drive safely, ASSHOLE. ( ᵃᵘᵗᵒᵖᶫᵃʸ⋅ )

@nctguilty | liked!

    They study him for his language. They think he’s an anomaly–a child kept     in isolation has adopted a first language. He insists that he’s always known     it–why wouldn’t he? If he were illiterate, how’d he get into the military, huh?

    They try to teach him sign language and he just frowns. Sure, he doesn’t     understand half the words they say, but he thinks he can speak English real     GOOD. They treat him like a test subject, holding up items he’s seen and     blinking wildly when he identifies it properly. 

    It’s humiliating.

    What’s worse is his tantrums. When he’s too confined, his skinny arms come     up to wrap around his head, and he wails like some injured animal, tearless,     just noise and hiccuping sobs. Half the time he has them, they aren’t incited     by anything but memory, blurred as alcohol-induced vision, but the pain’s as     sharp as a knife.

    When he loses it like that, they try to restrain him, which makes it worse, and     this time, he’s had three strikes in a day. Which is why he’s ushered into the     room of the possible-murderer, Kit Walker, who’s laying on a white cot.

    He staggers in and pants wetly and looks at his newfound roommate, and he     blinks madly for a few moments. The realization hits him slowly and progressive,     like a fan turned on.

    “Eddie?”

After an intensive session of electroconvulsive therapy, Kit’s vision was  still blurred from the 350 volts that coursed through him. The insides of  his head felt like scrambled eggs and his temples burned from the metal rods they used to shock him. 

He shielded his eyes with his arm as the door was pulled open and pushed inside was man, and a young one at that. Kit blinked and blinked again as  he tried to shake off the fuzziness that raced through him. He sat up slowly and rubbed the back of his neck. 

Who the fuck was Eddie? 

Kit glanced around the room and apart from the small bucket  used for taking care of your business, two dirty, shit, piss and god knows what else, stained mattresses and himself and the in front of him, there was nothing else present  in the damp, cold and hard room. 

“Na’, I think ya’ got the wrong person, sonny. M’name is Kit, na’ Eddie.” Kit was friendly, or so he’d like to think so anyway. He wasn’t like every other  drooling baboon in here. He was innocent, but wasn’t everybody? 

@nctguilty

sister jude, or as kat liked to refer to her—mistress jude of pain, held her jaw in a bruising grip, letting go after a close inspection that made her own usual sneer falter and grow skittish on her features. telling her to wipe that smile off of her face or she’d have her thrown in solitary….with reason or not. “…eat me, judy.” came her biting retort well after the woman had left the common room, rubbing her sore chin, tasting a hint of copper sweetness on her tongue from where she must have made her bite the inside of her cheek. wretched wench.

the beginning notes to ‘dominique’ cue up and she cringes instantly, wandering over to one of the ratty couches, pausing only momentarily when she sees someone already sitting on the other side. there’s a moment where she considers walking away and staying disconnected with anyone else in this shithole…but… taking a seat on the opposite cushion, “let me guess, you didn’t do it.” score: 1 for being a bitch. score 0: for friendly introductions. it’s not a surprise that everyone steers clear of her general direction.

Hundreds of killers had marched up and down the halls of this place, many of them never to return to the real world again. Serial killers had sat on the very couch Kit was sat on. Three quarters of the common  room which only consisted of twelve people, had murdered a person or  two.

Kit was not a murderer. Kit could barley wash a spider down the drain  never mind skin and kill several women, including his own wife. He was innocent, but wasn’t everybody in this place? 

He was deemed unsafe, unwell and insane, so they sent him to this place,  under Sister Jude’s care until they sought out his fate at the courts. If found  sane, Kit will face the electric chair and if he was found insane, he’ll live out  the rest of his days here. 

He wasn’t sure what was worse. He just knew that he didn’t deserve either. 

The doe-eyed, James Dean look-alike’s attention soon turned to the female  who staggered into the room as if she owned the place and of course, she sat down next to Kit. He was ‘fresh meat’ after all. 

Oh, isn’t she charming. Kit simply rolled his eyes, “What gave it away?” he answered back with a bit of bite. He rubbed at the red marks on his wrists from the too-tight cuffs. 

three word starters. | accepting.

“Sally,” Kit reached out and firmly grabbed her arm, he knew the otherwouldn’t like it but it was the only way to get her to listen. “You need to.You’re the only one who can help us. Please. Ya’ seen what happened to Rodger, do ya’ want that to happen to you? Sista’ Jude’s on a war path and she’s bringing us all down with ‘er.” The grasp he had on her arm only got tighter as he spoke. 

They had originally planned for Kit to be the one to escape. They had it all planned. The little blonde nympho was to distract the guard on duty while Sally grabbed his keys and tossed them to Kit, who’ll chance his arm and make a run for it—but, things don’t always work out as planned. 

Just hours ago, Sister Jude thought she’d send Kit for an electric shot treatment session to clear the ‘bad thoughts’ from his head. So, with 250 volts of electricity coursing through his body, he could barley stand straight never mind run through a damp, muddy forest until he reaches some sort of civilization. 

It was up to Sally to save them, so, the doe-eyed, James Dean look-alike pleaded. 

“Please?” 

alrighty, so because my theme is acting up a little,  i’ve put my rules in a page that you can find in my navi,  the popup box is still there, it’s just a little tricky to click. 

three word starters. | accepting. 

Kit was supposed to be the strong one. He was the only one who could keep everything under control. He was the protector of the weak, the innocent and the sick. This place was a living hell. The devil was among them. The guards would often turn a blind eye when things kicked off. It was the only entertainment they got. 

The doe-eyed, James Dean look-alike didn’t want to admit he was sick. He couldn’t. If the sisters found out, they’d shove pills down his throat, send him to the hydro-therapy room in a blink of an eye and he would separated from the others, from the ones he had to protect. 

“I’m fine,” he lied. 

Kit was sweaty, he was as pale as the walls they were trapped between. He had a slight shake and his temperature was off the scale. The cut next to ribs must of got infected. This was no flu. 

“Haven’t been healthie–” cut off mid sentence by a splutter of coughs, but he quickly regained himself and simply asked, “do ya’ think ya’ cangrab me a glass of water ma’am?—-tickley throat.”