#d0ctoroliverthredson

Lana looked carefully at the letter in her hands, reading it over and over again in the hopes that it the words on the page would change or even just melt away.

“Ouch!” She said, almost falling back when another inmate bumped right into her. He glared at her as if to indicate that the incident was entirely her fault, and continued out into the hall. Lana looked up, dazed, realizing that she was standing in the entrance to the common room, and had not been looking where she was going.

She swallowed nervously, slowly sliding the letter back into her pocket. It was alright to keep it there, she was sure, Sister Mary Eunice had given it to her and wanted her to keep it as a cold reminder of what she wouldn’t let her forget anyway. 

Lana walked into the room, feeling a chill rush up her spine, although she wasn’t quite sure why, she had a temperature and certainly hadn’t been feeling cold in the past few hours. She pulled her sweater tighter around herself and then brought herself into a hug, squeezing her arms tight around her middle, both for warmth and comfort. Lana then began the work of surveying the room for a familiar face. Given all that was going on, it might be nice, even to see Sister Jude right then, a woman who did seem far more sane as an inmate than the head of Briarcliff.

Lana was disappointed that there didn’t seem to be anyone she knew well or would care to sit with. She made her way over to the empty couch and decided to sit down, drawing her knees up to her chest and closing her eyes, not because she felt safe, but because she just needed the rest, especially given the news she’d just received. She sighed; she was frightened, burdened and lonely and had no idea what to do next. There was that chill again. She shivered, gruffly pulling the sweater around herself once more as she remained on the couch, almost curled in a ball, her eyes closed tightly.

Lana stopped for a moment, midway through covering herself with the sweater. She could hear the unmistakably eerie sound of calm, calculating breath that she’d grown so accustomed to over the last week and a half or so and knew in an instant where the chill came from. Lana’s head snapped up and her eyes widened, she opened her mouth to scream or yell, but found her panicked psyche aided by total silence. She was totally disarmed now.

The signature glasses that obscured his dark gaze. The suits that were always in pristine condition. Jane diligently created every detail on her sketch pad, as she lounged on her porch. Soft afternoon breeze rattled against her dark hair and sent a chill over her skin; however, she remained unmoved. She was seemingly immune to the December weather looming overhead, evident in the lack of jacket covering her.

 While her focus was normally situated on receiving her next hit of heroin, the peculiarities surrounding the neighbor next door had captured her attention. From what she could gather, Oliver Thredson was a doctor of some kind, perhaps a therapist. His profession was meaningless to her compared to the emotion that consumed her whenever she caught him walking into his little house. There was an ambiguity about him that she couldn’t quite place. Was it darkness? Or was he simply different like her?

The caliginous corridors stifled Lana Winters’s vision, each controlled step she embarked on possessing an element of danger. Strangled cries filtered through every daunting room, confirming the horrors that plagued each corner in the asylum. For nearly two weeks, Lana had been a prisoner in these perilous walls that survived under the façade it was a religious institution. Despite her fortitude, she’d been unsuccessful in previous attempts to escape the common room, a location that was slowly dissipating the quickness of her wit. As she continued her journey, Lana’s senses were assaulted with the revolting stench of rotting corpses. Resigned to investigating the menacing assumption, she cautiously followed the smell, her heart rate increasing as the dangerous implications arose in her comprehensions. Before she could travel further, she was ceased upon the arrival of a tall figure, their identity skewed by the dimness of the hallway. “Who are you?” she finally managed to question, her fingers curling into a pathetic  fist.  

Tate had no idea where he was. He could remember clearly being at the school, the shooting, and.. he thought he had died. Yes, SWAT come into his house and when he reached for his gun they shot him. Shouldn't he be dead? Tate looked down at himself, finding bandages on his arms and two on his side under his shirt. Shaking his head the boy tried to remember more of what happened. He could barley remember being pulled out of a van and a lot of flashing lights, then nothing else. The blonde groaned to himself and held his head. He must have been drugged, there was no way he would feel like this with some drug in his system.