A.N. This story was inspired by a song lyric I heard in a Slipknot song. Honestly, it scares even me. I wrote this very quickly, so I'm not impressed with it. Just a new story idea that I went along with. It's not up to my usual standards, but I figured I'd post it anyway. Enjoy!
His mind full and occupied with a thousand useless thoughts and incoherent phrases. Sleep only a word, never an action.
Oh great Somnus, wherefore art thou?
He lay staring at the blank gray wall, his pillow tucked beneath his head, propping it up, his thin blanket wrapped somewhere around his waist. It was so boring that wall, so pale, so monotonous, so dead. The nurses told him once he could paint those walls if he were good.
'Any color you want sweetie. Any color at all. Just tell us and we'll get the painters to do it exactly as you wish. But you have to be a good boy sweetie. Have to be a good boy.'
And he would be, smiling ever so sweetly at the plump nurse with the big breasts as she handed him his daily pills, ruffling his hair good naturally. Sometimes she would coo at him, bending over so her lush bosom would stretch and swell over the top of her nurses uniform and he would be treated to a delightful display of female anatomy.
He was a good boy. Always a good boy.
There was a clock outside the door to his room, one visible through the transparent glass that accompanied strong, thick oak. It rested on top the wooden portion, making the door almost pretty and domestic. The doctors said it gave the room more a feeling of being at home then being inside a damp prison. But what did the doctors know? All that glass did was broadcast what he couldn't have.
He glanced at that clock now, noting the late hour. She would be at home now, he knew, in her kitchen, making her hot English style tea. She would be wearing her skimpy black lace nightgown, the one where her gorgeous body would be outlined and illuminated so perfectly, so devilishly. She would turn, lean against the counter with her long legs crossed delicately at the ankles, both slender hands wrapped around the warm cup. Her eyes would be closed, her long red hair unbound and flowing down her back in rippled and waves of crimson beauty. His dark angel. His elusive dark goddess.
He had first seen her only months ago, driving slowly during rush hour. She had been walking down the street with her head down, her short skirt broadcasting those long legs. Long deep red hair hung in curls and waves down her back, her slender shoulders slightly hunched against the oncoming wind. That invisible force drove through those curls, gently pulling the tendrils from her delicate oval face. Like a rich cascade of velvet and silk, it danced, swayed in the wind.
He had stopped his car, his gazed riveted on that earthen beauty casually strolling down the street, unable to move, unable to make any coherent observations at all. Nothing except for her. His fingers had twitched uncontrollably on his steering wheel. Oh God, he had wanted to touch that hair, see if it felt as soft as it looked. He bet it would. Somehow he just knew. He would have stayed there all day watching her walk, watching her move. She was a goddess in mortal form, a siren on solid land. But a man in the truck behind him ruined that, laying on the horn angrily. His gaze shifted to the truck behind him, pausing to casually flip him off, before returning to the lovely woman he had just seen.
But she was gone.
A knock at the door now, a nurse coming in to get him. She was tired, her blue eyes distant and vague. The night shift was taking its toll on her it seemed, draining her of vital energy and warmth. She shook his arm though he was already awake, and he shivered minutely as she left his side, grabbed his slippers from the tiny door less closet in the corner, the one accommodation awarded to him. The rules demanded he take her hand, walk with her to where ever she was taking him, but he couldn't bear to feel that touch again. Her hands, her fingers calloused and worn, had been frigid to the touch on his bare arm, burning his warm skin like an icy firebrand. He buttoned up his night shirt, fixed his bottoms, gazed down at the female hand stretched out for his.
I'm not touching it.
His fingers curled in retaliation, digging into his palms, clenching them on his rock-hard thighs. She gestured with her hand, flicking it quickly in that age-old sign for him to grab it.
Don't touch me. Don't touch me. Don't touch me.
A mantra in his head.
She sighed heavily, her weariness taking hold of her usual endless amount of patience and she grabbed a large hand. He stifled a cry, resisting the urge to tug back violently, to escape those frozen hands with icicle fingers. She clutched at him tighter, tugging at his rigid body, pulling him into a dark gray corridor. There wasn't any color on the walls, just plain, dull gray. Always gray.
The insane didn't need color.
She moved quickly, pulling him along, dragging him as he struggled to keep up with her surprisingly fast footsteps. The cold of the marble floor penetrated through his slippers and he shivered. He was so cold. So cold.
She stopped before a door, rapping on it minutely before opening it.
Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.
He didn't want to talk. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to dream about her. He wanted to be in his bed, the mattress stiff and hard on the vertebrae of the back, the sheets barely enough to keep him warm. But he felt safe there. And there weren't any probing doctors to bother him during the late hours of the night. They always did this to him. They told him it was because his mind, for a reason they couldn't explain, was more active during the night. He would be more willing to talk during the night, than during the day. They could get information out of him then, his mind unguarded and mental activity high. But always at night.
You calling me a vampire, good doctor?
No, no son. Just an oddity is all. Your mind is wired differently than most is all. Now be a good boy and let's have a conversation shall we?
The nurse, that frigid bitch, pushed him onto a leather seat, more gentle now that the good doctor was watching her intently. Maybe she wanted him. Maybe that was why her chest suddenly pushed out in what was supposed to be an attractive manner. Maybe the frigid nurse bitch and the Good Doctor were fucking during the day. Bothering him at night and fucking during the day.
He bet they fucked right on the chair where he was sitting. And, after he was taken back to his room, the Good Doctor and the frigid nurse bitch would laugh about how he had sat in semen and sweat while the good doctor tried to pry into his mind.
Goddamn nurses. Goddamn doctors.
The doctor smiled at him now, his eyes shifting from the nurse to him. Smug. Arrogant.
You're in an asylum and I'm free to leave. Free to talk how I want, free to leave this place, free to sleep at night, free to fuck frigid nurse bitches.
"And how are we doing tonight, son?" the Good Doctor asked him, his pen poised above a pad of paper. He always wondered what was written on that pad of paper; probably some goddamn drawings and stick figures, absently drawn while the good doctor pretended to care, pretended to listen. He was probably thinking about fucking the nurse.
"Tired," came his usual reply.
"I never can."
"Why not? Thinking about her?"
His eyes narrowed. They always wanted to know about her.
"You can talk to me son. Why don't you tell me about her?"
He didn't want to. He didn't want to soil her image and implant it into the Good Doctor's perverted mind. She was his, and he didn't want to give the Good Doctor something to jerk off too. But the words tumbled out before he could stop them.
"What do you want to know?"
Where had that come from?
"What's she like? What does she look like? Is she pretty, beautiful?"
"She's perfect," he replied, as though that was enough. It was for him. But the Good Doctor wanted more.
"She's beautiful. Long red hair, green eyes. Deep green eyes. Long legs."
"You care about her?"
"She became my best friend. I saw her on the street one day, a few weeks later, she showed up at my work. We became fast friends after that."
"You wanted her?"
"I'd die for her."
"Is that why you killed him?"
He felt his anger swelling, surging within him. But he wasn't allowed to get up from the semen-covered seat. It would have felt so good to walk off some of this anger. But the Good Doctor didn't like that, preferring his patients be good boys and sit on the chair at all times.
"He was cheating on her! I saw him do it. She's my best friend, I love her. But she was with him. That fucking cheater. I saw him take that nasty black haired bitch into his room. I watched him. He didn't deserve her."
"So what did you do?"
"She came to me one night, asked me if I loved her. I told her I did. She asked me if I'd kill him for her. I told her I would. And then she said she'd let me fuck her any time I wanted if I did it for her. She said she loved me. I'd die for her."
"So you killed him then."
"Took a .45, caught him taking out trash. Pushed him to his knees and shot him like the bastard he was. His blood went everywhere," he laughed.
"What did she do after you killed him?"
"She came to my house, said she loved me, was going to fuck me, when the cops showed up and arrested me."
"If you killed him, why do you think you ended up here at the asylum? Why not prison?"
"Fucking judges. They said I'm not sane. What the fuck do they know? They're probably fucking their secretaries during the day and going home to their wives at night. Fucking cheaters. Just like that goddamn bastard I killed."
Just like you're fucking the frigid nurse bitch, Good Doctor.
The Good Doctor sighed heavily, pushing gold-rimmed glasses up his large nose.
"Son, why hasn't this girl ever come to visit you?"
He stiffened immediately, his eyes narrowing.
"Because she knows she'd be in trouble. I did it for her. I'll pay for our sins."
"Son, the police checked into this. That boy you shot, his girlfriend was the black haired woman. He had been with her for over five years."
"No! That goddamn bitch lied to you! She lied to you. Liar, liar, liar, fucking liar! That black haired bitch told the police that so they wouldn't find out she's a slut and fucking a taken man."
"Son, the boy's parents confirmed it. That boy, he never mentioned a red haired woman. Not once. He was visiting his girlfriend."
"You goddamn liar."
He wanted to stand, wanted to leave, wanted to go back to his room.
Let me go. Let me go. Damn you, let me go!
"Son," the Good Doctor began.
He pulled at his shot hair, his eye screwed tightly shut.
"No, no, no, no, no, fucking liar, no, no,"
"Son," the Good Doctor said again, but making no move to stop him from tearing out his hair.
"No, no, no, no,"
"Son, she doesn't exist."
"Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you! You lie! She's real! She's real and she loves me and you're just jealous because I killed for my woman. You wouldn't do that for that frigid nurse bitch you're fucking, would you Doctor?"
The Good Doctor stood up sharply watching as the man in the chair fell to his knees, crawling around the chair, his hands reaching up and grasping the back of it. He laughed, the sound of a psychotic.
"I know Doc. I know, I know, I know your secret. You're fucking the nurse bitch. And now you're trying to tell me my woman doesn't exist. I know your game you sick fuck. You make me come in here during the night, make me sit in the chair where you and that goddamn nurse mess it up with your disgusting fluids, but I know."
"Son, I am not having sex with that nurse," he said softly, placating, smugly.
That smug little bastard doctor.
"Haven't you ever wondered why no one you knew at work remembered seeing this woman? You think a woman that hot would have gone unnoticed? But no one saw her, just you Son. Haven't you ever wondered why she never visits you? You killed that boy, all because you made him out to be the villain. She doesn't exist. He wasn't her boyfriend. You killed an innocent man."
Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.
"Goddamn liar Doc! You're a fucking liar!"
The Good Doctor sighed, frustrated, yelling for the nurse to come in for him.
"Take him back to his room," he yelled at her.
"Now, now Doc. Control your temper. Isn't that what you always say to me? Control your temper Son. Shut your fucking mouth and listen to me Son. You liar. Take me back to my room so you can fuck your nurse again. Her hands are cold Doc. But maybe you like your women cold and bitchy. "
He cackled madly to himself as the nurse pulled him from the room. In the empty corridor, those sinister sounds echoed off of the walls, traveled up and down the length of the hallway. Deep inside, it made him glad.
The nurse pushed him inside his room, locking it behind her. She didn't offer to help him take off his slippers, and he was glad. Probably in a hurry to get back to the Good Doctor, the horny bitch. He undressed and lay down in his bed, naked, smiling the entire time.
He yelped when he turned his head, his eyes meeting emerald green. She was lying in bed beside him, her long blood red hair dangling and twisting behind her.
"They told you I'm not real," she whispered in the darkness.
"Yeah they did. But I know you are."
"I'm real baby. I'm always real for you."
"Stay with me?" he pleaded.
"I never left you," she returned.
He smiled again as he felt her arms twist around his waist, cold as death but so comforting. He'd tell the nurses he finally found a color that would be perfect for his room, ask them to paint it for him.
He figured blood red was perfect.