-------------------

The whine was interfering with her sleep. That probably meant that she was getting better, meant she didn't need to sleep all the time anymore. Or it meant she was getting worse and insomnia was just another symptom. She tried to imagine never sleeping again, the things she'd do to fill a lifetime of waking hours. She had to stop, because it kept being suggested that she might not have that many to occupy. The rounds of an orderly saved her from further thought and she turned to face away from the crack of light that surrounded the door. She preferred to sleep in utter darkness, the kind that has no shadows and is more than just the absence of light, more negative, like space. But even in space there are stars. She tried to remember the suggested alternative to counting sheep, something about a box with a lid. The doctor had gone to great lengths explaining it, obviously very pleased with her own personal discovery that couldn't particularly be attributed to anyone else. Even they had issues to be hidden from, hypocritical behaviour in essence though few patients would dare to criticise the pill-givers or the needle-bearers. That way lay madness clothed in sterile white rubber. Then she had it, the black room with the big box that she should place all her thoughts in, one by one. Ironic that blackness should be something to help her sleep when she spent her days immersed in a sickening display of pastel gaieties. She tried to imagine her problems disappearing into that box; it's capacity infinite so that she could believe there was someone with more problems than herself. Though doubtful, it was comforting. Perhaps there was hope; after all, this wasn't jail. If that were her sentence, she'd request for a transfer to be nearer Faith whose insanity certainly outweighed her own.

The faint sound of birdsong told her that day was not far off and she realised she must have been sleeping. There had been no dream. Had she taken the pill then? She didn't remember but the little round box with the porcelain rose on top was, on investigation, empty. She ran a finger around the crisp petals, felt the contrasting softness of the fabric leaf and finally the glazed cardboard. She liked the sound that tapping her nail against it made and she continued to do it until her roommate exhaled angrily and turned over with unnecessary violence and exasperation. She giggled a little at that, the infantile nature of the display was not lost on her. So many of the people here were children though not in body, just in mind.

Her hand slid down to her stomach and she twirled a finger around her navel before running it up and down the length of her scar. She could feel the different texture of the new skin and the rough edges that were yet to fully heal. She tried to concentrate on the slight greying irregularities in the otherwise white ceiling but still her memory was drawn down into thoughts of the past. Faces appeared before her and she lashed out at them, shredding the images into rippling pieces that still seemed to mock her no matter how much they were sliced. As Susan sat upright with yet another over-emphasised sigh she realised that her battle with the mirages had not been silent. That was the worst thing, being so inside her own head that she was only really aware of thought, action was just a side effect.

Activity in the hallway told her it was time for pills and politics. Breakfast was always taken over the news; there were fewer arguments that way. In a place where the television was the only connection to the outside world the inmates were perfectly happy to keep up with world events. Besides, the atrocities that were so regularly part of the coverage made them all feel more normal. This morning, a massacre in a town just outside Los Angeles was claiming the majority of the airtime. She might have wondered if her sister was involved, or the small group who had become her family but she wasn't listening and she didn't hear so she returned to her bedroom with only her usual obsessions and paranoia to deal with.

*

His sweat dripped down and mingled with her own. The scent of blood in the air would have made most people nauseous but excessive time in similar environments had deadened her nasal sensitivity. She was disappointed; perhaps vomiting on him would have been quite satisfying. At least, she fancied that it would.

*

Her pen paused over the page and she shuddered. She swallowed slowly and bit back tears before laying her pen to paper once more. She didn't look back over what she'd already written, the doctor said she had to learn to leave the past where it belonged and the writing without reading was supposed to be good training. She planned to read it one day and laugh at her disjointed efforts at coherency. She imagined discovering some literary gem in her work and becoming famous for the trials and tribulations of her life. A lazy smile graced her features for a second before she focused once more on her writing. She had an ability to shutdown everything except the few brain cells she needed to carry on scribbling but this focus brought with it the ability to remember. Her sub-conscious was like a puppy who, if not properly entertained and cared for, would piss on the carpet and chew the most expensive shoes in the house. But you can discipline a puppy and they grow into dogs. Currently, what had originally looked like a Labrador was growing to resemble a schizophrenic Doberman. That analogy pleased her; she wrote it down.

*

The walls were damp and the décor seemed to be modelled on a morgue but she felt safe there. Her feet were cold and she realised she'd lost her shoes but for some reason it didn't matter. She'd come here for a very specific reason but now it was impossible to remember quite what it was. She headed towards the sound of Spike's quiet movements in the crypt but the blood was in her eyes and she kept tripping over things. She stopped to wipe a sodden sleeve across her face and as she did so, the dulcet tones of her sister floated to her like an angel's song. Until her brain processed what they meant. Buffy was with Spike. They were doing things. She turned slowly and retraced her path, bloody footprints made light of her task and she found herself out in the cold night air at a loss for where to go next. So she sat down and let the tears fall from her eyes.

*

Susan slammed the door behind her and flung herself on the bed. She neglected to look at her roommate and ignored the sound of Dawn's heavy breathing. She knew what crying sounded like and didn't need to see it as well. She reached for her headphones and drifted off in the Pixies.

*

The brilliant white of her knickers was unchanged; she slipped a finger up inside herself to check that everything was still there. It was. She didn't cry, there were to tears left now so she contented herself with a muffled wail before standing and letting the hem of her skirt fall back to the ground. She washed her hands slowly before drying them on the fluffy white towel. She stared at herself in the mirror for a moment and tried not to see the dark circles or hollow cheeks. After all, her own sister failed to see them, not even her school friends noticed but then, when did they ever notice anything? Her gaunt appearance was probably being put down to anorexia or some such teenage notion. She didn't care.

*

Pills again, pink ones. Two small round ones and one capsule - laxatives and antibiotics - the latter for the infection that prevented her scar from healing. She swallowed them down and tried to imagine their path to her stomach. Would they tumble down? Or slide slowly, almost getting stuck and causing her to choke?

*

There was nothing for her to bring up, so she simply retched mucus and perhaps bile though she was sure that her biology teacher would contradict that.

It smelt foul and made her teeth feel powdery. She pulled the handle downwards and stood up slowly to avoid dizziness before sliding the bolt of the door back slowly. Her arms hung loosely as she leant against the sink stand and examined her weary face once more. She rinsed her mouth and face then took her make-up from her bag to try to cover her pasty skin and make her lips look less dead. A stick of chewing gum was the finishing touch before she left the bathroom feeling like she'd been through the wringer.

*

The silence between songs was a problem. She could hear the silly girl crying and could almost see her arms as they tried to support a body too long without care. She turned the volume up a little more as the next song began and tried to think only of herself. It wasn't all that difficult.

*

It was blue. She stared at it for a long time. It was still blue. She threw it at the wall and knew that it was still blue. Her cold fingers slid down between her legs and she dug her nails into the soft flesh drawing blood. But it was a different blood and it was not what she desired to see so she dressed herself and washed her hands before drying them on the blue fluffy towel.

*

She couldn't stand it any more. Even when she couldn't hear her because the music was playing she still knew. She swung her legs from the bed and laid her Discman on the cabinet. She stood and, without looking across to the other bed, went out into the hall.

*

The first incision hurt the most, after that it was numb and she used the whole length of the blade to make a welt from which the blood welled in vibrant red. It dripped onto the towels and the carpet. She hadn't expected so much blood so quickly. At this rate she new she would bleed to death, but if she lived, the devil inside of her might still survive. So she rammed the knife into her abdomen until the handle prevented it from going in any further and then she fell onto her side and curled around this thing that might save her from hell in whatever way it chose. By death or by abortion, she didn't mind which.

That was how they found her.