#nctguilty

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                    It was the first time he had ventured out into the recreational room ,                     where the crazy people were , where the SICK people sat and acted . . .                     well , sick . Dandy wasn’t sick , so why should he set foot in a room                     where sick people WERE ? He was here simply because his mother                     thought he was sick . And though Dandy protested ( or bit off one of                     the men’s FINGERS when they tried to take him away ) he still ended                     up at Briercliff . It was all inevitable , yet excruciatingly irritating .

                    It’d been a month without having stepped foot outside his cell , and                     Dandy was beginning to get BORED . He could hear all the yelling , the                     crying , the whispered conversations between one person and he                     couldn’t stop the curiosity . He was there for only a moment , glancing                     over the crazy people , listening to snarled voices and watching others                     rocking back and forth when he saw the BOY all the others had been                     whispering about . Suddenly his eyes gleamed and he made his way                     quickly to Kit Walker , standing , hands behind his back , in front of the                     other .

    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.

Ronan had thought his father would just bail him out. What’s the point in having a lawyer for a father if you aren’t going to get away with breaking the law? The choice had been between prison or this, and honestly Ronan thought he had picked wrong. Everything about this place made him anxious and want to slit his throat.