#rw open

[The trouble with the halls is that they're claustrophobic. Closed in. But outside doesn't prove much better, the cloudless sky and stagnant air just serving as a reminder of how intensely vulnerable he is. Rabbit in the headlights, he thinks, with the grass soft beneath his bare feet. The walls surrounding the garden won't do much to keep Fiacre out. His only safety is in movement and even that small privilege has been removed, shackled as he is to this building now. A crack, as of a stepped on twig, jerks Lars' head around so fast he thinks he hears an echo of the crack in his own neck]

My therapists want me to "open up." They say the only way I'm going to make any breakthroughs is if I answer their questions. And yet... When they ask questions, I only find myself wanting to deck them. Catch 22, huh?

[It's raining. Miranda loves the rain. She rests her head against the windowpane, one finger tracing the beautifully erratic path of a drop down the glass. It hasn't rained in ages. The steady rain lulls her into an almost-sleep. She sits watching the rain fall for long time, wondering if she'd be allowed to go outside. She mulls this idea over for a moment, mind sluggish. It wouldn't hurt to ask. Standing, she wanders out to the hall. The pitter-patter of rain almost drowns out her footsteps as she begins to walk, at first quickly, then faster. Thoughts of asking to go out fly out of her head, for the need to go outside is overwhelming it. She knows she looks suspicious. She doesn't care. She just wants to feel the rain, feel the cold drops stinging her skin. She needs to feel something, or she will go mad. Well. Mad-er.]

I should spread a rumor that the rest of the Beattles members dropped dead...

The silence is.... strange.

[Sitting on one of the ratty couches on the common room, Miranda just thinks.   Her fingers aren't folding, for once, not moving in a tap tap tap to keep them busy. They lie folded neatly in her lap as she contemplates. 'I should do this more often,' she thinks, tilting her head back. 'It's better than the therapy, anyway.' Less people staring at her more...thinking. Closing her eyes, she allows memories to wash over her in a stinging flood. Ally, sweet and golden-haired. Scared. Dad, cold. Mom...gone. And Miri. 'Cause Miri is gone, isn't she? The innocent little girl. There's just Miranda left. Bitter, broken, different. No, no those aren't the right words. Not the right adjectives. Opening her eyes, she pulls a worn pocket dictionary from her pocket, one of the few books the nurses will allow her to carry. She thumbs through the pages, trying to find her elusive words.]