and they won't let us outside anymore {for

[at_one_blow]

They smile when they say things like 'stable.' 'Healthy.' 'Improving.' He smiles back because he doesn't know what else he's meant to do with his face.

It's the only time he smiles these days.

It's a nice facility, really. The government hadn't skimped on making his prison a comfortable one. Some piece of his mind that hovers in 'stable' and 'healthy' and 'improving' appreciates that--or finds it ironic.

Most pieces of his mind are still quietly screaming, quietly scrambling to cling together over the cracks realization had left. Looking for six more pieces of himself that shouldn't be missing.

But they smile. They smile and tell him he can have visitors now. He smiles back absently and returns to his sketches as he sits in the common room, waiting for visitors who won't come.

Not allowed shears. Not even allowed needles.

The dresses he draws are beautiful and completely unsatisfying.

Comments

[spintosurvive]

It's ironic, really, that all those times of her memory 'slipping' when they still believed in the fable have actually made her stronger; made it easier, at least, to reconcile who they'd been told they were with who they're supposed to be. Others weren't so lucky.

He wasn't so lucky.

It breaks her heart to have to wait until he's 'stable' to be allowed to see him. She wishes she were able to help him every step of the way, like he'd tried to for her.

But she's here now. She's able to settle into a chair beside him as he sketches dresses that are lovely, for certain, but nothing like the stuff out of fairytales that he used to make.

It takes a moment to work up enough of a smile so she can manage the greeting, "...Hi."

Please let him remember her.