Angels Fan Fiction / Realism Fan Fiction / Original Stories Fan Fiction ❯ On the outside ❯ Outside ( Chapter 1 )

She didn't know if she was going somewhere, anywhere… anywhere, yes, that was better than there. Anywhere was better than there. Her cold, avert eyes stared down at the pavement, at the wet leaves on the street, blown away by the cutting wind, lit by the candles from all those people passing by her. She knew where they were headed. It was the night when dead people came back. It was a celebration of their death and of their life, the time to call forth their souls, and the people in the street called out to them in a strange, rhythmic manner, as she was staring down, shaking from the cold and moist air embracing her against her will. Against her will…

 

She shook off the feeling, determined to forget all about feelings in general. If only she could be allowed not to feel anymore, it would be just fine. She would be just fine. No more pain, no more regret, no more guilt. No more. Just to be still inside, and not feel like shit all the time. Not feel like the one who's fucked up yet another opportunity, who's screwed herself and everyone who cared for her. If only she could not feel that anymore… she would be fine.

 

The voices reached her ears like prayers, whispers in the cold air of late summer, whispers around her body, touching her with their intrusive tone, with their purity… and they made her feel so dirty, so spoiled facing all those souls. Those souls, called back from the afterlife, and welcomed into this world once again, welcomed and greeted with joy, allowed passage.

 

They walked beside her, smiling at her, but she didn't wanna see their faces. No, not anymore. It was too painful. She couldn't tell what they were saying, she didn't care. Or she didn't wanna care. Why the hell should she? They'd never done a single damn thing to help her. Ever. Did they ever get her out of the shitty mess she'd gotten herself into, so many times? No. Did they ever come to lift her from her idiotic, manic crises? Or from her “depressions”? No. So, why should she care about them? Why were they asking that of her? It was pointless.

 

She pulled the blue sweater closer to her shivering body and went on with her head downcast. She didn't care, she didn't care… her cheeks were wet, but she knew it wasn't from tears, it was the rain. Only the rain. Her mind was straying in and out of a continuous stream, and she soon lost the trail of her fluent thoughts. The whispers wouldn't leave her alone, they were pulling her by the throat and by her clothes, they were pushing and pushing her against the walls, into the crowd, and she had to give in and let herself be carried away from the narrow, paved sidewalk and into the street, in the middle of those people, all those people holding candles and praying for the lost souls, for the found and forever lost souls of their loved ones. She felt like screaming it out at them.

`Those souls don't care for you anymore! They only want revenge, they only want the justice that you owe them, that we owe them! The justice they've been deprived of by our twisted world! They don't feel anything anymore. They only feel anger, and pain…'

She was feeling the same, and she was just about getting ready to give up.

 

Depressive. Suicidal. Manic. Psychotic. Bipolar. Hallucinating. What the hell did they know? Who the fuck gave them the right to put her in there, anyway? Those people were mad, they put her on medication and said she was ill, they said her head was messed up and that she was basically seeing things. Hell yes, she was seeing things! She'd seen her medical records; she'd seen what kind of people they put in that place… they called it a hospital, but she knew better. It was a nut house, that's what it was! Fucking morons! She wasn't crazy, she was jut a little… unwell. Confused. Who the hell wouldn't be, in her situation?

 

Some old lady was chanting a strange song just next to her, and she took a peek at what she was holding in her hands. She knew she was old, from the wrinkles on her hands, from the spots on the skin. Jasmine flowers, a thick white candle and some prayer beans, with a crucifix tied at the end. The smell was beginning to get to her nerves. All that smoke from the burnt candles, the suffocating atmosphere and the thick scent of the jasmine flowers made her dizzy… Or maybe it was the drugs, she couldn't tell. What the fuck did they give her, anyway? Morphine? No, not morphine again, she hadn't been psychotic this time, she'd been just pissed. Maybe Thorazine. So what if she knocked down that computer? Anyone would have done the same, if some bitch who dressed in white all the time told her she was a basket case. Freakin' shit hole, that's what that was, not a hospital! She wouldn't put a mental patient there for fear he would get worse, let alone someone sane, like herself! What the fuck were they thinking, throwing her in that cell with that woman? And the doctors… she could barely bring herself to call them doctors… Butchers, that's what they were. Incompetent, nonetheless. She was right to escape from there.

 

She was oddly cold, the cold November day was making a statement against her stupidity… she should have stolen some other sweater. But maybe she was just feeling the effects of the drugs. Again, those damned drugs! They would draw holes into her stomach with all the drugs they shoved down her throat! She shivered and tightened her arms around her waist. The whispers were barely covering all the screams and pleas inside her head, all those wet eyes asking, begging, threatening her to listen, to help… help… help! But who could help her? Who would ever help her? She felt her jaws ache and detensed them, still looking determinedly down. She didn't wanna see them. She didn't wanna hear them. No. Not anymore. Go away. Go away… She didn't realize she was saying it out loud, until the woman next to her bent towards her and whispered:

 

“They never do, do they?” She flinched and frowned, then shivered as she felt the cold hand of that woman touch her skin, slipping a jasmine flower in her hand. She took it and clutched her fingers against the soft flower. She was shaking like hell, and she saw it wasn't making it easy for her to pass by unnoticed. The woman took off the colorful poncho she was wearing and gave it to her.

 

She didn't look at the old woman, but took the poncho and slid it on, quickly embracing her waist again, hoping to all and any Gods that she would stop shaking. The screams still wouldn't cease, and that was what worried her the most. The candles were burning silently all around her and the heavy smell of melt wax crept inside her head, making it hard for her to breathe and to think. She closed her eyes for a second, as she dragged her tired feet along the street, mostly pushed from the back by the people, than walking by herself.

 

`Have to get better, have to stop the cries, I can't help, I can't…' she yelled inside, and her fingers dug deeper in her flesh. If she'd had longer nails, maybe she would have hurt herself, but those idiots had cut her nails, for fear she would do just that: hurt herself, or maybe them. She remembered they had to tie her down on that cold table, and she felt like was a pig on the butcher's board, squealing within the last feeling it would ever have, struggling against their grip as it choked on its own blood. Like a pig.

 

They'd tied her down, just after that nurse gave her an electric shock like they would probably give an elephant. They were using that electric shock treatment more often on her than on any other patient. They said she was to blame; she was the one who forced them to treat her that way. A tear rolled down her cheek, at that time, but that was it. She refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing her kneel. They spread her arms on either side of her body, as several nurses held her down, and cut her nails. She was screaming as hard as she could, to get them off her, to get them to let go, she tried to kick them, especially that perverted doctor who grinned down at her as he said:

 

“Now you won't be scratching your roommate in her sleep anymore.”

 

What the fuck did he know about it? His breath reached her skin and she remembered how sickened she felt, how violated, with him entering her personal space like that, with no permission granted or anything. Even if she was a patient, that gave him no right to invade her privacy, to take advantage of her vulnerable position. And those hands holding her down… Those hands were enough to drive her crazy, the touch… the filthy touch and the eyes that went over her body… she couldn't take it anymore. And they complained about her scratching her roommate! Hah! That bitch had it coming to her, ever since she ripped her clothes apart, forcing her to wear that horrible hospital outfit which made her look like a mental case. So she jumped her and scratched her face and her neck. She didn't mean to hurt her that bad, she just… slipped. It wasn't like she would get permanent scars or something! What a whiner! She'd took in more severe damage than that, and she could clearly remember everyone staring at her afterwards, thinking that she was the one who got The Room this time, that she'd gotten The Room more times in two months than anyone in two years! What-the hell-ever! They could all just die in a corner somewhere for all she cared. It's not like they were worth something anyway!!

 

Neither of them was worth anything… especially herself. Especially herself. She knew it, she saw it so clearly sometimes, and she knew she was worthless and that she didn't deserve to live, she wasn't supposed to be able to make them all hurt so much… It wasn't her fault, it was their fault, they wanted to love her, and they just ended up destroyed by her. She'd warned them, by God, she'd warned them all… she tried for so many times… But they still came back, they still said she was theirs… that they loved her. But now they were all gone, and she was left alone again, with the pain and the guilt, and her sorrow, her damned never ending sorrow!

 

They hadn't loved her, they just wanted to believe they did… Yes, that's the truth, she knew it. She couldn't be loved, what the hell did they saw worth loving? Sometimes, she knew it; she saw it so clearly… She knew she was worthless… Those times were the ones she'd wanted to take her life, to end it once and for all, and she took the knife so many times, she grabbed any blade she could find and cut… They would always find her, and take her to a cold, white room, with people spinning around her, and her crimson blood stained their perfect white clothes, and their perfect white gloves, and their perfect white souls… And they dragged her back, kicking and screaming, they dragged her back, and she breathed again as humans do, as all worthless humans do…

 

But then, there were times when she wanted to live, she wanted to escape the cries, the horrible cries for help, and the anger, she wanted them, somebody, anybody to love her, to keep her warm and to tell her she'll be alright, that she's normal and that she'll be alright… She longed for that voice to lead her out of her labyrinth, unlock her cage, and free her. She craved for sunlight to bless her skin and allow her to not be so pale anymore… She looked like a dead body. And she'd talked just about as much, in the past two months. Who was she to talk with? Tabitha? That old hag who annoyed her every waking moment to play Scrabble with her? She hated Scrabble. More words.

 

“Who are you here for?” the old woman asked, and her kind voice startled the girl shaking beside her. She stared at the flowers in her hand, and felt the cold air whipping her face, although she should have been warm by now.

“Myself.” she said. Her voice was husky, like she hadn't spoken for days. The woman frowned a little, but resumed the kind expression that the girl still refused to see.

“But this is The Day of The Dead.”

“So?”

 

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