Post by iDream on Dec 21, 2009 4:28:07 GMT -5
美白危険視
Wrestler Name:Origa Mai
Hometown:Yokohama, Japan
Height:5' 1"
Weight:112lbs
Age: 17
Finishers:
フールムーンフラシ (Handspring backflip kick)
(Always followed by a submission, never a pin)
神風II(KamiKaze 2 [Diving double forearm strike])
Signature Moves:
Smokebomb - Used Evasively
Turnbuckle transition - dash from one turnbuckle across the top rope to another, also used, typically evasively
Description/Introduction:
What's in a Word? (Flashbacks Prologue)
It's incredibly difficult to sum up most people with a single word, and for others, the entire dictionary fails to do the job, yet, for a lucky few, one word works perfectly: impossible. The problem with this few, is that it's also nearly impossible to tell if you've found one of them. At the same time however, they all share a certain...trait...certain something that identifies them, a characteristic that makes them who they are. On the surface, it would seem that they aren't motivated by something tangible, like money, or notoriety, power; these are all superficial, trivial. Then what is it that they could want? This is the question.
Like most others that could be considered average, Origa Mai grew up in a home with both parents, a younger brother, a well furnished house. She went to school, and she was, in fact in the top three percent of each of the schools she attended. Gifted, was the term. She was athletic, she enjoyed Gymnastics, and to a lesser extent, Judo and Grappling/MMA. Again, gifted floated about in the various rumblings, and emphasized by various trophies lining a number of shelves in her room. She was thin, yet feminine, and at the very least, pretty. Not the prettiest girl in school, no, but not far behind. She had numerous friends, from all of the typical circles one would find at her age. There was the one emo kid that was moonlight pale, unhealthily thin, with the dark, dyed hair, that was depressed all the time, her male Jock counterpart that had a few too many ounces of testosterone when compared with his brain cells but pushed her to her physical limits, the one nerdy kid who always did just a smidgen better than her in their studies, and always felt like it made him the best candidate to court her, the diva fashionista who wasn't aware that all her male friends hung around because she was easy, not because she was pretty, and her best friend, Yuko, who, on paper couldn't quite measure up statistically, and was always just a little jealous, but had a golden heart. And there were the enemies. That one rival who always wanted to crush her in every sport, the ice queen, that knew she was the school beauty and lorded it over everyone, and then there was Yuko, who did everything she did, but needed to prove to at least herself that hard work was just as good as talent. She knew how to deal with them, and they had their places. Of course, none of them really associated with each other much, unless she was the common factor in the equation. In the life of an adolescent, one could say she had it all.
Mayhaps that could have been the catalyst behind it all. Having it all, that is. On the surface what she had seemed perfect, but home for her was far from. Her brother, as jealous as some of her classmates, hated her for her accomplishments and accolades, and on a regular basis tried to afflict her with his failures. Her parents, outward and friendly with anyone whose opinion they valued and scorn they feared, never smiled when the doors were closed. There was yelling, lots of yelling. Really, there was no need for it, there was more than enough money; her father was a successful businessman, and although her mother didn't work, she took very good care of affairs at home. Too good probably. The home lacked personality, it was cold, lifeless, Stepford. The walls were cream, as were the ceiling, and the picture frames, the table was oak, the chairs were plain oak. Nothing that could give an identity. And everything was kept clean, obsessively clean, military, 'drop and give me twenty' clean. Her father was away from home much more often than he should have been, doing what everyone knew, but what her mother was afraid to accept. He blamed her for his drinking, for being a bad wife, for not satisfying him, even though he never gave her the chance. They were in love once, and somewhere in the thick of things, they might still have been, but age, the rat race, and changing winds split them apart. He'd hit her, on more than one occasion, during their heated arguments. There was blood, and bruises. The tears and cries seemed endless. They weren't endless. She'd turned her attentions to them, reciprocating her frustrations in the same manifestations as she'd received. She'd always blamed them for her miseries. Origa for being so perfect, and making her father notice her flaws, and her brother, for being a failure, and shaming her. Granted, her mother couldn't inflict the same physical harm to them that she herself received, but the effect was just as physically scarring. He'd fallen into a gang, arrested once, twice, out at all hours, in jail once. He'd never blamed them for his troubles, maybe because he was destined for that life anyway, maybe because he didn't care. In realty, he was scared, maybe because he never was a tough guy, like he wanted everyone to believe. He could fight, sure, but he wasn't really a fighter, and most always found himself on the losing end of one, even in a crowd. A respectable loser, and a criminal loser...
Her destiny wasn't as superficially low, and although she'd found herself with some unfavorable tattoos, to her parents, teachers and any other authority figures in her life anyway, of white ink runic symbols up the entirety of her left arm and leg, as well as the left half of her body between the two, her performances in public forums never slipped much from what they were previously. Outwardly, she still had the same friends, she still had her grades and athletics, she still had her vision of adolescent perfections. Underneath the surface, however, her mind was slowly slipping away from her. She was becoming interested in things she hadn't previously been interested in. Sado-masochism, pain, blood, deceit, vengeance. It was all just a passive interest in the beginning, a passing thought here or there, a snicker at a ridiculous mental picture, but surely, that interest progressed. Literature, websites, a cut here, a prick of the finger there, plans, fantasies... She'd found her newfound feelings intoxicating, she had to pursue them.
Yuko had been the one to notice her changes, like any best friend would, and like any best friend would, presented the first semblance at a confrontation. Everyone was home that night, both her mother and father, her brother. Yuko was there hanging out, working up the courage to say what she needed to. She'd been fidgety all that evening, unable to either find the words proper, or find her mustard, but either way, after a number of minutes, hours, she hadn't yet expressed her concern. She'd been waiting in Origa's room patiently for the last few minutes, while her parents spent the usual time dressing down the two siblings, her father's drunken stupor the cause, her brother of course, for being a loser in every facet of his life, her mother for allowing him to be so, and her, for her apparent shift in appearance.
As usual, her mother got the worst of it all, and though she tried to defend her honor, she was never any match for him when the bottle directed his thoughts. At best he was illogical and mean, at worst, intelligible and cruel. Everyone knew that it never took much to set him off in this state, everyone except her mother it seemed, and once again after the wrong word was uttered, she'd received a cold slap across her face.
Then another, and another...the hand closed into a fist, then the empty bottle. Glass shards spread about...
Now, everyone comes to a point after being pushed so far, where they just can't tolerate another inch. Under normal circumstances it's just an inch, but when one reaches the edge, inches are just inches too far. For Origa, this time was her last inch. Maybe it was because Yuko was just down the hall, and she didn't want to look weak to her best friend, or maybe she was tired of seeing her father give up his voice to the bottle in his hand. She could've been tired of seeing her mother, and to a lesser extent, herself with bruises, but more than likely, emotion simple got the better of her, and she'd gone temporarily insane.
Origa jumped on her father, hanging on this his thrashing form like a rodeo competitor to a raging bull. He was trying to kill her mother, and as much as she hated the coward, she didn't want him to succeed. Jason had fled to his room. Even after all he'd seen on the streets playing gangster, this was just too much for him to handle. Yuko had fled as well, hearing the commotion. Decidedly, school the next day would be a safer forum for her.
He threw her to the ground finally, a drunken berserker, and taught her a lesson about her insolence. Kicks, punches...the ramblings of a madman... She was crushed, wholly.
When she arrived at school the next day, she was a wreck. Yes, there were the few bruises she'd sustained, and most could've probably painted a picture around that alone, but there was also the quiet. Now, she wasn't the most talkative person anyway, but this was a different kind of quiet, the kind you see when there's no life left in someone, when someone loses their spirit. She'd spent the entire day staring out at the sun, during classes, during free exercise, during lunch in her usual spot on the roof. Everyone left her alone that day, even her teachers. They all...knew... For Yuko, however, this wasn't the strange part of the ordeal. The strange part was the next day.
Most people with common sense can agree that pain and trauma take time to heal, and most can agree that the length of time is significant. Sure, some heal faster than others, and then there are those that never heal fully, but...
Yuko waited for her outside her house that morning, to walk with Origa to school. She'd fully expected that distant Origa, the one burning her retinas in that harsh sunlight. What she'd received was the normal, happy, perfect Origa. Smiles, laughter, attentiveness, charisma...she was...herself. Granted she wasn't going to complain to having her friend back, but this wasn't right, this was too soon in her eyes. Maybe it was because everyone wanted things to be back to normal, or because it was just too strange seeing a popular girl fall from grace, but everyone else seemed quite ok with the return to normalcy. It was almost if they didn't see 'it'. They didn't see the harbinger. That day played like normal. Origa was again the third most intelligent person in her class, attentive, active, she was once again one of the most athletic, excelling in the free exercise time, once again one of the most popular, chatting it up with various students, the apple of many a horny teenage male's eye, she'd turned down one, or maybe it was two suitors that day, the rival, the friend, the enemy. She'd laughed, smiled, she was...happy? No, this was wrong, and Yuko was the only one that could see it.
When the day had ended, Origa walked home alone. Yuko had offered to accompany her, but she turned that offer down, much to the dismay of her best friend. It was quiet in that house that evening. Her father was late, doing what it was he always was doing when he was late coming home, her brother was in his room, the door closed, and the quiet hummings of the TV seeping through the walls, and her mother... She still hadn't recovered from that incident two nights ago, and she spent her time since in the darkness of her room, trying to find comfort, solace in her solitude. It wasn't just her husband that had beaten her this time, but reality itself, flooding her every being with all the happenings of her imperfect family, her imperfect life.
The evening turned to night when her father finally stumbled inside, drunk again as usual. She was on the way out, to the convenience store down the street. She was out of Pocky. Normally, she didn't make a habit of leaving the house in her pajamas, but it was late, she didn't feel like changing, and the woman at the store would've understood. She passed her father at the door, offering him no greeting, and he in return doing the same. Things were still too strained for words.
It was cold that night, colder than the last few nights, and she shivered under the moonlight as she strolled along. The soft glow of the fluorescent lights of that store were in sight...
It was almost ten minutes later when the blazing sirens of the fire trucks and small patrol cars filled her ears, awakening her from the daze she'd been in. she was staring up at the red orange glow of her home, or at least the rotting, blackened ruins of it. The streams of water were winning the war, but the fire still kissed the sky, the smoke hid the stars and a majority of the moon for most of the neighbors who had gathered outside to see the spectacle. For Origa it was surreal. She was pushed this way and that, first by the firefighter EMT's, checking her over for any signs of injury, then by the officers on the scene, asking her various questions that she just didn't hear. It was another half hour before her senses and wits returned to her. The fire was defeated, replaced only by that black smoke that was itself dying out. "Not just a fire, an explosion," someone said. "Such a shame," from another. The only thing seemingly not destroyed was her room. It was almost as if it were 'designed' that way.
The police had questioned her all that night, about the fire, about her bloody pajamas, about her family, about anything that possibly could have solved the mystery. It was mostly about the blood. She was down the street, it didn't make sense. They yelled, they questioned calmly, they made assumptions. They wanted answers. Eventually she took a polygraph, she was telling the truth. She didn't know how it happened, and considering the tragedy, she was surprisingly...lucid. Not happy, not sad, not nearly as distraught as she really should have been, just...lucid. It didn't add up, but they didn't keep her, she'd already suffered enough. They offered to put her in a shelter, it was the best they could do, but she turned down the offer, she had somewhere she could go. That was her first lie of the evening.
She'd wandered around the neighborhood for seemingly an eternity before finding herself in a hospital, her arms restrained to the side of the bed. She was groggy, unfocussed, probably the result of the drugs they'd given her. She struggled against the restraints futilely, and offered the empty room an exasperated moan. She was afraid, but, somehow, it made sense, like she'd been here before. What time was it? Was it morning already? Slowly she opened her eyes, fighting the burning bright light flooding her pupils. It was a little after eight. There was a calendar next to the clock. February. Maybe it was the sedatives, but she wasn't able to do the math right away. Wasn't it...August? Yeah, it was, so...why? Another frustrated groan.
A passing orderly heard her whimpers and pushed open the door to determine the cause. He asked something, she was too out of it to know what it was. Her dilated pupils, made apparent by the flickering flashlight confirmed her forced docile state. Another question she couldn't quite make out, something about playing nice, and a statement about leaving in three days.
That calendar had to be right, so, what happened to the last 6 months? She tried to make herself remember, but the fog of confusion and chemicals was just too thick. After unshackling her, the orderly pulled her dead weight body up to his to remove some electrodes, or something from her back. There was a feeling in his touch, a feeling of...familiarity. She had been here before, she knew him. She couldn't explain why, but, the feeling frightened her for some unexplainable reason. A whimper escaped her lips into his ear as his clammy hands probed her back for those suction cups. It was his voice, however, that sparked her memory to life. He whispered something to her, something like "It's ok, I won't hurt you." Pictures, emotions...it was a sandstorm over her fragile brain. She could remember nights, quiet nights when he was on duty, when no one could hear her scream, not like the sedative pills they'd made her take would allow her to anyway. Those hands, exploring her body...those hands... He'd forced himself on her more than once in this state, he'd enjoyed the idea of her youthful fire stripped away, like Snow White and the apple, with he as her twisted Prince Charming. Tears, angry, desperate tears traveled down her cheeks as he removed the last of them. It was going to happen again, he had to have his last fun, and she was powerless to stop it...
She wept silently that night, unable to sleep through the torrent of memories of that place flooding her mind. There was her Nurse Ratchet, who fouled her attempts at reason with authority and brawn. Various Crazies who never thought she belonged, but welcomed her anyway. That young doctor who always smiled at here, even when she was feeling bad. He kept her sane in the midst of her growing insanity, and then there was him...She had to be rid of him. Like the mummy rising from his sarcophagus, she lifted her body from that lumpy bed. Even after all those hours, she still found herself in a haze, yet, her focus was sharper than ever. She would be rid of him.
Slowly, drunkenly, she stumbled to the door, and out into the hall. Though her memories failed her on the surface, her feet seemed to know the way. The nurses' station, just a little farther...
The next day she'd been released, just as scheduled. Clean bill of health, functional, cured. All the various patients she'd apparently formed bonds with, Ratchet, the young handsome doctor...all except one. They would find him...eventually... What was left of him anyway. The thought brought a smile to her face. They all thought it was because she was happy to leave, and in a sense it was, but much less just the arbitrary idea of leaving, than what she was leaving behind. She'd decided that night that just killing the fellow wasn't enough, no, she needed more. She'd mangled his body after his demise, bits and pieces strewn about and...well...they'd find out when the smell kicked in.
As she made her way from that hospital, back to her old life and her new, her friends, and that burned necropolis of a home, a smile forced its way onto her lips, then a grin, one that would make the great Cheshire proud.
Wrestler Name:Origa Mai
Hometown:Yokohama, Japan
Height:5' 1"
Weight:112lbs
Age: 17
Finishers:
フールムーンフラシ (Handspring backflip kick)
(Always followed by a submission, never a pin)
神風II(KamiKaze 2 [Diving double forearm strike])
Signature Moves:
Smokebomb - Used Evasively
Turnbuckle transition - dash from one turnbuckle across the top rope to another, also used, typically evasively
Description/Introduction:
What's in a Word? (Flashbacks Prologue)
It's incredibly difficult to sum up most people with a single word, and for others, the entire dictionary fails to do the job, yet, for a lucky few, one word works perfectly: impossible. The problem with this few, is that it's also nearly impossible to tell if you've found one of them. At the same time however, they all share a certain...trait...certain something that identifies them, a characteristic that makes them who they are. On the surface, it would seem that they aren't motivated by something tangible, like money, or notoriety, power; these are all superficial, trivial. Then what is it that they could want? This is the question.
Like most others that could be considered average, Origa Mai grew up in a home with both parents, a younger brother, a well furnished house. She went to school, and she was, in fact in the top three percent of each of the schools she attended. Gifted, was the term. She was athletic, she enjoyed Gymnastics, and to a lesser extent, Judo and Grappling/MMA. Again, gifted floated about in the various rumblings, and emphasized by various trophies lining a number of shelves in her room. She was thin, yet feminine, and at the very least, pretty. Not the prettiest girl in school, no, but not far behind. She had numerous friends, from all of the typical circles one would find at her age. There was the one emo kid that was moonlight pale, unhealthily thin, with the dark, dyed hair, that was depressed all the time, her male Jock counterpart that had a few too many ounces of testosterone when compared with his brain cells but pushed her to her physical limits, the one nerdy kid who always did just a smidgen better than her in their studies, and always felt like it made him the best candidate to court her, the diva fashionista who wasn't aware that all her male friends hung around because she was easy, not because she was pretty, and her best friend, Yuko, who, on paper couldn't quite measure up statistically, and was always just a little jealous, but had a golden heart. And there were the enemies. That one rival who always wanted to crush her in every sport, the ice queen, that knew she was the school beauty and lorded it over everyone, and then there was Yuko, who did everything she did, but needed to prove to at least herself that hard work was just as good as talent. She knew how to deal with them, and they had their places. Of course, none of them really associated with each other much, unless she was the common factor in the equation. In the life of an adolescent, one could say she had it all.
Mayhaps that could have been the catalyst behind it all. Having it all, that is. On the surface what she had seemed perfect, but home for her was far from. Her brother, as jealous as some of her classmates, hated her for her accomplishments and accolades, and on a regular basis tried to afflict her with his failures. Her parents, outward and friendly with anyone whose opinion they valued and scorn they feared, never smiled when the doors were closed. There was yelling, lots of yelling. Really, there was no need for it, there was more than enough money; her father was a successful businessman, and although her mother didn't work, she took very good care of affairs at home. Too good probably. The home lacked personality, it was cold, lifeless, Stepford. The walls were cream, as were the ceiling, and the picture frames, the table was oak, the chairs were plain oak. Nothing that could give an identity. And everything was kept clean, obsessively clean, military, 'drop and give me twenty' clean. Her father was away from home much more often than he should have been, doing what everyone knew, but what her mother was afraid to accept. He blamed her for his drinking, for being a bad wife, for not satisfying him, even though he never gave her the chance. They were in love once, and somewhere in the thick of things, they might still have been, but age, the rat race, and changing winds split them apart. He'd hit her, on more than one occasion, during their heated arguments. There was blood, and bruises. The tears and cries seemed endless. They weren't endless. She'd turned her attentions to them, reciprocating her frustrations in the same manifestations as she'd received. She'd always blamed them for her miseries. Origa for being so perfect, and making her father notice her flaws, and her brother, for being a failure, and shaming her. Granted, her mother couldn't inflict the same physical harm to them that she herself received, but the effect was just as physically scarring. He'd fallen into a gang, arrested once, twice, out at all hours, in jail once. He'd never blamed them for his troubles, maybe because he was destined for that life anyway, maybe because he didn't care. In realty, he was scared, maybe because he never was a tough guy, like he wanted everyone to believe. He could fight, sure, but he wasn't really a fighter, and most always found himself on the losing end of one, even in a crowd. A respectable loser, and a criminal loser...
Her destiny wasn't as superficially low, and although she'd found herself with some unfavorable tattoos, to her parents, teachers and any other authority figures in her life anyway, of white ink runic symbols up the entirety of her left arm and leg, as well as the left half of her body between the two, her performances in public forums never slipped much from what they were previously. Outwardly, she still had the same friends, she still had her grades and athletics, she still had her vision of adolescent perfections. Underneath the surface, however, her mind was slowly slipping away from her. She was becoming interested in things she hadn't previously been interested in. Sado-masochism, pain, blood, deceit, vengeance. It was all just a passive interest in the beginning, a passing thought here or there, a snicker at a ridiculous mental picture, but surely, that interest progressed. Literature, websites, a cut here, a prick of the finger there, plans, fantasies... She'd found her newfound feelings intoxicating, she had to pursue them.
Yuko had been the one to notice her changes, like any best friend would, and like any best friend would, presented the first semblance at a confrontation. Everyone was home that night, both her mother and father, her brother. Yuko was there hanging out, working up the courage to say what she needed to. She'd been fidgety all that evening, unable to either find the words proper, or find her mustard, but either way, after a number of minutes, hours, she hadn't yet expressed her concern. She'd been waiting in Origa's room patiently for the last few minutes, while her parents spent the usual time dressing down the two siblings, her father's drunken stupor the cause, her brother of course, for being a loser in every facet of his life, her mother for allowing him to be so, and her, for her apparent shift in appearance.
As usual, her mother got the worst of it all, and though she tried to defend her honor, she was never any match for him when the bottle directed his thoughts. At best he was illogical and mean, at worst, intelligible and cruel. Everyone knew that it never took much to set him off in this state, everyone except her mother it seemed, and once again after the wrong word was uttered, she'd received a cold slap across her face.
Then another, and another...the hand closed into a fist, then the empty bottle. Glass shards spread about...
Now, everyone comes to a point after being pushed so far, where they just can't tolerate another inch. Under normal circumstances it's just an inch, but when one reaches the edge, inches are just inches too far. For Origa, this time was her last inch. Maybe it was because Yuko was just down the hall, and she didn't want to look weak to her best friend, or maybe she was tired of seeing her father give up his voice to the bottle in his hand. She could've been tired of seeing her mother, and to a lesser extent, herself with bruises, but more than likely, emotion simple got the better of her, and she'd gone temporarily insane.
Origa jumped on her father, hanging on this his thrashing form like a rodeo competitor to a raging bull. He was trying to kill her mother, and as much as she hated the coward, she didn't want him to succeed. Jason had fled to his room. Even after all he'd seen on the streets playing gangster, this was just too much for him to handle. Yuko had fled as well, hearing the commotion. Decidedly, school the next day would be a safer forum for her.
He threw her to the ground finally, a drunken berserker, and taught her a lesson about her insolence. Kicks, punches...the ramblings of a madman... She was crushed, wholly.
When she arrived at school the next day, she was a wreck. Yes, there were the few bruises she'd sustained, and most could've probably painted a picture around that alone, but there was also the quiet. Now, she wasn't the most talkative person anyway, but this was a different kind of quiet, the kind you see when there's no life left in someone, when someone loses their spirit. She'd spent the entire day staring out at the sun, during classes, during free exercise, during lunch in her usual spot on the roof. Everyone left her alone that day, even her teachers. They all...knew... For Yuko, however, this wasn't the strange part of the ordeal. The strange part was the next day.
Most people with common sense can agree that pain and trauma take time to heal, and most can agree that the length of time is significant. Sure, some heal faster than others, and then there are those that never heal fully, but...
Yuko waited for her outside her house that morning, to walk with Origa to school. She'd fully expected that distant Origa, the one burning her retinas in that harsh sunlight. What she'd received was the normal, happy, perfect Origa. Smiles, laughter, attentiveness, charisma...she was...herself. Granted she wasn't going to complain to having her friend back, but this wasn't right, this was too soon in her eyes. Maybe it was because everyone wanted things to be back to normal, or because it was just too strange seeing a popular girl fall from grace, but everyone else seemed quite ok with the return to normalcy. It was almost if they didn't see 'it'. They didn't see the harbinger. That day played like normal. Origa was again the third most intelligent person in her class, attentive, active, she was once again one of the most athletic, excelling in the free exercise time, once again one of the most popular, chatting it up with various students, the apple of many a horny teenage male's eye, she'd turned down one, or maybe it was two suitors that day, the rival, the friend, the enemy. She'd laughed, smiled, she was...happy? No, this was wrong, and Yuko was the only one that could see it.
When the day had ended, Origa walked home alone. Yuko had offered to accompany her, but she turned that offer down, much to the dismay of her best friend. It was quiet in that house that evening. Her father was late, doing what it was he always was doing when he was late coming home, her brother was in his room, the door closed, and the quiet hummings of the TV seeping through the walls, and her mother... She still hadn't recovered from that incident two nights ago, and she spent her time since in the darkness of her room, trying to find comfort, solace in her solitude. It wasn't just her husband that had beaten her this time, but reality itself, flooding her every being with all the happenings of her imperfect family, her imperfect life.
The evening turned to night when her father finally stumbled inside, drunk again as usual. She was on the way out, to the convenience store down the street. She was out of Pocky. Normally, she didn't make a habit of leaving the house in her pajamas, but it was late, she didn't feel like changing, and the woman at the store would've understood. She passed her father at the door, offering him no greeting, and he in return doing the same. Things were still too strained for words.
It was cold that night, colder than the last few nights, and she shivered under the moonlight as she strolled along. The soft glow of the fluorescent lights of that store were in sight...
It was almost ten minutes later when the blazing sirens of the fire trucks and small patrol cars filled her ears, awakening her from the daze she'd been in. she was staring up at the red orange glow of her home, or at least the rotting, blackened ruins of it. The streams of water were winning the war, but the fire still kissed the sky, the smoke hid the stars and a majority of the moon for most of the neighbors who had gathered outside to see the spectacle. For Origa it was surreal. She was pushed this way and that, first by the firefighter EMT's, checking her over for any signs of injury, then by the officers on the scene, asking her various questions that she just didn't hear. It was another half hour before her senses and wits returned to her. The fire was defeated, replaced only by that black smoke that was itself dying out. "Not just a fire, an explosion," someone said. "Such a shame," from another. The only thing seemingly not destroyed was her room. It was almost as if it were 'designed' that way.
The police had questioned her all that night, about the fire, about her bloody pajamas, about her family, about anything that possibly could have solved the mystery. It was mostly about the blood. She was down the street, it didn't make sense. They yelled, they questioned calmly, they made assumptions. They wanted answers. Eventually she took a polygraph, she was telling the truth. She didn't know how it happened, and considering the tragedy, she was surprisingly...lucid. Not happy, not sad, not nearly as distraught as she really should have been, just...lucid. It didn't add up, but they didn't keep her, she'd already suffered enough. They offered to put her in a shelter, it was the best they could do, but she turned down the offer, she had somewhere she could go. That was her first lie of the evening.
She'd wandered around the neighborhood for seemingly an eternity before finding herself in a hospital, her arms restrained to the side of the bed. She was groggy, unfocussed, probably the result of the drugs they'd given her. She struggled against the restraints futilely, and offered the empty room an exasperated moan. She was afraid, but, somehow, it made sense, like she'd been here before. What time was it? Was it morning already? Slowly she opened her eyes, fighting the burning bright light flooding her pupils. It was a little after eight. There was a calendar next to the clock. February. Maybe it was the sedatives, but she wasn't able to do the math right away. Wasn't it...August? Yeah, it was, so...why? Another frustrated groan.
A passing orderly heard her whimpers and pushed open the door to determine the cause. He asked something, she was too out of it to know what it was. Her dilated pupils, made apparent by the flickering flashlight confirmed her forced docile state. Another question she couldn't quite make out, something about playing nice, and a statement about leaving in three days.
That calendar had to be right, so, what happened to the last 6 months? She tried to make herself remember, but the fog of confusion and chemicals was just too thick. After unshackling her, the orderly pulled her dead weight body up to his to remove some electrodes, or something from her back. There was a feeling in his touch, a feeling of...familiarity. She had been here before, she knew him. She couldn't explain why, but, the feeling frightened her for some unexplainable reason. A whimper escaped her lips into his ear as his clammy hands probed her back for those suction cups. It was his voice, however, that sparked her memory to life. He whispered something to her, something like "It's ok, I won't hurt you." Pictures, emotions...it was a sandstorm over her fragile brain. She could remember nights, quiet nights when he was on duty, when no one could hear her scream, not like the sedative pills they'd made her take would allow her to anyway. Those hands, exploring her body...those hands... He'd forced himself on her more than once in this state, he'd enjoyed the idea of her youthful fire stripped away, like Snow White and the apple, with he as her twisted Prince Charming. Tears, angry, desperate tears traveled down her cheeks as he removed the last of them. It was going to happen again, he had to have his last fun, and she was powerless to stop it...
She wept silently that night, unable to sleep through the torrent of memories of that place flooding her mind. There was her Nurse Ratchet, who fouled her attempts at reason with authority and brawn. Various Crazies who never thought she belonged, but welcomed her anyway. That young doctor who always smiled at here, even when she was feeling bad. He kept her sane in the midst of her growing insanity, and then there was him...She had to be rid of him. Like the mummy rising from his sarcophagus, she lifted her body from that lumpy bed. Even after all those hours, she still found herself in a haze, yet, her focus was sharper than ever. She would be rid of him.
Slowly, drunkenly, she stumbled to the door, and out into the hall. Though her memories failed her on the surface, her feet seemed to know the way. The nurses' station, just a little farther...
The next day she'd been released, just as scheduled. Clean bill of health, functional, cured. All the various patients she'd apparently formed bonds with, Ratchet, the young handsome doctor...all except one. They would find him...eventually... What was left of him anyway. The thought brought a smile to her face. They all thought it was because she was happy to leave, and in a sense it was, but much less just the arbitrary idea of leaving, than what she was leaving behind. She'd decided that night that just killing the fellow wasn't enough, no, she needed more. She'd mangled his body after his demise, bits and pieces strewn about and...well...they'd find out when the smell kicked in.
As she made her way from that hospital, back to her old life and her new, her friends, and that burned necropolis of a home, a smile forced its way onto her lips, then a grin, one that would make the great Cheshire proud.
