Mad House

Valentine sighed as she stood in front of the bar with wire hangers, identical navy blue and white dresses hanging limply in front of her. At least they weren't starch stiff, the way they were whenever Harry had laundry duty. (Because the stupid bastard took a special delight in seeing the girls squirm and rub themselves in a vain attempt to feel comfortable in dresses that were already uncomfortable to begin with.) But they were limp, wrinkled and wonky. She narrowed her eyes, glancing at Romedia's empty bed.

She always forgot to press them before bringing them upstairs, and no one had the heart to yell at her about it because she'd forget about it in an hour anyway, and she couldn't help being so forgetful. It wasn't her fault.

Valentine rested a hand on a dress -- they were all the same, just with varying hem and bust lines, because they were "growing girls" or something stupid like that -- tapping the hanger with a gentle sigh. Rose was probably in the garden -- she was the real loner type -- and Romedia was in the library (or something, it was hard keeping tabs on that one).

She blew some of her wet hair out of her face as the boys walked into the hallway -- and the only reason she could even tell that there were there in the first goddamn place was because they were always yelling and hollering and being pests. She could see someone standing in the doorway in her periphery and scowled, yanking the dress off the hanger. The metal hanger clattered noisily against the cold wooden floor.

(They were supposed to be getting new kids at some point during the week. She'd have to show the new girl how things worked around there -- and by that, Valentine meant not touching her things, how to avoid Dr. Elliot and what to do in the event he was feeling a little too frisky, and how to cheek the pills Cathy handed out every morning with that angry Russian nun, Olga -- and the thought made her sigh heavily.)

"Don't be a creep," she said, rolling her green eyes. She should have yelled and caused a fuss -- she was an "innocent, susceptible girl" in nothing but her formless bra, panties, knee high socks, and black oxfords after all, and Louis was a "brooding, dangerous boy" full of "malicious intent" -- but it wasn't worth the struggle. Cathy would probably just send them both to solitary, and there's something oddly comforting in not having to sleep with a leaky pipe and rats over her head, even if it is in a room full of girls who have nightmares that prompt screaming at all hours of the night. But he didn't leave, so she just glanced over at him, narrowing her eyes. "Can I help you, Louis?"

She liked to put extra emphasis on his name, just because he insisted on being an artsy little bastard and having people pronounce it Louie, like this was Paris or some stupid shit and they were on a spring holiday in the Alps. Idiot. This is America. His name was Louis.

"Always a pleasure, Valentine," he said salaciously, biting his lip.

"Go away."

"I'm enjoying the view." He wriggled his eyebrows at her, laughing. "Lookin' good, hot stuff."

"Shut up," Valentine gagged, shuddering a little. "Isn't there somewhere you oughta be? Like, anywhere but here?"

"I just thought you might wanna see what's going on outside."

She laughed mirthlessly, flipping her damp hair over her shoulder.

"Funny, I just thought you wanted to creep on me, again." She shrugged, pulling the formless dress over her head. He still stood there, patiently crossing his arms over his white shirt. "What, Louis? Rosie's not here."

"I-I know," he mumbled, scratching the back of his head.

Louis blushed as Valentine shoved past him, making sure she got him right in his bad shoulder, tugging her knee highs up her knobby knees.

"Your shoe's untied," he winced, gulping a little. She shot him a look, bending down to tie her worn out laces.

"Stop staring at my butt, creep."

"I told you I'm enjoying the view," he laughed, tugging her along when she stood up. "Now, c'mon, we're gonna miss the best part."

"The best part of what?" Valentine asked, trying to slip her hand out of his grip. "Where are we going?" Louis shushed her, leading her to the top of the main stairs, where the rest of the boys, Rose, and Romedia were. "What the hell's going on here?" she asks softly, looking around. Niall smiled cheekily at her, pointing at the main door.

"Hi, Tina."

(Niall gave everyone nicknames. Rose became Rosie, Romedia became Rome, Louis became Lou, Liam was Lee, Harry was Haz, and Valentine became Tina. No one really had the heart to tell him not to do it either, because he was such a sweetheart and he was innocent in his own way, with his big blue eyes and blonde hair.)

"Hey, Niall."

The new kids must have been early.

Hm.

Harry was suspiciously missing, but then she saw the lights flicker and nodded a little to herself.

Shock treatments.

Again.

Jesus H. Christ, Styles, she thought, eyes glued to the door, get it together.

And then she heard it -- car doors slamming, someone screaming from the top of his lungs (the voice was deep), the orderlies telling the poor kid to relax (because none of them really understood the pain of realizing that you'd live out the rest of your life -- or something -- in a building where dreams went to die and that there really wasn't much of a way to relax in a situation like that) -- and bit her lip, tugging at the collar of her dress. (She'd have to find some way to get back at Harry later, after his treatments were over. Or whenever he managed to sneak out, whatever came first. Even if it wasn't his fault, she blamed him nonetheless.)

Poor guy.

The door burst open and Niall jumped a little -- he was easily startled, even if he was pretty happy-go-lucky -- grabbing onto her thin arm. She rubbed his hand and gave him a small smile -- the kid didn't know any better and the Brim really was pretty scary, even if it was the middle of the day -- watching as he relaxed a little.

"It's okay," she said softly, then turned her attention back to the door. There were three -- two orderlies with white uniforms, one on either side of a boy with black hair and tan skin, tall and skinny -- he was either crying or really mad, but either way his face was wet and he was yelling loudly, kicking and struggling to get out of their grasp. (As if.)

"Let go of me! Get off!"

Louis simply nodded at Valentine, sighing with boredom. (He, like Harry, also liked to see others squirm, the weirdo.)

"Just wait for it," he whispers in her ear.

And then the nurses pounced on the poor kid like bloodhounds, trying to hold him still. Valentine spotted a thin syringe with a clear liquid in Cathy's bony hand and her shoulders fell, because she already knew what was coming. He glanced up at his meager audience, almost frightened (almost, but not quite, because he had no idea what was waiting for him once Dr. James caught wind of the fuss he had caused), his gaze resting on Valentine.

She smiled at him, waving a little (he'd need all the tender mercies he could get, seeing as he was already starting off on the wrong foot) as Cathy stuck the needle into his arm and he went down like a sack of potatoes, body going limp as they carted him off into one of the intake rooms.

Valentine felt something she thought she might have forgotten how to feel -- her cheeks started to heat up and she felt warm (because he reminded her of herself when she first came here, except she kicked up a bigger fuss, kneeing all the orderlies in the groin and cursing all the nuns out before they finally put her in one of those padded rooms downstairs with two of those chalky blue pills and a sip of ice cold water).

It seems like Valentine will have to keep an eye out for him.

"His name is Zayn," Louis murmured before heading down the hallway with the rest of the boys.

Zayn.

While the girls walked down to their dorms, a scratchy announcement came on over the loudspeaker -- almost as if to brush away what just happened to Zayn -- announcing that it was time for group therapy (much to her chagrin) and that all the patients were to report to the library immediately. The group made their way to the library downstairs, talking amongst themselves quietly.

The room was sometimes one of her favorite places to be -- aside from the basement, but it wasn't like she had anyone to go down there with anymore (Wesley had gone home or wherever two months ago and she hadn't heard from him since even though he promised to write or call when he had the time). It was one of the only rooms that was quiet and made her feel like this wasn't some loony bin and like she was back at school. There were chairs set up in a semi circle, and there were three chairs set in a straight line -- one for the doctor, one for Cathy, and one for any of the nurses (they'd take notes).

Valentine sat down at the end, leaving a chair empty for Harry in case they decide to let him come. Dr. James' heels clicked against the floor wooden floor and she bit her lip with a sigh.

Seeing the doctor was one of the most unpleasant parts of her day. First, there was therapy in the morning -- the girls were still in their pajamas and so were the boys, but Valentine had a feeling that it was only because the doctor liked seeing the girls' boobs through their nighties since the room was so damn drafty in the morning. And then, once a week, there was one-on-one therapy, an hour that consisted of her trying not to stab his pen through his sleazy hand as it rested on her hip or thigh (or one time her actual chest) and having him tell her that she needs to make progress or something stupid like that. And then of course, there was group therapy at the end of the day too -- because this was supposed to be an "intense theraputic experience" according to the pamphlet they sent to her mother after that "unpleasant little accident" with her Uncle Bobby. And it wasn't like the doctor really listened to anything they said -- he was too busy trying to undress the girls and nurses behind his dorky glasses.

He was mad -- stomping and slamming doors open and shut -- and she sighed. He'd be insufferable during therapy, probably. The lights flickered and Valentine glanced at the ceiling, biting her lip. Poor Harry. He could be annoying, sometimes, but he was one of her only friends here. She started picking at the buttons on her dress, picking at her chapped lips nervously. Cathy took a seat, leaning back in her chair. Her black habit and gold cross clashed with her sharp, cold personality -- though sometimes, if you got enough liquor into her, she could be mildly tolerable. The nurse -- she must be new since Valentine doesn't really recongize her skips a seat and sits down, setting a notepad on her lap as she sniffles.

She must really hate her job.

Dr. James' walked into the room a few minutes later, annoyed, but Harry wasn't behind him. It was Zayn. Zayn. He was brooding and quiet -- but not like Louis, because he was the annoying kind of brooding and she really couldn't stand him sometimes -- sulking, even as Dr. James intoduced him to the group.

"I would like you all to welcome one of our newest patients, Zayn Malik."

Quiet greetings echoed in the room as the lights flickered again. He just stared at them all, glancing at Valentine fleetingly before looking at the doctor again.

"Why don't you -- " Dr. James was interrupted by an orderly rushing into the room, whispering something in his ear. The doctor cursed under his breath and sighed. "Okay, I'll be there in a minute." He turned his attention to the group, eyes passing over the nurse before he shook his head. "Here's some food for thought while I'm gone: why do you all think you're here? Really? We'll talk about it when I come back." He smiled a little and left, shutting the door behind him loudly.

Zayn walked over to the empty seat near Valentine -- and the lights flickered yet again -- clasping his hands together on his lap. She felt like she should say something -- anything -- and she didn't know why.

"That's Harry's seat," she said simply, starting to gnaw on her lip again. Zayn shrugged, fixing the buttons on the wrist of his shirt.

"Well, Harry's not here, is he buttercup?"

"My name isn't buttercup." Valentine scowled, narrowing her eyes at him a little as he smiled. "It's Valentine."

"Well, you'd etter not keep making that face, buttercup. It might get stuck that way, you know," he said with a smile, turning forward as Dr. James walked into the room angrily.

My name isn't buttercup, god damn it.