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| Welcome to Mercy; Cynthia's Brief Stay in Hell | |
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| Topic Started: Jun 25 2015, 11:25 AM (329 Views) | |
| 司 Mango | Jun 25 2015, 11:25 AM Post #1 |
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What's The Point
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HELP Bright eyes full of youthful, innocent energy. A larger hand comfortingly wrapped around her own, giving it a warm squeeze every so often. "Cynthia! I've got a surprise for you! Remember you said you wanted to go to the beach one day?" A cake - her favorite, chocolate chip cookie dough and ice cream. "Happy birthday, Cynthia!" All of it, gone...gone, gone, all gone, goneGONEGONE- A gasp, followed by wild glances thrown about the tiny room like stray bullets, bouncing off the old, featureless walls. A little twiddling of her stubby fingers, the faint sound of scratching as a long, untrimmed fingernail ran along the white wall, taking bits of dried paint with it. A tilt of the head, followed by a bemused, and perhaps understanding smile. "Oh, of course you can take Bugsy too, darling, it's your birthday!" Five hours. It had been five unbearably long, terrifying, tortuous, and lonely hours of soft crying, frequent nightmares, and chipping paint since she had last held Bugsy, since her hand had last been squeezed by her mother's, since her cheek had last been pecked by her sisters' lips, since her little body had last felt her older brother's warm embrace carrying her sleeping form against his chest, gently rocking her in his arms whilst their parents spoke to the hospital staff, barely holding back their tears as they negotiated how long they would consign their youngest to what they thought would be professional hospice care. Five hours since she had last slept in her soft, comfortable bed, since she had last tasted her mother's freshly-baked muffins and hand-squeezed orange juice - the adults had taken the rest of the food her mother had packed away from her as soon as her family left. Why did they leave her? Where were they? Were they okay? Why did they TAKE THEM AWAY- "Cynthia, don't go too far out, okay?" She didn't hear her mother and sisters yelling at her, her ears lost in the wonders of the ocean waves. Nor did she hear the crashing of the tides in front of her. "Jacques, where'd ya go? Jacques, come back! I just wanna play...with you...J-Jacques...?" The sound of bare skin on stone as she suddenly began to scramble wildly to and fro. Screaming, crying. Where was she? Why was she here? Where was Bugsy, Mommy, Daddy, Ellie, Annie? Where was Jacques, where was Jonathan, Elizabeth, Victoria, where, where, where, where, wherewherewhereDIDTHEYGOTELLMENOW- Salt. Water rushing into her lungs like a crowd through an open gate. Fish? Her body felt stifling, as if she were an anchor. She couldn't breathe. A crack as she madly slammed her head, that fragile little skull of hers, into the wall with a muffled, tortured cry. A thin stream of crimson running down the papery walls, filling the cracks like a river of agony. The scent of blood rising into the air. Shouting, yelling. Weeping. Dozens of worried faces, familiar and unfamiliar alike, lining her path like shops on a busy market street. Glass. Pointy things. Tubes going into her mouth and limbs. Lots of blood. Beeping noises. More weeping. They never went to the beach again after that. She had been seven. Yelling from outside. The door, the barrier between her and Bugsy, opening up. A female's shadow casting over her little form like a storm cloud over a lone cottage. "In the name of the Goddess, will she ever shut her bloody mouth!?" Of course the question wasn't directed towards Cynthia herself. They did not consider her so much as acknowledgeable; the question (or rather, the angry tirade) was instead answered by another female voice outside. "No, she won't. Kid can't be quiet unless she's got her stupid doll. It's such a bloody pain in the arse." "Bugsy isn't stu-!" The child's voice cut itself off as the wrathful woman turned to her, blood in her gaze. "Pid..." She knew she had spoken out of turn. And everyone knew what happened when you spoke out of turn. Everyone but her. "Ugh. You know what, kid?" She didn't know what. The little girl had only been here since last night; how could one so young and immature be able to learn the rules perfectly by now? But regardless of this, the faculty (or the 'wardens', as they were called by the patients - a name little Cynthia found to be far more frightening than 'faculty') already appeared to expect nigh perfect behavior from her, absolute perfection to almost absurd levels, to such a point that it seemed practically impossible to completely please the wardens at any given moment, and thus avoid due punishment for displeasing them, also at any given moment. A cry rang through the hallway, echoing off the dry, old, white walls of the facility, telling the other patients that the new girl, the only thing in the facility younger than 18, was receiving her first dose of her new life at Mercy Hospital for the Mentally Disabled & Handicapped. It was her eighth birthday. Welcome to Hell. No, no. This ain't Hell. This is ten times worse than Hell. Welcome to Mercy, you poor, poor old sons-of-bitches. Edited by Mango, Jun 25 2015, 09:52 PM.
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7:10 PM Jul 11









