London Institute For The Mentally Ill (An Infernal Devices Fanfic)

XII

He found himself in the meadows again.

The warm welsh air wafted his senses. He found himself sighing out of nostalgia. It had been long after the last time he felt the country air circulating inside his body. He missed it all; the leaves rustling, the mud underneath his feet, the home cook meals.

He knew he had to abandon all of that, including his family in favour of the smoky, polluted concrete jungle, where everyone will be safe.

He wanted to savour the moment, of being lost in the meadows again, but he knows he isn't lost -- he never was. He has a journey. He can feel the weight of his pack on his back. He can visualize what's in it -- enough money to sustain him until he reached his destination, enough clothes to last him a week, enough food for three meals a day for three days, and a book. He just grabbed a dusty old book from his pile and left. Ah, it was hefty. He packed what he could in utmost discretion.

"I wouldn't go anywhere, if I were you."

He froze. He felt his insides turn slowly into ice. He turned to face her, and almost felt relieved when he saw the look of regret and worry in her pretty face. She's a female version of him -- but then, so were him being the male copy of his sisters. They are children of their mother indeed. But when her face is gentle, his were a blank cold slate. He can feel the coldness numbing his features.

"Ella." He heard himself saying. "Please, just for once leave me alone."

"If I let you be, you'll turn your back on us. D'you think we'd want that?"

Confidence built up inside his chest when he said, "Yes.", like on the moments where he gets the answer right inside the class.

She didn't said anything, but he remembered sensing how she wants elaboration. That, he gave.

"I hear everything." He babbled. "I hear everything, and I remember everything."

He remembered her looking puzzled. He thought of those times forever etched in his mind -- of Ella's boyfriend Jon or whatever his name is  calling him a freak and giving him disgusted looks, of Patrick and the others who called him a monster for giving them what they deserve, of his father who refuses to acknowledge his existence to visitors, of his mother, who put up a loving facade and he would've believed it if he didn't saw the pamphlets on mental therapy, of Ella or even Cecy's friends being the butt of jokes for having a freak brother.

He isn't wanted. That much was very clear.

He remember Ella stepping forward to approach him, and him stepping away.

"Gwylim, please." She cooed, as if he were a toddler. Even Ella thinks he's unusual. "At least let us talk about this."

"There's nothing worth talking." It was the truth. He was sure even Ella is smart enough to figure out that much.

"If there is something bothering you --"

"Then I should get rid of it, correct?" He snapped. "What do you think I am doing, then?!"

"William!"

"Tell Mam. Tell Dad. Tell anyone. I don't care." He turned to his back again. "They won't be grounding any boy soon."

He began to walk. The noise in his ear tells him that the shuffles aren't only his, that his sister actually has the guts  to follow him still.

More noise.

And from what he recalled, that means that Ella is saying rubbish as she walked, maybe hoping to at least disarm him.

He thought of it all, how he was rubbish. How everyone is rubbish.

He felt his insides go hot.

No, it wasn't because of the warm country air. It didn't helped matters too.

His pits burned the ice that was him. Soon, the fumes reached his brain, and turned it t furnace too. His vision turned hazy and hot, and before he even realized what he is doing, he found himself grasping a rock.

He remembered how Ella's grip on his arm felt. It felt strange. Really strange, foreign. It was warm, but an alien kind of warm, as if he were preserved in the north pole and the ice containing him drifted to the atlantic.

He remembered how good it felt when he swung his other hand, the one with the rock, against her head. There was a gasp, and soon he found himself on the floor.

"I AM NEVER GOING HOME!" There was another crack, and a whimper.

"I DON'T BELONG IN THAT STUPID PLACE YOU CALL HOME." Another one.

He felt how wet the rock felt. He felt how warm it feels under his skin. Warm and moist and scarlet. His hand was tainted scarlet, and he can recall the metallic tang in the air.

He remember feeling his insides vibrate and then came a guttural cry. He remembers how warm his tears were, or how numb his legs are when they ran.

There was a flash of pain on his neck as he ran. This is unfamiliar. He didn't recall this one, nor does he recall foreign fluids invading his body, nor the energy sapping out of him slowly either. His legs gave out, then his eye started shutting on its own.

Good lord, Magnus thought. I can't believe i just wasted that on William Herondale of all people.

Sure, he kind of knew he saw it coming, and sure, it was a necessary precaution as the protocol says, but when he thinks of the digits a shot of that particular tranquilizer costs, for all intents and purposes, he keeps it under wraps. It would be costly to replace a shot. It would be hospital money, but still.

The tranq did its job efficiently much to his own surprise. The euros spent on buying a shot of that was worth it-- Herondale was down in five seconds as soon as the fluid is injected to his system. Maybe he's just used to tranquilizers slowly lulling the patients to nothingness. The stuff is straight to the point.

He then proceeded to look around him, and immediately realized that that one shot seemed measly all of a sudden.

Broken pieces of chairs, glass and various equipment littered the hallways. Poor Carstairs broke his nose upon helping him inject the tranq to William. When he pondered about it, James' injury seemed tame.

He remembered having to send a nurse to the hospital to get the glass shards off his back when Will threw the poor guy on a glass table. The madman broke another nurses' windpipe by smashing the girl on the neck with a coat rack. Axel Mortmain, good lord, Axel Mortmain of all people. He lost three teeth, and with that, has earned black eyes on both eyes and bruises all over his body.

Now, he can't say Mortmain is the best character given that he was caught having a love affair with one of the staff (the rumours spread fast as soon as Will was sedated. Magnus lives for the gossip.) but physically harming the owner of the hospital is a whole another topic. He can't even think about the repercussions this incident might cause.

Magnus allowed himself to take a deep breath. He glanced at the peaceful Herondale on the bed. Sighing, he reached for the handcuffs in his pocket and attached them to his wrists, locking them in the bed posts afterwards. He checked to see if the cuffs are secure, and when he was satisfied he left the room without a second glance.