Henrys pov
[Error]
Janes pov
THE EXAMINATION OF JANE IVERS
Taken on December twenty-four, 2022
Birch Psychiatric Hospital.
66732 Manhattan, New York.
Video transcript time: 3:05 a.m.
Examination by Dr. Isabella Martinez
ISABELLA: Jane, are you awake?
JANE: [unresponsive]
[EXTRACTED]: How many sedatives did you give her?
ISABELLA: I've given her more before. Jane? Jane, wake up.
JANE: It hurts.
ISABELLA: No, it doesn't. It doesn't hurt. Pain isn't real, Jane. What do I always tell you?
JANE: [unresponsive]
ISABELLA: Jane, don't be a brat. Wake up.
[EXTRACTED]: And you're sure she'll heal?
ISABELLA: She always does. I'll just stitch everything back to where it was, and she'll heal.
JANE: [heavy breathing]
[EXTRACTED]: Don't kill her like your last experiment. We need to finish the observation before they go extinct.
ISABELLA: [silence] Of course.
JANE: [shakes]
[EXTRACTED]: She looks like a zombie.
ISABELLA: I prefer a frankenstein.
JANE: I'm so...
ISABELLA: Yes, Jane?
JANE: Tired.
[EXTRACTED]: Change her sedatives.
[End video examination 3:11]
This time, when I wake up I'm strapped again. It's hard to breathe, as if there's something strangling me. I realize, when I manage to open my tired eyes, my lids so, very heavy—my mouth is covered by a muzzle.
In my head, I'm freaking out. I'm strapped to the chair, and like a dog, a medal strap covers the lover half of my face, shutting my mouth. In my head, I'm going insane. But as I stare at the mirror above me, I look calm. My face is expressionless. I can't move my face. I try to scream, and still, I can't move my face—
Stay calm, love. I hear Henry's English accent in my head, calming me.
For him, I do. He'll get me. I don't know the time, but on christmas night, he'll get me.
This is all I remember before I black out again.
THE EXAMINATION OF JANE IVERS
Taken on December twenty-four, 2022
Birch Psychiatric Hospital.
66732 Manhattan, New York.
Video transcript time: 3:35 a.m.
Examination by Dr. Isabella Martinez
ISABELLA: Jane?
JANE: [unresponsive]
ISABELLA: [sighs]
[EXTRACTED]: What good is a puppet if it doesn't listen?
ISABELLA: It's better when she's not all cut up, you know.
[EXTRACTED]: Stitch it back up.
ISABELLA: This is just a test run—
[EXTRACTED]: It needs to be responsive. Even if we've forced consent, we need it to be able to answer basic questions.
ISABELLA: Jane? Jane? Wake up, Jane.
JANE: [unresponsive]
[EXTRACTED]: Shock it again.
[muffled movements]
ISABELLA: Jane?
JANE: I can't, I can't feel–
ISABELLA: Feel what, Jane?
JANE: I don't feel anything.
ISABELLA: We've finally done it.
[EXTRACTED]: Is it violent? Malicious?
ISABELLA: She's just a result.
[muffled talking]
ISABELLA: I should start to stitch her back up, right?
[EXTRACTED]: The lab results are almost done.
ISABELA: And what of the MRI scans?
[EXTRACTED]: We'll do it before she-
JANE: [screams]
[EXTRACTED]: Gains consciousness.
[End video examination 3:48]
In and out of consciousness, in and out of my own body, in and out of various lab rooms. Normal, this should be normal to me by now. But Every once in a while when I'd awaken, when I catch glimpses of my body, it's not mine. It's not Dante, or alternate me. It's not a hallucination, but I wish it were. Because although it's still my skin, still my veins, my blood, it's their body. Their canvas, their experiment. Because every once in a while when I'd awaken, I'd see stitches all over my body. I'd see parts...missing. As if they just cut it off of me, and relied on my abnormal cells to heal itself.
That was new. Out of all the experiments and torture I've been through for science, for education, for curiosity, none of them violated me just this much. But that wasn't the only thing that was new. No, what was new was when I'd awaken from my sedation, I could make out some people. One person in particular. "Henry?" I'd ask, because even with my vision blurred, the accent seemed familiar.
I knew it couldn't be him, but I silently wished it was. I always hallucinated him without meaning to, especially in the psych ward. I always imagined his voice, his comfort touch. I forced my eyes open, but they were met with gray blues. Just like Henrys. Only, it wasn't Henry. It was Maxim Vitiello, Henry's father. And he was staring directly at me. "Refil her sedatives." He said, in a haunted voice and that's when I blacked.
THE EXAMINATION OF JANE IVERS
Taken on December twenty-four, 2022
Birch Psychiatric Hospital.
66732 Manhattan, New York.
Video transcript time: 3:57 a.m.
Examination by Dr. Isabella Martinez
ISABELLA: Jane?
JANE: What's wrong with me?
ISABELLA: So much. Everything. Everything is messed up with you.
JANE: Are you fixing it?
ISABELLA: Yes. If you cooperate, Jamie–
JANE: I'm not Jamie.
ISABELLA: Right, sorry.
JANE: Are we almost done? I just want this to be over.
ISABELLA: I'm almost done stitching you back up, honey.
JANE: What day is it?
ISABELLA: Merry Christmas.
[End video examination 4:00]
The next time I awoke, the stitches were gone and tubes were no longer inside my body. I had healed once more, and I should be happy, I should, but it angers me. It angers me that there's no proof on my body, that it leads me to think I'm making it up. It angers me that they can do anything they want and get away with it. I know the violation I felt, the hopelessness I felt. I know that and yet, there's no trace of mistreatment.No evidence but a medicated girls word. Was Henry's father even here? I don't know. I know, and I try to believe my mind, but there's that doubt that's always there.
Dr. Martinez walks into my room, and she shuffles through a few papers of my brain taken by the MRI scan. She's circling, annotating, writing post it margins across the skeletal like picture. A man in a suit walks in, and I can tell by the black hair and blue eyes who he is, but I wait until Dr. Martinez–until anyone else acknowledges his presence to deem him as real. When Dr. Martinez turns to him and they talk, I want to feel relieved that I didn't dream him up, but just why is he here? Everything is so confusing, and I'm so, very, tired.
I'm sat up on a chair, my arms, legs, waist, and neck strapped to it. I'm wearing a white hospital gown and when Maxim walks up to me to examine me, my eyes meet with his. And although they're the same shade as Henry's, there's something different about his. Something darker, cooler. His gaze holds no humanity, no softness, no care. I imagine this is what others might feel on the receiving end of one of Henry's stares.
"She healed." He tells my therapist. "We cut her up to pieces, sewed her back on incorrectly, and still, she healed." He shakes his head, and his eyes meet mine. "Fascinating thing you are."
So that wasn't my imagination, either? I knew it. "If her cells can rebuild themselves against so many odds, is there a way she could do the opposite?" He asks. "Can she manipulate cells to her will?"
"I'm not sure, but if you have a test subject ready we can try to test it out." She replies, but when she looks at just how intently I'm staring at Mr. Vitiello, she stops. "Jane? Do you recognize Maxim?"
I shrug my shoulders as much as I can with the restraints. "I've seen you around TV, in the news, at a few events." My tongue feels numb, and my voice is raspy from the lack of food or water. "I go to school with your son." I tell him.
His brows knit together. "Do you now?"
I nod. "Henry Vitiello." I tell him, and I look over his shoulder, as if by some miracle he's here. It's christmas day, and he's supposed to be here by nightfall. I still imagine his presence, his touch, his reassurance. I still hear his voice in my head–it talks over all the others.
"Is that so?" He asks, stiffing.
I nod. I was sedated, yes, but not so sedated that I'd forget his name. I'd sooner rather forget my own. Henry, I almost say, almost ask where he is, but I know better. I know better than to give away that we're close. I just needed to hear him say he believes in me.
"Who?" Dr. Martinez asks.
I almost don't want to tell her about him. When I like people immensely, I never tell their names to anyone. It is like surrendering a part of them, Oscar Wilde had written. I never thought I'd like someone the way Basil liked Dorian enough to not want to give his name, but I know it now. To me, Henry is an escapism. He's my hold on reality, but he also allows me to travel to others where we're not the healer and the killer—where we're just Henry and Jane, Jane and Henry. I don't want the person who I need escapism from to know my coping mechanisms. She could take them away.
Just as I'm about to surrender, or to change the subject, Maxim shrugs. "I don't know."
My head snaps to him. "Your son." I tell him. "Henry."
Maxim scoffs. "Is this a joke?"
My body freezes and yet, my mind is racing. "What?" I croak out.
"Just how many sedatives did you give her?" Maxim asks. I start to shake my head, but Dr. Martinez says something before I can. "Could you leave us? She might be having one of her episodes again." When Maxim agrees, she sighs. "Jane, we talked about this, dear."
"What?" I ask her, and I want to scream but my voice is barely above a whisper and I want to stay calm but something about this is hurting my head, hurting it so very much.
"We've talked about this. You need to be able to separate your reality from your imagination. Oh, you were doing so well Jamie—"
"Jane." I correct her again, and it comes off harsher than I mean it to.
She takes a moment to realize she called me by her dead childs name again. She blinks a few times, and sighs. "You killed those people, Jane." She reminds me. Reminds me of her brainwashing. Of the framing. I want to scream at her that no I didn't, I want to defend myself, but right now, I can't. I have a role to play and only a few more cards left. He's coming soon, I remind myself. Henry will be here soon.
So I nod at her. "Yes, I know. But what does that have to do with this?" I ask her.
She gives me a sad smile and lays down a few of her papers in front of me. Scans, MRI scans. Of my brain, her notes are tiny and she circles many neurons. I want to ask her what exactly I'm looking at, but I fear I already know. Still, it doesn't make any sense. This doesn't make any sense. "Schizophrenia, Jane. Did you forget you have it?"
I shake my head. Because, how could I forget? But also, I shake my head because I don't have it. I don't, I swear it. I just wish my word stood a chance against hers. I stare at the scans. "Schizophrenia can't be identified through brain scans." I remind her, remind myself. These scans mean nothing.
"No, but you can see the changes in your brain lately, Jane." She shuffles a bit more, and take out another. "August this year was completely fine, completely normal–well, normal for you." She shuffles again and hands me a paper with one circled spot. "September was when it started." She says, and shuffles a last time and hands me the most recent scan. "See any changes?"
Yes. So many, little, yet deliberate changes. But no, it can't mean anything. It still doesn't make sense. "I don't–"
"You show all the characteristics, Jane." She sits down next to me on her chair. "Your disorder is why your ability to think, feel and behave clearly is off. It's a breakdown of what distinguishes your mind from realizing what's real and what's fake."
I shake my head at her. "Stop."
"It's what's giving you a state of delusion and fantasy. It's why you can't distinguish the world from your imagination." She goes on.
"Stop it." I beg her.
She doesn't listen. "This isn't the first time you've had an imaginary friend, Jane. Do you remember when you broke my vase and you blamed it on a little boy named Ben, do you?" She asks. "Do you remember?" I shake my head, I try to say no, to yell it, because clearly, she doesn't hear me, but my voice comes out a whisper. "Do you remember at age seven when you said a girl named celia had ripped up your drawing, but when we went to look at the CCTV, it was you? "No, no, no.
I don't remember it that way. That's not what happened. I don't think. Oh god–
"You used to act out, you know?" She tells me. "When you were young, when we hadn't yet disciplined you enough, you used to do things, take things, break things. Do you know what you'd always say?" She asks me. "You'd always blame it on someone else."
I'm shaking rapidly now, and she acknowledges it, but doesn't stop. Doesn't help. She got keeps on going. "You used to come back from school all the time and tell me about this boy, Henry. You used to tell me how he bullies you or how he gets under your skin, or if your mark was any better than his." She leans into me. "That's when your brain started looking...weird, again."
I slap her. Or at least, in my head, I do. I try to break free of the restraints but i can't. Everything is tied down and as hard as I try, I can't win. I can never win. "What are you trying to say?" I ask her.
"It's a trauma response, Jane. One you've always had." She patronizes me. "It's getting bad again, isn't it?" She asks. "That's why they're more frequent, your hallucinations. More real. What happened to you in September, Jane?" She asks, showing me another scan of my brain. On it, a circled space. Next to it, a margin; Potential danger.
I try to drown everything out, because I'm drowning. I'm drowning in air, in my lungs, my blood, my bones, the veins gripping my below, holding me onto dead weight. I am not okay. I am not okay. I am not okay.
And still, she keeps going. "You need to stop blaming your actions on others. You killed those people, and in your sleep when you dream, in the day, when you daydream? I can hear you say his name. Blaming it all on him. An imaginary boy, Henry Vitiello." The worst part about this all, is that this could be true. All the times I've called him my coping mechanism? The clear visions of the murders? The comfort?
He's real, I try to remedy my mind from breaking.
He's real.
He's rea
He's re
He's r
He's
He'
He
H
Henrys pov
[Error]
~~~
The hoes gone hateee this
ANYWYS I don't think I wrote this out too well might rewrite later <3