Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ descent into madness ❯ chapter 1 ( Chapter 1 )

Descent into Madness
Chapter One

It had been so long that he was forgetting what the outside world looked like.

No; no, that wasn't quite right. He hadn't forgotten what it looked like, at all -- there were still the newspapers they were allowed to read on occasion, and the tiny television that only showed peaceful educational programs in case any of them got 'ideas'. He could still picture the porch and the front yard, and the street that he used to live on.

He was forgetting what the outside world felt like.

Those were things he'd never bothered to linger on, before. The warming of sunlight on skin, the tingle of a cool breeze, the rustling of the leaves on the trees. He didn't really like this place, in all its sterility and impersonality and pure blank whiteness. Sometimes it got lonely in his cell, although he would never admit it to himself, or anyone. Just him, the cot, and the walls. White, white, white. He was drowning in it.

And sometimes he wondered how he came to this place, and that got him remembering. The whiteness reminded him of the bliss, of the blankness he'd felt after he'd made sure his family was safe. But it was his family that put him in this place, his mother and his father. His sister, she was innocent. She had cried when they put him in, cried until her pretty eyes were red. He loved his sister... sometimes, he still looked for her.

Of course, there was no one to find in the cells.

By day he slept and paced his cell; by night he did the same. As if there was any way to differentiate between the two in a place like that. If you were unlucky enough to have a cell with a view, maybe. Being able to see the world outside and never being able to reach for it? It only served to drive men insane, tormented by the visions and memories of a world you could never touch again.

At least, more insane than they already were. He was glad to have a normal cell, the layers of Plexiglas in-between him and the corridor ensuring he could watch the activities outside but not escape his little room. Sometimes he would sit down with his legs crossed and just watch, for hours on end. Numerous complaints had been filed by the more jittery nurses regarding this ("He's got scary eyes!" being the most commonly heard), but, as he had never actually displayed any threatening or violent behavior, these were all quickly dismissed.

Fujimiya Ran, now twenty-three, had an otherwise exemplary disciplinary record with Redleaf Asylum, and so with a number of others he was allowed to leave his cell, just once a week for two hours each session, and 'socialize'. Of course it wasn't really socializing for many of them; some could barely string two words together, let alone hold an intelligent conversation, but the point was that these few were the least likely to be dangerous to themselves or the others. Almost like a treat; a reward for good behavior.

On this occasion, he was led to the little room where they would be allowed to stretch their legs and mingle (monitored by a number of psychiatrists and security personnel, of course) by a pretty young nurse who held his arm to help him down the corridors. The nurse often tended to Ran, as she was assigned to work in the same section of Redleaf that he resided in.

She spoke to him soothingly now, always receiving polite replies or smiles, and as she let the redheaded man into the room and then shut the door again, she couldn't help wondering how someone so -- well -- sane could be in an asylum. Despite her experience and education in such matters, it never ceased to amaze her when she met a patient as normal as her next-door neighbor wrapped up in a strait jacket, lying in a padded room...

"All right there, Miss Birman?" A voice called, interrupting her thoughts. The nurse turned, the practiced smile of a professional appearing.

"I'm fine, Youji, how are you?"

"Great, great... making sure all the crazies stay in this room's a pretty easy job, you know."

"Youji!" Birman's tone was neither lighthearted nor amused. "I would expect you to be a little more sensitive towards our patients' conditions!"

Youji blinked, and then shrugged in a half awkward, half guilty way, turning his attention back to the counter with the television screens in it. Each one displayed the 'common room' (as they called it) from a different angle; and really, as Youji thought to himself, you can't blame a man for being bored of watching these nutters day after day after day! Wisely, he kept his comments to himself, and looked up with an apologetic smile for the nurse, but she had already turned away and was heading back down the corridor.

"Women," he grumped to himself, glaring at one of the television screens, which now showed a man of at least fifty years with his arms out in a parody of wings, 'flying' around in circles. "I'll never understand them."

Ran did not particularly like or dislike these opportunities for 'socializing'. The extra company he did not care for, but pacing around a different area of Redleaf was at least a vaguely refreshing change. And it was during one of these sessions that Fujimiya Ran first met the young American Bradley Crawford.

Crawford was tall and lean, and slightly heavier-built than Ran. He had neat, straight black hair, and coldly calculating amber eyes. Once a successful businessman, he had been institutionalized for, apparently, losing his mind in the office and strangling his boss, as well as attempting to murder several of his co-workers. He was also one of the few in the room who could actually make conversation, and it was his gaze that drew the redhead in the first time, the hollow, persistent stare of a wild animal trapped, with no way to escape.

Ran wondered, sometimes, if his own gaze was like that. He always decided in the end that he did not want to know, and it was not as if mirrors were provided for the patients, anyway.

Today Crawford was sitting in his usual chair at his usual table -- both bolted down for safety in case a patient threw a temper tantrum. He rarely made the effort to look around and observe anything further than five feet away; in one of their more recent conversations he revealed he was near-sighted, but was not allowed to have his spectacles unless he was being watched by a nurse. Of course, as they could not spare nurses to watch a single patient 24/7, he had to make do with squinting and moving carefully in his blurry, unfocused world.

"Hello, Bradley," Ran said, sinking into another chair at the table. The black-haired man looked up, peering suspiciously for a second as though he expected some sort of malevolent being to take Ran's place any second. Apparently satisfied after moments of staring, he relaxed back in his chair, running one hand up through dark bangs.

"Do not address me by that name."

Ran ignored him. "How are things?"

Crawford shot the redhead another dubious look before replying. Paranoia was, in his case, well-founded; his mind had not brushed insanity until he was escorted through the gates of Redleaf. However, the defense's plea of mental instability was only supported by his insistence that he could 'see the future'. Needless to say, he had stopped telling all but a select few about his abilities. "... I saw something again, last week."

Silence.

There was a distant gleam in Crawford's eye, now, speaking of a gift that was more of a curse. "I see her, bleeding. Both her eyes. She lies on the floor of a cell, wearing white. I see a woman crying as she is pushed into a car. I see a room, dark, dirty. Something is written on the walls; it happens again. I see him begging with someone; begging... you're not dead. You're not dead. I see a garbage truck. I see a seagull, pecking at the sand..."

A demented smile slowly spread across Crawford's face, and Ran looked away. Not wanting to witness any more of the man's descent into madness, or perhaps... not wanting to see himself reflected in that madness.

"Go on," he whispered, finally daring looking back to the American.

But Crawford shook his head; that was the end of the vision, and Ran knew better than to ask him about it again. With a polite nod for his time, the redhead stood (Crawford looked about wildly at the movement as if he had just come out of a trance), and made his way over to the next table. He could see a wild-haired, one-eyed man giggling over by the wall and idly wondered why they bothered bringing him in to mix with the other wackos. And then time was up.

Ran allowed himself to be escorted back to his cell, when the nurses arrived in a uniformly white, smiling pack. Like wolves in neatly pressed dresses. Birman shut him in for the night, and he paced the confines of it until his legs were tired, and then laid down in bed letting his mind do the pacing. It was well into the early hours of the morning before he fell asleep, not knowing what would happen the next day... not knowing what he would see.

Outside, an owl hooted, perched on a branch. The moon rose high above the tree lines, bathing the night time with pale, watery moonlight. A frigid wind rustled through the fields; through the leaves and the branches; the owl spread his great wings and took off without a sound.

Outside, where the world was -- outside, all of what Ran could not feel.

Yet.