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Hi, my name is Claire
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 | The Patients (Prologue) |
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 4.83 with 12 vote(s)
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| Created: 2009-08-07 19:36:01 |
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A/N: This is a very intriguing idea that popped into my mind so I'm going to go with it. I hope to get it published someday, so the chapters that I write after this will probably be pretty long. This prologue, however, is rather short and will probably just be a part of chapter 1 if I ever get the chance to publish this. Also, I probably won't be continuing most of my other stories on here, I just don't have enough time to continue all of them and some of them I really don't like much anymore. Soon I'll decide which ones I'll be continuing and take off the ones I won't. Rest assured that I am going to save the ones I won't be continuing so you might see those at a later date, edited and much better. I'd like for you to be truthful when commenting on this and give me some construcional critcism and advice. Anyways, for now, just enjoy this prologue.
My footsteps sounded loud as I crept down the hall. The room I stopped before was oddly quiet, not a sound quivered through the door and reached my ears. Frowning, I set my hand on the doorknob, the sound of my heartbeat echoing in my ears.
“Charlie?” I called out in a shaky voice, slowly turning the knob. Silence greeted my ears, suffocated me with its wordless crackle.
I opened the door, and peered into the room. Dirty clothes crisscrossed the floor, piled up in heaps in the corners of the room. Band posters littered the walls; they were brightly colored and gave the room an even dirtier feel. Various objects lay scattered on surfaces and on the floor amid the heaps of clothing. The floor itself was rugged carpet with stains of unknown liquids clearly seen.
This was the room of my older brother, Charlie. He had been shut up in his room for the past few days, Mom said he was ill. At times he said some rather peculiar things, and Mom said he was acting rather strange. She had come to the conclusion that he’d caught something minor and would get better with rest.
I stepped into the room, closing the door behind me. Charlie was sitting up on the bed, his bright blue eyes staring down at the floor. At the sound of the door shutting he lifted his head to meet my gaze steadily. “Claire,” he said, his voice was a little hoarse but did not seem like the voice of a sick 16-year-old.
“Charlie, what are you doing up? You weren’t thinking of going someplace, were you? Mom says you need to rest, and if you need anything you can just tell me and I’ll get it and-“
“Claire,” he interrupted me abruptly, grabbing my hand and pulling me so that I turned and looked at him. I noted his short blonde hair, his bright blue eyes, and his summer tan. He didn’t seem sick at all. Could Mom be wrong?
“What, Charlie?” I asked in a concerned tone.
“They’re coming,” he replied flatly, staring at me with a grave expression. He held my gaze, keeping me from looking away and plunging into another concerned speech.
“Who’s coming?” I asked. When he didn’t answer, I demanded, “Who’s coming, Charlie?!”
“The same people who took me away last time for two months,” he replied, turning from me. As he spoke I felt myself remember that he had been gone for two months, Mom had called someplace and a group of people had come and taken Charlie to a place. Mom hadn’t told me where they had taken him, or who they were. Had she called them again?
As I heard the front door click open, fear surged up inside of me. “Oh, Charlie, are they really going to take you again? Where did they take you last time, what happened, who are they-“
“Hush,” Charlie said gently. “They’re not just coming here for me.”
“What else could they be coming for?” I replied anxiously, butterflies rattling around in my stomach.
“They’re coming for me,” he replied swiftly, “and you.”
My heart almost stopped then. Before I could say a word I heard hurried footsteps up the stairs, and then the door slammed open. As I swung around to face them, Charlie said, “You’re one of us.”
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You see, we’re different than you. We’re the ones you put in asylums, the ones you call crazy, we’re the murderers. There are always more of us, and even we don’t know why, some people are just born this way.
We see what you don’t, we aren’t afraid to kill. They tell our parents they’re going to “cure” us when they cart us off to this strange place, but we can’t be cured. Sometimes the medicine they inject into us makes us better for a time. Normally it just makes us worse.
Some people call it an illness, a disease, or a disorder. Other people just say we’re crazy, we’re just imagining things.
I’ll admit we probably are crazy, or insane, I mean it’s not likely that we are sane.
But we aren’t imagining things. You are. |
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