’s just kinda different."
"Different?" Thredson repeated. “What makes her different?”
The room fell quiet again. Kit leaned back.
The answer should've been easy. But it wasn't.
Because it wasn't just one thing.
It was the way she didn’t expect anything from anyone. The way she remembered little things and forgot others. The way she'd spent months forcing herself to be there for Pepper. The way she'd smile like she wasn't entirely sure she deserved to. The way she'd sit beneath that tree, drawing circles. The way she'd keep trying. Even when it would've been easier not to.
He admired that.
“I dunno,” Kit rubbed a thumb against his palm. “She’s kinda selfless without meaning to be. ‘N I think she’s strong. Smart too.” He pointed at his head. “A lot goin' on, y'know.”
Thredson watched him for a moment. Then made one final note. The scratch of pen against paper seemed unusually loud.
“I think that's all we have time for today.”
Kit stood. The chair legs scraped against the floor.
"Thank you."
The words surprised him a little.
Thredson looked up from his notes.
"For what?"
Kit shrugged.
"Listenin'."
The doctor's expression softened. Or appeared to.
"That's my job, Mr. Walker."
Kit nodded. Then hesitated. There was still one question. The same one he always had.
"If I keep talkin' to you..."
His voice trailed off.
Thredson waited.
Kit looked away briefly. Then forced himself to finish.
"Do you think I got a chance?"
Not freedom. Not acquittal. Not even proving himself right.
Just a chance. A chance that somebody would eventually understand. A chance that somebody would eventually believe him.
Thredson was quiet for a moment.
Then:
"Certainly."
And it was exactly the kind of answer Kit wanted to hear.
The orderly led him back through the familiar halls.
The conversation lingered in Kit's head longer than he expected. Bits and pieces of questions. Answers. The scratch of Thredson's pen. The feeling—however brief—that somebody had finally listened.
By the time they reached Occupational Therapy, the knot between his shoulders had loosened slightly.
The orderly opened the door.
Kit stepped inside.
Immediately, his eyes searched the room. Not consciously. The same way they searched the cafeteria every morning. The same way they searched the yard. Just habit now.
A familiar one.
He found you near the back. Head lowered over your work. Thread looped around your fingers. Focused.
Then his gaze shifted to the empty chair beside you. And for a second, he simply stared. Because he had almost forgotten saying it.
Save me a spot.
Yet there it was. Still empty. Nobody sitting in it. Nobody's work piled on it. Waiting.
Something warm unexpectedly settled in his chest. As though the sight meant more than it should.
Maybe it did.
You looked up and for a moment neither of you did anything.
Then you glanced at the chair. A tiny movement. Barely noticeable. An invitation.
Kit couldn't help smiling.
The feeling caught him off guard.
It shouldn't have.
You'd saved him a seat.
That was all.
A small thing.
The kind of thing people did every day.
Still.
After spending the last hour talking about Alma, about loss, about people disappearing without warning—
The sight of somebody remembering felt different.
Kit shoved the thought aside before it could go anywhere.
Then crossed the room.
You watched him approach. Not obviously. Not enough that anyone else would've noticed. Just enough to confirm he was actually coming back.
Kit dropped into the chair beside you.
"Didn't let anybody take it, huh?"
You glanced at the empty workspace.
Then at him.
"No."
"'Ppreciate it."
A small smile tugged at your mouth.
"You asked."
"Fair."
For a few moments, the only sounds were the scrape of chairs and the rustle of fabric. The familiar rhythm of occupational therapy. Comfortably repetitive.
Kit reached for the pile of linens waiting beside him.
"Y’miss me?"
The question came out so naturally. Yet, it was so unexpected you almost looked up.
Instead, your eyes stayed focus on your working fingers.
"You were gone less than an hour."
"So that's a yes."
"It isn't."
"Sounds like a yes."
You shook your head and Kit grinned.
For a second, neither of you said anything else.
Then:
"How'd it go?"
The question left your mouth before you could stop it. It surprised even you.
Immediately, Kit's grin faded.
Not completely. But more than enough for you to notice.
His hands paused over the fabric. And his attention shifted somewhere else. Back toward the office he'd just left. The conversations he had.
His hands resumed working.
Slowly.
"He listened."
You glanced over.
Kit wasn't smiling anymore.
Not exactly.
But there was something lighter about him.
Like some weight had shifted.
"Actually listened."
The words came out almost surprised.
You looked back down at your work.
"That's good."
"Yeah."
A pause.
"Said I might have a chance."
Your fingers stopped. Only for a second.
"A chance?"
Kit nodded. "At proving I'm not supposed to be here."
The room suddenly felt quieter. Not actually quieter. Just farther away.
You stared at the thread wrapped around your finger. "Oh."
Kit didn't seem to notice anything strange about your response.
Why would he?
To him it was good news. And it was. Maybe the best news he'd gotten since arriving.
"I mean, not tomorrow or anything." He shrugged. "But still."
Your fingers resumed moving. Slowly. Carefully.
"That's good." You said. And you meant it. You really did.
Because if anyone deserved to leave Briarcliff, it was Kit.
But your stomach felt strange.
You focused on the thread between your fingers.
Pull.
Loop.
Pull.
Loop.
The rhythm helped.
Across from you, somebody dropped a basket of linens. A few patients laughed.
You barely heard them. You weren’t drifting, not this time. But your fingers were starting to shake.
"Hey."
The word cut through the noise in your head.
You blinked.
Kit was looking at you, concern creasing his brow.
"What?"
His expression softened slightly. "There you are."
Heat immediately crawled up the back of your neck. You looked down at your work again.
"I was listening."
"Uh-huh."
"I was."
Kit snorted. "You got that look."
"What look?"
"The one where you're about three seconds from forgettin' I'm in the room."
You frowned. "I don't do that."
"You absolutely do that."
You shook your head and Kit chuckled.
It wasn’t long until names started to get called. Chairs scraped, orderlies barked instructions or didn’t speak at all, and patients began filing out of the room.
You and Kit stood at the same time. You both knew where you were heading.
You and Kit stood at the same time.
You both knew where you were heading.
The hallway outside Occupational Therapy was already crowded. Patients shuffled forward in uneven lines. Orderlies lingered near the walls.
For a while neither of you spoke. Kit walked beside you, hands shoved into his pockets. You focused on the floor.
One cracked tile. Then another. Then another.
Voices echoed ahead. A door slammed somewhere down the hall. Normal.
Just normal.
"You sure you're alright?"
You glanced at Kit. He wasn't looking at you. The question sounded almost casual.
Almost.
"Yeah."
"Uh-huh."
"I am."
"You're a terrible liar." He faintly laughed.
"You're one to talk."
That earned a laugh. A real one. Still small. But more than the one before.
Before he could answer, a familiar voice drifted down the hall.
"There you are."
Both of you looked up. Grace was leaning against the wall near the intersection ahead. Arms crossed. Expression unreadable. Waiting. Or pretending she wasn't.
"Thought they got rid of you," she told Kit.
"Not that lucky."
Grace rolled her eyes. "Clearly."
Kit grinned. For a moment the three of you fell into step together. An odd little formation. One that would've seemed impossible a couple weeks ago.
Kit’s grin faded slightly. “Talked to the doctor earlier.”
Grace studied him for a second. Then raised an eyebrow. “It went well then?”
"Better than." The admission surprised even him.
Grace noticed. Of course she noticed.
"Huh."
That was all she said. But her eyes narrowed slightly. Considering. Assessing. The way Grace always did. Maybe having that same odd feeling in her stomach that you were.
Grace looked ahead again. "Careful."
"With what?" Kit frowned.
"Getting your hopes up."
"He wasn't like that," Kit scoffed.
Grace's expression didn't change. "Maybe."
The answer carried enough skepticism to make Kit roll his eyes.
Before either of them could continue, the common room came into view. The same collection of worn chairs. Scuffed tables. Patients scattered throughout the room. And that damn record player.
Your eyes found Pepper immediately. Not consciously, just habit.
She was sitting on the floor, puzzle pieces scattered around her. Just like normal.
Something in your shoulders eased. You were already moving before you realized it.
Kit noticed and fell into step behind you.
Grace followed a second later. Still watching Kit. Still thinking.
Pepper looked up at the sound of approaching footsteps. The moment she saw you, her face brightened.
"Twirly."
"Hi, Pepper." You couldn't help smiling.
Pepper immediately shifted her puzzle pieces to make room. An invitation you’d never turn down.
Kit dropped into the chair next to you and a moment later Grace took the one across from him. The movement all felt strangely automatic. Thoughtless.
Pepper looked between all three of you. Then tilted her head. Suspicious. Or curious. Or both.
"Why's everybody look funny?"
Kit laughed.
Grace groaned.
“Just a long morning,” You spoke softly. It was easier for everyone.
Pepper nodded with the upmost seriousness before turning her attention back to her puzzle.
For a few moments the only sounds were the muttering of patients and that horrible song on the record player.
Then:
"The south wing’s still the best option."
Grace said it so suddenly that Kit almost laughed. You blinked. Pepper didn't even look up.
"Hello to you too." Kit leaned back in his chair.
Grace ignored him. "The side entrance is impossible."
"We know."
"And the front’s got too many people."
"We know that too."
Grace shot him a look. "Then stop making me repeat myself."
Kit grinned. "Never."
The expression lasted all of three seconds before Grace's glare deepened.
Then she looked back toward you. Not dismissing you this time. Actually looking.
"You ever notice who's posted there?"
For a second, you thought she was joking. Then you realized she wasn't. The question hung in the air. Waiting. On you.
“South is busy,” you murmured, choosing to look at the floor rather than Grace’s piercing eyes.
Grace sat back, like she was unimpressed.
You stared at the worn linoleum.
Thinking. The thought had been sitting in the back of your head for a while now. Ever since Kit started talking about escape. You'd never planned on saying it.
But—
"The west door."
The words came out quietly.
Three heads turned toward you. Even Pepper looked up. You immediately regretted speaking. A familiar heat crept into your face.
"The west door?" Grace repeated.
You nodded once. Slowly. "It's quieter."
"What d'you mean?" Kit leaned forward slightly.
Your fingers picked at one another. Trying not to look at any of them.
"At night." A pause. "I don't think they watch it very much."
Grace's expression shifted. Not agreement. But interest. Actual interest. So you kept going.
"The woods are back there," you swallowed. "Aren't many lights."
The room fell quiet. Grace was looking at you differently now. Not kindly. Not warmly. But seriously. As though she'd just realized you'd been listening to the conversation all along.
Everyone was quiet for a long moment. Grace stared at you.
“No shit.” She muttered.
You blinked. Kit couldn’t help but chuckle, but Grace ignored him entirely.
"The woods." She rubbed a hand across her mouth. Thinking. Actually thinking about it.
Nobody spoke for a second. Then Kit looked at you. Really looked at you.
A different kind of recognition than normal settling across his face.
"You been thinkin' 'bout this?"
Immediately, you wished he hadn't asked. The attention alone made your stomach twist. You looked back down at the floor.
"A little."
"A little?" His tone made it clear he didn't believe that for a second.
"I listen." You shrugged. The motion small.
Grace snorted. "Apparently."
"Twirly notices things." Pepper grinned.
Heat crawled into your face.
You wished all three of them would stop looking at you.
Unfortunately, none of them seemed interested in doing that.
Grace looked out into the room. Thinking again. Rearranging the pieces. Taking it all apart and rebuilding it again a hundred times in her head.
"The woods would give us cover." Nobody interrupted. "The hard part's still the door."
You glanced at her. "They don't watch it much."
"At night."
You nodded and Grace considered that.
"How many staff?"
You frowned. Trying to remember.
"One. Sometimes two."
Grace muttered something under her breath. Already doing the math. "That could work."
Pepper looked between the three of you. Then back to her puzzle. Apparently satisfied that whatever was happening wasn't immediately dangerous.
"The woods would slow people down too." Grace tapped a finger against her knee. "If we got far enough in before they noticed..."
The sentence trailed off. Her eyes shifted. Landing on Kit. Waiting. For once, he hadn't said anything. Not disagreement. Not agreement. Nothing.
"You got a thought?" Grace frowned.
Kit looked up."Huh?"
"The plan."
"Oh." He shrugged. "Maybe."
Grace stared at him. That wasn't an answer. It wasn't even close. "You've got nothin' else to say?"
Kit rubbed a hand against the back of his neck. The motion looked almost sheepish. "Just listenin'."
The silence that followed was brief. But noticeable. Because Kit didn’t usually "just listen." Not when it came to escaping. Not when it came to getting out. You knew that. Grace knew that.
Grace's eyes narrowed, studying him. She glanced at you before looking back at Kit. “That doctor tell you somethin’ we should know?”
Kit blinked. "What?"
"You're quieter." Grace shrugged. "Usually you've got ten opinions by now."
Pepper looked between them, then to you, concern growing on her face. Your hand gently found hers and just like that, she was back to her puzzle.
"The doctor." Grace’s tone flattened. "Did he say somethin’?"
For a moment Kit considered the question. Then shook his head. "No."
A pause.
"He just..." Kit trailed off. Searching for words. "He listened."
Grace's expression didn't change. If anything, it became more skeptical.
"That's it?"
"That's it." Kit shrugged.
Now it was your turn to look at Kit with skepticism. He’d been so ready to tell you that Thredson said he had a chance. So why not Grace?
Kit noticed you. “What?”
“What what?”
“You got that look.”
Grace glanced between the two of you.
“What look?” You asked.
Kit gestured at you. “That one.”
“You told me he said you had a chance...” You frowned.
The words left before you thought about them. Silence. Immediate. Heavy.
Grace's head turned slowly toward Kit. "A chance?"
Kit closed his eyes briefly. "Aw, hell."
Pepper looked up from her puzzle.
Grace folded her arms. "A chance at what, Walker?"
Kit shot you a look. Not angry. Not even frustrated. Just caught.
“Sorry.” Once again, you found the floor very interesting.
“Nah.” Kit sighed. “S'not your fault.”
“Walker.” Grace raised an eyebrow.
"He just said I might have a chance of provin' I don't belong here."
The room fell quiet again. Not because anybody disagreed. Because everybody knew what that meant. Or could mean.
“And you believe him?” Grace scoffed.
Kit frowned. “I didn't say that.”
“You look like you do.”
“I said he listened.”
“Congratulations. He did his job,” Grace rolled her eyes. The words came out sharper than she probably intended. Or maybe exactly as sharp as she intended.
Kit leaned back in his chair.“You weren't there.”
“No,” Grace folded her arms. “I've just been here longer.”
Silence
Kit rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. Frustrated. Mostly with himself.
"I just..." The words came slower this time. "He didn't treat me like I was crazy." Kit looked away. Toward the window. Toward the bars. Toward the world outside.
You looked at him. Really looked at him. The tension in his shoulders. The frustration in his voice. The way he couldn't quite bring himself to look back at any of you.
For a moment, the office flashed through your mind. The sunlight. The radio. Thredson asking questions. Waiting for answers. Listening. Like he wanted to hear them. Like they mattered.
You understood. Maybe a little too much.
Grace noticed. Of course she did. Her eyes flicked between the two of you as she sat forward.
"You agree with him." It wasn't an accusation. Not exactly. More of an observation. An aggressive sort of observation.
Kit glanced at Grace when she spoke, but his attention swiftly redirected to you. And for a moment, you met his eyes. Deep, warm brown, like sea glass.
Now Pepper’s gaze flicked between you two too.
You looked down at your unoccupied hand. “He listens.”
Grace stared at you. Then let out a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah.” She leaned back in her chair. “Of course he does.”
Kit frowned. “That’s not—”
“Every doctor listens.” Grace cut him off. She paused; her eyes flicked between both of you again. “You’re just supposed to talk.” The words hung there for a moment.
Pepper, sensing the shift, went back to her puzzle a little too quickly.
“They ‘listen’, pretend they’re takin’ down notes,” Grace said, folding her arms. “Nothing changes.”
Kit exhaled through his nose. Not angry. Just… frustrated again. “You weren’t there,” he repeated, softer this time.
But it didn’t land the same way anymore. Because now it wasn’t just Grace questioning him. It was both of you reacting in different ways to the same thing.
“That ain’t what it felt like.” Kit shook his head slightly.
Grace gave a short laugh. “It never feels like it.”
Kit glanced at her again, jaw tightening. “I’m not sayin’ he fixed anything.” A pause. Just long enough to gather himself. “I’m sayin’ he didn’t make me feel like I was already gone.”
Silence followed that. Not dramatic. But thick. Like the air had grown in humidity.
Grace didn’t respond immediately. Even Pepper stopped moving her hand for a second. And you froze.
It wasn’t about trusting anyone for Kit. It was about recognition. Being seen.
You understood that much. Maybe better than you wanted to. Because you were learning what it felt like to be looked at and not dismissed. To be listened to like you mattered. The thought lingered. Uncomfortable.
Familiar.
And for a moment, you couldn’t quite meet Grace’s eyes.
Grace exhaled through her nose. “That’s what they do.” A beat. “Make you feel like you’re not invisible.” Her eyes flicked to Kit. Then to you. “Doesn’t mean they’re helping you.”
Kit’s jaw tightened slightly. “That’s not what I said.”
Grace raised an eyebrow. “Then say what you mean.”
Kit opened his mouth. Closed it again. A breath left him through his nose. “I don’t know what I mean,” he admitted finally.
The honesty landed heavier than an argument would have. Because it wasn’t a defense anymore. It was uncertainty. And Grace didn’t have an easy answer for that.
Silence settled again. Just as heavy as before.
You became very aware of your hands. Of the shifting of puzzle pieces next to you. Of your own breathing.
“I don’t get it,” Grace muttered. Not to anyone in particular. Then, sharper: “Just—don’t get it.”
Kit didn’t respond. Neither did you. For a moment, it felt like the conversation might just… stall there. Break apart.
But softly, Pepper spoke.
“You all look like the broken clock.” Three heads turned toward her. She didn’t stop her puzzle. Just tilted her head slightly. “The one that still moves, but it’s wrong.” A pause. “Too many hands going different ways.” Her voice lowered.
The room went still in a different way now. Less tense. More… aware. Grace looked away first. Kit followed a second later.
You stayed looking at Pepper a moment longer. She wasn’t smiling. But she wasn’t upset either. Just observing. Like she’d said something obvious that no one else had noticed yet.
Then somewhere near the front of the room, a door opened. A voice called a name. Routine returning. Pulling the moment apart without asking permission.
Grace shifted first. “Lunch,” she said flatly.
Kit stood after her. A second slower than usual.
You followed. And Pepper followed you.
Just like that—
The conversation ended the way most things did in Briarcliff. Not resolved. Just… interrupted. Unfinished.
The sound of footsteps filled the hallway again. Not hurried. Not chaotic. Just steady. Routine reclaiming the space.
The four of you kept your distance from the others.
Pepper stayed closest to you as the group moved; fingers still lightly holding your gown for a moment before letting go again.
Kit walked beside you. Grace slightly ahead. For a while, no one spoke. The echoes of the common room conversation still lingered between you, but no longer actively spoken.
Then footsteps slowed somewhere ahead. Not Grace’s. A figure rounded the corner of the corridor. White coat. Hands folded behind his back.
Dr. Arden.
The group didn’t stop, but something in the air shifted immediately. Subtle. Like the hallway itself had tightened.
Arden’s eyes moved first to Grace. A brief glance. Then Kit. Longer. Measuring. And then you. And he paused.
Just for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. Enough to register. Enough to be felt.
“Mr. Walker.” Calm voice. No warmth. No hostility either. As if it was observation dressed as courtesy.
Kit gave a short nod. “Doctor.”
Arden’s gaze didn’t stay on him. It drifted again. Back to you. Something faintly unreadable crossed his expression. Not quite interest. Not quite recognition. Something closer to cataloguing.
“Miss Reverie.” The name made the air feel thinner for a moment. Not because it was new. Because of the way he said it. Like it had been there already. Just waiting to be used.
Grace’s steps slowed enough to bring her beside you.
Pepper went still.
Arden’s attention didn’t linger long enough to become a confrontation or conversation. The lion doesn’t waste time on birds.
Instead, his eyes shifted down the hallway again, already moving on. But as he passed, his voice softened—just slightly. Not kinder. Just quieter.
“Still flexible, I trust.”
Arden’s footsteps faded down the hall. Not rushed. Not lingering. Just gone. Like he hadn’t been anything more than part of the corridor noise.
Kit let out a breath beside you. “Guy always talk like that or is it just me?”
There was a hint of humor in it. An attempt. To make it small again. Manageable.
Grace gave a short, unimpressed sound. “Always.”
Pepper shifted slightly closer to your side. A quiet, grounding pressure.
You didn’t respond. At least—not in any way that reached the outside. Because your mind hadn’t followed Kit’s words. It hadn’t followed Grace’s tone either. It was still stuck in the moment before.
The pause. The way Arden had said your name. Like he knew where it belonged. Like it had never really left his mouth.
Your head felt distant. Not sick. Not calm. Just… far away. Too far away to organize properly.
Thoughts tried to form and failed before they became anything solid. Too many edges. Too many directions. You caught fragments but not a one of them connected cleanly.
They just circled. And every time you tried to grab one, it slipped sideways into another.
Kit said something again—softer this time. Your name, maybe. Or a question. You weren’t sure. It didn’t land.
Grace glanced at you once. Then again. Sharper now. “You alright?”
You heard that one. Barely. But you did.
You nodded. A reflex more than an answer. But even that felt delayed. Like your body was somewhere you weren’t. Or maybe you were somewhere it wasn’t.
The hallway moved around you. Feet. Voices. Doors opening somewhere ahead. Lunch. Something normal. Something that could help.
Your eyes drifted, finding Kit without meaning to.
You and Kit. Alone at your table, like every meal.
That could help.
Kit was already beside you again. You hadn’t noticed him moving closer. Or maybe you had, and it hadn’t fully registered yet.
The cafeteria doors swung open ahead and noise spilled out. Trays. Voices. Metal scraping metal. Normal. Loud in a way that almost helped.
Grace went her own way. Pepper, like usual, had to be guided to her table.
You moved through the motions, your body working more on muscle memory than anything else. Get your tray and get to the table.
Kit didn’t pay much attention either. Instead, he was watching you. Not really staring but looking. Observing. Like he was trying to place something that didn’t fit where it usually did.
“You good?” Simple. Low.
You nodded before the question fully settled. “I’m fine.”
Kit didn’t answer right away. He grabbed a tray only after you took one.
“That didn’t look like fine.” The words weren’t accusatory. Just honest.
You glanced at him briefly. Then away again. Because looking at him made it harder to keep the moment contained.
“It was just…” The sentence didn’t form cleanly.
Kit slowed with you. Didn’t push ahead. Didn’t leave the silence for you to fill alone.
“Just what?” That was all he said. Not pressure. Not impatience. Just there. Waiting. And that was worse, in a way. Because there wasn’t anywhere to run from it without making it obvious you were running.
Your grip tightened slightly on the tray. “I don’t know.”
A pause. Not empty. Not giving up. It was uncertainty.
You grew closer to your table, and Kit remained quiet beside you. Patient. He didn’t feel the need to fill the silence or speed you up.
The two of you sat before you came up with any words to say.
Then, quieter than intended, meeker, you spoke.
“He talked to me.”
Kit’s expression shifted. Not surprise. Not quite confusion. Something in between. Like he didn’t fully understand the importance.
“…Arden?”
You nodded once. That was enough.
Kit exhaled through his nose. Slow.
“Yeah.” A beat. Then his voice softened. “What’d he say?”
You hesitated. The chair beneath you suddenly felt colder. It wasn’t really anything. Not when you said it out loud. Not when you broke it into words. You shifted your grip slightly.
“It wasn’t—” You stopped. Because that wasn’t true either.
Kit didn’t rush you. Just slowly picked at his food. Like he was giving the moment space to exist.
“He just said that I’m still… flexible.” You looked at the table.
“Flexible?” Kit frowned.
You nodded once. That familiar tight feeling crept back in, but less sharp now. More distant.
“‘Still flexible, I trust.’”
The words sounded worse when you repeated them.
Kit was quiet for a second. Just looking at you. Trying to place it.
“Like… physically?”
“Well... yeah...” That wasn’t quite right though. Because there was always something more than just your flexibility behind it.
“But...”
A long pause. Too long. You didn’t know the words.
Kit’s brow furrowed and he set his fork down.
“Mentally?”
You didn’t answer right away. Mentally felt clean. Simple.
Whatever words were stuck in your head didn’t feel clean. Or simple.
“…I don’t know.”
Kit’s expression softened, but a crease remained between his brow. He studied you. Waiting now.
And you hated that part—the waiting. It meant you had to decide whether to leave it vague or let it be real.
“It’s not really what he said,” you mumbled. Your fingers were quick to find a loose string on your gown. “He said it like… it meant something.”
Silence.
Kit’s expression changed at that. Still not fully understanding. But recognizing the meaning behind the words, even if he didn’t have the context.
He looked down briefly then back up at you. “You don't look scared.”
You blinked. “What?”
“You looked scared when he showed up,” he shook his head. A pause. “But not now.”
You looked down at the string in your hands. Kit wasn't wrong. The fear had been there. The cold feeling in your stomach. The thousand thoughts. The panic of being noticed again.
But now... Now it was something else. Something harder to explain.
“Then what do I look like?” The question slipped. Not that you had tried fighting it.
Kit studied you again. Long enough that you almost regretted asking.
Then:
“Worried,” his answer came quietly. Certain. Not guessing. Not trying to make you feel better. Just honest. “Worried ‘bout what it means, I guess.”
You nodded. Just once. Slowly.
Because he was right. Of course he was.
The realization should've been frustrating. Instead, it mostly felt unfair.
You weren't entirely sure how he'd gotten so good at that. At looking at you and somehow finding the thing you couldn't quite put into words yourself. Your fingers loosened slightly around the string. For a moment, neither of you spoke.
The cafeteria noise filled the space instead. Trays clanging. Shoes scraping. Voices carrying from distant tables. The usual chaos of lunch.
“You do that a lot.” Your voice was so quiet it was almost a whisper.
Kit frowned again. “Do what?”
You glanced up. Then immediately wished you hadn't. Because he was already looking at you. Waiting. Listening. Like he always did.
“Figure things out.”
A corner of Kit's mouth twitched. “I don't think I do.”
“You do.” The answer came quicker than expected. Certain.
Kit blinked. Genuinely caught off guard this time.
“Well,” Kit picked up his fork again. “I'll try bein' less observant.”
You snorted. The sound surprised both of you.
Then Kit grinned. “There it is.”
“Oh, stop.”
“I'm serious.”
“You are not.”
“Y’laughed, though.” A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“It wasn’t a laugh.”
“Oh, close enough!” He argued.
Your lips twitched and you bit the inside of your cheek. “Not close enough.”
“Sure,” Kit groaned and rolled his eyes, but his grin widened.
“It wasn't.” You muttered.
“Whatever helps you sleep at night.” Kit waved a dismissive hand.
You shook your head and rolled your eyes.
The conversation settled after that.
Not because either of you had forgotten Arden. Or Thredson. Or Grace. Or escape. But because for a few minutes, neither of you had to think about them.
Lunch carried on around you. Patients talked. Orderlies shouted. Someone dropped a spoon. Normal. Almost peaceful in it’s own way.
Then a shadow fell across the table.
You looked up.
An orderly stood there. Expression blank. As always. His eyes moved to you.
“Miss Reverie.”
The smile vanished from Kit's face immediately.
“Yeah?” You sat up slightly.
“You're wanted in the chapel.”
For a second, neither of you spoke. The chapel. You weren’t usually sent there.
Kit frowned. “The chapel?”
“That's what I said.” The orderly looked at him. Then looked back at you.
“What for?” Kit's brow furrowed.
The orderly shrugged.
You glanced toward Kit. He was already looking at you. Concern replacing the amusement from moments earlier. Not panic. Just uncertainty. The same uncertainty you felt.
The orderly stepped back.
You glanced across the cafeteria. Pepper was already looking at you. Worry sat plainly on her face. You offered a small nod.
The kind that meant: I'm okay.
Or at least: I'll come back.
Pepper nodded immediately. Like she believed you.
Your eyes shifted as you stood.
Grace was watching you too. But she didn’t look worried, more skeptical. Thoughtful. Assessing. Which somehow felt better than if she had been.
Then you looked at Kit. He was already looking at you.
“You'll be alright?” The question was quiet. Simple.
You nodded. Because what else could you do? You weren’t sure. But neither of you could change that.
The orderly cleared his throat. Waiting.
You turned to him and he began walking. You followed three paces behind.
The cafeteria noise swallowed the moment almost immediately. Trays. Voices. Silverware. Life continuing without permission.
The orderly led you to the door and down the hall.
Hydrotherapy sessions to ease muscular strain and induce calm Observed counterproductive response during recent hydrotherapy session. Patient exhibits dissociative retreat with preserved coordinated muscular response. Recommend reevaluation of hydrotherapy and further psychiatric assessment.
Temporary isolation recommended for patient and staff safety Temporary separation from high-stimulation environments recommended for patient stability and staff management.
Increase frequency of observation during dissociative episodes.
Monitor patient response to autobiographical memory recollection.
Document interactions with identified stabilizing relationships.
Monitor effects of current medication regimen on memory retention, dissociative episodes, and therapeutic engagement.
Further evaluation recommended.
|
Religious Staff Note:
Chaplaincy consultation scheduled with Father Howard.
Attending Physician (Primary): Dr. Oliver Thredson
Supervising Physician: Dr. Arthur Arden
The common room buzzed softly around you.
Not loud enough to be chaos. Not quiet enough to think.
A radio crackled somewhere near the nurses’ station, the music warped faintly beneath static. Someone nearby laughed too hard at something that wasn’t funny. Cards slapped against a table in uneven bursts. Shoes scraped tile. The overhead lights hummed constantly, sharp and electrical.
Your normal chair was gone. So, you sat curled into the corner of the couch furthest from the television and its endless static.
The fabric beneath your fingers scratched rough against your skin.
Stay here.
Your thumb pressed slowly into the seam of the cushion. In. Out. In. Out. The rhythm helped a little. Something solid. Something real.
Across the room, two patients argued quietly over a puzzle missing pieces. A nurse flipped through a magazine without actually reading it. Somebody was humming under their breath again. Same three notes. Over and over.
Your eyes drifted toward the windows.
Rain tapped softly against the glass.
You counted the drops for a while.
Lost count.
Started again.
You swallowed hard.
Your fingers had begun tracing shapes against the couch cushion without you realizing it—small looping circles, over and over until the pattern started repeating itself.
A grounding trick.
Or maybe just another habit.
You weren’t sure anymore.
The room tilted strangely for half a second when someone dropped a book nearby.
Your shoulders jerked instinctively.
Too fast.
Too sharp.
A few people looked over.
You immediately stared back down at your hands.
Stay here.
The phrase repeated silently now.
Stay here. Stay here. Stay here.
But your body felt wrong today.
Too light one second.
Too heavy the next.
Like your mind kept stepping a few feet outside itself before stumbling back in again.
You hated this part.
Not the forgetting.
The waiting.
Waiting to realize another piece of time had vanished without asking permission first.
Your jaw tightened.
Pepper needed you here.
That thought anchored harder than anything else managed to.
Not yourself.
Not Briarcliff.
Pepper.
Your nails dug lightly into your palm until the sting steadied your breathing again.
Then—
“You do that a lot.”
The voice startled you enough that your head lifted immediately.
Grace stood near the arm of the couch, one shoulder leaning lazily against the wall. Like she’d been there longer than you realized.
Watching.
Your stomach twisted faintly.
“Do what?” you asked quietly.
Grace’s eyes flicked toward your hands.
“Leave.”
Oh.
You didn’t know how to respond. Couldn’t really.
She was right.
Grace studied your face for another second before pushing off the wall. She moved closer, but not enough to crowd you. Careful. Measured.
“How often do you get like this?” she asked.
Your fingers curled tighter against your palm. “Like what?”
“Far away.”
The words landed too easily.
You looked down again instead of answering.
Grace huffed quietly through her nose, like she had already expected that response. “Kit thinks you’re tougher than you look.”
That made your eyes flick upward.
Not because of the compliment.
Because of the way she said Kit.
This conversation wasn’t really about you.
It was about him.
“What do you think?” you asked before you could stop yourself.
Grace tilted her head slightly. “I think you’ve survived this place longer than most people would.”
Not an answer.
You noticed that.
“But surviving ain’t the same thing as getting out.”
The room suddenly felt smaller.
Your stomach tightened faintly as Grace glanced toward the nurses’ station before lowering her voice.
“If something happened,” she said carefully, “could you run?”
You blinked.
“I mean really run.” Her eyes stayed fixed on you now. Sharp. Assessing. “Not freeze. Not drift off somewhere. Not panic.”
Your throat went dry.
“If we have to fight, can you fight?”
Somewhere nearby, someone laughed again. The radio crackled. Rain tapped steadily against the windows.
“If the plan fails, can you think on your feet?”
You could feel your pulse in your wrists.
Grace watched every second of your silence.
Then:
“Can you?” she repeated.
Your first instinct was embarrassment.
The second was anger.
Not loud anger. Not explosive. Not even really at her.
Just that quiet humiliation of realizing someone had looked at you and immediately seen weakness.
But...
Was she wrong?
“I don’t know,” you admitted softly.
Grace nodded once like she appreciated the honesty more than the answer itself.
“That’s a problem.”
Your jaw tightened.
“For you?” you asked.
“For everybody.”
The words stung more than they should have.
Grace must’ve noticed, because some of the hardness in her face eased slightly after a second.
“I’m not trying to be cruel,” she said.
You looked away toward the rain-streaked windows.
“You think Kit talks too much,” you murmured.
A faint smile tugged briefly at one corner of Grace’s mouth. “Yeah. He does.”
Despite yourself, your lips twitched faintly too.
Then her expression flattened again.
“But he’s serious ‘bout getting out.”
The humor vanished just as quickly.
“And serious people get killed when they start thinking with their heart instead of their head.”
Your chest tightened painfully.
Not because Grace sounded cruel.
Because she sounded practical.
The worst part was that you couldn’t even blame her for asking.
You’d lost conversations.
Lost hours.
Lost pieces of yourself so quietly you only noticed after they were already gone.
Sometimes they were pieces you never even had.
And lately you were getting bad again.
The thought settled heavy in your stomach.
Would you get him hurt? Caught? Killed?
The room suddenly felt too warm.
Your eyes dropped back to your hands before Grace could read anything else on your face.
You thought about Kit beneath the tree. Him laughing. Talking about fixing broken things like they were still worth keeping.
You thought about him calling you “sleepwalker.”
Thought about how much interest he took in you. Not only your life, but you. Just as you are.
And for one horrible second, you pictured him running while you froze.
Pictured him turning back for you.
Pictured blood on the floor because he hesitated.
Your throat tightened hard enough to ache.
Grace spoke again, quieter now.
“This place makes people weak if you let it.”
You swallowed once, “Yeah.”
Softly. Not defensive. Not angry.
Just tired.
Because it did.
They did.
And somewhere deep down, you were beginning to fear Briarcliff was winning.
Grace watched you for a long moment after that.
Not exactly cold.
Just thinking.
The common room carried on around you like nothing had happened. A patient near the window started singing softly to himself. Someone else complained about missing cards. And that damn song on repeat.
Your hands stayed folded tightly in your lap.
Grace finally sighed through her nose and leaned back against the wall again.
“I’m not trying to scare you,” she said.
You didn’t answer.
Her gaze drifted briefly toward the nurses’ station before returning to you. “People like to pretend hope’s enough.” A small shake of her head. “It ain’t.”
Something in her voice had changed slightly.
Not softer.
Just tired in a way you recognized.
“You think I like talking like this?” she asked quietly. “I don’t.”
Your eyes lifted toward her again.
She looked a way you had never seen from her. Less guarded. Not open, per se. But closer to human than sharp edges and suspicion.
“People like each other,” she continued. “They get attached. Then something goes wrong and suddenly nobody’s thinkin’ straight anymore.”
The words pressed strangely against your ribs. She wasn’t really talking about people. She hadn’t been. She was talking about Kit. Maybe herself too.
Grace crossed her arms tighter. “Kit already trusts you.”
Your stomach tightened faintly.
“That means I need to know if I can.”
The honesty of it caught you more off guard than the interrogation had.
You looked down at your hands again.
The truth sat ugly and heavy in your chest: you didn’t know if she could.
Didn’t know if Kit should.
Silence stretched between you again.
Then, quietly:
“I used to be better.”
Grace frowned slightly. “At what?”
“Staying here.”
You tapped two fingers lightly against your knee. As if grounding yourself without thinking.
“I’ve been losing things,” Your voice stayed low and careful. “Conversations and... stuff.” A pause. “More than before.”
Grace studied you carefully after that.
Not pitying.
Assessing.
But no longer dismissive either.
“That because of this place,” she asked, “or were you like that before?”
The question settled heavily between you.
Your fingers stilled against your knee.
For a second, you almost said nothing again.
That would’ve been easier.
But something about the way Grace was looking at you now—not cruel, not careful either—made the words slip out before you could stop them.
“I was worse before Briarcliff.”
Grace stayed quiet.
You swallowed once.
“The years before here...” Your voice thinned slightly. “Sometimes I’d lose weeks and months.” A faint shake of your head. “People would talk to me and it was like I never even heard them. Sometimes I’d wake up somewhere different, not knowing how I got there.”
The common room blurred softly at the edges for a second before settling again.
You forced yourself to keep going.
“When Pepper got brought here...” Your throat tightened. “I started trying harder.”
Her brows furrowed. “Trying what?”
“To stay.”
Simple answer.
Honest one.
You stared down at your hands.
“I practiced.” A humorless little breath escaped you. “Grounding. Counting things. Holding onto conversations.” Your fingers curled slightly. “I got better.”
At least, you thought you did.
“Pepper needed me to.”
The words came out almost automatic.
Like that alone explained everything.
Grace’s expression shifted subtly after that, like she was listening differently now.
Maybe it did explain things.
And then, quieter:
“I don’t know why I’m getting bad again.”
Again, Grace was quiet for a while after that.
Not uncomfortable quiet.
Thinking quiet.
The kind that settled like four feet of snow after a blizzard.
The common room felt oddly quiet now. Like it felt the silence between the two of you.
You kept your eyes on your hands.
Grace finally spoke.
“This place wears people down on purpose.”
You looked up slightly.
“They drug you, isolate you, treat you like an animal long enough...” She shrugged faintly. “Eventually people stop fighting to stay themselves. They stop caring.”
Something about hearing someone else say it made your chest ache.
Because you’ve seen it happen. Because you’d felt it. Every day.
Grace studied your expression for another second before adding, quieter this time:
“But the fact you noticed means you’re still here.”
The words caught somewhere deep inside you.
Not comforting.
Not exactly.
But they were different than the others.
You didn’t realize how badly you’d needed someone to say that until now.
It made your heart pound.
Grace pushed herself off the wall before the silence could turn heavy again. “Doesn’t mean you get to stop trying, though.”
There she was again.
Sharp edges. Practical. Controlled.
But not cruel. Not really.
You nodded once.
“I know.”
Grace looked at you, but it was different this time. It was assessment, more so consideration.
Like she had written you off yet.
And that meant something.
Occupational therapy was quieter in the afternoons.
Pencils scraped across paper in uneven rhythms while orderlies paced between tables pretending to supervise. Rain tapped faintly against the high windows, turning the light gray and flat.
Kit sat heavily into the chair across from Pepper, rolling the stiffness from one shoulder as he glanced at the papers scattered across the table.
Pepper barely noticed him sit down.
Her pencil moved in slow loops across the page.
Circle after circle after circle.
Not drawing anything.
Just repeating the shape until the paper had started to tear beneath the pressure.
Kit watched for a second before speaking.
“You get that from Twirly?”
Pepper looked up immediately at the nickname.
Then nodded.
“It reminds me of her.”
The words made something tighten in Kit’s chest.
Pepper looked back down and traced another circle carefully over the last.
“She’s been getting bad again.”
Kit’s brow furrowed slightly. “What makes you say that?”
Pepper shrugged one shoulder.
“Her eyes go quiet more.”
That phrase again.
Not asleep. Not gone.
Quiet.
Kit leaned back slightly in his chair. Getting worse?
The thought sat wrong, ringing around in his head.
How hadn’t he noticed that?
Pepper suddenly stopped drawing.
“The nice doctor asked about her.”
Kit looked up.
Something in his expression must’ve shifted because Pepper blinked.
“The one with the soft voice,” she added. “He said he wants to help Twirly stay here.”
A cold feeling settled slowly into Kit’s stomach.
Because somehow, that didn’t sound right at all.
Kit’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“The nice doctor?” he repeated carefully.
Pepper nodded, still turning the pencil slowly between her fingers.
“The one with the soft voice.”
A face surfaced in Kit’s mind.
The man from yesterday. Clipboard in hand. Watching the yard like he was looking for something specific.
Watching her.
Kit leaned forward a little, grabbing a pencil off the table. “Black hair?”
Pepper brightened instantly. “Yeah! Him.”
Something uneasy curled tighter in Kit’s stomach.
He tried not to show it.
“What’d he want?”
Pepper shrugged. “Just talked.”
“That all?”
“Mhm.” She traced another circle absentmindedly near the edge of the page. “He asked about Twirly. Asked if she always gets quiet like that.”
He frowned.
“And you told him?”
Pepper looked confused by the question. “He’s a doctor.”
Simple answer.
Matter-of-fact.
Not defensive.
Just obvious to her.
“He listens better than the others,” she added after a second, voice softer now. “Doesn’t yell.”
That hit harder than Kit expected.
Because around Briarcliff, not yelling probably did feel like kindness.
Pepper’s pencil moved across the paper again.
“He looked sad when I talked about her.”
Kit doubted that.
But Pepper said it with such certainty he didn’t argue.
Instead he glanced down at the page between them.
Circles layered over circles until they almost looked like bruises pressed into the paper.
His jaw tightened faintly.
“What’s his name?” he asked.
Pepper tilted her head.
Then smiled a little.
“Doctor Thredson.”
Pepper’s smile faded just a little as she looked back down at the paper.
“He’s nicer than the others,” she said quietly.
Then, after a pause:
“But Miss Elsa used to smile like that too when she wanted somethin’.”
Kit didn't know what to say.
He didn't have to.
Pepper continued drawing circles, layering graphite over graphite.
“He watches people when they ain’t looking.”
Kit’s brow furrowed faintly.
Pepper shrugged one shoulder.
“Like how you watch Twirly.”
Kit went still.
Not dramatic.
Not enough that anyone across the room would notice.
But Pepper did.
His fingers tightened once around the dull pencil in his hand before loosening again.
The occupational therapy room suddenly felt louder than before. Pencils scraping paper. Chairs dragging across tile. An orderly coughing somewhere behind him.
Pepper kept drawing like she hadn’t just said something that lodged directly into his ribs.
Like you watch Twirly.
Kit stared down at the circles covering her paper.
One inside another.
Over and over.
His jaw worked faintly.
“I ain’t—” he started automatically.
Then stopped.
Because he didn’t actually know how to finish that sentence.
Pepper finally looked up at him again.
Not suspicious.
Just curious.
Kit didn’t know how to respond.
Because he had been watching her.
But not like that.
Not how people were watched in Briarcliff.
Not the way doctors stared through patients instead of at them. Not the way orderlies monitored movements like waiting for someone to snap.
That wasn’t what this was.
He watched because sometimes she looked lost before she realized it.
Because sometimes her hands shook when the room got too loud.
Because sometimes her eyes drifted somewhere far away and he hated how nobody else seemed to notice when it happened.
Or maybe they noticed and just didn’t care.
Pepper kept looking at him patiently, waiting.
Kit rubbed his thumb against the side of the pencil.
“She just...” He exhaled quietly through his nose. “Ain’t nobody lookin’ out for her in here.”
Pepper’s expression softened immediately.
“’cept you,” she said.
That one hit him harder than he expected.
Because he still wasn’t sure when that had become true.
Neither of them spoke for a few beats.
“He asked what brings her back when she goes away.” Pepper said.
Kit’s eyes lifted immediately.
“What?”
Pepper shrugged lightly, still tracing the pencil along the edge of the paper.
“When her eyes go quiet.” She glanced toward him. “The doctor wanted to know what helps.”
Something cold settled slowly into Kit’s stomach.
Pepper continued before he could respond.
“I told him hugs usually work.”
Kit’s jaw tightened faintly.
Not because Pepper had done anything wrong.
Because the conversation suddenly felt too personal.
Too interested.
Doctors here usually didn’t care enough to ask questions like that.
They sedated people. Restrained them. Dragged them room to room.
They didn’t try to understand them.
Which meant this Doctor Thredson either cared far too much—
—or wanted something.
And Kit wasn’t sure which possibility bothered him more.
The common room had grown quieter.
Not truly quiet.
Briarcliff never was.
But quieter in the way storms sometimes calmed before getting worse.
The radio had gone to static again. Rain still tapped softly against the windows. A few patients wandered aimlessly between chairs while others sat slumped half-asleep beneath the dull hum of fluorescent lights.
Grace was gone.
You weren’t sure when she’d left.
Your fingers traced slowly against the seam of your skirt. Back and forth. Back and forth.
Grounding.
Trying to.
Your eyes lingered on the rain crawling down the glass.
One drop splitting into two.
Then four.
Then gone.
The room softened around the edges again.
Voices blurred.
The static from the radio stretched long and hollow in your ears until it almost sounded like distant applause—
The loud clearing of a throat.
You flinched hard enough your arm knocked against the arm of the couch.
Sister Jude stood over you.
Her expression tightened faintly at the reaction.
Not sympathy.
Assessment.
“Come with me.”
Your throat felt dry. The staff taking you somewhere was never good, but when it was Sister Jude? Even worse.
For you, at least.
Routine changes were rarely good here. The thought made your stomach twist.
Sister Jude turned sharply, expecting you to follow.
You stood quickly and moved after her, careful not to fall too far behind as her heels clicked crisply against the tile.
The hallway felt colder than the common room.
Or maybe you were colder now.
“You have another appointment with Dr. Thredson,” Jude said without looking at you. “He requested the session be moved forward.”
Something uneasy shifted low in your stomach.
You kept your eyes fixed ahead.
“Oh.”
Jude’s gaze flicked toward you briefly then away again.
“He seems to have taken quite an interest in your case.”
The words made your shoulders tense instinctively.
Not because of what she said.
Because of how she said it.
Like interest itself was dangerous.
“He thinks you’re special.”
Your chest tightened faintly.
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead.
You remembered the way Thredson watched during hydrotherapy.
Your first session with him.
The voice.
The questions.
At the time you thought it was routine for him.
Special.
The word sat wrong inside you.
Special patients got watched more closely.
Taken away into private rooms for things most of the staff didn’t even know.
Experimented on.
It happened to you once with Arden. It had finally slowed down.
You swallowed once.
“I’m not,” you said quietly.
Sister Jude’s mouth pressed into a thin line.
“No,” she said after a moment. “Most likely not.”
But she didn’t sound convinced.
You swallowed once.
Sister Jude noticed.
“Dr. Thredson is considered very promising in his field,” she said crisply. “You should be grateful someone is willing to invest time in your treatment.”
Treatment.
The word scraped strangely against your ribs.
Jude slowed briefly near the end of the hallway, turning toward a heavy wooden door.
“And I would advise you,” she added sharply, “not to mistake professional attention for kindness.”
It felt like a weight had been placed on your chest.
Because the truth was, you hadn’t known what to mistake it for.
Sister Jude stopped outside the office door.
You hadn’t realized how tense your shoulders were until she knocked twice against the wood and the sound made your pulse jump.
“Your appointment,” she said flatly through the door.
A beat passed.
Then:
“Come in.” Dr. Thredson’s voice was smooth as warm honey.
Sister Jude opened the door without another word.
The office smelled faintly of coffee and paper instead of bleach.
It shouldn’t have felt different from the rest of Briarcliff.
But it did.
The lamps cast softer light than the fluorescents outside. A radio hummed low somewhere in the corner, barely loud enough to know that it wasn’t that same song in the common room.
Carefully arranged comfort.
It was odd.
But welcomed.
“Thank you, Sister Jude.”
Thredson stood as you entered.
Polite.
Calm.
His dark eyes settled on you immediately, attentive enough that it almost felt rehearsed.
Jude left without responding. The door shut firmly behind you.
And suddenly the room felt much smaller.
“I appreciate you coming,” Thredson said gently.
That made something tighten—just slightly—in your chest.
You weren't sure why.
Slowly, you lowered yourself into the chair across from his desk.
The cushions sank beneath your weight.
Too soft.
The room felt too warm.
Too quiet.
Like it was trying very hard not to be Briarcliff.
Thredson sat down across from you and opened a folder.
Your folder.
The sight of it made your stomach twist.
His eyes flicked briefly over the page before returning to you.
“How have you been since we last spoke?”
The question sounded simple.
You knew better.
You looked down at your hands.
“Fine.”
A lie.
Not a very good one.
But he didn't challenge it. Didn't even acknowledge it.
Maybe he expected that.
“Observation has been difficult lately.” He folded his hands together atop the desk.
Your fingers froze.
Just for a second.
Then resumed picking lightly at the seam of your gown.
“You've been watching.”
The words slipped out before you could stop them. You used to never talk. Now you felt like you had trouble stopping.
A small smile touched the corner of his mouth.
“That's part of my job.”
You weren't sure if that made you feel better or worse.
Silence settled briefly between you.
Not necessarily uncomfortable.
Intentional.
Like he was waiting to see what you would do with it.
Eventually, he spoke again.
“You seem tired.”
Your shoulders stiffened. It wasn't an accusation. And that somehow made it harder.
“Most people are.”
“That's true,” his agreement came easily. No argument. No correction. “Most people aren't worried about getting worse.”
Your eyes lifted before you could stop them.
Immediately, you regretted it.
Because he noticed. Of course he did.
That too was part of his job.
Thredson's expression didn't change.
But something sharpened behind his eyes.
Interest.
“You are worried,” he said quietly.
It wasn’t a question.
You looked away first.
The sun was bright against the window, golden rays skimming your skin.
The radio continued humming a song that you weren’t familiar with.
You focused on that instead.
The beat. The rhythm. The melody.
The rasp of the singer’s voice.
Anything except the feeling of being understood too quickly.
After a long moment, you nodded.
Just once.
Just slightly.
Thredson leaned back in his chair.
Not triumphant.
But patient.
As though this tiny admission mattered far more than it should.
“Tell me why.”
And there it is.
The first real door he asks you to open.
You stared at the thread you’d been picking at.
For a moment, you thought about lying again.
Saying you didn't know.
Saying it wasn't important.
But he would know.
"I lose things."
The words sounded strange once they were out.
Thredson didn't interrupt.
"Time." Your fingers twisted together. "Conversations."
You swallowed.
"Sometimes memories."
His expression softened.
Like he understood.
Like he wanted to listen.
Somehow that made it easier.
"I used to notice when it happened."
Your voice had gone quieter now.
"Now sometimes I don't."
A pause.
"I forget I've forgotten."
Your throat burned and stomach twisted up with regret.
The words were out now.
Too late to take back.
You stared at your hands, suddenly wishing you had said nothing at all.
Wishing you had kept your mouth shut.
The radio hummed softly in the corner.
The singer's voice blurred into the background again.
You focused on the loose thread beneath your thumb instead.
Anything except looking up.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Then:
"That sounds exhausting."
Your fingers stopped moving.
Completely.
The loose thread slipped from between your fingertips.
For a second, you forgot about the radio.
Forgot about the sunlight spilling across the floor.
Forgot about the file sitting open on his desk.
The words hit harder than they should have.
Not because they were kind.
Because they were true.
Exhausting.
You spent so much time trying to stay.
Trying to remember.
Trying to notice when pieces went missing.
Trying to make sure Pepper never had to wonder where you'd gone.
Trying to be present.
Trying.
The effort never stopped.
Nobody had ever said it out loud before.
Your throat tightened.
Slowly, you looked up.
Thredson didn't look triumphant.
Didn't look curious.
If anything, he looked concerned.
"You shouldn't have to carry that by yourself."
Something in your chest tightened unexpectedly.
You weren't sure whether to laugh.
Or leave.
Or say thank you.
None of those felt right.
So you said nothing at all.
"When did you start noticing it getting worse?"
You frowned.
The question sounded simple.
It wasn't.
Your fingers found the seam of your gown again.
When did you start noticing it getting worse?
The radio hummed softly somewhere behind him.
You thought about arriving to Briarcliff.
The common room.
Observation.
Arden’s interest.
The tree.
Pepper.
The memories that seemed to be finding their way back more often now.
None of it felt like the beginning.
Not really.
You swallowed.
"I don't know."
Thredson waited.
No interruption.
No correction.
Just that same steady patience.
"I guess..."
Your brow furrowed.
"I guess around when Kit came around."
The words sounded wrong as soon as you said them.
Not wrong.
Just incomplete.
Like there was something important missing from the explanation.
Thredson remained quiet.
Listening.
"Mr. Walker."
You nodded.
"He sits with me sometimes."
Sometimes.
The understatement almost made you smile.
"He asks questions."
Your gaze drifted toward the window.
The sunlight had shifted again.
"I remember things more when he asks."
The admission came before you could stop it.
Your stomach tightened immediately afterward.
Thredson's eyes sharpened ever so slightly.
"Things from before?"
You nodded.
"The Freak Show."
Pepper.
Jimmy.
The stage.
Things you spent years trying not to think about.
Or couldn't.
You weren't always sure which.
Your thumb rubbed against the seam again.
"Maybe remembering more is making it worse."
Silence settled.
Not the uncomfortable kind.
The kind that made you think too much.
Then:
"You spend a great deal of time with Mr. Walker."
You blinked.
The observation caught you off guard.
"A little."
One corner of Thredson's mouth twitched.
Not quite a smile.
"A little." He repeated.
Heat crept into your face before you understood why.
You looked away.
"He talks to me."
The moment the words left your mouth, you wished they hadn't.
Because they sounded childish.
Stupid.
Like you were trying to justify something.
Thredson didn't laugh.
Didn't dismiss it.
He simply tilted his head slightly.
"And most people don't?"
The question was gentle.
Almost casual.
Which somehow made it harder to answer.
Because the truth was embarrassingly simple.
Most people talked around you.
About you.
At you.
Kit talked to you. With you.
Your gaze dropped back to your hands.
The seam of the gown. The loose thread.
"I don't know." Your voice came out quieter than before. "It feels different."
The admission settled heavily between you.
Different.
Not better.
Not worse.
Just...
Different.
You struggled to find words for it.
Most people eventually stopped asking questions when you couldn't answer them.
Or they answered for you.
Or they decided whatever was wrong with you was too complicated to bother understanding.
Kit didn't seem to do that.
He just...
Stayed.
The thought made your heart pound.
Across from you, Thredson remained silent.
Listening.
Waiting.
You were beginning to suspect that he was very good at it.
"He remembers things I tell him."
You frowned slightly.
Or maybe that wasn't quite right.
"I mean..." Your fingers twisted together. "He listens."
The moment the words left your mouth, they felt important somehow.
You weren't entirely sure why.
Thredson watched you for a moment.
Then:
"Do you think being listened to makes it easier to remember?"
You blinked.
The question caught you off guard.
Your first instinct was to say no.
Because those things didn't seem related.
One was memory.
The other was...
Something else.
Your brows knit together. Thinking.
The radio continued its soft hum from the corner.
You thought about the tree.
About circles drawn into the dirt.
About Kit asking questions and then actually waiting for the answer.
Even when the answer took a while.
Even when you forgot what you were saying halfway through.
Your fingers tightened together.
"I don't know."
A pause.
Then:
"Maybe."
The word came out small.
Uncertain.
Thredson didn't rush to fill the silence.
Didn't tell you whether you were right or wrong.
You found yourself continuing anyway.
"Most people don't wait."
Your eyes dropped back to your lap.
"They decide what I mean before I say it."
The admission surprised you.
You weren't sure where it came from.
Or why you'd said it.
But once it was out, you couldn't take it back.
For a moment, the room was quiet.
Then Thredson nodded once.
Not dramatically.
Just enough to show he'd heard you.
"And Mr. Walker waits."
Not a question.
An observation.
A simple one.
Yet somehow it felt like he'd noticed something you hadn't.
"Earlier you said things seemed to get worse around the time Mr. Walker entered your life."
He adjusted just slightly in his chair.
"Yet you describe him as someone who helps you stay present."
You frowned.
It sounded silly when he said it.
Contradictory.
You just hadn't known how to explain it.
Your fingers found the seam of your gown again.
"I think..."
The words stalled.
You looked down.
Then tried again.
"I think I notice it more."
Thredson remained silent.
Listening.
Waiting.
You hated how much easier his patience made talking.
You swallowed.
"Before..."
Your brow furrowed.
"Before, I'd lose time and not think about it."
The radio turned to static.
"Or I'd realize hours later and just..."
You shrugged.
"Keep going."
There wasn't much else to do.
You couldn't get the time back.
You couldn't remember what you forgot.
So eventually you learned not to dwell on it.
"Now I notice."
Your voice had gone quieter.
You stared at your hands.
"Because people notice."
People.
Not just Kit.
Pepper.
Grace.
Even yourself.
More than before.
A long pause followed.
Then:
"When I forget something now..."
Your throat tightened.
"I... I care."
The static in the radio seemed to settle rather than fade.
Thredson didn’t speak immediately.
His gaze stayed on you—steady, unreadable in a way that didn’t feel unkind.
Then, carefully:
“You care.”
Not a question.
A reflection.
Like he was testing the shape of the words in the air between you.
You hesitated.
Your fingers tightened in your lap again, like you were only just realizing you’d said something you weren’t supposed to say.
Thredson didn’t press.
Instead, he tilted his head slightly.
“When you say you care…” he continued gently, “what exactly are you afraid of losing?”
The question landed differently than the others.
Not broad.
Not abstract.
Specific.
Your throat tightened slightly before you could stop it.
Because suddenly it wasn’t about memory anymore.
It wasn’t even about “getting worse.”
It was about what breaking meant now.
Thredson’s voice stayed calm.
Measured.
“Aside from your time,” he added quietly, “what feels most at risk when you notice these gaps?”
The room felt still again.
Not empty.
Focused.
Like everything in it had narrowed down to that single point he’d just placed in front of you.
The question sat between you for a moment.
He didn’t move to fill the silence.
Just waited.
Your throat felt tight again.
“I don’t know,” you said quietly at first.
A pause.
Then, more carefully:
“I think I just… don’t like not remembering.”
Your fingers pressed together in your lap.
“When I can’t tell what happened.”
You swallowed.
“It feels wrong.”
Not dramatic.
Not emotional in an obvious way.
Just… unsettled.
Like something out of place that you can’t quite fix.
Your gaze stayed down.
Thredson didn’t respond immediately.
Instead, he studied you for a moment longer—like he was organizing what you’d said into something usable.
Then he nodded once.
Slowly.
“I see.”
Not dismissive.
Not approving.
Just… noted.
The word sat quietly in the space between you.
“You’re not alone in that feeling,” he added after a beat. “Disturbance in continuity can be deeply unsettling.”
A pause.
Then, more gently:
“But it’s also something we can work with.”
He reached forward slightly, closing your file partway without fully shutting it.
A subtle end to the focus.
“For now,” he said, voice easing back into something more procedural, “I think that’s enough for today.”
Your stomach tightened faintly at the shift.
Not because he was cold. Because he wasn’t.
He looked back up at you.
“And I’d like you to notice something for me before next time.”
The tone remained calm. Almost casual.
“Specifically,” he continued, “whether those moments feel more frequent when you’re with certain people.”
A brief pause. The faintest emphasis on the last word.
Then:
“We’ll continue this soon.”
Not a dismissal. Not a release. A continuation.
You nodded faintly.
The words “we’ll continue this soon” lingered longer than they should have. Then you stood. The chair made a soft sound against the floor as you pushed it back.
Thredson rose as well, professional again in an instant.
He opened the door for you.
“Thank you for your time,” he said gently. Not cold. Not distant. Carefully measured.
You stepped into the hallway. The light outside felt sharper than it had before. Behind you, the door closed softly. Click. And then you were gone.
Thredson remained standing for a moment after the door shut. The room felt different without her in it. Not empty. Just… less structured.
He exhaled slowly through his nose, then turned back to his desk. The file lay open where it had been the entire session. He didn’t sit immediately. Instead, he picked up his pen. Paused. Then began to write.
Clinical Notes — Patient ███
Subject demonstrates increasing difficulty maintaining temporal continuity. Self-reporting “loss of time,” “missing conversations,” and “inability to track events.”
A pause. The pen hovered slightly before continuing.
Strong emotional response when discussing memory disruption.
Another line. Shorter. More precise.
Notable attachment indicators present.
He paused again. Then added:
Subject associates improvement in recall with interaction involving Patient Kit Walker.
The pen stopped. For a moment, he simply looked at the line. Then, without changing expression, he underlined it once. Not heavily. Just enough to mark it.
He set the pen down carefully. And finally sat. His gaze drifted briefly toward the closed door. Then back to the file.
“Interesting,” he said quietly to himself.
Not pleased. Not concerned. Just certain it was becoming more coherent.
The smell of bleach stung your nose the second you had stepped into the hall. The orderly that had been waiting for you said nothing, just began walking. You followed, a careful three steps behind.
Your shoes scraped the floor with each step. The rhythm made you think about that song again. Whatever one had been playing before the static. It began playing in your head. Rhythm, beat, melody, the raspy voice.
Noise from the cafeteria disrupted it. Dinner must’ve started while you were gone. It was loud. Trays scraping. Voices echoing. Silverware striking metal plates. Normal Briarcliff noise.
After the quiet of Thredson's office, it felt almost overwhelming.
The staff’s faces look more irritated than normal. Or maybe they always looked like that and you just... never noticed.
You moved through the normal motions that ended with a tray in your hands and you walking towards the table.
Kit was already there, mindlessly moving the slop on his tray with his fork.
Looking at him made your heart beat a little faster.
So, you looked away.
The empty seat beside him suddenly seemed much farther away than it should have.
Still, your feet carried you there. Routine. The certainty of it.
You sat down carefully, setting your tray onto the table. For a moment, neither of you spoke. You picked at the food. The food picked back.
Across from you, Kit watched. Not openly. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But enough. You could feel it.
"You're late." His voice was casual. Trying to sound casual.
You nodded, "Yeah." That was all. No explanation.
Your fork dragged through the potatoes. Or whatever passed for potatoes. The silence stretched.
Kit's brow furrowed slightly. Not because you were late. Because normally you would've said something else. An excuse. A story. A shrug. Something.
Instead, you were staring at your tray like it held all the answers.
"Everything alright?"
There it was. The question he'd been trying not to ask.
It should have been an easy answer. You almost laughed. Because you didn't know. Your fork scraped lightly against the tray.
Part of you felt lighter. Like something had finally been set down after carrying it for too long. The pressure in your chest wasn't quite as sharp as it had been that morning. The constant buzzing in the back of your mind felt quieter. For now.
But another part of you felt exposed. Raw.
Like someone had peeled back a layer you normally kept hidden and left it there for the world to see.
You kept hearing yourself talk. Hearing the words after they'd already left your mouth.
I care.
Your stomach twisted. Not because they weren't true. Because they were. And now someone else knew it.
You stared down at your tray. The potatoes. The gray meat. The bent spoon.
Anything but him. Anything but those warm brown eyes that always seemed to notice too much.
"I think so." The answer came out softer than intended.
Honest. As honest as you could manage. Because you weren't entirely sure what was wrong in you. Or what was right.
“I think so.”
The answer should've reassured him. It didn't.
Kit watched you push food around your tray. The same way he'd watched you draw circles beneath the tree. Absent-minded. Like part of your attention was somewhere else.
His brow knit slightly. Maybe nobody else would've noticed. Hell, maybe a few weeks ago he wouldn't have noticed. But he'd gotten used to you.
The little things. The way your eyes usually wandered around the room when you talked. The way your fingers moved when you were thinking. The pauses before answering questions.
This felt different. Not really worse. Just... Different.
You hadn't looked at him once since sitting down. Not really.
And every time he looked away, he caught his eyes drifting right back. Checking. Making sure you were still there. Still listening. Still present.
The thought made something uneasy settle in his stomach.
Across the table, you continued staring at your tray.
Kit glanced toward the orderlies moving through the cafeteria. Then toward the doors. Then back to you.
Late. Quiet. Distracted.
His jaw tightened faintly.
"Where were you?" The question was gentle. Not accusing. Just worried. And maybe a little more curious than before.
You finally looked up. Only for a second.
"Appointment." Then your gaze dropped back to your tray.
Kit's fork stopped moving. "Yeah?"
You nodded. The potatoes became fascinating once more. "With Dr. Thredson."
Kit could’ve guessed that. The doctor from the yard. The one watching. The one Pepper kept talking about.
"How'd that go?"
You hesitated.
The answer should've been easy.
It wasn't.
Your head was beginning to hurt.
That sounds exhausting.
The words echoed back before you could stop them.
You rubbed your thumb against the edge of the tray. "He asked questions."
Kit huffed a quiet laugh. "That's usually what doctors do."
The corner of your mouth twitched despite yourself. Just barely. "Yeah."
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Then:
"He listened," The words slipped out before you could stop them.
Kit blinked. Then gave a small nod, "That's good."
You looked up.
His expression was genuine. No teasing. No skepticism. Just relief. Like that was the answer he'd been hoping for.
"You seemed pretty nervous before."
Your fingers paused against the tray.
"I was."
"Yeah." Kit nodded slowly.
He could understand that. Hell, he'd been nervous talking to doctors before. Especially in a place like this.
"Did it help?"
The question was simple. Honest. And somehow harder to answer than the others.
You thought about the office. The sunlight. The radio.
The way Thredson had sat there patiently while you searched for words.
You thought about how exposed you'd felt. How relieved. How uncomfortable. How understood. All at once.
"I... think so." The answer came slowly. But it was true.
Kit's shoulders loosened slightly. Not enough that most people would notice. But enough that you did.
"Good."
Just that. Good.
No questions about what you'd discussed. No digging. No trying to pry information out of you.
Just relief that you weren't coming back looking frightened.
The conversation drifted after that. Nothing important. Nothing heavy. Just enough to fill the space between bites of terrible food.
The cafeteria remained loud around you. Orderlies shouting. Trays scraping. Someone laughing too loudly from across the room.
You glanced up.
Kit was looking at you.
You could still see remnants of concern etched between his eyebrows.
But still, he smiled at you. Small. Crooked.
The kind of smile that seemed to appear before he even realized he was doing it.
For a second, you just stared. Then the corner of your own mouth lifted. Not much. But enough.
The concern didn't leave his face, but his eyes softened.
And something in your chest loosened.
Maybe Thredson was right. Maybe being listened to helped. Maybe being seen did too.
The cafeteria remained loud around you. But, you didn't really mind.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Saints, Sinners, and Sleepwalkers | Kit Walker x Reader
Series Masterlist Here
7k words
Expect Disturbing Themes
Chapter 5: Patterns of Attachment
The knock at the door was sharp. No hesitation, no warning. Just three hard raps against the glass pane of Thredson’s office, followed by the door creaking open before he could answer.
Arden didn’t wait for an invitation.
He stepped inside, crisp and cold in both demeanor and posture, a file clenched tightly in one gloved hand.
Oliver looked up from his notes, the faintest smile already curling at his lips. “Arthur. To what do I owe the—?”
“You altered one of my patient files,” Arden cut in, lifting the folder like evidence in a courtroom. “Without authorization.”
Oliver blinked once. Then leaned back in his chair with that practiced calm he wore like a second skin. “If you’re referring to the—”
“I am,” Arden snapped, lifting the file slightly. “And while the Church may have welcomed your position here, do not forget—you are not her attending physician. I am.”
Oliver gave a small shrug, folding his hands in his lap. “And yet your treatment approach was clearly outdated. She was misdiagnosed. I made a note.”
“You rewrote half the damn chart,” Arden hissed. He was still standing—he hadn’t even closed the door behind him—and his voice stayed quiet only out of necessity. “You overruled multiple reports. Adjusted treament orders. And you’re not even trying to hide it.”
Oliver raised an eyebrow. “Because I’m not ashamed of doing what’s best for her.”
That earned a sharp exhale from Arden—something dangerously close to laughter. He stepped forward once, his grip on the file tightening.
“You’re overstepping,” he said, voice low and clipped.
Oliver tilted his head, still calm, but there was a flicker of interest behind his eyes now. “She’s not responding to your methods. You’ve seen it. Catatonia, dissociation, complete withdrawal. What you call treatment, I call stagnation.”
Arden’s jaw tightened. “You think you’re the first outsider to walk in here thinking they’ve ‘discovered’ something special? You’re not. You’re just the latest fool trying to play savior.”
Oliver’s smile returned—thinner this time. Sharper. “Maybe I’m not the first,” he said, voice light. “But I might be the last. Especially if I’m right about her.”
Arden’s eyes narrowed. “Right about what?”
Oliver leaned in slightly—not with warmth, but calculation. Like he was offering a diagnosis, not a confidence. “Her mind. The trauma that split it. She’s not schizophrenic. Not possessed. She’s protecting something.”
A pause.
“And if I can reach that part of her…”
He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to.
Arden’s voice went cold. “She’s not your experiment, Thredson.”
Oliver stood, slow and deliberate. Unshaken. “No,” he said. “She’s a person. And that’s something I don’t think you’ve ever quite understood.”
The silence that followed was brittle. Taut. A single breath would’ve shattered it like glass.
Arden took a step forward.
“You seem awfully invested in one patient,” he said, voice low and deliberate. “Is this truly about diagnosis—or are you just looking for something else?”
Oliver’s smile lingered a moment too long before it slipped. Not fully—just enough for the air to shift. The slight narrowing of his eyes. The tick of his jaw beneath calm restraint.
“Careful,” he said, quieter now. Not a threat. Not exactly. “You’re toeing the line between suspicion and slander.”
Arden only lifted an eyebrow. “Am I?”
“She’s not stable,” Oliver continued, regaining his poise. “But she’s not a lost cause either. You write her off like she’s a slab of spoiled meat, but I’ve seen it. She’s responsive when approached correctly.”
“Responsive,” Arden echoed, voice laced with disdain. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”
Oliver’s fingers curled at his side before relaxing. “Her condition is the result of long-term trauma. Not hysteria. Not demonic possession. And certainly not a need for any of the treatments you’ve assigned.”
Arden tilted his head slightly, watching him now as if dissecting him with his eyes alone. “You’re speaking awfully personally, Oliver.”
Silence stretched between them. Not awkward—weighted.
Then Oliver sat back down, smoothing the front of his jacket like settling a mask back into place. “I’m invested in the truth. Nothing more.”
“Of course,” Arden scoffed, dropping the file onto the desk. “Well. If she ends up in worse condition under your care, I’ll be sure to let the Monsignor know exactly who’s responsible.”
Arden turned and the door opened with a slow groan, then clicked shut behind him.
For a moment, the room was silent again.
Oliver didn’t move. Just stared at the folder on his desk.
Then—calmly, quietly—he reached out and turned it toward him.
And opened it again.
The day crawled on in its usual rhythm—meals, silence, supervision. Patients were moved from room to room like pieces on a board no one was playing to win. Nothing seemed urgent on the surface, but something had shifted beneath it. A cold current threading its way through the halls, silent and slow.
Oliver returned to his rounds like nothing had happened. Arden disappeared into the east wing, muttering to a nurse about equipment repairs and noncompliant orders. Staff walked a little faster. The air smelled faintly of bleach.
By the afternoon, the ward had settled into a dull hush.
The door to his office clicked open. Pepper was led in by a nurse—gently, almost apologetically. Her steps were small, cautious, but her eyes flicked curiously around the room, settling on the man seated behind the desk.
Oliver stood, smoothing down his tie in a practiced motion. “Pepper, is it?” he said, voice light and professional. “Please, come sit. There’s no need to be nervous.”
She glanced at the chair, then at him, then slowly moved to sit. Her hands stayed folded in her lap, twitching now and then.
He retrieved a file from his desk and opened it with deliberate precision. “This is just a simple check-in,” he began. “No poking, no needles. I just want to talk.”
Pepper didn’t respond. Her eyes were on a spot on the floor now, lips pressed tightly together.
Quietly, he made a note.
“Will you speak with me, Pepper?” he asked after a moment.
Still no answer.
Oliver leaned back slightly, watching her. The room was quiet enough that the clock ticking on the wall felt invasive.
Then, with a soft exhale, he closed the file and set it aside.
“Well,” he said, his tone softening. “You remind me of my little sister. She didn’t like doctors either. Especially ones who ask too many questions.”
That made her eyes lift—just a little.
He smiled, gently. “That’s better. See? No tricks here. Just two people talking.”
Pepper’s eyes hovered on his face now. Still cautious, but present.
He leaned forward just slightly, elbows on the desk, his voice lowering to something gentler. “Do you have any friends here, Pepper?”
She nodded, a quick, sharp little motion.
“Who’s your best friend?” he asked, pen poised above his notes but not moving yet.
Pepper’s face lit up with the smallest smile. “Twirly.”
Oliver blinked. “Twirly?”
Pepper nodded again, more certain this time. “She bends. Like this,” She lifted her arms, mimicking an exaggerated arch. “Pretty.”
“And how long have you known her?” he asked. “Is she someone you met here?”
Pepper shook her head. “Nuh-uh, with Miss Elsa.”
He made a small, thoughtful note.
“You were together before Briarcliff?”
She hesitated—then gave a slow, sad nod. “It was going all wrong. He took Twirly and she never came back.”
Oliver paused. Slowly, he looked up at Pepper. “He took her?”
Her fingers twisted into her gown. “Jimmy was mad. It was the biggest fight they ever had,” she sniffled but didn’t cry. Just blinked hard and kept talking, voice soft and flat, like it had been said too many times in her head already. “After that… everyone knew somethin’ was wrong, but no one but me seemed to care.”
Oliver tilted his head slightly. This was more than expected. “This man who took her… was it Jimmy?”
Pepper shook her head, lips pressing into a thin line. “Dell.” The word came out like a stone dropped in water. Heavy. Certain. “He said he was helping. But he didn’t ask nobody. Just—" She mimed a grabbing motion with her hands. “—poof. Gone.”
Oliver quickly scribbled something in his notes. “And Jimmy?” he asked, keeping his tone careful, almost gentle. “He fought with Dell?”
Pepper nodded again. “Yelled so loud the mirrors cracked.” She blinked. “Not really. Just thought they did.”
Her fingers found a loose thread at her sleeve. “Jimmy said she was family. That Dell didn’t get to decide things.” She wrinkled her nose. “But Dell always thought he could. ‘Cause he’s big and loud and mean.”
Oliver's pen slowed.
“Do you think she knew what was happening?” he asked.
Pepper didn’t answer right away.
“I think she knew she couldn’t stop it.”
He paused, eyes narrowing slightly. The pen tapped once against the page. “Has ‘Twirly’ always had these episodes?”
She tilted her head.
“When it seems like she’s not even in the room,” he clarified, “When she goes away.”
“When her eyes go quiet,” Pepper corrected softly, nodding. “It started before she joined Miss Elsa. I have to hug her real tight to get her back.”
Oliver’s lips slowly curled into a smile. “You sound like a good friend.”
Pepper perked up slightly at that, shoulders straightening.
He glanced at his notes again. “Do you know what made her that way? Was there something bad that happened?”
Pepper’s smile faded. She didn’t speak for a while, just shifted in her seat, picking at her thumb.
He waited—carefully neutral. Then, gently: “You can tell me. It might help her.”
Pepper’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Twirly didn’t talk ‘bout it much. Only to Jimmy. He used to say the world was unfair to her before she was even a freak.”
“Did she like Jimmy?”
She nodded.
He didn’t press. Not yet. Instead, he softened further. “And how do you think she feels about you?”
Pepper blinked at him, confused.
He gently cleared his throat, “I mean—if she were here, sitting where you are—what would she say about you?”
Pepper smiled again. Brighter this time. “She loves me. Always.”
That was enough for now.
Oliver made another note, then folded his hands on the desk. “Thank you, Pepper. You’ve helped me understand a lot today.”
She looked pleased.
But as the nurse arrived to lead her out, she glanced back once at him. The kind smile he wore hadn’t changed.
Still, something lingered in her eyes. Not fear—not yet. But the smallest trace of doubt.
Oliver waited until the door clicked softly shut behind Pepper before turning back to his desk. The kind smile he’d worn dissolved at once, his jaw loosening, shoulders settling into a posture that was colder, truer. The performance was over.
He uncapped his pen with a slow, deliberate motion and pulled the notepad closer. His handwriting was precise—tight, controlled, almost elegant in its austerity.
Subject: “Pepper” (Evaluation re: Patient ███)
— Displays strong emotional attachment to Subject ███.
— Repeated use of nickname “Twirly” history predates institutionalization.
— Confirms shared time in traveling performance group—“Miss Elsa” & “Freaks” (note: find official name from archives).
— Cognitive assessment inconsistent. Childlike, but responses imply greater awareness than previously documented.
— Protective instincts notable. Could be exploited for leverage.
— Appears unaware of deeper triggers in Subject ███’s condition. No direct reference to trauma mentioned, though implied.
— When prompted about dissociation episodes, described as “when her eyes go quiet.” Language imprecise, but emotionally resonant.
He paused, tapping his pen once, twice, against the margin.
Conclusion: While limited in clinical vocabulary, Pepper’s insights are emotionally reliable. Relationship with Subject ███ is exploitable. Use with caution—risk of emotional retaliation from ███ if perceived threat to Pepper arises. Further observation necessary. Consider introduction of mild stressor to evaluate protective response.
He closed the folder with a soft snap and leaned back in his chair, a faint smile tugging at his lips. The mask of gentleness no longer weighed on him; in the quiet, his voice was almost affectionate.
“She’ll come to me,” he murmured, savoring the words. “They always do, eventually.”
Leaning forward again, Oliver clicked his pen. At the upper corner of the page, he pressed the tip to paper and, with a little too much pressure, scrawled a single word. The ink dug deep into the fibers of the page, black and final.
Jimmy.
Heat from large stage lights bathed your skin. Sequins scratched against your arms. The audiences’ bated breath filled the tent. Then, the music started. Quiet and soft at first. A mix of elegance and haunt.
Your arms pulled up, fabric stretching around your shoulders. One leg stretched out, your foot dragging against the stage. Your muscles flexed and stretched until they were burning as your body twisted and folded.
People oo’d and aw’d. Some leered at you while others cringed and grimaced.
But you didn’t see them. Didn’t hear them. You only heard the beating of your heart and each breath you took.
The tent blurred at the edges. Lights streaked and warped. The gasps of the crowd warped into something like waves crashing against your skull. You folded yourself tighter, bone against bone, skin biting skin, until the ache in your body was the only tether left.
And then—
The tent was gone.
A flicker. A blink. The world snapped cold and sterile. Linoleum under your cheek. The hum of fluorescent lights. A faint cough from somewhere across the room.
You weren’t on the stage anymore. You were in Observation.
And your body was wrong—twisted, folded, bent tight against itself.
It wasn’t supposed to be like that. You never moved during observation, you’d been practicing since Pepper came back into your life.
Were you getting worse? Taking steps back? Why? How could you ever protect her if—
A voice cut in, sharp and impatient.
You flinched, looking up too fast. An orderly stood in the doorway, annoyance etched across his face. You hadn’t heard the door open. Had he been standing there? You weren’t even sure what was said.
You shook it off. You were good at that.
Slowly, you stood, careful with your aching joints and protesting muscles.
The orderly didn’t speak or look at you again. Simply turned and began walking. You followed, a careful three paces behind. Your feet dragged against the floor creating a sound that was pricking at your ears.
He stopped at your room and pushed the door open with a shove of his shoulder. The hinges gave a groan that seemed to stretch long after he’d let go. You stepped inside. The door shut.
Click.
The lock slid into place. Too sharp. Too final.
The fluorescent light hummed overhead, constant and thin, like a wire tightening against bone. You tried not to listen, but it crawled deeper the longer it went on. Somewhere down the hall a tray clattered—metal on tile, then voices, a laugh, a muffled curse. It all pressed through the walls.
Your breath caught. Too loud. You pressed your lips together, tried to breathe quieter, but the sound only grew inside your head. Your pulse joined it, thick and pounding, crowding out the space behind your eyes.
The hum, the slam, the laugh, the click of the door replaying in your skull.
You pressed your hands over your ears. The hum grew sharper. You let go. Now the hallway voices pressed closer. No escape. Every sound louder than the last.
You closed your eyes, but the noises came with you.
You slid down the wall until you were sitting on the floor, knees pulled in tight. The wool of your gown scratched against your skin. Another sound. Another thing you couldn’t turn off.
You pressed your feet flat to the floor.
Cold. Solid. Real.
You focused on it, counted your breaths the way you’d taught yourself to do. In through your nose. Out through your mouth. Slow. Careful.
One.
Two.
Three.
The hum of the light didn’t fade.
You tried again. Named the room instead. Walls. Bed. Door. Sink. Cross. You traced each thing with your eyes, forcing your gaze to linger, to stick.
Your hands trembled in your lap.
They weren’t resting the way you’d left them. Your fingers had curled inward, wrists angled wrong, pulled too close to your chest. You stared at them, willing them to relax.
Move, you told them.
Just straighten. Just be still.
They didn’t.
A tight, ugly fear settled in your stomach. Not for yourself, that part came later, if at all, but for Pepper. For the way she leaned into you. For how she looked for you in every room.
You can’t slip, you thought. Not like this. If you fall into it once, it’ll never end. You can’t.
You forced your hands flat against the floor. The tile was cold enough to sting. You held them there, palms burning, until the shaking slowed.
Your breathing never quite steadied.
The sounds stayed too loud. The light stayed too bright. Time stretched thin and strange, pulling at you.
You stayed there like that until the noise dulled into something far away. Until you could stand again without swaying.
It wasn’t perfect. Or good. But it was better. It was passable.
Kit woke before the bell.
That wasn’t unusual. Briarcliff had a way of training your body to stay half-alert, even in sleep. He lay there for a minute, staring at the ceiling, listening to the building breathe — pipes knocking, someone coughing down the hall, the distant squeal of a cart being pushed too early.
When the bell finally shrieked, he was already sitting up.
Breakfast came and went the same way it always did. Lines. Trays. Noise that bounced off the walls until it felt like it lived in your skull. Kit scanned the room out of habit, eyes catching on the usual landmarks.
Pepper first.
She was across the room at her usual table, legs swinging under her chair, completely absorbed in her food. She looked fine. Happy, even.
Then her.
She was already seated where she always sat, head down, shoulders drawn in just a little tighter than usual.
Kit slowed a step.
Something was off. Not big. Not obvious. Just… wrong in the way you noticed when a familiar sound changed pitch.
She didn’t look up when he approached.
“You okay?” he asked, keeping his voice low.
She nodded, quick and sharp, like she wanted the question gone more than she wanted to answer it.
Kit didn’t sit right away.
She was off. Not distant or gone, but tight. Tense. Like when someone touches you with frozen hands. Her fingers were curled under the edge of the table, knuckles pale.
“Sleep alright?”
She hummed. Quiet and clipped.
Kit sat, but his attention stayed on her. He watched the way she moved—careful, measured. Like she was afraid of doing the wrong thing by accident. Like her body didn’t quite trust itself.
He’d seen the drifting. That blank, faraway look. This wasn’t that. But he couldn’t place what it was.
Across the room, Pepper laughed suddenly at something no one else seemed to notice, the sound carrying sharp and bright over the dull hum of the hall.
Her head lifted just a fraction at that. Not much. Just enough to check.
Kit followed her gaze. Pepper was still smiling, a half-eaten piece of toast clutched in her hands.
When he looked back, her eyes had already dropped to the table again.
Like that was all she needed. Just to make sure.
Kit felt something twist low in his chest.
She didn’t notice him watching. Or maybe she did and didn’t know what to do with it. Or didn’t care. Or maybe she was growing used to it. Either way, it left him sitting there with the quiet certainty that whatever was happening in her head wasn’t good.
And whatever it was, she wasn’t going to say it out loud.
Not yet.
Everything that came after breakfast was blurry. Every time Kit thought he’d get to see someone he actually knew, they just... weren’t there. Something felt so odd about today. More so than normal.
The hallway smelled faintly of bleach and wet wool. Same as always. Same choking mix that settled in the back of Kit’s throat no matter how long he stayed in this place.
Orderlies shuffled patients in every direction. Shoes scraped tile. Someone farther down the hall muttered prayers under their breath.
Kit didn’t want to admit it, but he was starting to think God didn’t answer prayers.
A woman laughed suddenly somewhere nearby — sharp, cracked, wrong. Another patient started crying almost immediately after, the sounds overlapping until Kit couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.
Briarcliff had a way of making every noise feel trapped.
“Mr. Walker.”
Kit glanced up.
Sister Mary Eunice stood near the end of the corridor, hands folded neatly in front of her habit. Her smile appeared quickly, almost automatically, though it never quite settled right on her face.
“Outside time,” she said gently. “This way.”
Kit pushed himself off the wall he'd been leaning against and followed without arguing. Sister Mary Eunice wasn’t cruel the way some of the others were. Nervous, maybe. Too eager to please. But not cruel.
At least not yet.
The heels of her shoes clicked softly against the tile as she led the small group forward. She hummed under her breath — something low and church-like Kit didn’t recognize.
They passed the day room.
She wasn’t there.
Neither was Grace.
That strange feeling in his chest tightened another notch.
Sister Mary Eunice unlocked the back door and pushed it open. Cold air rushed inside immediately, crisp and damp and real enough to make Kit breathe deeper without meaning to.
His eyes scanned the dying grass.
The cold air bit at his bruised cheek. Damp grass bent beneath wandering feet, patients drifting in slow circles beneath the gray afternoon sky. A few sat on benches near the fence. Others smoked silently under the watch of the orderlies.
Then he saw her.
Beneath the tree.
Same spot as always. Finger drawing shapes into the dirt.
Something in his chest loosened a little at the sight of her sitting there, knees drawn up slightly, shoulders tucked in against the breeze. She looked small from this far away. Still. Too still.
Kit started toward her without thinking much about it.
Halfway across the yard, movement near the staff steps caught his attention.
A man stood near the doorway in a dark coat, one hand tucked into his pocket while the other held a clipboard loosely against his side. A doctor, probably. Briarcliff had plenty of them wandering around pretending they were doing something useful.
Kit recognized him vaguely. Probably one of those psychiatrists he was meant to have an appointment with. He’d seen him in the halls once or twice. Quiet type. Clean-cut. Didn’t carry himself like Arden did. Less swagger. More watching.
And he was watching now.
Not the yard.
Her.
Kit slowed almost without realizing it.
The doctor’s attention lingered too long to be casual. His expression didn’t give much away—calm, thoughtful maybe—but his eyes rarely left the tree.
Or the girl sitting beneath it.
For a second, something uneasy crawled up the back of Kit’s neck.
Then a patient nearby started shouting about snakes in the grass, breaking the moment apart. An orderly barked back. The doctor glanced away briefly, attention shifting toward the commotion like nothing had happened at all.
Kit frowned faintly.
Maybe he was imagining things.
Wouldn’t be the first time this place got under his skin.
He kept walking.
She hadn’t changed much since breakfast. Her hands rested near her lap, fingers flexing faintly against the fabric of her gown like she didn’t realize she was doing it. Her gaze fixed somewhere near the roots of the tree.
Not gone.
But close.
He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could say anything, you shifted slightly to make room for him, though there was already plenty of space beneath the tree.
You were used to it now. Sometime after getting outside, after you’d already begun tracing shapes into the dirt, you’d hear his heavy footsteps approaching. Usually wait for him say something just to make sure it was him. But today you just wanted him to be sitting beside you already. It was comforting. The routine, him, the certainty of it.
He sat beside you with a quiet groan, stretching one leg out into the grass. For a while, neither of you spoke. The yard buzzed softly around you—distant chatter, the squeak of the back gate, wind dragging dead leaves across the ground.
Closer now, Kit could see the exhaustion sitting under your skin. The faint stiffness in your posture. Briarcliff made everyone tense, still; this was different. He had hoped you just hadn’t slept well, but really, he knew better.
“You been out here long?” he asked.
You shrugged. “I think so.”
Think.
Not know.
Kit noticed that too.
He leaned back against the trunk, staring out toward the fence line. “Used to hate sittin’ still,” he admitted after a minute. “Back home, if I stayed in one place too long, my mama’d find somethin’ for me to fix.”
You bit the inside of your cheek, fighting the tugging at your lips. You glanced his way, those brown eyes looking back at you.
“Anything with parts.” He huffed a quiet laugh, like he knew what you were thinking without you asking. “Tractors mostly. Radios sometimes if I got lucky enough to get my hands on one.” His gaze averted to the ground as his own index finger joined yours in the dirt. “Wasn’t always good at it.”
A beat of silence. “But you liked it.”
“Yeah.” His voice softened some. “Liked figuring out how things worked. Felt good when you could take somethin’ busted apart and put it back together.”
The words settled quietly between you. Something about them made your chest ache. The normalcy. Imagining what his life was like before he got here made it ache.
Kit didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did and kept going anyway.
“Had a friend who used to get mad at me,” he continued. “Said I’d spend hours messing with junk nobody cared about.”
Your fingers stilled as you looked up at him. “Did it bother you?”
“Nah.” He moved his hand from the ground to pick a lose thread at his knee. “Guess I always figured if somethin’ was broken, that didn’t mean you gotta throw it away.”
Your gaze dropped after that.
To your hands. To the dirt. To the roots twisting beneath the tree.
Kit watched your expression shift—subtle enough most people probably wouldn’t catch it. But he was learning your silences. Learning you.
His voice grew quieter.
“What about you?” he asked. “What’s somethin’ you liked before all this.”
You were still for a long moment.
Then, your fingers began drawing circles again. “I used to climb trees.”
“Yeah...” Kit’s face softened. “Yeah, I remember you tellin’ me that before.”
“Oh,” You stopped again, looking up from your hand, though not at him. You searched your mind for the conversation and found only static.
How many moments had vanished without you even realizing they mattered? How many conversations were you in that you couldn’t even think of?
“What about somethin’ from the Freakshow?” His voice pulled you from your thoughts.
You looked at him for a beat, your eyes settling on his small, but encouraging smile.
“I liked when Pepper would laugh.” You murmured, looking down at the partially draw shape that your hand still hovered over.
Kit smiled a little at that. “I think you still like that.”
“Yeah, but...” The corners of your lips turned up. “She snorted. Every time. Like... like a...” You trailed off, the old sound replaying in your head. Then, you mimicked it.
The sound surprised him enough that he laughed. Not as controlled as usual. Not loud enough to be at you. That made you laugh, too.
Kit noticed the tension leave your shoulders for the first time all day.
The sound faded slowly between you.
Not awkward. Not empty either. Just quiet again.
But lighter now.
Kit glanced over at you, still catching traces of that rare smile lingering at the corners of your mouth. It looked strange on you—not wrong. Just unfamiliar, like something that hadn’t been used in a long time.
He liked it.
Happy always sounded like something you hadn’t been in a long time. And now? Every once in a while he got proof that he was bringing some of that back.
Across the yard, an orderly shouted for a few names to line up near the doors.
The moment cracked apart immediately.
Patients began shuffling across the grass, some muttering complaints under their breath while others moved automatically at the first command. Somewhere near the fence, a woman started arguing loudly with a nurse about staying outside another five minutes.
You were already pulling your hands back from the dirt.
Kit noticed how quickly you folded back into yourself once the shouting started. Your shoulders tightened again. Your gaze dropped. Like whatever brief softness had surfaced beneath the tree was something fragile enough to hide the second the world came rushing back in.
“You okay?” he asked quietly.
A pause.
Then a small nod.
You stood carefully, brushing loose dirt from your palms against the thin fabric of your gown. Your joints still looked stiff when you moved. Kit frowned faintly, but stood too.
Neither of you said much as you started toward the building together.
Dead leaves crunched beneath your shoes. The closer you got to the doors, the louder Briarcliff seemed to become again—the clang of metal, raised voices from somewhere deeper inside, the low mechanical hum that never fully stopped.
You slowed once near the steps.
Kit looked over at you instinctively, slowing to a stop.
For a second, it almost seemed like you wanted to say something.
But whatever it was stayed caught somewhere behind your teeth.
Instead, he asked, “See you at dinner?”
Your eyes flicked up to his.
Then you gave a small nod. “Yeah.”
Simple as that.
An orderly pushed the door open, and the warmth of the building spilled out carrying the familiar smell of bleach and damp wool.
You hesitated only a second before stepping inside.
Kit lingered near the steps after the door shut behind you, staring at the spot where you disappeared.
“Well.”
Grace’s voice cut in from behind him.
Kit looked over his shoulder sharply, almost guilty, though he couldn’t have said why.
She was leaning against the brick wall near the side steps, arms crossed tight against the cold. A cigarette smoldered between her fingers, though she wasn’t really smoking it anymore. Just letting it burn.
Grace tilted her head slightly toward the closed door. “You gonna keep starin’ at it,” she asked, “should I get you a chair?”
Kit rolled his eyes faintly, looking away. “Shut up.”
That only made the corner of her mouth twitch.
Interesting.
Not angry.
Amused.
Grace pushed off the wall slowly and stepped closer. “Didn’t know Briarcliff romance was part of your grand escape plan.”
“Ain’t like that.”
“Mmhm.”
Kit shoved his hands into his pockets, jaw tightening slightly. “You got somethin’ you actually wanna say?”
Grace studied him for a second too long before answering.
“You look for her first now.”
That landed harder than he expected.
His expression shifted just enough to confirm it.
Grace noticed.
Of course she did.
“Forgot about Alma already?” she asked finally. Not cruel exactly. But not soft either.
Kit’s face hardened immediately.
Grace sighed through her nose, rubbing the cigarette out against the brick beside her. “Relax, I’m not accusing you of anything.” Her gaze flicked briefly toward the yard. “I just think you’re getting attached.”
“She needs somebody lookin’ out for her.”
Grace gave him a long look. “That what this is?”
Kit opened his mouth.
Stopped.
Because the truth was, he didn’t entirely know anymore.
Grace saw that too.
And suddenly some of the teasing faded from her expression, replaced by something more complicated. Not jealousy. Concern maybe. Frustration.
“You keep doing this,” she muttered.
“Doin’ what?”
“Trying to save people.” She folded her arms again. “That eats people alive, Kit. And the second you start thinking you can carry everybody out with you…” She shook her head faintly. “That’s when it gets dangerous.”
Kit looked back toward the doors.
“She ain’t dangerous.”
“That’s not what I mean and you know it.”
The cold wind kicked up between them for a moment, dragging brittle leaves across the yard.
Grace’s voice softened just slightly after that.
“I’m not saying don’t care about her.” She glanced toward the building too. “God knows somebody should.”
Then her eyes settled back on him.
“I’m saying Briarcliff notices things.”
That made him look at her again.
But he didn’t respond. Couldn’t. And this was not the conversation he wanted to have.
“When’d you get out here anyways?” Kit crossed his arms over his chest. “Normally have to wait another few minutes for you.”
“Came from ‘round front,” Grace said like it was nothing. “And you’re changin’ the subject.”
Kit exhaled through his nose.
Grace tilted her head slightly, studying him again. “You know I’m right.”
“She’s had a rough couple days.”
“So’s everybody in here.”
“That ain’t the same.”
Grace’s eyes narrowed just slightly at that. Then she looked back toward the building doors.
“You keep doing this thing where you start collecting people.”
Kit frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means first it was Pepper.” She ticked it off with her fingers. “Then her. Couple days ago you tried convincing me Shelley should come too.”
Kit shrugged faintly. “Thought she’d be helpful.”
Grace barked out a short laugh. “Helpful?”
“She knows the building better than most people in here.”
“Yeah, and she’s fucked every orderly in it.”
“She ain’t wrong about everything.”
“That’s not the point.”
Kit’s jaw tightened again.
Grace stepped a little closer, lowering her voice. “You can’t bring everybody when we leave.”
“I ain’t tryin’ to.”
“Aren’t you?”
The question sat between them.
Kit looked back toward the doors again without meaning to. “What’s wrong with not wanting people left behind?”
She looked away, toward the fence line.
“What’s wrong,” she muttered, “is people panic.”
Kit stayed quiet.
“They get scared, hesitate, double back.” Her jaw tightened faintly. “They make stupid decisions and the more people around, the more likely that’ll happen.”
He chewed the inside of his lip.
“That happen to you before?”
Grace scoffed and rolled her eyes. “Everyone’s got a story like that.”
“Where is she?”
Jimmy’s voice cut through the midway sharp enough to turn heads.
Behind him, people were beginning to notice the shouting. A few performers lingered near the tents, uncertain. The twins stood half-hidden near the curtain entrance whispering to each other. Elsa remained farther back beneath the tent lights, tense and watchful but unmoving.
Dell slammed the car door shut harder than necessary.
“For Christ’s sake, Jimmy, lower your voice.”
“Where is she?”
Dell exhaled heavily through his nose like the question itself exhausted him. “She’s in the car.”
Jimmy froze.
Then immediately shoved past him toward the backseat.
The inside of the car was dim, lit only by weak yellow midway lights. You sat curled against the door, shoulders folded inward too tightly, one hand limp in your lap.
Your eyes were open.
But far away.
Wrong.
Jimmy’s stomach dropped.
He reached for the handle immediately.
Locked.
The sharp rattle of it made his expression twist. He yanked harder, like force alone might undo it. “Open the damn door.”
Behind him, Dell didn’t move. “She’s fine.”
“The hell she is.” Jimmy hit the window once with the flat of his palm before crouching lower, trying to catch your eyes through the glass. “Hey.”
His voice changed instantly. Softer now. Frightened.
“Hey, sweetheart.”
Your gaze shifted faintly toward him at the sound, delayed and unfocused.
Behind him, footsteps approached quickly through the gravel.
Paul.
He stopped beside the open car door, his expression tightening the moment he saw you.
“She’s dissociating,” he said sharply.
Dell rolled his eyes. “She had another episode. That’s all.”
Paul ignored him completely, keeping his attention on you instead. “How long’s she been like this?”
“Long enough,” Dell muttered.
Jimmy looked ready to tear him apart.
“She doesn’t even know where she is right now.”
“That’s exactly the problem,” Dell snapped back. “Customers are staring every damn night. Pepper gets upset, the audience gets nervous, and suddenly nobody remembers why they paid to come here in the first place.”
Paul’s jaw hardened.
“So your solution was what? Throw her in a car while she can barely respond?”
Dell stepped forward defensively. “She needs real help.”
“She needs somebody not taking advantage of an episode,” Paul shot back.
That drew more attention.
Murmurs spread quietly through the troupe now. Uneasy. Fractured.
Inside the car, your fingers twitched weakly against your dress at the rising voices.
Jimmy noticed immediately. He tried wrenching open the door again, as if he thought he could get in with just his hands.
Dell scoffed. “You can’t help her, Jimmy.”
Jimmy turned on him so fast the tension in the air snapped tight.
“You don’t know a damn thing about her.”
Dell folded his arms. “I know she’s getting worse.”
The words hung ugly in the night air.
Paul glanced toward Elsa briefly, like he expected her to step in.
She didn’t.
Nobody did.
Because nobody knew how anymore.
Everything had already been splintering for weeks—arguments, disappearing money, bad crowds, people turning on each other in quiet little ways that grew louder every day.
This was just another crack.
Only this time, you were trapped inside it.
Jimmy pressed his hands against the window now, trying to catch your gaze again.
“Sweetheart.” Softer. Careful. “Look at me.”
For one terrible second, it almost worked.
Recognition flickered faintly across your face.
Then Dell slammed his hand against the roof of the car.
The bang split the midway.
You flinched violently, folding tighter into yourself.
Gone.
Jimmy snapped.
He grabbed Dell by the front of his shirt, slamming him backward against the car.
“You did that on purpose.”
“Get off me.”
“You knew she was slipping!”
“She was already gone!” Dell barked back. “That’s the goddamn problem!”
The observation room door groaned open.
The sound hit first.
Then the light.
Harsh fluorescent white spilled across your vision as your body jerked hard enough to make your shoulder ache. For one disoriented second, you still expected to hear shouting. Gravel beneath tires. Jimmy’s voice.
Instead there was only Briarcliff.
Buzzing lights.
Shuffling shoes.
The smell of bleach.
Your breathing came unevenly as you blinked against the room. Your cheeks felt cold. Damp. A stray tear falling onto your hand.
An orderly stood in the doorway waiting impatiently.
“You done?” he muttered.
You looked down.
Your body had folded strangely against itself sometime during observation—one arm twisted tight against your stomach, fingers stiff from being curled too long. Pain crackled through your joints as you slowly forced yourself upright.
The orderly sighed loudly while you struggled.
Once you stepped outside and turned the corner, you saw him.
Dr. Thredson, clipboard in hand.
He offered a small smile when your eyes found him. Not warm. Not cruel either.
Interested.
Like he’d just seen something worth remembering.
“Rough afternoon?” he asked gently.
The question made heat crawl beneath your skin.
Because he said it so casually.
Like he hadn’t seen everything.
The orderly muttered something under his breath and continued down the hall before you could process it.
You stayed near the doorway a moment longer, arms tight around yourself.
The world still felt slightly tilted.
Observation always left you strange afterward, but this time felt worse. Your skin buzzed. Your thoughts wouldn’t settle properly. Fragments of memory still clung like cobwebs behind your eyes.
Jimmy yelling.
The slam of a hand against metal.
That awful feeling of disappearing while someone begged you not to.
“You’re shaking.”
Dr. Thredson’s voice pulled you back hard enough to make your stomach twist.
You hadn’t realized he’d stepped closer.
Not too close.
But closer.
“I’m fine,” you said automatically.
A lie built from habit.
His eyes flicked briefly toward your hands before returning to your face. “I didn’t say you weren’t.”
That caught you off guard.
Most people at Briarcliff decided things for you before you spoke.
Crazy.
Violent.
Unwell.
Gone.
But he said it differently. Calmly. Like he was waiting to see what you’d do.
It unsettled you more than yelling would have.
“You were in observation a long time today,” he said.
You shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t remember most of it.”
The admission slipped out before you could stop it.
Immediately, regret curled in your stomach.
But Thredson only nodded once, thoughtful rather than surprised.
“That happens often?”
Your jaw tightened.
There it was.
The real question.
Not concern.
Curiosity.
You knew that look.
Performers learned early when people were looking at them versus studying them.
Still—
He hadn’t touched you. Hadn’t cornered you. Hadn’t spoken to you like you were stupid.
That alone made the conversation harder to leave.
“I’m tired,” you murmured instead.
Something unreadable flickered briefly across his face before smoothing away again.
“Of course you are.”
Gentle.
Too gentle for Briarcliff.
He stepped aside then, giving you room to pass down the hallway.
You moved past him carefully, arms still tight around yourself.
Then:
“Miss Reverie.”
You winced at the name.
“I’ll be seeing you again soon,” Thredson said.
His tone remained calm. Professional. Like discussing the weather.
Still, something about it made your shoulders tense.
You gave a small nod without looking back.
Then continued down the hall, the fluorescent lights buzzing louder than before while the feeling of his attention lingered between your shoulder blades all the way to your room.
Saints, Sinners, and Sleepwalkers | Kit Walker x Reader
Series Masterlist Here
5k words
Expect Disturbing Themes
Clarification: Dissociative Identity Disorder is referred to as "Multiple Personality Disorder" in this story because that's what it was called in the 60s.
Chapter 4: Addendum: Sleepwalker
Lunch passed like a blur. You sat in the cafeteria, tray in front of you, hands idle. Kit wasn’t there.
Without him, the noise felt sharper. Brighter. The fluorescent lights seemed to hum louder, the scrape of plastic trays against metal more grating. You chewed without tasting. Swallowed without thinking. It was like moving through fog.
No one spoke to you. That was normal.
But it still made everything quieter.
Afterward, an orderly guided you a that hall stretched long and sterile. The common room was half-full—some patients paced, others mumbled or stared through the barred windows like they were waiting for a season that would never come.
And then you saw him—them, really.
Kit. Sitting with Pepper on the floor near the back wall.
You stopped in the doorway, just for a second. Pepper was grinning. Full and bright. It lit her up like the sun had finally come in. Her fingers moved animatedly as she spoke, and Kit indulged her, nodding his head, laughing.
Your chest ached in a way you couldn’t name.
Your eyes flicked to the far end of the room—your chair. The one that always waited for you. Always empty.
And maybe it would be okay if it stayed that way.
You stepped forward, slow but steady, and crossed the room. Pepper looked up and waved at you like she’d been waiting. Kit turned too. He didn’t say anything—just shifted slightly, giving you space between them.
You sat down without a word.
It was small. Quiet. But that was all it needed to be.
You didn’t say anything at first. Just sat there, soaking in the rare stillness. Pepper’s presence was a buffer, her rambling words painting nonsensical pictures as she spoke to Kit. And he—he just nodded along. Soft-eyed. Patient.
You watched him, more than you meant to.
The slope of his shoulders. The little crease in his brow when he concentrated on what Pepper was saying. The way he smiled—not politely, but like he meant it. Like being here with her wasn’t a burden. Like he cares about her the same way you care about her.
But he also looked… exhausted. Worn out by this place. His split lip looked much better than yesterday, but the bruise on his cheek was still a bright purply blue.
“You weren’t at lunch,” you said, finally, your voice somehow quieter than normal.
Kit blinked, like he hadn’t realized you’d speak. Then his lips pressed into a half-smile, a bit tired. “Arden pulled me.”
The words were clipped. Non-specific.
You didn’t ask what for. You knew better than that.
But your fingers fidgeted in your lap, and when his arm brushed yours as he leaned forward to hand Pepper a puzzle piece, you didn’t move away. Only looked down at it.
You just breathed. Stayed present.
A shadow moved across the floor, slow and deliberate.
You looked up just as Grace dropped into a crouch beside Kit. She didn’t say hello to you. Didn’t look at Pepper. Her eyes were on him—sharp and a little too knowing.
“You hiding back here, Walker?” she asked, her voice low and lilting.
Kit didn’t bristle, exactly, but something shifted. The easy slope of his shoulders drew tight for half a second before he relaxed again. “Just talking.”
Grace hummed. She reached out and stole a puzzle piece from the scattered pile near Pepper’s knee, turning it in her fingers without looking at it.
“I can see that,” she said, glancing at you finally.
Her eyes flicked over you quickly. Not rude—just quick. Assessing. She didn’t smile.
You didn’t either.
Grace stayed crouched for a beat longer before settling fully on the floor beside Kit, close enough that her knee brushed his. He didn’t move away.
“So, this is the infamous Twirly,” there was a slight edge to the nickname when she said it. “I was starting to think you were a ghost.”
You didn’t answer. Pepper did.
“Not a ghost, she’s real,” Pepper said cheerfully, clapping her hands once like it sealed the statement.
Grace snorted. “I can see that.”
Her tone wasn’t cruel—but it wasn’t friendly either. Just dry. Curious.
You looked at her for a long second. The sharp angles of her face. The way she kept one arm draped across her knee like she was lounging in her own living room, not a locked-down ward. Like she wasn’t scared of anything in here.
Maybe she wasn’t.
Grace leaned back on her palms, letting her head tip against the wall. “I’ve heard stories. You bend. You vanish. You don’t talk.”
You shrugged. “I talk,” you said quietly. “Sometimes.”
Grace smiled then, just a little. Not quite warm. But not cold, either. “Good to know.”
She shifted slightly, eyes still on you, though her head was tilted back. “You know, people like us don’t exactly thrive in places like this.”
You didn’t respond.
“Places like this… they grind people down.” Her voice dropped, softer now. “You learn quick who you can count on.”
Kit shot her a look. It was small but pointed.
Grace caught it, and her mouth quirked. “Relax, Walker. I’m just makin’ conversation.”
Pepper was still humming beside you, head bent over her puzzle. The quiet clink of cardboard against the tile filled the space Grace left behind.
After a beat, she pushed up to her feet in one smooth motion. Brushed off her hands.
“Well. Just wanted to see if you were still breathing,” she said to Kit.
Her gaze flicked to you, unreadable. “Guess I’ll see you around… Ghost.”
Then she turned and walked off, her feet silent against the floor.
The three of you continued to just sit there. Pepper and Kit speaking about whatever topic came to her mind. You didn’t add much to the conversation, but you watched. You listened.
A voice called Kit’s name from the doorway, and he pushed himself up with a sigh. He gave Pepper a small wave, and when his eyes flicked to you, he hesitated—just long enough to let something unspoken hang between you. Then he nodded once and followed the orderly out.
You watched him go.
The room didn’t feel as safe without him. Not unsafe, exactly. Just… quieter in the wrong ways.
Pepper made up for the silence, talking about squirrels and what shade of blue the sky was. You tried to focus on her voice. On the sounds of the room. But your mind kept tugging elsewhere.
It wasn’t long before your name was called too.
One of the nurses gestured to you with a clipboard in hand. You stood slowly, brushing your palms on your skirt as if that might make you steadier.
Then you followed the hallway toward the sun.
It wasn’t an orderly who came for you.
“Outside time,” Sister Mary Eunice sang as she stepped lightly into the common room, clipboard clutched to her chest like a schoolgirl with secrets. “Come on now, sweetheart. Don’t want to miss your bit of sunshine.”
You blinked, a little surprised to see her instead of the usual gruff escort. But you stood.
She waited until you joined her, then turned on her heel with a rustle of starch and skirts, humming faintly as you both made your way down the hall.
“You’re looking better lately,” she said brightly. “More color in your face. That’s good. It means the water’s working.”
You didn’t answer. You just walked.
Sister Mary Eunice glanced at you sideways, her smile never faltering. “Dr. Thredson says you were very brave this morning.”
Your feet faltered for half a step. Just a flutter. But she noticed. Of course she noticed.
Her smile dipped briefly at the corners. “It’s okay to be afraid, you know. Even saints tremble, sometimes.”
You weren’t sure what you were supposed to say to that. So, you just kept walking.
“You remind me of a little bird,” Sister Mary Eunice said suddenly, her tone softening as she slowed her steps to match yours. “The kind that hides in the eaves, quiet as anything. People forget it’s there until it sings.”
You glanced at her.
She smiled again, all sunshine and innocence. “I always liked birds. I used to leave out bits of bread on the windowsill for them. Even the crumbs from communion wafers, when no one was looking.” She giggled lightly, like she’d shared a secret.
“I suppose that was a bit naughty,” she added, though her voice didn’t carry any real guilt—just nostalgia.
You didn’t speak. But you didn’t look away, either.
Sister Mary Eunice gave a small shrug. “Some people don’t see things the way they are. But I do. I think… I think you’ve got more in you than most people can see.” She stopped at the door, resting one hand on the handle. “Don’t be afraid to sing, little bird.”
Then she opened the door and gestured for you to step outside into the gray light.
The door shut gently behind you.
The courtyard stretched out in quiet grays and dull greens, worn grass and cracked stone under a sky the color of dishwater. A handful of patients milled around—some pacing, some muttering, some simply staring at the sky like it might change something.
You stood still for a moment.
Don’t be afraid to sing, little bird.
The words sat oddly in your chest. Too soft to hold onto, too warm for this place. But something in them lingered, fluttering like dust through the rafters of your mind.
You let your eyes wander across the yard.
And then you saw him.
Kit. Sitting cross-legged near the far wall, fiddling with something in his hands—a bit of string, maybe. His brow was furrowed in concentration, but the set of his shoulders was calm. Grounded.
And just like that—something inside you shifted.
A lightness. Brief. Bright. Strange.
Not comfort. Not safety. Not exactly.
But... happy?
Excited?
No. No, that wasn’t right.
Your pulse had picked up. Your breath caught, just barely. A strange heat curled in your chest, soft and blooming and foreign.
You didn’t know what to do with it.
You didn’t even know what to call it.
You stood there a moment longer, watching him.
That flicker in your chest refused to settle. Too sharp. Too soft. Too much.
So you looked away.
Let it fade.
And walked instead to your usual spot—beneath the crooked tree near the edge of the courtyard. It cast a weak, uneven shadow across the ground, like it was trying to remember how to be something whole.
You could relate to that.
Sinking down against the bark, you pulled your knees up and wrapped an arm around them. Your fingers found the dirt, as they always did. The weight of routine settled over your shoulders like a familiar coat. This was where you always went. This was what you always did.
Quiet.
Alone.
Safe.
You stared at the circles that you slowly drew into the dirt.
One minute passed. Then another.
And then—
“You always sit over here?”
You looked up.
Kit stood a few feet away, thumb tucked into his pocket, that lopsided smile already tugging at his mouth. “Didn’t even see you come out. When did y’get here?”
You blinked at him. “A few minutes ago.”
He nodded. Stepped closer.
“You know... you could’ve sat with me,” he said casually, dropping into a crouch beside you. “If you wanted.”
You didn’t answer right away.
Just looked down again. Let your fingers drag through the dry dirt, slow and quiet. A little groove in the earth.
“I didn’t want to bother you,” you said finally, barely louder than the wind. “You looked… like you were fine.”
Kit was quiet for a second. Then he sat down fully, legs crossed, like he wasn’t planning on leaving anytime soon.
He didn’t say anything right away.
Just let the silence stretch for a moment—long enough that you started to wonder if you’d said the wrong thing. If maybe you really had been a bother just by thinking it.
But then—
“Well,” Kit said, easy and even, “I was fine.”
You glanced up at him. He was watching the tree branches sway overhead.
“But now I’m even better.” he added.
Your heart stuttered in your chest. Swiftly, you looked back down at your finger now frozen in the dirt.
Kit leaned back on his palms; you could feel his eyes on you. Seeing you, maybe studying you a bit. Not analyzing, just seeing how you react.
Then, he added, “You act like we’re not friends.”
The words weren’t accusing. Just honest.
Like they were as simple and solid as anything else in the world.
Your breath caught.
Friends.
It didn’t echo like the other labels did—those muttered things the nurses called you when they thought you weren’t listening. It didn’t make your skin crawl. It didn’t feel wrong.
It felt… far away.
Your fingers resumed their motions in the dirt. The circle was uneven now, but you didn’t fix it. You just kept drawing. Like maybe you’d find an answer buried there.
“Friends…” You said under your breath.
You tried to remember the last time you had a friend.
Not someone who smiled politely.
Not someone who needed you to be something for them.
Someone who saw you.
The freak show. But you couldn’t place when that was.
“Yeah,” Kit said with a chuckle. “Y’know, like you an’ Pepper.”
You shook your head. “Pepper isn’t… Pepper is more than a friend.”
He tilted his head, his smile softening. “Little sister?”
You hesitate. You’re not sure what that’s like, but it sounds better. Right. You nod.
Kit leaned back a little further on his hands, gaze still tilted up toward the tree branches. “Y’ever climb trees?” he asked suddenly.
The question caught you off guard. You blinked, glanced at him. He was still looking up, like the thought had wandered in and just sat down beside him.
“I think so,” you said after a moment. “Maybe… when I was little.”
“Yeah?” He smiled faintly. “Bet you were good at it. All bendy like that.”
You looked back down at the dirt, but this time it wasn’t to retreat. A small breath slipped out of you. Almost a laugh.
“Wasn’t allowed to climb much,” you murmured. “Too dangerous. Too… unladylike.”
He huffed softly through his nose, clearly amused. “Sounds like a load of crap.”
You smiled, just a little. It felt odd on your face.
Kit shifted closer—not touching, just enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him. “Well, whenever we get outta here,” he said, quiet and sure, “I’ll find you a good climbing tree. Real tall one. Strong branches.”
You turned your head to look at him.
He wasn’t teasing. Just watching the way you watched him. And he smiled again, gentle and boyish and real.
“Could sit up there all afternoon,” he said. “Bet it’d feel like flying.”
And for a moment, it did.
You watched him for a second longer, your hands still in the dirt, fingers half-traced in the uneven circle you'd been drawing.
"Flying," you echoed, almost to yourself. You imagined it. The weightlessness. The wind tugging at your clothes, the earth a distant blur beneath your feet. It didn’t feel like a memory. Not quite. But it felt like longing.
“I used to dream about that,” you admitted.
Kit turned to you a little, listening.
“Climbing so high I’d forget where the ground was. Not falling. Just…” You searched for the word. “Floating.”
Kit nodded, like he understood. “Not being stuck anymore.”
You glanced sideways at him. The corner of his mouth was tilted up, but his eyes weren’t smiling. Not quite. You thought about how many people in here talked about escape like it was a fantasy.
Kit didn’t. He talked about it like it was a plan. Like he meant to live through it.
“Do you really think we can get out?” you asked, not looking at him. You were afraid to.
There was a pause. But not the kind that meant avoidance. Kit wasn’t searching for the easy answer—he was choosing the honest one.
“Yeah,” he said finally, soft but certain. “I do.” He shifted, drawing a line in the dirt beside your unfinished circle. “Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not next week. But I don’t think this is forever.”
You swallowed. The breeze stirred your hair. “A week feels like forever in here,” you said.
Kit glanced at you again, this time more directly. “Not when you’ve got someone to talk to.”
Your fingers stopped moving. The wind carried the faintest sound of laughter from across the yard. But the space between you and Kit was just for the two of you. He felt safe. In a way that you hadn’t felt in a very long time.
The two of you stayed like that, sitting side-by-side, drawing shapes and lines in the dirt. Neither broke the calm silence that settled between you. Not until an orderly called Kit’s name.
He stood, brushing dirt from his pants. He offered a little half-smile. “See you later?”
You nodded. He didn’t push for words.
And then he was gone, swallowed up by the gray corridors.
Your name was called a moment later.
You stood slowly, brushing your hands against your skirt, trying not to think about how the dirt still clung to your skin. How warmth still clung to you, too—soft and fleeting, like the sun behind the clouds.
Sister Mary Eunice waited at the edge of the courtyard, her hands folded neatly in front of her. She offered you a smile as you approached—gentle, not forced.
“Did you enjoy the fresh air?” she asked as you fell into step beside her.
You nodded once. It was easier than trying to explain the ache in your chest that wasn’t bad, just strange. Easier than finding words for how the sunlight felt against your skin, or how words sounded in Kit’s mouth.
Sister Mary Eunice didn’t press. She never did. She was kind like that. Patient. A bit different you supposed.
The hallway was cooler than outside, and quiet in a way that made your shoes sound too loud. She kept her voice low, as if the silence were something sacred.
“I know Observation isn’t everyone’s favorite,” she said, glancing at you. “But it’s not meant to be a punishment. Just time. A little space to rest.”
Rest.
You weren’t sure if that’s what it ever was for you.
Still, you gave her another nod.
She reached out just before you turned the corner, a light touch to your shoulder. “Let the nurses know if you need anything, alright?”
You looked up at her. There was real kindness in her eyes, even if something beneath it felt unreadable.
Then she turned, her soft footsteps fading down the hall, and you stepped inside.
Observation. Cold, quiet, waiting.
The door shut behind you with a gentle click.
You sat where you always did, on the cot with your legs crossed.
The singular light in the room buzzed and flickered. Once. Twice.
Then there was shouting.
You didn’t remember what sparked it—only that the tent walls felt thinner than usual, that the air had teeth. Someone had broken something. Someone had died. The freak show was crumbling, and Dell… Dell was certain you were the crack in the foundation.
He came into your trailer like a storm: big, stomping, angry in that way that tried to sound like reason. "Get your things. You're done here," he said.
You didn’t understand at first. You asked why. You weren’t screaming, weren’t crying—just quiet, your voice slipping out in barely-there threads.
He didn’t answer.
Just grabbed your arm.
You remembered how rough his grip was. How your wrist bent the wrong way. How your legs wouldn’t work right, like they’d forgotten they belonged to you. He was dragging you, and you were floating just above the ground, weightless, like a balloon tied to a string he didn’t know how to hold.
“We’re takin’ you someplace that can fix you,” Dell said, like he thought it was kindness. Like shipping you off to a place with cold floors and locked doors could fix anything.
You were halfway across the lot when you stopped hearing him. His voice dulled, fading under the roar of blood in your ears. The world blurred at the edges, colors bleeding together like water over ink.
Everything grew quiet.
Not peaceful—just blank.
You were folding inward, shrinking down to something pocket-sized. A paper doll. A trick of light.
And then—
The hum of fluorescent lights.
The cool chill of metal against your back.
You blinked. Your body felt heavier. The room smelled like bleach and floor wax.
Observation.
You were back.
The memory faded like fog at your fingertips—already half gone, though the feeling lingered. That hollow, open-eyed sleep.
You stayed still.
Just breathing.
Until the door clicked open. It wasn’t Sister Mary Eunice this time, just some orderly you didn’t recognize. Bigger than most, with a jaw that didn’t move much when he spoke.
“Dinner,” he said flatly.
You got up. The floor felt colder than usual under your feet.
He didn’t grab your arm. Didn’t even look at you as he led the way down the corridor. But you still kept your distance—three careful steps behind, hands tucked to your sides like you were afraid they might try something without your say-so.
The cafeteria was buzzing with the usual noise: trays scraping, chairs skidding, someone muttering a prayer too loudly at the corner table.
And then your eyes found him.
Kit was already seated—same spot as always. Same crooked smile when he spotted you. He lifted two fingers in a lazy wave, like he’d been waiting, like seeing you arrive meant something.
You didn’t wave back, but your feet moved without thinking.
The orderly shoved a tray of food into your hands.
Gray potatoes. Something that used to be meat. A cup of something lukewarm and vaguely orange.
But that wasn’t your concern.
You made your way toward the table. Kit straightened a little when you got close, nudging your usual seat with his foot like he was making room just for you.
“Hey,” he said as you sat.
You didn’t respond, but you glanced at him, before looking back down at your tray.
Kit leaned down, enough that his face with a quirked brow was now in your vision. “You okay?”
You didn’t answer at first. Just kept staring at your tray, but your focus was on his face in your peripheral. You felt the corner of your lips tug up, not much, but enough to make Kit’s smile widen.
“Yeah,” you finally spoke as you looked over at him. “I think so.”
Kit sat up now, his elbow on the table, chin resting in his hand as he looked at you.
He didn’t say anything right away, just kept watching you with that patient, lopsided smile of his. Like he was making sure the answer stuck—like he was memorizing the sound of your voice or the look of your almost nonexistent smile.
“Good,” He said with a small nod.
You didn’t say much after that, and neither did he. The sounds of the cafeteria blurred into a dull hum around you—scraping trays, murmured prayers, footsteps echoing off tile.
You just ate your dinner, Kit by your side eating his.
And when the final medication round came and went, when the lights began to dim and the ward settled into its usual nighttime hush, you lay down on your cot with the ghost of his smile still in your mind. For once, sleep didn’t feel like a punishment.
Morning came the same way it always did—abrupt, fluorescent, and far too early. The lights buzzed on overhead before your eyes had even fluttered open. Footsteps followed soon after, echoing down the corridor with sharp barks of instruction: “Up. Let’s go. On your feet.”
You moved on autopilot. Sheets pulled tight, cot made. Hands out. Mouth open. Pill swallowed. The same bitter aftertaste clinging to your throat, was thankfully washed away by the mint of your toothpaste.
By the time you were brought to breakfast most of the patients were already sat eating. Your eyes did their usual glance across room, confirming Pepper’s presence and then to your table. Or more accurately, to Kit.
And just like that the morning didn’t seem so cold.
His eyes met yours and he smiled, soft and genuine, like he’d been waiting to see you.
You didn’t smile back. Not really. But something in your chest shifted—quiet, unfamiliar. Less like a spark, more like warmth soaking into your bones after a long winter.
The orderly behind you grunted, prompting you forward. You stepped into line and accepted your tray without looking. You didn’t need to. You already knew what would be waiting for you: gray eggs, soggy toast, and a very bruised banana.
Kit nudged your usual spot with the side of his shoe, just like he had at dinner the night before. It wasn’t a grand gesture. Just a habit, maybe. A small, steady thing that said you belong here.
“Morning,” he said.
You sat down. Took a bite of toast that tasted more like paper than anything edible. You swallowed it anyway.
His head tilted slightly. “Sleep okay?”
You shrugged. “Better than usual.”
His face softened. “That’s good.”
“Did you?” Your voice was soft, like you were afraid to ask.
He nodded, looking at you for a second longer before turning his attention to his tray. “Same here.”
You didn’t say anything. Just kept eating, one bite at a time, the silence between you settling into something comfortable. Something that didn’t demand to be filled.
And for a little while—just the space between breakfast and the next order barked through the hallway—it felt like the world had slowed down. Like time had folded in on itself, giving you both a minute to just be.
Occupational therapy came after breakfast. Today you were stuck with dough duty.
The room was warmer than the rest of the ward, the air thick with flour and faint traces of yeast. The silence was broken only by the dull thud of hands kneading dough, bowls scraping across the counter, the occasional barked instruction from a staff member who wasn’t watching closely anyway.
There wasn’t a ton of patients, but a small few set up around the kitchen. You and Kit were placed at the same station. You weren’t sure if it was coincidence or something he’d made happen—but either way, you didn’t question it.
He rolled the dough in smooth, steady motions, arms dusted in flour. Occasionally he glanced over, just to make sure you were still there, still grounded. You worked more slowly, fingers moving with practiced precision even if you weren’t fully present. Your hands knew the rhythm, even if your mind wandered.
Your hands moved without thinking, palms pressing and folding, folding and pressing. The dough was warm and pliant beneath your fingers, but the warmth didn’t reach your face. It was somewhere else you’d gone—somewhere quieter, older. Maybe not even real.
Until something tapped your arm. Twice. Gentle. Just enough to call you back.
“Hey,” Kit’s voice was soft, threaded with concern but laced in teasing warmth. “You with me, sleepwalker?”
You blinked.
The kitchen came back all at once: the clatter of trays, the smell of yeast, the weight of the present. Kit’s hand was still hovering near your arm, fingers dusted with flour, eyes searching your face.
You stared at him for a second longer than you meant to. “Where did you hear that?”
“Huh?” His brows lifted, drawing together just enough to make a little crinkle in between them. “No where, just… thought it fit.”
The two of you were quiet for a couple minutes, your hands sitting motionless on the dough.
“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean ‘ta offend you.”
You looked up at him, before looking back down at the pile of dough in front of you.
“You didn’t,” You murmured, hands beginning to roll and press into the dough again. “Just haven’t been called that in a long time.”
Kit didn’t answer right away. Just kept kneading, slower now, like he was giving you room.
“You don’t gotta tell me,” he said after a while, voice low. “Not unless you want to.”
You watched your fingers sink into the dough. The movement was automatic, like muscle memory.
“Jimmy used to call me it,” you said finally. “We worked at a… a freak show.”
Kit glanced at you again, more softly this time, like he was trying to see through the dust and years layered over that single word.
“Freak show,” he echoed, not like he was mocking it—just testing the words in his mouth. “Like the kind in a circus?”
You nodded slowly. “Yeah, kinda. Elsa’s Cabinet of Curiosities. A traveling one. Years ago, now.”
He didn’t interrupt. Just kept working the dough, a little clumsier than before, like he was less focused on it.
You looked down again, the image already blurring in your mind. Canvas, costumes, and applause that rang in your ears.
“I was flexible,” you said. “Real flexible. Could twist like ribbon. Made people nervous. Or excited. Or both.” You let out a faint breath—too humorless to be called a laugh. “People liked it.”
Kit was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “You had a stage name?”
You hesitated, the name catching in your throat like a stone. But you forced it out anyway. “Lady Reverie.”
“Sounds fancy.”
“It wasn’t.”
Another quiet beat passed between you.
Kit didn’t push further. He didn’t have to. He just gave you that same look—soft and steady, a tether. The silence between you wasn’t empty. It held space. Like he was letting you decide how much of the past you wanted to let through.
Eventually, he spoke, more gentle than before. “You miss it?”
“I miss… parts,” you admitted. “Belonging… and the people. Before it all went wrong.”
Kit nodded like he understood. Like maybe he’d lost things too.
“Thanks for tellin’ me,” he said, not as a courtesy—but like it mattered.
Saints, Sinners, and Sleepwalkers | Kit Walker x Reader
Series Masterlist Here
5.5k words
Expect Disturbing Themes
Clarification: Dissociative identity disorder is referred to as "multiple personality disorder" in this story because that's what it was called in the 60s.
Chapter 3: Reassessment Pending
📄 Briarcliff Records (October, 1961 – Last Updated February, 1962)
Patient Name: [REDACTED] Alias: “Lady Reverie” Date of Admission: October 13th, 1961 Age: Estimated mid-to-late 20s
Diagnosis:
Primary: Schizophrenia, undifferentiated type —Patient shows significant markers consistent with Dissociative Identity Disorder or trauma-linked disassociation. Consider reassignment of primary diagnosis.
Hydrotherapy sessions to ease muscular strain and induce calm Observed counterproductive response during recent session. Patient demonstrates dissociative retreat; coordinated muscular response in altered state. Recommend reevaluation of hydrotherapy and full diagnostic reassessment under psychiatric lens.
Temporary isolation recommended for patient and staff safety
|
Noted by —Dr. Oliver Thredson, M.D., Psychiatric Consultant
Attending Staff: Dr. Arthur Arden
They sat beneath the cracked window at the end of the east hallway, just out of view from the nurses’ station. It wasn’t much—peeling paint, the sharp stink of bleach that never quite faded—but it was quiet. It was theirs.
Kit’s knees were pulled up, arms draped over them. He’d stopped pacing five minutes ago, but the tension hadn’t left his shoulders. Grace was perched beside him on the bench, picking at the fraying hem of her sleeve.
They’d talked about it before—mostly in whispers, mostly late, mostly when the weight of the place pressed in so tight it felt like it might crack bone. But Kit had always shut it down. Said he couldn’t run. That he had to prove the truth. That they’d listen, eventually.
But the silence from the outside world had been louder lately. Longer. And today, he couldn’t bring himself to pretend.
So when Grace leaned in, voice low and sharp with urgency, and said, “We need to get out of here,”
He didn't respond
“You’re not gonna say no this time?” she asked.
He shook his head, jaw tight. “I’m not sayin’ yes either. Just… not no.”
“You’re not gonna shoot me down again?”
His voice was lower than hers. “Not yet.”
Grace turned to look at him fully now, brows drawn. “So, what changed?”
Kit didn’t answer. Not directly. The hallway hummed with the low, steady buzz of the overhead lights.
She exhaled. “You’re starting to see it. They’re not lettin’ you out. No matter how many times you say you didn’t do it. This place wasn’t built for truth.”
He shifted slightly. “I know.”
Grace leaned in a little, voice sharper. “So, we plan. We move. But we don’t take dead weight.”
He didn’t react.
“You know what I mean.”
Kit’s eyes flicked to her. “Say it.”
“Pepper can’t keep up. And your little shadow—” Grace gave him a pointed look. “The bendy ghost girl? She’ll slow us down.” Grace shook her head. “She’s barely here, Kit. You said it yourself—sometimes she just checks out. You want to risk all of us on someone who might just walk into a spotlight?”
“She’s not a ghost,” He muttered.
Grace raised a brow. “You sure about that?”
He sat back, dragging a hand through his hair. He looked at her, jaw ticking. “She’s not just some risk. She’s holdin’ on for someone else and I know what that feels like.”
Grace leaned back again, crossing her arms. “And Pepper?” she asked.
Kit hesitated. “Pepper doesn’t deserve what they do to her in here. She’s smart in her own way. And loyal.” He paused, glancing up at the narrow window. Light flickered across the broken glass. “I’m not leavin’ without ‘em.”
Grace leaned back, folding her arms. “So, what—you gonna drag her and Pepper through a hole in the fence hoping for a miracle?”
“No,” Kit said. “I’m gonna plan one.”
Grace scoffed, rolling her eyes and leaning hard into the bench back. “Jesus, Kit. You can’t save everyone.”
“I’m not tryin’ to save everyone,” he said. His voice was steady, almost too. “Just them.”
Grace looked over, searching his face. “You don’t even know her.”
“I know her as well as you.” He calmly countered.
Grace’s lips pressed together. Her jaw clenched, something sour flickering behind her eyes. She turned her gaze back down the hallway. “You always take in strays, or is this a new thing?”
Kit finally turned his head toward her, offering a faint smile. “Only ones that deserve better.”
Grace let out a slow breath, arms still crossed tight. “And what if she cracks right in the middle of it all? What if she slips? You willing to bet your life on that?”
Kit looked at her. “Already am.”
That quieted her.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The lights buzzed overhead, and somewhere in the distance, a metal cart clattered against tile.
Finally, Grace stood. Her voice lost some of its bite. “Then I guess you better hope you’re right.”
Kit didn’t watch her go. He just stayed where he was, sitting on the floor, eyes fixated on the tile.
The dining hall was loud in that hollow kind of way—forks scraping trays, murmurs echoing off stone walls. You took your usual seat near the far end. Kit was nowhere in sight yet. That was fine. You weren’t sure you wanted to talk anyway.
Pepper was across the room, as usual, kicking her legs back and forth under the table.
You were halfway through your congealed potatoes when you felt it—someone watching you. Not the usual kind of stare, either. Not Arden’s clinical cataloging, or Jude’s righteous weighing. This one was… deliberate. Curious.
You didn’t look right away. Just kept eating.
But eventually, your eyes lifted—and met hers.
A woman across the table, maybe a few seats down. Brown hair, soft features, but her gaze was sharp. Too focused for someone just passing time.
She didn’t smile. Just gave a nod, like she’d seen something she meant to remember. Then she went back to eating.
Instinctively, you looked at Pepper, who happened to meet your gaze. You gave her a small smile and she grinned like she just got to pet a dog.
You kept your head down after that. Spoon to tray. Bite, swallow. Count the creaks in the walls. Pretend you hadn’t felt that look settle over you like a second skin.
A few minutes passed. Then—
The scrape of a chair.
You looked up, and there he was.
Kit slid into the seat beside you, wincing as he moved. His lip was split. One cheek already purpling. Dried blood crusted at the edge of his nose. He didn’t say anything right away. Just exhaled like the air had been knocked out of him somewhere between wherever he came from and here.
You stared at him.
He didn’t meet your eyes. Just picked up his fork with a bruised hand and started picking at whatever passed for food tonight.
“Got a little loud in the common room,” he said after a minute, quiet. Like it was something that just happened, something normal.
You suppose it was.
Then, finally he looked at you. “You okay?”
You were quiet for a moment longer, looking into those familiar deep brown eyes.
“Are you?”
Kit blinked at your question, like maybe he hadn’t expected it. Then gave a half-shrug that made him wince. “Been worse,” he said.
You didn’t press.
You both picked at your food in silence for a moment, the quiet between you less sharp than before. Like the worst of the day had already passed, and this—bruises, quiet questions, a seat beside someone who wasn’t cruel—was what was left.
Your gaze drifted, just for a second.
Across the dining hall, that woman watched from her place at the end of a long table. Not staring. Not obvious. Just one glance too many. Her eyes sharp, calculating. Not cruel, exactly—just interested in a way that made your skin prickle.
You looked away.
Kit didn’t seem to notice her.
Then he said, “Grace said they watch the south wing less after lights out.”
His voice was low. Careful.
You didn’t look up.
“She said she thinks the back stairwell might still lead somewhere. I dunno,” he exhaled. “We only talked about it a couple times. Quiet-like.”
You kept your eyes on your tray. Your hands were still, but your jaw tightened.
Kit didn’t push. But his voice stayed steady, quiet.
“I know you tried before,” he went on, “and I get it. Maybe it’s stupid t' think there’s a way outta this place. Maybe it’s all locked tighter than hell.”
A pause.
“But I ain’t like most people here. And you’re not either.” That made you glance at him. He wasn’t smiling. Wasn’t playing. Just tired and serious and looking right at you.
“You ever think you’d try again?” he asked. There was no heat behind it. No challenge. Just a flicker of something small and scared—hopeful in a way that hurt to look at.
You dropped your spoon, opting to let your hands sit in your lap. You could feel his eyes on you but you didn’t dare look at him. It would be stupid to entertain the idea. Life at Briarcliff was bad enough without being known as a failed escapee.
“You think a lot.” You respond.
Kit let out a short breath—half laugh, half sigh. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Too much, probably.”
You risked a glance at him. His jaw was still tight, but there was something soft in his face now. That quiet stubbornness you’d started to recognize. The same look he had when he talked about being innocent. Like he still believed it mattered.
“I know it’s dumb,” he said after a second, voice low again. “Just… talkin’ about it makes it feel a little less like a cage.”
You didn’t answer.
The truth was, you’d thought about it more since the tree. Since the dirt. Since he asked.
You hadn’t meant to. But your brain never listened much to you anyway.
Kit sat back, shoulders sagging a little. He didn’t seem mad that you hadn’t said more. Just tired. Like the day had been long even before it started.
Then, softer: “You ever think maybe we weren’t supposed to end up here? That God made a mistake?”
That made your throat go tight.
Because yes—sometimes, in the dead quiet of the hallway, or in dreams too scattered to cling to, you did think that. You just didn’t let yourself say it out loud anymore.
“Yeah.”
Kit looks at you, his eyebrows lifting like he wasn’t sure he heard you right. He was quiet for a minute, letting the agreement linger. He glanced around the room before leaning a bit closer.
“How’d you end up here?” His voice was soft, like he was talking to hurt animal that might bolt.
Your hands twitched in your lap.
The instinct to deflect was strong. You could feel the shape of it rising in your throat—something dry to push him back. But you didn’t say it.
Not yet.
Instead, your eyes dropped to your tray. The mashed potatoes had gone stiff at the edges. Everything smelled like bleach, bread, and something faintly metallic. You breathed through your nose.
“A man brought me,” you murmured. “not here… a place in Florida.”
You paused, before adding, “Said he was doing what was best.”
Kit didn’t say anything right away. Just nodded slowly, like he wasn’t going to press. Like he already knew that “what was best” never meant what it was supposed to.
You picked at a crust of bread. “Didn’t tell the others. One day I was just… gone.”
Kit was still quiet. His hand hovered like he might reach for yours, but didn’t. Maybe he was smart enough to know you weren’t ready for that.
“I’m sorry,” he said finally. Not the empty kind. Not pity, either. Just soft. Real. Like it mattered that someone said it out loud.
Somewhere across the room, trays clattered and Sister Jude’s voice snapped at someone for dawdling. But here, in this little stretch of space between you and Kit, things felt still.
“You ever miss it?” he asked. “The life before?”
You looked down again. Let your fingers graze the edge of the tray. Thought about tents. Applause. Laughing under stage lights. Holding Pepper’s hand. Spending time with your friends. Your loved ones.
“Every day.”
The spell broke with the screech of chairs. Voices rising. Orders barked like gunshots.
You and Kit stood when the others did, trays in hand, swallowed again by the current of routine. You didn’t speak as you dropped your trays off or as the line snaked down toward the nurse’s station. The air smelled like rust and rubbing alcohol.
Final medication.
The cart wheels squeaked. One by one, pills were dropped into waiting palms. Paper cups of water followed. You held your hand out, watched the familiar white-and-green capsule fall into it. A swallow. A nod. Move along.
You were ushered back to your hall under the watchful eyes of orderlies. Doors creaked open, one by one. Some patients murmured prayers. Others hummed or scratched their arms or laughed too loud at nothing at all.
Lights flickered overhead. Then dimmed.
Your room was as cold as ever. Cinder block walls and a stiff wool blanket. A cross.
You sat on the edge of the bed a while before lying down, the mattress groaning beneath you. No footsteps echoed in the hall. No voices. Just the building breathing.
And in that low, slow dark, your mind drifted—just a little—to the sound of applause, the warmth of sawdust, your names. But tonight, there was something different. Something outside of the show. The pressure of Kit’s eyes watching you like he saw something, even if he didn’t know what it meant yet.
Your eyes were closed, but you weren’t asleep. Not yet. And when you did slip under, it didn’t feel like sleep. More like a fall.
You were backstage again.
The canvas walls of the tent rippled with wind. The hum of a generator somewhere. Shadows swaying like dancers behind silk. Someone was calling your name—too far away to hear clearly. A muffled voice under water.
You looked down and realized you were in costume. Sequins down your arms. Stage paint smudged across your jaw. You didn’t remember putting it on. Didn’t remember getting here.
The crowd was gone.
But the show was still going.
Someone was crying.
You turned a corner and the lights snapped brighter—harsh and golden—and you saw her. Pepper, curled into herself near the crates of props, rocking. Her hands fluttered like birds trapped in a cage. Her mouth moved, but no sound came out.
You tried to move toward her.
But your feet didn’t obey.
You looked down and saw sawdust burying you up to the ankles, then the knees. You were sinking. Slow, inevitable.
Your voice wouldn’t come.
The tent spun.
And suddenly you weren’t you anymore—you were her, the one who just smiled and waved, bent into shapes without feeling. You were the pretty painted ghost everyone came to see. The part of you that kept you alive. The part that didn’t notice.
Pepper’s eyes found you.
And she looked afraid.
Not at the world. Not at the noise or the lights or the dark.
At you.
You tried to move. To scream. To be real again.
But you just stood there, painted. Hollow.
When you jerked awake, your throat hurt like you'd been trying to yell. A bead of sweat rolled down your forehead, your breaths were in short bursts.
The moonlight hadn’t moved.
You blinked the ceiling into focus and told yourself, Stay here. Stay real. Just stay.
The morning bell didn’t ring so much as shriek. Metal and sudden, splitting the fog in your head like a blade.
You blinked hard at the ceiling. For a second, you weren’t sure where you were.
Then you saw the pale dingy walls. Heard the never-ending drip of a sink or drain.
You exhaled slow through your nose. The dream still clung like spider silk—light, but sticky. Your jaw ached from clenching in your sleep.
There was a knock. Three sharp raps, no pause.
You sat up, back cracking as you moved. The door opened before you could answer.
Nurse Rita stepped in with her usual forced smile and a paper cup balanced on a tray.
"Rise and shine," she said, like it was funny. She didn’t look at you when she held out the pills. Just waited. Expecting.
You took the cup. Swallowed the pills dry. They always tasted bitter, like something turning to ash at the back of your throat.
Nurse Rita supervised as you brushed your teeth and performed your morning inspection, though she was always laid back. When she finished, she nodded, checked her clipboard, and left without another word.
Your dream still whispered at the edge of your mind, but you shoved it down. Folded it up like a costume and put it away.
Breakfast was the same.
Muted voices. Spoons scraping trays. Overhead lights were far too bright, buzzing like angry insects.
You were seated at your usual spot—off to the side, near the wall. Far enough from the crowd that you could pretend there was peace in the quiet.
Pepper was already eating across the room, focused on her food. You watched her for a minute, just to be sure. She looked okay this morning. Calm.
Kit walked in a minute later, the bruise from yesterday now fully darkened on his cheek. He caught your eye as he sat, then looked away, like maybe he hadn’t meant to. Like maybe it was too early for whatever went on between the two of you.
You didn’t blame him. You’d be tired of you too.
You went back to your oatmeal. It was lukewarm and tasted like cardboard
Kit didn’t say anything. He simply sat beside you silence. You were used to silence. But now it felt... odd. You kept waiting for him to say something. Anything. Even to complain about the food like he always did.
He didn't.
The breakfast room buzzed around you—clinks of trays, the scrape of chairs, muttered prayers. Sister Jude’s heels echoed sharp across tile. Someone laughed too loud near the end of the table. It was all distant, like the hum of a radio left on in another room.
You chewed a few bites without tasting them. Kit hardly touched his food.
No conversation. Not a single word. Hardly even a glance after the first one. And somehow, it didn't feel like a mercy. It felt more like a punishment.
Eventually, the clatter of trays signaled the end. You stood when everyone else did. Kit followed behind, not close enough to crowd but not far enough to lose.
The clang of metal trays echoed down the hall as the staff ushered you and a group of others into a sterile, brightly lit room. The space was sparse, the tables bare except for a few sheets of paper, some unsharpened pencils, and the quiet hum of machines in the background. Occupational therapy had become a rhythm you couldn’t escape—repetitive tasks that felt more like a reminder of everything you couldn’t escape than any sort of healing.
Today’s task was no different. Sorting through papers, copying down words from a chalkboard, and making neat rows of perfect circles in a coloring book. The motions were automatic, a mindless chore to fill the hours. But your thoughts were far away. Your hands moved with the precision you had long since perfected, but they didn’t feel like yours. You were only there in body.
The time passed in a haze. You could hear the quiet scrape of pencils around you, the occasional grunt from another patient. The task was simple, but its weight felt heavier with every passing minute.
You’d just finished the last row of circles—neat, empty loops that meant nothing—when a shadow passed over your table.
“Come on.”
The voice belonged to one of the orderlies. Tall, broad, face unreadable. You didn’t ask where. You never did.
Your chair scraped the floor as you stood. A few patients glanced up. Most didn’t. This kind of thing happened all the time.
The hallway felt colder than before. The lights buzzed above, flickering like they were struggling to stay awake.
At the corner where the hall split, another figure was waiting.
Dr. Thredson.
He smiled, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Mind if I join?” he said, already falling into step beside the orderly.
You didn’t answer.
He didn’t need you to.
“I’ve been curious to observe how you respond to hydrotherapy,” he continued lightly, like he was making conversation. “Your… condition presents a rather unique opportunity for study.”
The word observe stuck in your ribs.
Your stomach turned.
He was talking to the orderly now, not to you. “I’ll just watch today,” he said. “No interference, of course. Purely clinical.”
You knew what that meant. You’d been in enough rooms like this. Words like “observe” and “clinical” were just masks for things people didn’t want to admit to doing.
No one asked if you agreed. There was no paper to sign. No chance to say no.
So you kept walking.
Quiet.
Resigned.
And the doors to hydrotherapy loomed closer.
The hydrotherapy room was colder than you remembered. Tiles gleamed too white beneath the humming lights, and the walls held that same soupy chemical smell that clung to the back of your throat.
The orderly’s grip was light, but firm—guiding you forward like he had somewhere to be, but no urgency to get there. You didn’t resist. You never did.
“That’ll be all, thank you.” Thredson’s voice cut in before anything else could happen. Smooth. Polite. But final.
The orderly paused, his hand still lightly on your arm. He glanced between the two of you, uncertain. “Do you want restraints?”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“Dr. Arden says—” the orderly began.
“I’m not Dr. Arden,” Thredson replied, cool and level.
Something passed between the two men. Not quite a challenge, not quite respect. Just a mutual understanding that Thredson had made his decision. The orderly let go of your arm and exited without another word, the door clicking shut behind him.
The room felt bigger after that. Emptier.
Thredson stepped toward you, the echo of his shoes soft but measured against the tile. He didn’t speak right away, just set a hand on your shoulder to make you turn. Then it slid down to your back, his fingers finding the first button of your gown.
Click.
“I know this may be uncomfortable,” he said gently, voice smooth as warm milk. “But I’d like to ensure everything is done safely. I’ve found these moments can be… informative.”
Click.
The sound was soft, but it echoed in your chest like a joint popping out of place.
“You’re very brave,” he said. Another button, slow. “It’s not easy, letting someone see you when you’re vulnerable. But this will help us understand each other better.”
Click.
The sound was sharp in the quiet, each release like a bone cracking in your ear. You tried not to flinch, but your skin had already started to crawl.
“You’re doing well,” Thredson said softly. Like he meant it. Like this was kindness.
Click.
Each button undone felt like a small surrender. His hands weren’t rough, but they weren’t detached either. There was no urgency, no fumbling. But no warmth either. Just that quiet, liminal rhythm—unhurried, deliberate.
Click.
He didn’t look at you. Not really. He was watching the movement, the process. Like he was observing how the pieces came apart. Not in lust. Not in kindness. Like a man studying a mechanism. A soft thing he wanted to understand by splitting it open.
Click.
By the time the last button gave, your breath had gone shallow.
His fingers were cold against your shoulders as they guided the gown down, until it dropped and pooled at your feet.
“Step forward,” he said quietly, guiding you toward the steel tank.
You obeyed, bare feet against tile, and moved where he guided. The tank waited ahead, full of still, icy water that reflected the overhead light. The rim of the tub was unforgiving beneath your palms as you climbed in. The moment your skin touched the water, it felt like needles—your lungs clamped down.
You lowered yourself in with the control of someone performing for a silent crowd. Not grace—discipline.
The chill bit deeper with each inch. It felt like punishment. It always did. As if the ice itself was a reprimand for whatever they thought you’d done wrong.
Behind you, Thredson remained quiet. Watching.
You tried not to see him. Not to hear the quiet drag of fabric or the subtle sound of pen to clipboard. You tried to stay inside your body, grounded in the sharp bite of the cold.
But it was hard.
Your mind slipped to the left. Then the right. Before it fell upside down without your permission. It was reflex now, an old routine. Your body remembered how it always went.
Cold. Breathe. Stillness. Disappear.
The sting of the water blurred, softened, turned distant. Your fingers tingled. Your breathing slowed.
And then—Warmth.
Not here. Not now. The cold metal tank melted into sun-warmed boards beneath your bare feet. The sharp tang of bleach faded, replaced by sawdust and cotton candy. A gentle breeze lifted the canvas flap of the tent. You were behind it, tucked in the narrow strip of space between the stage and the costume trunks, where the shadows were soft and safe.
Your arms moved without thought—slow, liquid gestures, a stretch of your spine, the curve of your body folding in on itself like a dancer mid-prayer. You’d done this before every show. A ritual, almost. The space was cramped, but familiar. Yours. The sound of the crowd on the other side of the curtain was muffled, but close. You could hear the music warming up. Elsa’s voice rising like a tide.
And just ahead of you—
“Twiiiiirly!”
Pepper’s voice rang out like a bell, shrill with delight. She barreled into view around the trunk, nearly tripping over her own feet. You caught her automatically, the both of you laughing as she gripped your hands and spun in a loose, clumsy circle.
“Are you ready? Are you ready?” she asked, her eyes wide with excitement. “Gonna fly this time, I know it!”
You smiled. For real. That rare kind that lived in the cheeks and not just the mouth. “I always fly,” you said softly.
“Not like today,” Pepper whispered back, suddenly very serious, like she was letting you in on a secret.
And you believed her.
The drums picked up. The crowd began to cheer.
You stepped forward, out from behind the curtain—
The sharp, metallic buzz of the hydrotherapy timer split the quiet like a scream. You flinched.
Your eyes opened, blinking against the harsh fluorescents overhead. The cold rushed in all at once—into your bones, your lungs, your fingers. That familiar ache in your wrists, your spine. You were still in the tank. Still submerged in water.
Your hands had risen halfway above the water, curled into loose, strange shapes—like you were in motion, mid-performance, like your body didn’t get the memo the show was over.
Then you remembered.
He was here.
The realization dropped heavy into your stomach. You didn’t look to find him. You didn’t want to know what he’d seen.
You just let your hands fall back into the water. Slowly. Gently. Like if you moved quiet enough, you could still pretend this hadn’t happened. The timer still echoed in your ears, but the rest of the world was catching up now. Water dripping onto tile. The hum of overhead lights. Footsteps behind you.
Then: the soft rustle of cloth.
“Interesting,” Thredson murmured.
You didn’t look at him. Didn’t speak. The water clung to your skin like a veil, heavy and thin all at once.
There was the sound of a clipboard being retrieved. A scribble of pen against paper.
“I’ll have this noted,” he said, and then more softly—almost as if to himself, “Response consistent with dissociative patterns… coordinated movement in altered state...”
His voice was clinical again. Detached. Like he hadn’t seen anything at all. Like you were a case study. A subject in a paper. A broken clock worth examining.
“Get her dressed,” he told the returning orderly. “She can rejoin the schedule.”
He stepped outside the door, letting it fall shut behind him.
He didn’t linger.
The moment the door closed behind him, he let the practiced mask of disinterest fall—just a hairline fracture at the edges. A small quirk at the corner of his lips. He moved down the corridor with quiet purpose, shoes silent on the tile, eyes trained ahead, though he wasn’t seeing the hallway. He was seeing her—the way she floated, almost unconscious, yet unmistakably moving.
It wasn’t aimless. It was patterned. Remembered. Conditioned.
Arden would call it a side effect of psychosis. Jude would call it a performance, possibly possession. But Oliver knew better. He always knew better.
This wasn’t madness. This was preservation. A system, not a symptom.
The others didn’t look close enough. They missed the precision in her fingers. The way her expression didn’t contort in pain like the others did in that water—it went blank. Structured. Familiar. She’d been taught to disappear. He could see it. It wasn’t schizophrenia. It was strategy. A subconscious thing. Muscle memory.
He turned the corner toward the staff room and slid his notes from his coat pocket. The pages were still damp from the humidity in the hydrotherapy chamber. Still, his pen glided easily across the top sheet as he wrote:
"Reverie"
Observed episode during hydrotherapy: dissociative state marked by motor coordination, repetitive limb motion.
Behavior consistent with trauma-based dissociation. Previous diagnosis in question—MID?
Hydro & restraints unnecessary. Continued observation required.
He paused. Tapped the pen once. Then wrote:
Patient responds better when not touched abruptly. Eye contact not always required. Trust-building may prove effective.
He didn’t mean it kindly.
Trust-building was a means. A wedge. A way in. She didn’t need to scream or cling to him to reveal herself. She’d already shown more than enough. Enough for him to know she didn’t belong with the others. She wasn’t violent. She wasn’t unpredictable. She was just… severed.
But he could fix that. Piece her back together.
Not everyone breaks cleanly. Some bend. Some fold themselves small and stay quiet until someone notices.
And he noticed.
A nurse passed him on the way to the records office and said something—he didn’t catch it. He only nodded, polite, already thinking about her next session. About how to position his questions. About what her dreams might sound like if she ever trusted him enough to speak them aloud.
Or if he could make her speak them.
Oliver smiled faintly to himself. The kind of smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Just the ghost of satisfaction.
They wouldn’t understand her here. But he would. He already did.
The file room was cramped and dim, all beige cabinets and the dry, sour smell of paper left too long in recycled air. Oliver’s footsteps echoed soft against the tile, his shoes polished to mirror shine despite the grime of the asylum around him.
A young nurse at the desk looked up from a crossword puzzle. “Can I help you, Doctor—?”
“Thredson,” he said, already offering a tight smile and his ID badge. “I need access to patient archives.”
She glanced at the clock, nodded, and unlocked the gate.
He moved like he’d done this before. Maybe he had. A different time, a different place.
It didn’t take long to find her file. He opened the folder and scanned quickly. Arden’s notes were extensive, scrawled in that impatient, slanted handwriting. Words like uncooperative, fugue response, delirium-prone leapt out like accusations.
Oliver clicked his pen open.
On the diagnostics page. Skimmed the words Schizophrenia (paranoid type) and frowned. The label fit poorly. It had always fit poorly. Arden wasn't a helpful doctor.
That was okay. Because now, he was here. He would help her.
In the margin beneath Arden's diagnosis, he began to write in smaller script:
Patient shows significant markers consistent with Multiple Personality Disorder or trauma-linked disassociation. Consider reassignment of primary diagnosis.
He paused. Tapped the pen once against the page. Then underlined the phrase reassignment of primary diagnosis.
He flipped to the treatment page, where HYDROTHERAPY — Tuesday/Thursday. 30 minutes. Mandatory restraints was written, he drew a clean black line straight through it.
Below, in his steadier script:
Observed counterproductive response during recent session. Patient demonstrates dissociative retreat; coordinated muscular response in altered state. Recommend reevaluation of hydrotherapy and full diagnostic reassessment under psychiatric lens.
It wasn't subtle. But it also wasn't bold, not an overhaul—but it was the first stone dislodged.
He returned the file to its drawer, pushed it closed with the heel of his hand, and stood still for a long second. The quiet was deep here. Close.
Oliver’s fingers trailed across the labels until he pulled open a drawer with a soft screech and flipped through the alphabetized tabs until her name appeared.
Pepper.
The folder was thin—too thin for someone who had been in Briarcliff this long. A few notes from intake. Scattered behavior reports. One short page of “progress observations,” mostly written in disinterested shorthand by a nurse who no longer worked here.
Oliver clicked his pen.
Schedule patient for psychological evaluation. Unusual behavioral alignment with Subject ███. Possible mnemonic triggers or environmental tethering.
His handwriting was neat, deliberate. Clinical. Nothing suspicious. Nothing that would raise a brow if Sister Jude or Dr. Arden happened upon it.
But he didn’t need the Pinhead’s evaluation. Not really.
He didn’t care to study a lack of intelligence.
He closed the folder carefully and slid it back into place.
And smiled, just slightly, to himself.
He looked down the endless stretch of cabinets—hundreds of lives distilled to folders and assumptions. Oh, how little the people who filled them actually knew. And oh, how easily they let someone else rewrite the words.
He turned, left the records room, and shut the door gently behind him.
Saints, Sinners, and Sleepwalkers | Kit Walker x Reader
Series Masterlist Here
6.3k words
Expect Disturbing Themes
Chapter 2: Circles Never End
Thredson’s Private Notes Page 1 (unshared with staff)
The patient’s apparent dissociation presents with an almost theatrical cadence—withdrawal followed by fluid, precise movement, reminiscent of learned choreography. It is unclear whether these episodes are purely pathological or performative in nature. Her silence is selective, not vacant. There is calculation in it, or at the very least, preservation.
She responds more readily to peer interaction than to institutional authority, particularly toward male figures. This could indicate either a conditioned survival mechanism or residual attachment trauma. I will need more one-on-one time to determine the depth and origin of her fugue states.
She does not present as schizophrenic. Not classically. There is something else at work here. Something purposeful.
— Dr. O. Thredson
The sound of a buzzer jarred you awake. Your body protested—stiff, disoriented—but you rose anyway. The morning light filtered through the small window, casting everything in a dull, washed-out hue. The usual routine crept in like clockwork, and your body knew its place before your mind could catch up.
The same orderly came. His hands rough but practiced as they handed you the small, chalky pills. You swallowed them without hesitation, feeling them settle in your stomach, a bitter weight to start your day.
A glance to the side told you that the others were already moving—some lethargic, some more alert, all caught in their own private, restless worlds. You wondered if anyone else felt as numb as you, if they were merely going through motions too.
Breakfast, as usual, was an endless affair of trays, unspoken words, and food that resembled little more than a grayish blur.
You didn’t need anyone to guide you; your feet knew the way to the dining hall. You plopped into your usual spot staring down at the tray of bland eggs, dry toast, and a small portion of sausage.
A tray was set down across from you. You expected it fully this time. Only sparing a brief glance at him before you glanced where Pepper usually sat. She was there, happily munching away.
Kit picked up his fork but didn’t eat right away, his fingers absently tapping against the side of his tray. It was a small thing, but you noticed. You always noticed the small things.
“You know,” he said after a beat, his voice a little quieter, “when I first got here, I thought I'd just keep my head down. Stick to the routine, get through the days. But…” He paused, chewing on the words. “It’s harder than I thought, just going through the motions.”
His gaze flickered up to meet yours then, and for a moment, the mask slipped—just enough for you to see the edges of what he was really feeling. Vulnerable, maybe. Not just some angry kid or some tough guy. Just… someone who was trying, like everyone else.
You couldn’t stop yourself from responding.
“Yeah,” you said, the word falling out before you could think about it. “It’s like the motions start feeling... like that’s it. That’s all that’s there.”
Kit’s eyes softened, just a touch. He didn’t press for more, but you could tell he was considering you, trying to place you, maybe.
“I get that.” He said it like he understood, like he wasn’t just hearing it, but feeling it, too. Then, he let out a soft sigh and leaned back a little, stretching his arms across the table, his shoulders visibly loosening.
“So, uh…” He glanced at his tray again, then back at you. “How long you been here?”
Kit picked up his fork but didn’t eat right away, his fingers absently tapping against the side of his tray. It was a small thing, but you noticed. You always noticed the small things.
You could hear the curiosity in his voice, but there was a careful edge to it. It wasn’t like he was interrogating you, just… testing the waters, maybe.
“A while,” you said, and there was a bitter edge to the words that you didn’t expect. Maybe it wasn’t just the place that made you feel that way, but the waiting—the knowing that you’d be here for an indefinite amount of time, stuck in the same loops.
Kit didn’t comment on your tone. Instead, he just nodded, almost sympathetically, before going back to his food. There was a long pause before he spoke again.
“You, uh…” His fingers stilled on his fork. “You don’t let people in, huh?”
His words hung in the air between you. It wasn’t exactly an accusation, but it wasn’t a question either. He was right, you didn’t talk much. Didn’t trust much. And you definitely didn’t let anyone close enough to see what was really underneath.
You hesitated, caught somewhere between wanting to explain and wanting to stay closed off, the same way you always had.
“Talking... doesn’t make anything go away.” You said finally, looking down at your plate, tracing the edge of the tray with your finger.
Kit’s silence stretched a little longer this time, like he was trying to find the right words. But the pressure to explain—it wasn’t there.
Instead, he just gave a small, knowing smile. “Yeah,” he muttered. “I get that too.”
You glanced at him, the raw honesty of the exchange starting to sink in. You weren’t sure what to make of it, but somehow, it felt different. It felt like... maybe you weren’t as alone in this place as you thought.
For a while, you just sat like that—two damaged things orbiting the same quiet understanding.
The buzz of the room faded into the background, muffled and distant. For once, you didn’t feel the desperate need to shrink into yourself. You just... existed, side by side with someone who didn’t ask for more than you could give.
Kit scraped at his food without much enthusiasm, nudging the mushy eggs around like he was trying to find something worth eating underneath.
“Food’s shit,” he said after a beat, like it was a secret he was trusting you with.
A small, broken sound escaped you before you could stop it—a huff of something almost like laughter. It startled you as much as it seemed to startle him.
He grinned at that, wide and boyish, and it felt warm. Like the memory of a sun you hadn’t seen in years.
“You oughta laugh more,” he said easily, like it wasn’t a loaded thing to say. “Looks good on you.”
You dropped your gaze quickly, heart ticking unevenly, but the words stayed with you, buzzing low under your skin.
The clang of a tray dropping too hard against a table snapped the moment apart. The spell broke. You were back at Briarcliff. Back in your body. Back in the gray.
But something was different. Just slightly. Lighter. Airier.
It wasn’t long until trays were being thrown into the return and you were on to the next thing.
Occupational therapy wasn’t really therapy.
It was labor, dressed up in a prettier name.
Today, it was laundry—big plastic bins of sheets and uniforms and whatever else the hospital deemed too dirty to touch without gloves. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, the air thick with bleach and the wet, sour smell of fabric that would never really be clean again.
You moved mechanically, your hands submerged in the lukewarm, grimy water, scrubbing the same stained sheet over and over again like the stain might eventually scrub itself from your memory too.
The door creaked open.
A familiar shuffle of boots on tile.
You didn’t look up. You didn’t need to.
Kit.
“Guess I’m stuck with you,” he said, more teasingly than anything.
A stack of linens dropped onto the counter beside you, sending up a puff of lint into the air. He pulled up a stool, sat down heavily, and grabbed a towel off the pile like it might bite him if he wasn’t quick about it.
For a few minutes, there was only the sound of water sloshing and fabric slapping against the basins.
Then, out of the corner of your eye, you caught him watching you.
Not staring. Just... noticing.
“You move like you’re sleeping,” he said, voice low, almost like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.
You froze for half a second—just long enough for him to notice.
Kit opened his mouth like he was about to explain, or maybe apologize—but thought better of it. He just gave a small, sheepish shrug and went back to wringing out a sheet.
You didn’t know what to say.
So you said nothing.
Just kept scrubbing.
The linen in your hands slipped a little, your grip weakening.
You paused, stretching your arm out in front of you, rolling your wrist absentmindedly. The repetitive scrubbing was starting to bite into your joints, sending a dull ache all the way up to your shoulder.
You didn't anything of it.
But Kit did.
He set down the sheet he was folding, wiping his hands on the front of his pants. "Hey," he said, voice low but firm. "Gimme that. I’ll take over."
You shook your head immediately, pulling the wet sheet a little closer to you like it was something precious. Yours. Your task. Your way of staying grounded.
"I’m fine," you muttered.
Kit didn’t move for a second. Just watched you, expression unreadable.
Then he reached out, slow but deliberate, and gently pried the sheet from your fingers. His touch wasn’t rough. Wasn’t demanding. It was steady, like he wasn’t asking—he was giving you something.
A breath you hadn’t realized you were holding escaped your chest.
"You fold," he said simply, already plunging his hands into the next basin like the decision was made.
You blinked at him, thrown off by the easy way he took the burden without making it feel like charity. No mocking. No pity. Just—here, let me help.
Your hands, freed from the soaking weight of the laundry, found the dry linens instead. You folded one. Then another. The rhythm easier now, lighter, like something in you had loosened without permission.
Across from you, Kit hummed low under his breath as he scrubbed, a tune you didn’t recognize.
For the first time in a long time, the work didn’t feel so lonely.
For a few minutes, the only sound between you was the swish of water and the rustle of folding linen.
You focused on the simple task, letting your hands move on their own, feeling almost... weightless. Less trapped in your own skin than usual.
Kit kept humming under his breath, soft and low, like he didn't even realize he was doing it.
You found yourself listening without meaning to.
The question slipped out before you could stop it.
"What’s the song?" you asked, voice so quiet it barely crossed the space between you.
Kit glanced up, startled—but only for a second. His face eased into a small, real smile, like he hadn’t expected you to speak first but was damn grateful you did.
"Old church song," he said, scrubbing a stubborn stain out of a sheet. "Used to hear it when I was a kid. My Ma made me sit through Sunday service even when I hated it."
He laughed under his breath, a real sound, full of something bittersweet.
You folded another towel, considering that. "You didn’t like church?"
Kit shook his head lightly. "Didn’t like sittin’ still. Hated the sermons. But the singing? The singing was alright."
You caught yourself almost smiling, a twitch at the corner of your mouth.
Maybe you understood more than you thought.
Maybe the noise helped keep the bad things away.
Kit wrung out the sheet and tossed it into the basket beside him, wiping his hands on his pants like he didn’t mind the mess.
"You ever sing?" he asked, voice easy, no pressure behind it—just curiosity.
You blinked, fingers pausing mid-fold.
Sing.
The word stirred something deep in the hollow spaces of your mind. A memory you couldn’t quite catch—bright lights, warm faces, music that wasn’t heavy or punishing but free.
You cleared your throat, keeping your eyes down on the towel in your hands. "Not... not really."
It wasn’t a lie. Not here, anyway. Not anymore.
Kit didn’t push. He just nodded like he understood things left unsaid. Like he knew sometimes a no meant not anymore.
"You got that look," he said after a second, picking up another damp sheet. "Like somebody that’s got music in ’em whether they want it or not."
It hit you harder than it should have—because once, long ago, someone else had said almost the same thing.
Your throat tightened, but you shoved the feeling down. You folded the towel sharper, faster, keeping your hands busy so your mind wouldn’t drift.
Kit didn’t notice—or maybe he did and was kind enough not to say anything.
Instead, he hummed a little more, softer this time, letting the moment settle between you without asking for more than you could give.
And for once, you didn’t mind the quiet.
Occupational therapy stretched on, the minutes bleeding together in a slow, mind-numbing rhythm.
The two of you worked side by side, hands busy, words sparse.
Sheets, pillowcases, worn-out hospital gowns—all of it needing to be wrung, folded, or clipped onto the sagging drying lines stretched across the room.
The work was monotonous, mechanical. You fell into it easily.
Twist, fold, pin.
Twist, fold, pin.
Kit didn’t hum anymore, but the tune still echoed faintly in your head, stubborn as a heartbeat.
Once in a while, you caught him glancing over—never lingering, never asking—but it was enough to make you focus a little harder on the creases of the fabric, the steady rhythm of your hands.
A sharp voice broke the quiet.
"Walker!"
You both turned. An orderly stood in the doorway, impatient.
Kit wiped his hands on the back of his pants again, giving you a crooked little smile.
"Guess that's my cue," he said, stepping back from the table. He hesitated for half a second, then added, almost awkwardly, "See you at lunch?"
You didn't nod, but you didn’t look away either. Maybe that was answer enough.
Kit’s grin softened—real, a little lopsided—before he turned and headed for the door, the orderly already barking at him to move it.
You were left alone with the fading smell of damp cotton and bleach, the pile of laundry still waiting for your hands.
The room seemed bigger without him in it. Quieter. Lonelier, somehow.
You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, reaching for the next sheet.
Twist. Fold. Pin.
The day wasn’t done yet.
The next sheet sagged heavily in your hands when a sharp knock rattled the doorframe.
You flinched, instinctively straightening up. An orderly stood there—different from the one who had taken Kit, this one broader, meaner-looking, with a permanent scowl carved deep into his face.
“Come on,” he barked, jutting his chin. “Doctor wants a word.”
You blinked, the sheet slipping from your fingers.
Doctor.
You followed without a word, muscles tightening with every step down the hall.
He led you down a different hallway. One you weren’t sure you’d ever been in. Your feet slowed on instinct, but a rough shove between your shoulder blades forced you forward again.
Not the one with the sharp turn and the rusted door handle you’d memorized by now. This hallway smelled like dust and paper, less bleach than usual. You passed unfamiliar signs. Unfamiliar rooms.
Then he stopped beside a door.
Not labeled. Just dark wood. Closed.
He opened it and gestured for you to go inside.
You didn’t ask. Didn’t resist. Just stepped in.
Because you’d learned by now—questions didn’t mean answers.
And things were always worse when you made noise.
The door shut behind you with a soft click. You stood still.
The room was warmer than Arden’s, less sterile. A desk, neatly kept. Shelves lined with books and case files. A couch. Two chairs. It almost looked like it belonged in a home—almost. But not quite.
“Hello,” came a voice. Calm. Even. Practiced.
A man stepped forward from the corner where he’d been adjusting something on a small side table. He looked younger than you expected. Clean-cut. Crisp shirt, tie done up neat. He offered a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“You must be our contortionist,” he said gently, like he already knew you wouldn’t answer.
He didn’t sound mocking. But he knew that detail. The way he said it made your chest tighten.
“I’m Dr. Thredson,” he continued, moving to one of the chairs and motioning for you to sit across from him. “I’ll be handling your evaluation today. Just a few questions. Nothing to be nervous about.”
His tone was too smooth. Too kind.
That made it worse.
You didn’t sit. Not right away. Just watched him. He didn’t push. Just waited.
You lowered yourself into the chair. The cushion gave beneath you—softer than you expected. Not comforting. Just strange.
Thredson folded his hands in his lap, his expression open and attentive.
“I understand you’ve been transferred more than once,” he said mildly. “Different facilities. Different routines. That must be… disorienting.”
You said nothing.
He nodded, like that was alright. “I imagine by now you’ve gotten used to being asked the same things. Your name. How you’re feeling. What day it is.”
Still, silence.
“I won’t waste your time,” he said. “I’m more interested in you. How you see things. What helps you get through the day.” He sounded odd. Not in a bad way, but in a different way. He sounded… almost kind. You didn’t hear kindness in this place, aside from Sister Mary Eunice.
He leaned slightly forward—not too close, not imposing.
“Do you prefer structure? Routines? I know some patients find comfort in repeated patterns. It’s not uncommon.” His gaze flicked briefly toward your hands, then back to your face.
The way he asked it, it didn’t feel like a question. It felt like he already knew.
Your throat worked around the answer before your mouth did. The words came out small, half-formed. “I don’t know.”
It wasn’t a lie. Not really. Because maybe you did know once. Maybe once you had preferences. Desires. But now the days just were. One bleeding into the next, each shaped by whistles and bells and rules. You glanced up. Just enough to see how he took the answer.
Thredson didn’t write it down. Just nodded—thoughtfully, like he was filing it away.
“Thank you,” he said, as if you’d given him something valuable. “That’s perfectly valid.”
You weren’t sure if it was supposed to be comforting, but… it almost was.
“Do you dream much?” he asked.
You blinked. Not at the question, but at the way he asked it—like he wasn’t prying, just… wondering. Curious, not clinical.
“I don’t know,” you said again, but this time it came slower, like maybe it wasn’t entirely true.
Thredson nodded like he understood. “Dreams can feel hard to hold onto in a place like this.”
You studied the pattern in the wallpaper behind him. It was subtle—floral, maybe—but faded. Like someone had tried to scrub beauty out of it.
“Sometimes,” you admitted, quietly. “There’s music.”
He didn’t write that down either. Just watched you with those patient, librarian eyes.
“Do you like music?” he asked.
“…I think so.”
“What kind?”
Your lips parted—just a fraction—but no words came. You couldn’t remember the names. Just the feeling. A slow warmth. Strings. Something that made you twirl without thinking.
“Performed to it,” you said, surprising yourself.
A beat of silence stretched long between you.
“Is that so?” Thredson’s voice was still gentle, but you noticed the shift—something new curling under it. Interest. “Tell me about that.”
But you didn’t. Not really. Just tilted your head and let the silence answer.
He let it settle. Let you retreat again.
“Well,” he said after a moment, “if you ever do feel like sharing, I’d like to hear about it.”
You didn’t say yes. But you didn’t say no, either. He didn’t rush you. Just sat there like he had all the time in the world to figure you out.
After a moment he asked, “have you always felt this way? Like you’re… half somewhere else?”
The way he said it wasn’t cruel. There was no disbelief, no scorn. Just a soft curiosity, folded carefully into his voice, like an offering.
Your fingers twisted a loose thread on the chair’s armrest. Had you? Your memory felt slippery. Childhood was a blur — flashes of color, movement, the echo of voices you couldn’t always match to faces. Had you always drifted?
“I don’t know,” you said again, and the thread snapped between your fingers.
Thredson smiled faintly. Not mockingly. Patiently. “That’s alright. Sometimes, when something difficult happens, our minds protect us without asking. Especially if it happens when we’re very young.”
You stared at him. Words floated up before you could catch them. “I wasn’t supposed to cry.”
The confession hung there, brittle and strange. You hadn’t planned to say anything. Maybe it was the warmth of the room. Maybe it was the way he didn’t look at you like you were broken. Just… hurt. Like maybe all this wasn’t your fault.
“You were punished for crying?” he asked, voice careful, lowering just a little, like he was speaking to a cornered animal.
Your shoulders curled in without meaning to. “I don’t remember,” you whispered.
But you did. Somewhere inside, you did.
He didn’t press. Instead, he sat back slightly, loosening his posture, signaling — You’re safe. You’re in control.
“I’m not here to make you relive anything painful,” Thredson said. “Just to understand how you’ve been carrying it. That’s all.”
You didn’t nod. Didn’t speak. But… you almost wanted to trust him.
Thredson sat back in his chair, letting a moment of silence stretch — not awkward, but thoughtful. Then he spoke again, voice easy, as if they were simply continuing a conversation they'd started long ago.
"You've been through a few different hospitals before Briarcliff," he said. Not accusing. Not pitying. Just… acknowledging.
Your fingers froze against the fabric. You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
"I’ve reviewed the notes from the others," he continued, his voice a low hum. "St. Mary’s. New Hampshire State. Boston. St. Dymphna’s. Our Lady of Peace."
The names flickered in your mind, each one like a shutter snap—cold beds, white lights, hands pulling at you, the hum of prayers in the walls.
"I imagine that must feel exhausting," he said softly. "Being passed from place to place. Being misunderstood."
A crack ran down the center of your chest—small, but there. He knew. He didn’t ask you to defend yourself. He didn’t accuse you of faking it. He just… saw you.
Thredson leaned forward slightly again, elbows resting loosely on his knees. "Was there ever a place that felt even a little safe?" he asked. "Even for a little while?"
The question was simple. But it split it split that crack wide open.
You thought—maybe—of the earliest place. Before the first hospital. A dim stage. Warm, heavy velvet curtains. Applause like distant rain. Laughter without fear.
But the feeling slipped away before you could grab it.
Your throat clicked when you swallowed. You shook your head once, a small, broken gesture. "No," you said. It came out flat. Not bitter. Not angry. Just true.
Thredson nodded again, slow and accepting. "I’m sorry," he said. And somehow, it didn’t feel like a lie.
He glanced at the clock, a faint crease forming between his brows. "I’m afraid we’ll have to stop here for today," he said, voice still calm, still patient. "But if you’re willing, I'd like to meet with you again soon. No pressure. Just... conversation."
You didn’t nod. Didn’t promise. But you didn’t bolt from the chair either. Mainly because you knew you didn’t really have a choice.
And somehow, that seemed to satisfy him.
"Thank you," he said sincerely, rising to his feet. "You did very well."
The door opened, and the same scowling orderly stood waiting. You rose slowly, your joints stiff, your mind buzzing, light and numb at once.
No time for questions. No time for recovery.
Because when the orderly tugged you into the hallway he turned, and you knew instantly where you were headed. Your stomach twisted—sharp and cold—but you didn’t resist. You never did. The walk to Arden’s wing felt shorter than it should’ve. Your feet carried you, but your mind drifted somewhere far away, already folding in on itself.
The room Arden used wasn't cold in temperature, but it felt colder somehow—the sharp scent of metal and medicine filling the space like fog. Arden’s voice was clinical. Demanding. He poked, prodded, muttered notes under his breath like you were a faulty specimen rather than a person.
You drifted partway through without even meaning to. It was easier that way. When it finally ended, the orderly didn’t speak. Just grabbed your arm and steered you toward the outside door.
A large door groaned as it opened, but it register until real air touched your face. Cool against your skin. Smelling like damp dirt and dying leaves. You stepped into it slowly, almost forgetting how to breathe it in.
Outside. For now, at least.
The yard was already dotted with scattered patients when you stepped through the door, their figures drifting like loose leaves over the grass. Some muttered to themselves. Some just rocked on benches or traced endless paths along the fence line.
You didn’t look for Pepper. You already knew—her schedule was different from yours. No chance of seeing her right now.
And that was fine. You didn’t want to talk anyway.
You turned toward the far side of the yard—the spot you always went to when you could. Near the crumbling old tree where the grass thinned out, leaving a patch of bare dirt exposed beneath the gnarled roots. The tree didn’t offer much shade, but it was something. Something older than the hospital. Something that hadn’t been built to trap people inside it.
You lowered yourself carefully onto the ground, crossing your legs, feeling the way the dry dirt crumbled under your palms.
For a moment, you just sat. Breathing. Letting the air cool the parts of you that felt rubbed raw.
Then your fingers twitched.
Without thinking, you dragged a fingertip through the dirt, carving out the first slow, shaky curve of a circle. And then another. And another. The motion steadying you more than the air, more than the silence.
You didn’t look around. Didn’t wonder if anyone was watching. You just circled. And circled. And circled.
Until the hospital walls faded a little at the edges of your mind.
Until you could almost, almost pretend you weren’t here at all.
Until you could feel the Florida sun bouncing off your skin.
Your hand kept moving, slow and steady, tracing the same worn groove through the dirt, deepening it little by little. The circles weren’t perfect—your finger wobbled sometimes—but that wasn’t the point. It was the motion. The feeling of it. The way it gave your mind something simple to hold onto.
A shadow shifted beside you. You stiffened, instinctively ready to pull away—but didn’t.
Hospital shoes scuffed quietly in the dirt. Then someone sank down onto the ground next to you, folding long legs with an easy, casual kind of grace. For a second, neither of you said anything. Just sat there. You could feel his gaze, not heavy, not sharp—just there. Watching your hand move.
"You weren't at lunch," Kit said after a while. His voice was low, unbothered, almost like he was talking about the weather. Not accusing. Not even really asking. Just stating.
Your fingertip paused against the dirt. A tiny break in the circle. You didn’t look at him. Didn’t speak. Just pressed your finger down a little harder and started the next ring, smaller inside the last.
Kit didn’t press. Didn’t fill the space with more words. He just sat with you—patient, grounded—like he had time to wait if you ever decided to answer. Like silence didn’t scare him.
Your voice came quiet, almost scraped raw from disuse. "New doctor wanted to see me."
It wasn’t much. Just a handful of words. But it broke the stillness between you.
Kit shifted slightly, enough that you caught the movement out of the corner of your eye. Concern flickered across his face—not loud or dramatic—before he caught it and softened his expression again. He didn’t ask what the doctor wanted. Didn’t ask what happened. Didn’t even ask if you were alright.
Just nodded, like he’d heard you. Like that was enough.
After a few breaths, he glanced down at your hand moving in the dirt again.
"You makin' something?" His voice stayed easy. Almost casual. But there was a thread of real curiosity underneath. "Or... they just circles?"
Your fingertip hesitated at the edge of the groove, then kept going. The next ring smaller than the last.
"Just circles," you murmured. The lie tasted strange in your mouth.
Maybe once they had meant something. Maybe once, someone else had asked you the same question. And maybe you'd answered the same way then, too.
Kit didn’t seem to mind either way. He just stayed where he was, sitting close enough to share the shade, not close enough to crowd you. Like he understood that sometimes, it wasn’t about having answers.
Sometimes it was just about not being alone.
For a while, neither of you spoke. Just the sound of the breeze tugging at the tree branches above, the scratch of your fingertip against the dirt.
Then Kit’s voice broke the quiet again—softer this time. Almost like he wasn’t sure if he should ask.
"You ever think about it?" he said. He picked up a twig, turned it idly between his fingers. "Leavin', I mean."
Your hand faltered. Just a breath. A small, broken stutter in the circle you were carving. You stared at the ground, the line your finger had abandoned.
Leaving.
You had thought about it once. A lifetime ago, in a different place. Before the locked doors grew taller than you could climb, before the punishments taught you what trying cost. Your throat tightened. Not fear. Not even sadness. Something flatter. Something more dead.
You pressed your fingertip back into the dirt. Traced slower now—not circles anymore. Just wandering.
Kit didn’t push. Didn’t seem to expect an answer.
He just kept twisting the twig, his shoulders loose, voice low.
"I been thinkin’ about it," he said, like it was a secret, but not a dangerous one. Like maybe if he said it soft enough, it wouldn’t get either of you in trouble.
"Thought maybe I could prove I was innocent. That I wasn’t crazy," he whispered. "But... I dunno. Feels like everyone here’s workin’ against me."
Your hand stilled completely. You didn’t look at him right away. It was hard, dragging your gaze up. But you did.
And for the first time in a long time, you weren’t sure if it was the past you were afraid of remembering—or the future you hadn’t dared to hope for. Not for years anyways,
You kept your focus on the dirt, watching the way your finger traced the same circular motion, over and over. It was easier that way. Easier to keep things small. To keep things distant.
But Kit’s words hung in the air between you, softer than you wanted them to be. There was something about the way he spoke—like maybe he really did get it.
You stayed silent. Maybe to the point her thought you wouldn’t answer.
"Not here," you said, voice barely a whisper, your finger faltering as you spoke.
Kit didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. He just waited, the silence stretching gently, letting you decide if you’d give him more.
The circles in the dirt were starting to blur, your hands trembling slightly. You had never talked about it before. You never had friends in a place like this, aside from when Pepper got here. But Kit felt different from everyone else. Like Pepper in a way, like he was genuine.
You didn’t know what you were expecting with not responding. Maybe just for him to understand that it hadn’t worked. Maybe that it was foolish to try. But he didn't say anything, not for a while.
Finally, Kit spoke, his voice quieter than before. "What happened?"
"Don’t work."
Two words. Cracked at the edges. Heavy enough that you didn’t need to say more.
Kit didn’t answer right away. When you finally risked glancing sideways, he wasn’t looking at you. Just watching his own hands turning the twig, over and over. Like he was thinking real hard about something.
Kit’s voice broke the silence again, softer this time. “How do you know?” he asked, his gaze still fixed on the twig in his hands. “If you never tried here, how do you know?”
The question hung in the air, almost a challenge to the walls they were both trapped behind. He wasn’t saying it like it was something he expected an answer to. More like he was trying to believe, trying to hold onto the idea that escaping—leaving—was still a possibility.
Your fingers faltered again, drawing another half-formed circle. You didn’t look up. Didn’t want to.
“I don’t need to try,” you said, a little too quickly. It sounded convincing enough, but there was a slight edge to it—a tone that made you sound like you were telling a lie even to yourself. “It’s not possible here.”
Kit was silent for a beat, and you could feel his eyes on you, even without looking. His words were careful when he spoke again. “But what if it is?”
You didn’t answer at first, the dirt between your fingers cooling as you pressed into it. Your chest tightened just a little, but you hid it, keeping your face expressionless. No. You couldn’t entertain the thought. Not here. Not now.
“It’s not,” you repeated, softer this time. A little firmer.
Kit didn’t push. He just nodded, not quite satisfied, but not pressing you further either.
But deep down, behind the wall you’d built so carefully, something stirred. It was a tiny flicker, a reminder of something long buried. The part of you that still remembered what it felt like to believe in escape. The part of you that had tried once. It was barely there, but it was enough to make your hands hesitate—just for a moment.
You swallowed it down before it could grow, burying it back under layers of silence.
You didn’t say anything else after that. Neither did Kit.
The two of you just sat there in the thin, late-afternoon sunlight, the dirt cool under your fingertips, the breeze tugging gently at your hair. Every now and then you caught the small movements of Kit’s hands, still turning that broken twig over and over, like he didn’t want to let the silence fall too heavy between you.
It wasn’t a comfortable quiet. But it wasn’t painful either. It was something in between. Something real.
An orderly called your name and you both flinched. That was your cue to head back inside. You wiped your hands on your gown, brushing the dirt away, and without looking back, you stood and walked toward the gates, feeling the weight of Kit’s gaze lingering after you the whole way.
The chapel felt colder today.
Like the walls had leaned in since morning. Like they’d heard what you said outside.
You didn’t remember walking there, only the sudden hush of wood and stone around you. The smell of incense. Dusty. Sharp. You sat in the second pew from the front. Or maybe the third. It didn’t matter.
Sister Jude’s heels struck the floor like a warning. She spoke of obedience. Redemption. Suffering as a path to salvation.
You watched her mouth move. Didn’t hear the words.
There was something in her eyes when she looked at you—Not fire. Not even judgment. Just tiredness, maybe. Or disappointment that hadn’t burned out yet.
Someone coughed behind you. Someone cried. Your own hands rested flat on your knees. Still dirty. You hadn’t washed them.
“Confession,” Sister Jude said. Like it meant something.
The others lined up, one by one. You stayed in your seat. Your eyes found the stained glass above the altar. Red. Blue. Gold. You imagined what it might look like if the sun ever shone through it properly. Like blood and sky and fire, melting together.
When she called your name, you didn’t move.
Not right away.
And when you stood, your legs felt made of chalk.
Inside the booth, the wood was cracked and warm where others had leaned. You stared at the grain. Counted the rings. Didn’t speak.
“Child?” came the voice.
Low. Tight. Like Sister Jude didn’t want to be here either.
You opened your mouth.
Thought of the names again.
But you didn’t speak them.
Instead, you said:
“I don’t remember sinning.”
Your voice surprised you. Small. But not trembling.
Silence on the other side of the screen. Then a rustle. A sigh.
When you stepped out again, the room hadn’t changed. Same cold. Same quiet. You sat down. Folded your hands.
Saints, Sinners, and Sleepwalkers | Kit Walker x Reader
Series Masterlist Here
8.3k words
Expect Disturbing Themes
Chapter 1: Curiosity is the First Cut
📄 Briarcliff Records (October, 1961 – Last Updated March, 1962)
Patient Name: [REDACTED]
Alias: “Lady Reverie”
Date of Admission: October 13th, 1961
Age: Estimated mid-to-late 20s
Recent Addendum – March 2nd, 1962
Staff Observations:
Patient demonstrates increased periods of lucidity during waking hours. Fugue states have decreased in frequency, though still present. Shows consistent protective behavior toward fellow patient “Pepper.” Frequently observed intervening when Pepper is distressed or targeted by others. Speech still fragmented. Instances of poetic or metaphorical language remain, but content appears more focused. Nighttime episodes remain.
Religious Staff Note:
Unnatural contortions and trance-like movements continue to be interpreted as signs of possible spiritual unrest. The Chaplain’s previous request for private prayer sessions has been approved by administration and is currently awaiting formal scheduling. Staff advised to document any further episodes of religious speech or behavior. – Schedule with Father Howard by end of month?
Attending Staff: Dr. Arthur Arden
Dr. Thredson: Pending evaluation
The air in Sister Jude’s office always smelled faintly of smoke and floor polish. Clinical, but not quite clean. Dr. Oliver Thredson folded his hands neatly in his lap as she spoke, nodding with a tight-lipped expression that suggested agreement, though his mind was already two thoughts ahead.
“She’s not violent,” Jude was saying, thumbing through a thin, dog-eared file. “Not like some of the others. But she’s off. Unsettling.”
“Off?” Thredson echoed politely, already glancing toward the open folder.
“Former sideshow performer. Calls herself Lady Reverie—or did, once. Now she mostly doesn’t talk. Spends most of her time sleepwalking through the halls or twisting herself into a knot under her cot.”
Jude slid the folder toward him.
“She speaks in verse sometimes,” Jude added dryly, lighting a cigarette. “When she speaks at all.”
Thredson scanned the top sheet. Hysteria. Catatonia. Fugue states. A tangle of diagnoses from facilities that probably hadn’t known what to do with her, so they’d passed her along like a cursed relic.
“And yet,” he murmured, mostly to himself, “she still moves.”
He tapped a finger against a line about her nightly contortions. A kind of sleep-dancing. Bodies remembered what the mind forgot. He’d read about cases like this in med school. But none had the strange poetry that trailed behind this one like a ghost.
“She doesn’t cause trouble,” Jude said again, but with that pinched tone she used for anything that bothered her even if it didn’t break the rules. “But she’s magnetic. You’ll see. Other patients are drawn to her like sheep to a wolf with lipstick. That’s the problem.”
Thredson smiled faintly. “Or perhaps… like sheep to a shepherd.”
Jude’s eyes narrowed, cigarette paused just before her lips. “You planning to take a particular interest in her?”
“I plan to observe,” he said smoothly. “That’s all. She’s an intriguing case. And since she’s begun interacting more frequently with the Pinhead girl—”
“Pepper,” Jude corrected, grimacing.
“—Yes. Pepper. Since then, her file notes fewer fugue episodes. That shift alone is worth understanding.”
Jude took a long drag from her cigarette, exhaled toward the window.
“Do what you want,” she muttered. “But don’t come crying to me when she starts climbing the walls and speaking in tongues. Arden says she’s half demon already.”
“Then perhaps it’s time someone asked which half.”
He stood and collected the folder, careful not to show how eager he really was. His fingers itched to open it again. To dissect each phrase. The mind was a map, and she was already presenting the most intriguing detour Briarcliff had offered yet.
Down the hall, the metal doors to Occupational Therapy clicked open.
He would only observe. Quietly. Briefly. Harmlessly.
For now.
They’d put you and Pepper at the same table again. Not out of kindness—just rotation. A shuffle of patients to avoid patterns, they said. But for once, it worked in your favor.
She greeted you with a squeal and a flurry of excited hand-flapping, nearly knocking over the tray of beads the orderly dumped between you. You caught the tray before it spilled, and she beamed like you’d just pulled a rabbit from a hat.
“Twiiirly,” she whispered in sing-song, dragging out the word like it was a secret spell.
You said nothing. Just smiled—small, careful—and nudged a pink bead her way. She gasped, delighted.
It was quiet enough, at first. Just the clink of beads and buttons. The soft rustle of fabric and the faint wheeze of the radiators pushing against another cold morning.
You let yourself watch her. Counted the rhythm of her fingers sorting colors. Matched your breathing to her little hums. She made it easier to be here. She made you easier to be here.
Then something shifted. The sound of shoes—too crisp. Too new. Someone watching.
You didn’t look up right away, but the hairs on your arms prickled. Staff changed often. You didn’t recognize this one.
A clipboard scratched against a sleeve. A murmur between two men. The rustle of papers. You felt it—not like threat, exactly. But like someone testing the weight of a door they might one day unlock.
You moved closer to Pepper. Just a fraction. Her knee bumped yours, and she looked at you with wide, steady trust.
You turned back to the beads. Threaded one. Then another.
Still here. Still with her.
The clink of beads slowed. Across the room, a nurse glanced at her clipboard, then began calling names—one by one, slowly peeling people away like petals off a dying flower.
“Time’s up,” she said flatly. “Sort yourselves out.”
Pepper frowned at her half-finished bracelet, lip wobbling just enough to tug something deep in your chest. You reached over and touched the back of her hand.
“Hey,” you murmured, soft but certain. “We’ll finish it later. I promise.”
Her eyes lifted to yours. You watched her search your face, looking for cracks. You gave her your best smile—even if it didn’t feel like it belonged to you. It worked. She nodded, the way children do when they decide to believe in something.
“No forgetting!”
“I won’t,” you said. “I’m still here, remember?”
She giggled like it was a joke. To her, maybe it was. But around her, you were more awake than you’d ever been since the show disbanded.
You hate it. But you care for her more.
You stood from your chair, offering Pepper one last smile, just as an orderly entered the room. He called your name. You followed without a word, leaving the faint scent of glue and yarn behind. The halls stretched longer than usual, walls tilting ever so slightly inward. Fluorescent lights flickered like they were trying to blink something away.
You didn’t ask where you were going. You never did.
The hydrotherapy room was colder today.
Not by degrees—by feeling. Like the air itself didn’t want you there.
The tub loomed where it always did: claw-footed, rust-kissed, bolted to cracked tiles like an altar made for silence. The water was already waiting—cloudy, off-color. You didn’t want to know what was in it.
The orderly didn’t speak. Just walked you to the tub and began unfastening your gown. The buttons came undone one by one, each tiny pop echoing off the tile like distant thunder. You stared at the grout between floor tiles and tried to stay inside your body.
It didn’t work.
When you stepped out of the gown, you didn’t feel the chill. Your skin did, but you were watching from somewhere behind your own eyes.
Lowered into the tub, your limbs folded like paper. Your back met the basin and the cold climbed in. Restraints clicked shut at your wrists and ankles.
You didn’t fight. You never did.
The water lapped gently at your collarbones. You stared at the ceiling.
Dirt.
Your fingers were in the dirt, kneeling under a sky you couldn’t see. Someone was behind you. Close, but not touching.
"You're always doing that,” a voice said. Soft, amused. Jimmy.
You didn’t turn to look at him. You didn’t need to. You could feel the warmth of him at your back. His presence curled around your shoulders like an old coat.
“Does it mean something?” he asked, crouching beside you.
You shrugged.
“I like it,” he added after a moment. “The circles. Looks like you're making little worlds.”
You traced another loop, slower this time. His hand rested lightly against your spine—warm, grounding. You hadn’t realized how cold you were.
“Maybe I am,” you murmured. You liked the idea of that. Building something. Even if you couldn’t stay in it.
Then the water shifted. Real again. Heavy.
Jimmy was gone.
You were trembling. Bound. Alone.
Your fingers wouldn’t stop twitching.
The restraints came off slower than they went on. The water lapped around your ribs as the orderly muttered something you didn’t hear. You stepped out of the tub, dripping, the floor cold against your feet. He handed you a threadbare towel that didn’t quite reach your knees.
You dried off on instinct. One hand. Then the other. The order in it made your body feel real again.
Your gown was returned to you, slightly damp at the collar. They never waited for you to be fully dry. By the time you were dressed, the chill had settled in your bones.
No words were exchanged. Just a nod. A hand on your back.
The hallway stretched out like something hollowed. You walked it anyway. You always did. Flickering lights. White tile. Turn left, then right.
They didn’t send you back to your room.
“Common room,” the orderly said, jerking his chin toward the double doors.
You didn’t respond. Just walked through them.
The common room was already half-filled. Two patients were locked in a quiet argument by the window. A woman in a fraying nightgown tore pages from a magazine, stacking them neatly on the floor. The same old music playing on repeat.
You looked for Pepper. But you knew she wasn’t here.
You made your way to your usual chair—near the old bookshelf where the encyclopedias were out of order. You sat.
Folded your hands in your lap. Breathed in. Out.
Still damp. Still here.
The low drone of voices filled the room like fog. You let it settle over you. Let it blur the edges just a little—but not too far. Not now. Not yet.
You stared at the rip in your sleeve and counted the stitches until they stopped meaning numbers.
Then switched to counting the flickers of the light above you. Two. Pause. One. Long pause. Then three. You weren’t sure if it had always done that or if you just noticed today.
Then—
Bang.
The hallway door slammed open, loud and fast like it was kicked. You flinched.
A voice—male, raw with panic—echoed in the corridor. “Get your hands off me! I didn’t do anything!”
Footsteps. Two, maybe three sets. Struggling. A thud against the wall. Metal clattered. Someone swore.
You didn’t move. Not really. Just turned your head slightly, like it was someone else’s.
“Another one,” a nurse murmured at the desk.
“Not just anyone,” someone else answered, voice low and tight. “He’s one of them. From the Bloody Face case.”
“No kidding. Thought he’d get the chair.”
“Should’ve. But not yet.”
Their voices drifted off into the rhythm of the day.
The footsteps faded. So did the struggle. A moment later, the common room returned to its usual static rhythm. Cups stacked. Pieces moved. The TV buzzed on.
But something in your chest had changed. Like a key had turned inside you.
Not enough to unlock anything.
But just enough to click.
You looked toward the hallway, where the noise had come from. Nothing there now. Just the closed door.
You didn’t know why it stuck with you.
But it did.
The voices had stopped. The hallway was quiet again. But your thoughts moved differently now—like something had shifted them off their usual tracks. You couldn't name the feeling, exactly. Not fear. Not curiosity. Just… a pressure. A presence. Like someone had walked across your grave and kept going.
Your eyes conveyed your sudden restlessness more than any other part of you. They flitted around the room, as if trying to figure out why your heart was beating a little harder.
Eventually, the bell rang.
Not a real bell—just the old, wheezing chime they used when it was time to shuffle patients from one part of the ward to the next. You’d learned its pitch months ago. Lunch.
Everyone stood in slow ripples. Chairs scraped. Slippers scuffed tile. The usual drift toward the door began.
You stood last.
Not out of rebellion. Just habit.
It gave you time to brush a hand over the carved eye on your chair’s armrest, a ritual you hadn’t bothered to question in weeks. Or maybe months. You weren’t sure.
The hallway was brighter now, though it still hummed too loud. You filed in with the others, trailing just behind a woman who whispered prayers under her breath. You didn’t listen to the words—just the cadence.
Orderlies and nurses led and followed you all to the lunchroom.
Lunch meant noise. Trays. Smells. A hundred kinds of presence pressing down on you at once.
You didn’t mind the blandness of the food anymore. You didn’t taste it, anyway.
Lunch was already halfway served. You sat where you always did—second row from the wall, three seats down from the cart with the chipped plastic utensils.
You didn’t look up when the nurse came by. You didn’t have to. Your tray was always placed in front of you, always the same way—lukewarm, grayish food and a paper cup of water that tasted like rust.
But today—
A pause.
A tray dropped beside yours.
“You’re sitting here,” came the nurse’s voice, brisk, not unkind. Then the tap of her shoes retreating. You felt it before you saw it. The change. A new weight beside you, unfamiliar and too alive.
You looked up.
And there he was.
Someone new.
You didn’t remember most here, but you were sure you’d recognize him.
Messy hair, a scrape darkening on his cheekbone, hands clenched too tight around the edges of his tray like he might bolt or throw it. His eyes met yours.
He didn’t look away.
Neither did you.
Something cracked—just a hairline fracture in the surface of your stillness. Not recognition. Not quite. But a pull.
He opened his mouth, maybe to say something, maybe not.
Nothing came out.
You blinked.
He sat down.
The room carried on around you. Chatter, trays scraping, the clink of plastic forks.
But at your little corner of the table, time hung different.
Something had arrived.
The two of you ate in silence.
You peeled your bread roll slowly, piece by piece, pressing crumbs into your palm without noticing. The man barely touched his food. His spoon clinked once against the bowl of something that used to be soup, then stilled.
He kept glancing your way—quick, uncertain flicks of the eyes, like he wasn’t sure if you were real or just another one of this place’s ghosts.
You didn’t meet his gaze. But you didn’t turn away, either.
A long moment passed.
Then, softly—like he was testing the weight of his own voice—he said,
“Is it always so… quiet in here?”
His words surprised you. Not what he said, but that he said anything at all. Like no one had told him you weren’t… you. Maybe he didn’t care. That would change.
You looked up again.
His eyes were tired. But kind.
He waited.
You blinked.
It had been a long time since anyone asked you a question like they expected you to answer. Like you were still someone who did that sort of thing. Did you know how?
Your lips parted. Then closed again. You looked at your tray—at the pale mush congealing at the edges, at your own trembling fingers.
“…Usually,” you said, voice small and grainy, like a sound unused to daylight.
He nodded, like you’d said something important. Like you’d given more than just a word.
Then, after a moment spent fiddling with his spoon, he said, “I’m Kit.” Not loud. Not proud. Just simple. Honest. Like maybe he wasn’t sure it would matter.
Your eyes flicked to him again, slower this time.
“…Hi.”
That was all. Just that one syllable. But you met his gaze when you said it.
And it was enough.
He smiled, just barely.
You looked away first.
Not out of shyness—but something closer to habit. The quiet had become armor. And this new voice, this boy with soft eyes and scuffed knuckles, had cracked it just by looking at you like you were still there.
You risked a glance across the room.
Pepper sat hunched over her tray, but her eyes were on you. Not on the food. Not on the noise behind her. On you.
She smiled. Big and goofy and proud—like she’d known this would happen. Like maybe she’d waited for it.
Kit followed your gaze.
“She your friend?” he asked gently.
You gave the tiniest nod.
He smiled. “You always this quiet?”
You opened your mouth. Closed it.
The truth sat somewhere between the past and whatever you were now. You’d always been quiet, yes. But not like this. Not the kind of quiet that made your voice strange in your own throat. Not the kind that made people forget you were there.
“…I wasn’t,” you said finally.
And that was true enough for now.
Kit didn’t press. Just nodded, like he understood something unsaid.
The rest of lunch passed in soft sounds—metal against trays, the occasional mutter or clatter. You picked at your food, not out of hunger but habit. He did the same, though he seemed more focused on you than the plate in front of him.
You didn’t speak again.
But you didn’t leave the table either.
For now, that felt like something.
The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable. It wasn’t heavy. If anything, it felt… okay..
You took another bite of whatever passed for lunch. Warm, beige, unmemorable. He did the same. The clatter and clink of trays filled the space around you, but in your corner, the world felt muffled.
Then—
A hand closed around your upper arm. Not hard, not cruel—but firm. Familiar.
An orderly. Already turning you away from the table before he spoke.
“Time to go.”
No name. No explanation. No need.
You didn’t resist. You never did.
The spoon slipped from your hand with a quiet clink against plastic as you rose, letting yourself be steered out of the cafeteria.
You didn’t look back.
But you could feel them.
Pepper’s worry. Kit’s confusion.
Their eyes followed you out the lunchroom.
The hallway to Arden’s lab always felt colder than the others. Colder than hydrotherapy, even. Not the biting cold of water—but dry, bone-humming cold, like the air didn’t want to be breathed.
The orderly said nothing as he guided you through the narrow corridor. You knew the path by heart: left at the supply closet, past the small window covered in wire mesh, take a right, down two more doors and—
There.
The one with no label. Just a thin slit of light beneath it.
The orderly knocked once, didn’t wait for an answer, and opened the door.
Inside, it smelled of iron and rubbing alcohol. Too clean, in a way that made your stomach twist. Nothing ever smelled like that unless something wrong had happened—and been wiped away.
Dr. Arden stood at the far end of the room, already in his coat, sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows. He didn’t look up right away. He never did.
“Leave her,” he said.
The orderly let go of your arm. The door clicked shut behind you.
You stood there. Still.
Arden glanced at you finally. His eyes were pale, washed out, like something left too long in the sun. He wrote something on a clipboard without speaking, then motioned toward the exam chair in the center of the room.
You walked.
The exam chair was hard. Cold. Designed more for compliance than comfort. The light above you buzzed faintly, flickering at the edges. Arden circled behind you, and for a moment, the only sound was the rustle of paper and the metallic squeak of his instruments.
He began his routine.
Blood pressure. Pupil dilation. Reflexes. Cold metal pressing against your skin.
His hands were always precise. Too careful. He touched you like you were a machine—one he didn’t trust, but was obsessed with keeping in working order. You learned not to flinch.
“You’ve been more alert lately,” he said, voice neutral. “More present.”
He tapped the edge of your knee. Your leg twitched.
“And yet, the dissociative episodes continue.”
He didn’t ask. He never asked. Just wrote.
Something clinked into a tray behind you.
“How fortunate,” he murmured. “To study such phenomena in real time.”
He adjusted the angle of your head.
“And your flexibility—still intact, I assume?”
You said nothing.
He smiled—just barely. It didn’t reach his eyes.
“You’ll show me, of course.”
He said it like fact.
Like order.
The silence stretched thin and sharp between you, vibrating like wire.
You didn’t blink. Still here.
But shrinking, inside yourself.
Like a knot pulled tighter, tighter, tighter.
Arden turned away again, scribbling. Something about the way he moved made you feel smaller. Dissected.
He hadn’t touched you improperly. Not today. Not yet. But he looked at you like he was waiting for permission. Or for the rules to change.
They always changed here.
Eventually.
Arden set his clipboard aside. “Stand.”
You obey.
With clinical slowness, he stepped behind you once more. You heard the snap of gloves. The slide of a drawer.
Then the rustle of fabric.
Your gown.
His fingers were at the back, unfastening the buttons one by one. Not rushed. Not hesitant. Just methodical.
“You’ll be cooperative,” he said quietly. Not a threat. Not a request. Just… truth, as he saw it.
The gown slipped from your shoulders. Cold air touched your spine like ice. You had never been more grateful for the cotton underwear given to you by the asylum.
“You’ve done this before,” he added. “Hundreds of times, if I had to guess.”
He guided your arm upward, not roughly, but firmly—stretching it behind your head, elbow bent at a sharp angle.
“Hold.”
You did.
His hand adjusted your wrist with the kind of care one might use for taxidermy. Fingers precisely positioned. Palm facing the ceiling. He circled you, pausing to examine the lines your body made.
Click.
A camera. Somewhere behind you. No flash. Just the heavy mechanical sound of the shutter.
He didn’t tell you he was going to take a picture.
He didn’t tell you anything.
“You’ve trained your body to obey,” he said absently, scribbling something down. “Even when your mind… detaches.”
He tilted your chin next. Pulled the opposite arm forward. Bent it across your stomach in a shape you recognized from your old acts. One of the more graceful ones.
You held the position. Not for him. For survival.
Click.
You stared at the ceiling. Counted the cracks. The stains in the paint. Pretended your body was only light and muscle. A shadow someone else was wearing.
“Backbend,” he said simply.
You hesitated—only a fraction.
A mistake.
His fingers wrapped your bicep. Not cruel, but possessive. Steady.
“You’re not here to perform,” he said, his voice dipping. “You’re here to be studied. And I expect consistency.”
Your breath caught as you shifted. Let yourself fold backward. Spine curved. Chest stretched open.
Vulnerable.
Click.
Click.
You stared upside-down at the far wall, heart climbing your throat.
Arden moved closer.
You felt the shape of his gaze—how it narrowed, intensified. How it settled at your sternum like a weight.
“Fascinating,” he muttered. “Even now… the body remembers.”
A touch—flat, clinical, palm to your ribs. He counted your breaths. Said nothing as you trembled.
Still here. Still here. Still here.
But the knot inside you pulled tighter.
And his hand didn’t move.
Arden’s hand trailed lower.
Not hurried. Not hesitant.
From your ribs, down the line of your waist, across your hip. Gloved fingers pressing into the muscle—not groping, but measuring. As if your body were an anatomical model he’d memorized long ago and was now checking for inconsistencies.
He stopped at your thigh.
“Too tense,” he muttered.
His hand adjusted your leg—lifted and rotated it outward, forcing your pelvis to tilt with the movement. Then the other. Folding you inward now, one knee drawn up, one stretched behind, your spine curving into a twist.
A contortionist’s pose.
One you hadn’t used in years.
Click.
The sound made you flinch.
He didn’t notice. Or he didn’t care.
“Muscle memory is remarkable,” he said, more to himself than to you. “It outlasts the mind. Outlasts trauma. Even obedience can be learned in the tissue.”
He stepped back again, examining you like a specimen pinned beneath glass. Something in his expression flickered—not quite desire. Not admiration. Something colder. Sharper.
Something hungry.
“You’ve always made yourself small,” he murmured. “Even now. Tucked into yourself like a prayer.”
He crouched beside you, adjusting the angle of your wrist again. His face too close. His breath smelled like old metal and antiseptic.
“Tell me,” he said softly, as he reached to place your chin just so. “Do you even remember why you do this?”
Click.
The silence after the shutter was deafening.
The final click echoed through the room.
And then—nothing.
Just the hum of the overhead light. The shallow rasp of your own breathing. The drag of Arden’s shoes against the linoleum as he moved back to his tray.
Without the shutter snapping you back, the world started to tilt.
Colors dulled. The cold beneath you seeped deeper into your skin, heavy and anchorless. The sharp edge of awareness—the one you fought to keep—wavered like a candle about to gutter out.
Arden’s voice slipped around you, muffled at the edges.
“Fascinating,” he said, almost tenderly. "The body's betrayal of the mind. The mind's betrayal of itself."
His words were shapes you barely recognized.
Your body stayed folded where he had put it, obedient even in absence.
You felt his hand reposition your arm again—soft, impersonal. Heard the scratch of pen against paper. Distant. Harmless.
You weren't here anymore, not fully.
Not in this room. Not in this body.
Somewhere safer. Somewhere quieter.
Somewhere he couldn’t reach.
At least for now.
You drifted.
No time.
No place.
No you.
When the world stitched itself back together, you were standing.
The rough brush of hands tugged at your gown—rebuttoning, fixing. An orderly’s hands, not Arden’s. The metal tray and instruments blurred into the edges of your vision.
“Move along.” The orderly muttered.
Your legs obeyed before you understood the command.
Out the door, into the hall, the cold trailing you like smoke.
Somewhere above, thunder grumbled low across the ceiling.
The storm had rolled in.
No outdoor time today.
The halls veered left instead of right, leading you back toward the common room.
The common room smelled like bleach and wet wool.
The orderly shoved you inside without ceremony. You stumbled a step, caught yourself, and blinked against the low gray light.
First thing—you looked for Pepper. You always did.
But the corner where she usually sat was empty. No hunched figure, no wild hands playing with whatever they grabbed first. Just a scuffed floor and a humming radiator.
You drifted toward the old bookshelf instead.
You didn’t remember sitting. One moment you were moving, the next, the cracked vinyl chair creaked under you. Your fingers brushed the armrests out of habit, tracing the worn edge where the material had split open years ago.
The music looped, faint and staticky, from the record player shoved against the far wall. The same song that always played. You didn’t remember what it was about, if you ever even knew. It blended into the background long ago.
You stared at the dust haloed around your shoes.
The door creaked again.
Someone new. A shuffle of boots and cuffs and a sharp, questioning voice. A familiar one. Kit.
You didn’t look up—not yet—but you felt him move across the room, a different rhythm than the others. Less slouched. Less beaten.
He headed straight for the record player.
You recognized the mistake before he even touched it.
You shifted, your body moving on reflex, a flicker of urgency stirring in your gut.
You started to rise—
But someone else was faster.
A woman—sharp, pale, her brown hair messy like she hadn't stopped moving for days—cut across the room and caught his wrist just before he could reach the needle.
Her voice was low, fierce, too fast for you to catch the words.
Kit jerked back, confused, but didn’t fight her.
You sank back down before you even realized you’d stood at all.
The record spun on. Outside, the thunder was getting just a touch louder.
You tried not to look. You really did. Your gaze was supposed to stay fixed, empty, the way you’d trained it to. The way you needed it to. But your eyes slid sideways anyway. Drawn to the scene across the room like a moth to a slow-burning flame.
The girl—you knew her, but you couldn’t remember her name—was speaking low and fast. You couldn’t hear all of it over the hum of the record, but you caught the shape of her urgency.
Warnings, probably. Maybe an apology tucked inside it.
Kit leaned in, frowning, his hands half-lifted like he didn’t quite know whether to argue or surrender.
There was something strange about him. Not the way most of them were strange, cracked and hollow from the inside out. Something… newer. Rough-edged. Not worn down yet.
You dropped your gaze back to your lap. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t your business. Nothing here was.
But still—
Still—you found yourself glancing back, quick and secret, just once more.
Kit was nodding now, slowly, like he understood whatever Grace had said. His shoulders, still tense, dropped a little. He shifted awkwardly, scanning the room like he was trying to find somewhere he wouldn't be swallowed whole.
And just for a moment… his eyes caught yours.
You froze.
It was only a second. Maybe less. You looked away first, your heart ticking louder in your ribs than it should have.
It didn’t mean anything. He was new. He was looking at everything.
You pressed your palms flat against your thighs, grounding yourself in the sharp, worn texture of the chair’s fabric. Waiting for the minutes to bleed into each other again.
The storm moved closer. You could feel it. Like a slow, gathering pressure in the walls. A low rumble shivered through the floor under your feet. The old building groaned with it, every window rattling faintly in its frame.
You held your breath without meaning to. Somewhere deep inside, some old instinct warned: Brace yourself.
The next crash came without warning— A crack of thunder so loud it rattled the cheap light fixtures overhead, peeling a scream from one of the patients across the room. She shot up from her chair, wailing, hands flailing wildly at nothing.
The music crackled on in the background, cheerful and tinny and wrong. A nurse shouted something. Two orderlies crossed the room in five long strides, closing in on the woman.
You flinched when the chair she kicked over clattered hard against the floor.
Kit looked up too—half-standing from his seat like he wasn’t sure whether to help or stay out of the way. The woman touched his arm and said something under her breath, firm and quick, and he sank back down reluctantly.
The woman’s screams pitched higher. Another crash of thunder. You squeezed your hands into fists in your lap to keep them from trembling.
The orderlies grabbed her roughly, dragging her struggling toward the door.
One of her shoes came off in the scuffle, spinning across the floor before slapping to a stop near the old piano.
The common room felt bigger and emptier when they were gone. Everyone pretending not to notice. Everyone shrinking inward.
You stayed still. Small. Ears pricked to the sound of the girl speaking in low tones to Kit. You didn't mean to listen. But your mind clung to noise, lately, like it was a rope keeping you tethered to the world. You weren’t sure why. You weren’t sure you wanted to know why.
“Don’t bother,” She was saying, her voice crisp and dry. “You’ll get used to it. Or you’ll stop caring. One or the other.”
Kit murmured something you couldn’t catch. You heard the scrape of his chair shifting against the floor. When you dared a glance, quick and careful, you caught him looking back at you.
Not at her. At you.
The look wasn’t sharp or mocking, the way new arrivals sometimes were. It was curious. Quiet. Like he was trying to understand something he didn’t have words for yet.
Your breath hitched, barely. A tiny jolt under your ribs. You dropped your gaze fast, hands knotting tighter in your lap.
She didn’t seem to notice. She just kept talking, something about the storm, about the routine here, about surviving.
You stared hard at the floorboards. But a part of you—the part that hadn't been completely crushed down yet—still felt Kit’s gaze. Still flickering and uncertain, like a flame struggling in a storm.
The storm outside rumbled again, rattling the old windows in their frames. You barely noticed the sound now, too focused on not focusing, trying to blend into the worn fabric of the chair. Kit and the woman’s voices blurred into the low drone of the common room’s usual noise.
Then—A sudden scuffle of footsteps near the door.
You turned your head automatically.
Pepper.
She was being herded into the room by an orderly, but the moment they let her go, she lit up like a lamp. Without hesitation, she beelined across the common room, weaving past shuffling bodies and sagging couches.
Straight to you.
No words. No questions. She simply plopped herself down at your side, so close her shoulder brushed yours. Like she’d been there the whole time. Like nothing bad could ever touch you while she sat guard.
You blinked, feeling the faintest, strangest flutter in your chest. A smile tugged at the corner of your lips.
Pepper smiled wide, a little crooked from the missing teeth she still hadn't stopped being proud of. She tucked herself even closer, humming something low under her breath—a half-forgotten tune from another life.
Across the room, you caught Kit looking again. Not staring. Not rude. Just... noticing.
You glanced away first.
Pepper leaned her head against your arm, humming for a moment longer before she spoke—soft and sing-song, like sharing a secret with a doll. “You talked at lunch,” she said, her voice tilting up like a question even though it wasn’t one.
“Talked to the new boy.”
You stiffened slightly, but Pepper only giggled quietly, like it was funny.
“Not scared,” she added, patting your hand once with her small, worn fingers. “Good.”
Her smile stretched wide again, proud in that way only Pepper could be—proud of you for doing something as simple as answering a few questions.
You always believed Pepper was more perceptive than she let on, knew more than she let others believe. This was definitely sinking a nail in that coffin.
The thought tightened something low in your chest.
It had felt like nothing at the time. A few words, a breath of conversation. But to Pepper, it was a lighthouse flickering on in the dark. A sign you were still in there somewhere, even if you barely recognized yourself most days.
You didn't know if that made you feel lighter or heavier.
Pepper curled closer, content just to be near you. Her trust was something you hadn’t earned lately, not really—but she gave it to you anyway, same as she always had. Unconditional.
You kept your gaze forward, trying to ignore the prickle behind your eyes. Trying to ignore the way Kit’s voice still echoed faintly across the room, low and warm, even if it wasn’t meant for you anymore.
The afternoon stretched on, heavy and slow. The record player hiccupped in its endless loop of warped music, thunder grumbling low against the walls.
You stayed still. So did Pepper, her head nodding drowsily against your shoulder, her small fingers absently twisting the edge of your sleeve.
Across the room, Kit had stopped talking with that woman. The newness of his arrival clung to him—awkward, restless. But he stayed where he was, tossing glances now and then like he was still figuring out the rules. He was.
Maybe you were, too.
A crash of thunder rattled the windows again. Somewhere near the stairwell, a patient shrieked—a high, broken sound—and the orderlies moved fast, their heavy steps pounding toward the noise.
You didn’t flinch. Neither did Pepper.
It wasn’t your business. It never was.
The hands of the old clock ticked forward, scraping toward the next hour.
Soon enough, a pair of orderlies appeared at the threshold. One of them jerked his chin at you—impatient, bored. You recognized the signal. Pepper stirred beside you but didn’t fight when you untangled from her. She just watched, wide-eyed, hugging herself as you stood.
The orderlies didn’t bother with words. They didn’t have to. You were expected to follow, and you did.
One last glance at the common room: Pepper’s small figure tucked against the window, Kit’s curious gaze lingering from across the room. You lowered your eyes and turned away.
The hallway beyond felt heavier somehow. Observation. Thirty minutes of being watched through glass you couldn’t see behind, locked alone with yourself and the hum of your own blood in your ears. They said it was for your safety.
They always said that.
The door clanged shut behind you. Heavy and final.
The observation room was empty except for a metal chair bolted to the floor. No windows. Only a dull grate whispering stale air into the corners. Somewhere beyond the mirrored glass, you knew they were watching.
You sat where you always sat: cross-legged on the ground, hands folded in your lap.
Good.
Obedient.
Easy to leave alone.
The storm still grumbled through the bones of the building, low and constant. But in here, it might as well have been a whole other world. You let your mind drift. It was easy. Too easy. Like a scab you’d been trained not to pick, but your fingers knew the motion by heart. The walls blurred. The hum of Briarcliff’s old veins faded.
Something else crept in.
Wooden floorboards. The smell of sweat and greasepaint. A canvas tent breathing heavy in the night air.
In a shadowed corner backstage at the freak show. You were small again, curled against a crate, heart hammering against your ribs.
Voices echoed, angry and slurred:
"—goddamn useless, you hear me—"
A thud.
A sharp grunt.
The crack of knuckles on bone.
You tried to press yourself smaller, invisible, but you saw it anyway— Dell towering over Jimmy, his fists wild, red blooming across Jimmy’s cheek.
You didn’t remember why. You only knew it happened. It always happened.
Your hands clenched against your skirt. Your breath snagged in your throat. You wanted to move. To help. But you were too scared. Too useless.
Like always.
The memory buckled, tearing itself in half—and you slammed back into yourself.
Observation room. Briarcliff. Now.
You gasped without sound, chest heaving once, twice. Your gown clung damp to your back. You stared at your hands, trembling and raw, and you knew with a cold, alien certainty:
You hadn’t remembered that before. But it wasn’t new. It wasn’t a lie.
It was real. And it had always been waiting.
The door creaked open without ceremony.
An orderly’s shadow filled the frame. You rose without being told, feet silent against the floor. Your body moved on muscle memory alone—out into the hall, down past the peeling walls, toward the dining area where the faint smell of boiled potatoes and burnt meat clung to the air.
Dinner. Another piece of the clockwork routine.
The room buzzed with low, unfocused noise—cutlery scraping metal trays, murmured arguments too slurred to matter. You slipped into your usual seat at the end of the row, back to the wall. A habit, not a comfort.
A tray clattered beside yours. The same as lunch.
You didn’t need to look up to know who it was. The air shifted. Lighter. Less... heavy.
Still, you glanced. Still, there he was.
Kit.
He looked better than he had earlier—less rattled, but still frayed at the edges. His hair was damp, like he’d been shoved through a rushed cleanup. His tray held the same sad helping of food as yours: gray meatloaf, a few limp peas, mashed potatoes that looked more like paste.
For a minute, neither of you spoke. The clatter and hum of the cafeteria filled the space between.
You pushed your peas into a corner of the tray with the edge of your fork, not really tasting the food.
Kit tapped his fork once against his tray. Not loud. Just enough to get your attention without pulling it. "Hey," he said, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed.
You glanced at him, wary. Not because it was him. Because you were used to silence meaning safety. Talking got you noticed. Getting noticed got you hurt.
But Kit didn’t seem dangerous. He looked tired. Frayed around the edges in a way you recognized too well.
"Grace said you been here a while," he said, quieter now. His accent softened the words, rounded them out like river stones. "Long enough to know how this place runs."
You blinked. Your fork paused halfway to your mouth. They talked about… you?
He gave a little shrug, almost sheepish. "Figure I oughta stick close to someone who’s survived it."
Something stirred in your chest. Not quite warmth. Not quite trust. Something more like... the first flutter of movement after being frozen too long.
You forced yourself to look back down at your tray. "I don’t talk much," you said—barely a whisper, barely more than truth.
Kit huffed out a soft laugh through his nose, like he wasn’t offended. Like he understood. "That’s alright," he said. "I talk enough for the both of us."
The words slid into you like a needle. Small. Sharp. Unstoppable.
For a heartbeat, you weren't sitting in the Briarcliff cafeteria. You were somewhere else—somewhere warmer, dimmer. A canvas tent lit by bare bulbs. The smell of sawdust and smoke.
And him.
Jimmy, flashing that lopsided grin you’d always pretended not to love, teasing you the same way. "‘S'okay, doll. I talk enough for the both of us." His voice, roughened by laughter and cigarettes and hope.
It hit so fast you barely had time to register it. A blink. A flicker. Gone.
You sucked in a slow breath through your nose, grounding yourself back into the present—the sour stink of mashed potatoes, the buzz of the fluorescents, the low rumble of thunder outside.
Your hands had clenched tight around your fork without you realizing. Kit didn’t seem to notice. Or if he did, he didn’t push. He just sat there beside you, easy and quiet.
Like he wasn’t in any rush to figure you out.
Another crack of thunder rattled the windows high above. Neither of you flinched. You were already used to worse.
He scooped up some mashed potatoes, made a face, and put the fork back down. "Jesus," he muttered, "what is this?"
A twitch almost—almost—tugged at your mouth. Not quite a smile. Something broken and half-remembered.
Kit caught it. You knew he did, because he smiled a little in return. Not the smile you were used to seeing from people here. Not the kind that meant danger. Just... tired and human.
For a few minutes, you ate in silence. Side by side. A strange kind of peace, fragile as spun glass.
The clock above the door ticked louder with every second. Each beat chipped away at the fragile bubble you sat inside, reminding you that nothing here stayed soft for long.
Around you, the cafeteria thinned. Trays scraped over metal counters, chairs scraped back. The heavy shuffle of bodies herded toward the next part of the night—the part where everything got quieter, darker, harder. Orderlies clearing out patients group by group.
Lights out.
An orderly’s bark echoed down the hall, sharp enough to make a few heads jerk up.
You rose when Kit did, a second behind him, moving like a shadow. His tray clattered onto the return cart. Yours followed. No words. Just motion.
You could feel Kit glance back once as you trailed behind the line of patients, could feel the quiet question of it—like maybe he wasn’t ready to let the thin thread of something between you snap just yet.
You kept your eyes on the floor.
The halls narrowed the deeper you went, swallowing the noise until there was only the thunder rumbling overhead and the scuff of slippered feet against cracked tile.
Your room was the same as always. A bed, grey sheets, and a window barred and curtained against the storm. The stale air clung to your skin, heavy with old fear.
The orderly gave a grunted order you barely heard. You moved on instinct, letting them shove some pills into your mouth before climbing into your bed, turning your face toward the wall. Fabric rustled around you as the others settled. A final flicker of light as the overheads snapped off.
Darkness.
You fall into your routine with ease. Reciting your names as you tap. Three quick taps. Break.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Elsa.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Ma Petite.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Paul.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Ethel.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Eve.
Tap Tap Tap. Desiree.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Pepper.
Tap. Tap. Tap. A pause. A breath held too long.
"Jimmy—"
Your fingers froze mid-tap. The word hung there, raw and unfinished, like an open wound.
The air shifted. The thin mattress beneath you seemed to heave once, then settle wrong, off-balance. The walls bled out at the edges, gray smearing into black. Your hand, still poised in the air, forgot gravity.
Something inside you slipped.
And you were falling.
The floor was rough under your knees. The air smelled like whiskey and sweat and old anger. You were crouched in front of him.
Jimmy.
His lip was split, the blood already drying rusty at the corner of his mouth. A bruise was blooming across his cheekbone, ugly and deep purple. One of his hands cradled his ribs, careful like they were broken.
You held a damp cloth in shaking fingers, dabbing gently at his face. Your other hand kept fluttering, unsure whether to touch his hair, his arm, something steadier. He was breathing hard—half from pain, half from rage he couldn't spit out yet.
"You gotta just..." Your voice barely rose above a whisper. "You gotta just let things go sometimes, Jimmy."
The cloth slipped from your hand. He caught your wrist—gently—and gave it a squeeze.
His eyes were glassy, wet at the edges, furious and hurting and helpless all at once. "When he's yellin' at you," he rasped, "I'm never lettin' it go."
Your breath caught. Something twisted sharp and sweet behind your ribs.
He meant it. He always meant it.
The world around you blurred again, the walls bleeding back to grey, the ground tilting—and you felt yourself slipping, the memory clinging like cobwebs to your skin.
The mattress pressed cold against your palms. You blinked hard. Once. Twice. The constant Briarcliff white noise The sour smell of bleach. The rattling pipes. The heavy dark of night pressing against the barred windows.
You were lying on your side. Hands curled close to your chest. Breathing shallow, like you’d been running.
Your cheeks were damp. You touched your face with clumsy fingers—salt and heat. Tears. You hadn’t even felt them fall.
The memory still clung to you, half-faded but sharp enough to bleed.
Jimmy. The fight. Dell’s fists. The shouting you couldn’t hear.
And you—there but not there.
You remembered now. You'd drifted. In the middle of it all, you had slipped away. Your body had stayed, frozen and helpless, while your mind fled somewhere safer. That’s why you hadn’t remembered. Not because it wasn’t important. Because it had been too much.
You shut your eyes tight, trying to hold the pieces together.
Outside your door, a nurse’s heels clicked against the tile. The night rolled on, indifferent.
You curled tighter into yourself, whispering old names against the noise.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
screaming, crying, throwing up, as I force myself to write a story i'm very passionate about and love writing and have no obligation to write except that i want to
Your current patron meekly asks from his seat behind you.
"Not much longer."
You curtly reassure him.
You should be used to these tourists and their consistent whines but it never seems to get less pathetic. You suppose you shouldn't blame them considering the position they've gotten themselves into, although a bigger part of you just couldn't muster up sympathy for people who are dumb enough to find themselves in the middle of a monster infested lake with a complete stranger at the oar.
That thought breaks you form your daydream and you take a moment to stare at the deceptively clam waters below. You stop your slow rows, bring the gondola to a steady halt and turn to your patron.
"This is your stop."
You fasten the large oar to the hull and step towards the man so that you can look down at him properly.
He looks around at the open water, the mist is so thick he can barely see a few feet Infront of his face much less any semblance of land. He looks back up at you and hesitates before speaking,
"I...payed for the full trip."
You shake your head solomly,
"I only said I could get you on the lake...which I did."
You gesture around to the lake that you both are very much on.
"If you want to get to the other side, that's a seperate trip."
You hold your hand out, clearly indicating what you want. The man's eyebrows scrunch, his eyes go from wide with fear to a heated glare and his hands grip the travel bag he's been cradling.
"You can't do that! We agreed!"
He yells and you quickly cover his mouth with your hand as ripples break in the water all around the gondola. As if he just remembered where he is, the man freezes and lets out a little whimper when he hears tiny splashes in the water right next to him. The small boat rocks side to side as the water vibrates, sounding out the life that dwells beneath it.
The water settles after a few moments of silence and you stand again and look down at the quivering man.
"What choice do you have?"
The tourist heaves out a defeated breathe and digs in his bag to retrieve a sack of coins for the rest of the trip. He hands it to you with an icy glare.
"Is that enough for you?"
He hisses, a little quiver remains in his voice.
You give him a look and continue to count your coins. If you're being honest, you expected more from him. The disappointment must show on your face because he looks just about ready to swing at you before you let out a loud whistle.
Just then several claws burst out of the water and grab him. He shrieks as wet scaly hands cling to his shirt. One by one three heads pop out of the water to leer at his now pale face, drained of any colour once his wide eyes meet the inky black orbs of the creatures holding him down. They bare their sharp teeth as talons sink into his skin making him unable to struggle lest they dig further.
His panicked eyes can only follow you as you start plucking valuables from his pockets and rummaging through his belongings.
From the corner of his eye he can see more of these creatures circling the gondola. Waiting.
You sit down with a huff, slightly rocking the boat as you count and inspect your new plunder.
After a few moments you hear low growls that simmer into whines, you peer up at the multiple black eyes staring at you, waiting for the go ahead. The man's blood is already seeping into their claws and they're practically drooling.
You take pity on the poor creatures and with no more than a final glance at the man you let out another whistle and he's instantly pulled from the boat into the water without time to scream. You huff as the water splashes you, as eager as they are it was a pretty good deal you struck with the creatures, you get the valuables and they get dinner.
As you watch the merfolk fight over their thrashing meal you feel a tug on your sleeve. One of the creatures looks up at you from the surface with intrigue. You give them a questioning look and in response they bring themselves higher over the hull to rather boldly nuzzle at your neck.
You huff in amusement and waste no time grabbing their jaw and kissing their cold but soft lips, caressing their wet cheek with your warm hand. They croon at the warm touch and lick into your mouth.
Another one surfaces the water to place kisses on your neck with a few cheeky nibbles as they cling to your clothes to try and bring your body closer.
You fully indulge in the benefits of your agreement with these creatures as the water around you turns crimson.
❛ michael jackson 𝑥 female !reader ❜
....✉︎ in which you suggest to break up for the sake of his career. established reader x michael relationship. reader is insecure and easily manipulated/ childhood friends to lovers. joe jackson is the enemy.
timeline wise: off the wall era (before thriller)
....✎ tw: mentions of manipulation. they fight here. cussing. angst. sad. fluff at the end actually. mike begging basically
it's 1 am and the only thing that manages to drown out the painful confines of your thoughts is michael's soft humming.
you can hear him stringing senseless words together to the melody he just created. he'd throw an adlib here and there, but nothing you could clearly make out.
you're holed up in his bedroom at hayvenhurst, his duvet wrapped around you, providing a false sense sort of comfort. it smells just like him.
michael's been sitting at his desk at the opposite end of the room. far away from his bed, you can see him scribbling on a notepad, tape recorder still going as he documents the initial draft of a song.
truth be told, this evening was hard for the both of you. for the first time since you've known him, you were confronted with the idea that maybe you would have to let michael go. his dream is unfolding right in front of him, and you fear that being with you holds him back.
in some sense of false responsibility, you brought this up with him during dinner.
“michael, should we break up?”
he maybe thought you were joking at first, but it sounded too much like an admission of defeat rather than a funny question.
still chewing, he waited for you to continue the rest of the sentence, hoping you'd provide a little bit of context, or drop some sick punchline. but your expression didn’t change, it stayed eerily still. he looked into your eyes for answers and was met with sadness.
he put his fork down. you've officially ruined bolognese for him.
“did I do something wrong? did something happen?” confusion laced his voice.
“this relationship is dead weight for your career, michael.”
he couldn’t believe his ears. you sounded just like his father.
michael is a very understanding person. he has never once raised his voice at you. ever. not in your 13 years of friendship, nor in your 2 years of courtship, and the months that you've been dating.
unkind words were exchanged while emotions ran high. and your venomous back and forth could surely be heard from any passerby. his siblings pretended not to see you two take your conversation up to his bedroom.
you can't even remember much of the argument anymore. bits and pieces come to you like jagged edges of a shattered mirror. and when it comes, it sticks, replaying in your head like endless mockery.
"you don't need me michael. i'm probably just a distraction to you"
"what are you going on about? can you stop pretending like you can read my mind?"
"i wouldn't have to resort to that if you just talked to me"
"i do talk to you, baby, everyday"
"not when it's about what counts. it hurts that you confide in others more than me"
" y/n you're the one that doesn't want to be seen in public with me"
"because it's bad for your career. joe already says i'm a bad influence, that i'm taking you away from them, that i'm putting evil thoughts in your brain, some nobody girl that -"
"why are you listening to joe?"
"oh for fuck's sake if that's what you got out of this conversation then you're clearly not hearing me!"
"do you really have to cuss to prove a point?"
and that’s what led you here – physically in the same room, yet hearts still painfully distant.
he's so incredibly protective over the life you two share, he couldn't believe you wanted to throw it away. he's confused you won't fight for this relationship. he's hurt that you could give up so easily without a conversation.
and lastly, he's mad at himself for making you feel like you weren't such an important person in life. indispensable. he's mad because his lack of showing you security made room for joe's manipulative words to bleed into your consciousness.
when you no longer hear michael's soft voice, you leave the duvet behind and tread lightly to his desk. he hears your footsteps, turning around just in time – face to face with each other, for the first time in hours.
"forgive me, baby" "i'm sorry, mike" you both say in unison.
he can't help the smile that creeps upon his lips, and he's hopeful as he takes your right hand and pulls you into his lap. you stumble over your other foot but land safely on him as he swivels the chair to face his desk again.
“how come you stopped humming?” you ask in a voice that sounds tinier than expected as you fidget with the collar of his shirt. michael looks at you, and that's when he notices that your nose has gone red from sniffling your tears away.
“i was just, umm..finishing something i wrote for you " he's completely distracted by the thought of you crying alone on his bed. "can you read this for me?" he holds out the paper for you to read, and you reluctantly start at the lyrics –
there will be no darkness tonight
y/n, our love will shine
put your trust in my heart
& meet me in paradise
y/n, you're every wonder in this world to me
a treasure time won't steal away
so listen to my heart
lay your body close to me
let me fill you with my dreams
i can make you feel alright
And, y/n, through the years
gonna love you more each day
so I promise you tonight
that you will always be the lady in my life
this felt like an apology and a prayer rolled into one. a commitment that runs deep, proof that you anchor his very being. it's a plea to take his word as he says it – that you mean more to him than anything, and a reminder that your love is strong. it's a promise that the space in his heart will be dedicated to you for the rest of his life.
"oh it's so beautiful, michael"
"i never want to make my girl cry" he starts "i'm sorry i didn't say it enough. but you are the most important person in my life, and i don't wan- i can't lose you..please." begging, his voice cracks when he utters "breaking up was never an option for me, you know”
and reading this again, you feel so incredibly guilty. michael has always been a giver, a selfless lover. and while you were afraid that giving his time to you would be detrimental to his career, it’s not a decision you should make alone.
“you're right. i'm sorry for bringing up. i hate the idea of ending us as much as you do”
you place the pad of paper back on the desk before turning around to face him, cupping his cheeks gently. his eyes well with tears and he sniffles once or twice before he brings his thumb to your cheek, swiping at the tears that fell from your own. you didn't notice you were crying again.
"i don't know why i keep letting that old man get in my head" you sighed.
as you held each other close and stared into each others’ eyes, you saw the sweet and scared little boy from gary, indiana again. you see longing in his eyes, a longing to be comforted, secure, and loved.
“can we just stay like this?” he says, almost pleading. his voice is so incredibly strained and soft, and if you weren't paying attention you think you would have missed it.
“we can stay like this however long you want.”
“i meant, can we just stay as we are? i don't want things to change.” for someone that wrote a lyrical masterpiece in under an hour, he sounded as desperate as a little boy.
“i know what you meant, mikey. and yes, I won’t leave your side ever”
you bring his face towards yours, so that your foreheads are resting against each other. your breathing steadies, and you feel the weight of your earlier conversations leave your chest. hands still cupped to his cheeks you take a good look at him again, and find yourself putting on a small smile. a genuine one.
he kisses you softly, a firm hand holding you by the chin to keep drawing you in. you both feel that this is exactly where you’re meant to be.
him holding you tightly, the lady in his life.
૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ............✎ masterlist
author's note: joe jackson would have sooo meddled in his relationships
if this fic sounds a bit familiar, i took inspiration from my previous work at @haesunflower (main blog)
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Hey I have a request! Could you do something with Michael Jackson x reader in a relationship. Maybe something happens either at home or on set with Michael. She gets hurt but tries to hide it because she doesn’t want to bug Michael about it because she knows how important his work is and stuff but he finds out and comforts reader?
If not that’s totally fine! Hope you’re having a nice summer!
Bother Me?
A/N: Thank You For Requesting. I Hope You Enjoy. Please Follow, Like, And Reblog. My Request Are Open.
Michael had always been a perfectionist. When he was working, the rest of the world seemed to disappear. Songs he would stay up all night writing. Dance routines that would take hours. Rehearsals in itself made people rethink life. Music videos were always extra looked at. Because everything had to be perfect.
Normally, you loved that about him. It was one of the reasons he was Michael Jackson. But you even know sometimes perfection came with tunnel vision.
And today was one of those days. You had spent the entire afternoon on set with him. Michael was rehearsing a complicated dance sequence while dozens of crew members rushed around trying to prepare for filming. The energy was chaotic with everyone focused and busy especially Michael.
You had brought him lunch three hours ago yet the food was still sitting untouched. That wasn’t unusual. What was unusual was the fact that he hadn’t sat down once.
“Michael.” “Yes baby?” “You need a break.” “I’m fine.” “You’ve said that for three hours.” “I’m almost done.”You laughed. “You’ve also said that for three hours.”
A few crew members snorted. “Don’t encourage her.”“They’re encouraging me because I’m right.” Michael rolled his eyes before immediately turning back toward the choreography. You smiled because of how typically stubborn yet adorable Michael could be.
A few minutes later, one of the dancers accidentally left a piece of equipment near the edge of the set. Nobody noticed not the dancer or crew not even the perfectionist Michael didn’t notice.
You were carrying a bottle of water toward Michael when your foot caught the edge. And suddenly pain immediately shot through your ankle. With you now on the ground. For a second, your vision blurred till you were snapped out of it by someone calling your name.
“Ms.Y/n?” One of the dancers rushed forward. You forced a smile. “I’m okay.” But you know you were not okay. The worst part wasn’t the pain. Michael was finally getting through the rehearsal. The last thing you wanted was to stop everything. So you stood up and pretended nothing happened. Quietly limping away before anyone could make a scene.
By the time filming wrapped up later that evening, your ankle was throbbing with every step. But Michael looked really happy. He was happy because the project was finally coming together. In your heart you knew you couldn’t ruin that. So when he asked if you were okay, you smiled.“Perfect.” And Michael believed you.
The problem with hiding an injury was that eventually you had to walk. The two of you got home late. Michael immediately disappeared into his studio to listen to recordings. Meanwhile, you attempted to make it upstairs, key word attempted.
Halfway up the staircase, your ankle gave out. You caught yourself against the railing before you could fall. But someone heard the noise and that Somme was Michael.
“Y/n?” Your eyes widened as you looked behind you to see Michael appearing at the bottom of the stairs. When Michael looked up he immediately froze. Because now he could see the way you were standing. The way you were favoring one leg and how your faced tightened every time you moved.
“Baby are you okay?” You immediately smiled “Of course sweetie I just tripped nothing big.” “Y/n.” “Michael.”
His eyes narrowed and you knew you were in trouble. “What happened?” You looked away and Michael instantly put the pieces together.
“You got hurt.” “No.” “Y/n.” “It isn’t a big deal.”
That was the wrong thing to say to Michael as his expression changed from concerned to horrified.
“It isn’t a big deal? You can barely stand.” You thought about fighting back but just backed down. You knew you couldn’t stop Michael as he climbed up the stairs.
The closer Michael got, the guiltier you felt. Because now you could see it all the worry and panic even the self blame. You knew exactly where this was heading.
“How long?” You sighed lowering your head. “Since this afternoon.” Michael stared. “This afternoon?” You nodded weakly. The look on his face was heartbreaking. “Baby…” Immediately you regretted everything. Because that voice only appeared when he was genuinely upset. “I didn’t want to bother you.” The second the words left your mouth, Michael closed his eyes.
“Bother me?” “Michael I’m sorry.” “You thought telling me you were hurt would bother me?” His voice cracked slightly but it was enough for you to look away. Suddenly your reasoning sounded ridiculous.
“I knew how important today was.” Michael stared at you and took your hands. “Look at me.” You did and immediately wished you hadn’t. Because his eyes were glassy.
“Nothing is more important than you.” Your chest tightened. “Sweetheart” “No.” His thumbs brushed across your knuckles. “I mean it.” The guilt hit you all at once. Because here you were trying so hard to protect him. Meanwhile he was looking at you like the thought of you suffering alone was the worst thing imaginable.
“I just wanted you to have a good day.” The confession came out quietly with Michael’s entire expression softened. “Oh, baby.” And suddenly he understood.
Not because you didn’t trust him or wanted attention he knew you loved him. So much that you’d hidden your own pain because you didn’t want to ruin something he’d worked so hard for. That somehow made him feel worse.
“You don’t have to do that.” “What why?” “You don’t have to protect me from things.” His hand squeezed yours a bit. “We’re a team.” The words were simple but they hit harder than anything else.
Because he was right. You’d been acting like it was your job to carry everything alone. When Michael had never once asked that of you. He carefully wrapped an arm around your waist.
“Come on.” “Where are we going?” “I’m looking at your ankle.” You groaned as Michael ignored you helping you up the stairs.
Five minutes later, you were sitting on the couch with your injured leg propped up on pillows while Michael inspected your ankle like he was personally offended by it. “This is swollen.” “I think I noticed that.” “This is bad.” “It’s a sprain, Michael.” “It’s a bad sprain.” You laughed and that sound immediately made him relax.
For the next hour he refused to leave your side. Bringing ice whenever the one you had melted just a bit. Bringing blankets so you feel extra cozy. Brining water so make sure you are well hydrated. And bringing snacks as you sat down watching your favorite show. Michael brought you anything you wanted and anything he thought you might want.
At one point he even tried carrying you to the kitchen.“Michael!” “What?” “I can walk.” “No baby.” “Michael.”“No.” You laughed so hard your stomach hurt and that laugh made all of Michael’s worries go away.
Later that night, after the ice packs and the fussing and the endless worrying, you found yourself curled up beside him on the couch. His arm wrapped securely around your shoulders with you head resting against his chest.
“You know…” Michael said quietly. “Hmm?” “Next time you’re hurt…” You already knew where this was going.“I promise I’ll tell you.” “You better.” You smiled. “I promise.” Satisfied, Michael kissed the top of your head.
Then held you a little closer.As if making up for every hour he hadn’t known you were hurting. And you could never be mad at Michael forever because this shows how much he truly does care about you. That’s why you love him so much.
idk if this is an usamerican thing or not but it always blows my mind as a small european country resident that yall have many names and types of apples???? what do you mean its not just red yellow or green??? why is it so complicated??? who is granny smith????
dededos
blakekathryn
stormborns
pixelskylines
turnnoffyourmind
annaxmalina
germansingergirl
