Atlas (Splintered fanfiction)

Chapter 05

A/N: WARNING!!!! DESCRIPTIONS OF ABUSE IN THIS CHAPTER. PLEASE NOTE THAT I AM NOT ABUSED, NOR HAVE I EVER BEEN ABUSED. THIS IS JUST FICTION. THANK YOU.

Chapter 05 

Other than Alison, her nurse, and a couple of groundskeepers, the courtyard is deserted. Alison sits at one of the black cast-iron bistro tables on a cement patio that's been stamped to look like cobblestone. Even the decor has to be chosen carefully in a place like this: there's no glass anywhere, only a reflective, silver gazing glove secured tightly to its pedestal base.

     Since some patients are known to pick up chairs or tables and throw them, the legs of the furniture are bolted into the cement. A black and red polka-dotted parasol sprouts up from the center of the table like a giant mushroom and shades half of Alison's face. Silver teacups and saucers glisten in the sunlight. Four settings: one for me, one for Alyssa, one for Father, and one for her.

     I have beaten Alyssa and Father here, and I sit at the table next to Alison, ignoring the nurse as she ignores me.

     Alyssa told me she and Father brought the tea service from home years ago, when Alison was first committed. It's an indulgence the asylum caters to in order to keep her alive. Alison won't eat or drink anything - be it Salisbury steak or fruit cobbler, water or milk - unless it's in a teacup.

     The pint of chocolate-cheese cake ice cream waits on a place mat in the off-center of the table, ready to be scooped out. Condensation rolls down the cardboard packaging, reminding me of tears in a strange way.

     Alison's platinum braid swings over her chair's back, almost touching the ground. She has her bangs tucked beneath a black headband. Wearing a blue gown with a long bib-apron to keep her clothes clean, she looks more like Alice at the Mad Hatter's tea party than most of the illustrations I've seen.

     It's almost terrifying.

     When Alyssa and Father walk into the courtyard, the nurse stands to greet them, smoothing out her peppermint scrubs that make her look more like a candy-striper than a healthcare professional. Of course, Alison doesn't notice the woman's departure, too intent on the metal vase of carnations in front of her.

     And the fear gnawing a hole in the pit of my stomach, bringing nausea with it, escalates as I notice the carnations talking over the white noise in the background. They're saying how painful it is to be snipped at the stems, complaining about the quality of water they're swimming in, asking to be put back into the ground so they can die in peace.

     Well, that's what I hear, anyway. I have to wonder what Alison thinks they're saying, in her own warped mind. The doctor can't get any details from her - she refuses to talk about it - and I've never brought it up because it would mean admitting I inherited her sickness. I know Alyssa has fought with the same thoughts.

     Father waits for the nurse to approach the two, but his gaze, heavy with longing and disappointment, stays locked on Alison - and, perhaps, me.

     Nurse Mary Jenkins touches Alyssa, and my sister flinches, jerking to face her. I know what my sister smells all too well: burnt toast and talcum powder. The woman's brown hair is pulled up in a bun, and her smile is white and high-voltage, possessing the ability to singe anyone's vision at the corners.

     "Howdy-hi," the obnoxious woman sings. As usual, she's over-the-top bubbly - like Mary Poppins, except on steroids. She studies my sister's crutches. "Yikes! Did you hurt yourself, honey drop?"

     By the twisted expression on Alyssa's face, I know she is considering a sarcastic response, but she holds herself back, instead simply saying, "Skateboard."