Actions

Work Header

A Single Spark

Summary:

“What kind of experiments does a dead doctor perform on living patients?”

Three years. It has been three years since Bridget was sent to Mount Massive Asylum, and been at the mercy of the doctors there under the employ of Murkoff. She tells herself it’s where she belongs, with the rest of the deranged patients. But when she is selected for “Project Wallrider”, things change.

Something changes in her.

And something breaks out, making Mount Massive hell on earth, an assured death trap for anyone left.

In her efforts to survive, she comes across someone. Someone who starts something she thought was long gone. A spark of something she thought was snuffed out. A dream of a pristine house with a white picket fence, a loving husband, a perfect life. But, will her and Eddie Gluskin be able to escape not only Mount Massive, but Murkoff in general in order to make this dream a reality? Can the both of them work through their pasts, their urges, to build a proper, loving relationship, or will it fall apart underneath them?

Chapter 1: Candidate

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

I hold John in my arms, swaddled, bouncing him a little, as the two men watch me pace across my room.

“Tell me, Mrs. Keller,” one of the men asks, “What do you remember of your father?”

I pause. “My…father?” I ask, looking at him. “Oh, I haven’t thought about him in a good while…” I say, continuing to pace as John fusses a little, “…dead ten years now. Burried in his hometown in Illinois. He was a farmer, a dairy farmer, I believe. I grew up on that farm. Stuart Jamison was his name. Air Force Veteran, a very kind man,”

The man sighs. “No…I mean your real father, Miss Keller,” he says, “Abraham Keller,”

I pause again, looking at the man. I give a slight, dry chuckle. “You’re very much mistaken, Dr. Walsh,” I say, “Abe is my husband, not my father, and I expect to see him home soon,” I walk to the bed, gently tucking John into the sheets. “Hmm…always takes him a while to sleep…” I mutter, caressing my son’s head, “…restless, just like his mother…”

“Miss Keller,” Dr. Walsh says, “Abe won’t be home. Can you remember why?”

I pause, thinking. I look down at John as, instead of the smooth, warm skin of an infant, I feel the velvety fabric of the stuffed bear. My heart sinks, my stomach aching. “I…I do…” I mutter, tears rising in my eyes. I stand up straight, the floral wall paper and furnishings of my room fading away to the sad reality: padded walls, metal bed, Doctor and orderly watching me with apprehension.

Doctor Walsh watches, his eyes shining with interest. “What do you remember…Bridget?” He asks.

I take a deep shaking breath. I grit my teeth, and sit on the edge of my bed. I stare at the floor, the memories of that night flooding my head: the smell of the gasoline, the heat of the flames, the sound of the lighter.

And him. His screams. His pleading. The flames lapping at his skin, hair, clothes, until he was no more.

I look up at Doctor Walsh. “He had it coming…” I mutter, then look away from him.

He watches me for a few moments. There’s a faint scratching of a pen as he takes a note. “Bridget, I’ll be frank with you,” he says, “I’ve read your file from the Chicago Police Department, and the transcript from your trial. That man hurt you, and you’re trying to heal what he’s done to you, right?”

I glare at him, my heart sinking further. “What would you know about healing?” I mutter, “You and everyone like you want to tear me away from my perfect world, away from my healed world…”

He furrows his eyebrows, then sighs. “Is there anything you want that could help you?” He asks.

I look at him, look him in the eyes, gripping at the sheets on my bead. “To be left alone,” I say, sternly.

He sighs, clicking his pen, retracting the tip of it, and standing up. “I think this consultation can conclude now,” he says, looking at the orderly, then looking at me again, “I’ll speak with my colleagues about what our next step will be. We’ll be seeing each other again, Bridget. I hope, next time will be a fair bit less tense,”

“Go screw yourself…” I spit. I grit my teeth, looking down at the floor, starting to feel my skin itch.

The itch starts at my scalp, and spiders down to my fingers and toes. It almost feels as if my skin is cracking open, dozens of spidery lacerations opening at once.

I shudder, and start to scratch at my arms, squeezing my eyes shut. “Please…please…please…” I mutter, picturing a flame, just a small one, a candle at the most.

The door of my cell closes and locks.

I grip at my head, scratching at my head. “Please stop…please stop…please stop…” I whimper, curling up.

A faint ringing in my ears starts to sound like the wails of an infant.

I turn and grab John, holding him to my chest. “Shh…” I mutter, bouncing him, “…shh, my dear, it’s alright…”

The wails fade to soft whimpers and sobs.

I lay back on my bed, hugging John to my chest, sobbing.

---

I stand in an elevator, surrounded by two guards, an orderly, Dr. Walsh, and another man in a suit whom I don’t recognize. My hands are cuffed in front of me.

The man who I don’t recognize looks back at me. “What is she here for?” He asks Dr. Walsh, “we don’t usually consider patients of her…type as candidates,”

“Life sentence for first degree murder and serial arson,” Dr. Walsh says, looking down at a file he’s holding, “it was the arson that got her caught, but she almost immediately confessed to the murder of her father, legal guardian at the time. She spent time in a Women’s prison in Illinois, but when her behaviors there became more and more destructive, it caught our attention, and…well, she was brought here almost three years ago,”

The first man looks shocked, then looks at me. “How old was she when she was charged?” He asks.

“Twenty five,” Dr. Walsh says, simply.

The man looks more astonished, his eyes looking me up and down. “A little thing like her?” He mutters, “How’d she do it?”

“Fire is a wonderful tool,” I say, simply, “you’ll be lucky to asphyxiate on smoke before the flames consume you. And it makes such a lovely way to dispose of waste,”

His eyebrows raise, and he chuckles. “Damn…” he mutters, “…no wonder you’ve elected her as a candidate…”

I blink and look at Dr. Walsh. “When can I return to John?” I ask, “He’s only a few months old, he can’t be left on his own for too long,”

The man looks at Dr. Walsh. “Does she have an infant?” He asks, confused.

“It’s a weighted bear her mother gave her,” Dr. Walsh says, “weighs about the same as an infant, and is a similar size, so she pretends it’s her son. Escapisim, helps her cope,”

The man scoffs a little. “A bear…” he mutters.

The doors of the elevator open, showing a sterile white hall beyond.

One of the guards shoves me forward, the touch on my back sending a stinging chill up my back.

I yelp as I stumble forward. “Don’t touch me!” I snap at him, but he grabs my arm, towing me down the hall.

His grip makes my skin crawl and feel like it’s boiling, making me feel like I’m shaking.

“Let me go!” I shriek, thrashing against his grip, my bare feet slapping against the floor of the hall as he tows me after the other men.

“Could we sedate her?” The man in the suit says.

“That would counteract the intention of the therapy, Mr. Blaire,” Dr. Walsh says, calmly, “she’ll wear herself out in time,”

I continue to pull against the guard as he tows me down a hall of glass cells. I stare at other patients strapped to chairs, wide screens across from them. “What is this…?” I mutter.

“Therapy,” Mr. Blaire says, “This one, here,” he points out a nearby, empty cell.

Dr. Walsh nods, entering a code on a keypad, and opening the door.

The guards pull me into the room as I continue to struggle, and forcefully put me into the chair. They strap my arms and legs down, then step back.

Tears rise in my eyes as I continue to struggle against the chair’s restraints.

“Let me go!” I shriek, “Let me out of here!”

“Oh-ho…” a new voice rings out, “…a feisty one, huh?” A man rounds my chair, and looks down at me.

He’s wearing a blue, hazmat suit like protective suit, and boots, but no mask. He seems older and not particularly attractive.

“I always enjoy when they bring in new patients…” he mutters, leaning down toward me, a hand on either arm of the chair. He smiles, making my stomach turn. “Especially when they’re this pretty…” he mutters, one hand drifting from the arm of the chair down to my leg.

My heart catches in my throat, all protests shutting down from fear. As if I’m in a dream, my mouth moves but my voice won’t make a peep.

He squeezes my thigh, making me squirm a little from the pain, and he leans down, toward my left ear. He inhales deeply, his face nearly touching mine, and sighs a little. “It’s a shame they had to treat you like the others,” he says, standing up, letting go of my thigh but caressing my freshly shaved head, “You must have been picture of beauty with a full head of hair…”

“Let’s get a move on, Andrew,” Blaire says, “she won’t be going anywhere any time soon…”

“Right,” he says, walking around me again, “time is money, and all that…”

I take a deep, shuddering breath, tears falling from my eyes.

“Welcome to the Cukoo’s Nest,” Andrew says from behind me, “enjoy the feature presentation…” He chuckles, then the sound of the door closing behind him and locking sounds off.

I take deep, shaking breaths, looking around.

There are men in the chairs of the cells to either side of me.

The one to my left seems asleep, head leaned back. His head is shaved bald, and there seems to be some kinds of deformities or tumors across his face.

The one to my right, on the other hand, is awake. He’s sitting upright, and looking at me. His hair is dark, shaved just around the sides, and his eyes somewhat bloodshot. He doesn’t have the same amount of injuries on his face as the patient to my left, but seems very tired. He’s looking at me with a combination of curiosity and wonder, his eyes skating up and down as he inspects me. 

Then, our eyes lock.

A faint smile flickers across his face, and his mouth opens slightly, but we both jolt as the displays in front of us violently flick to life.

In surprise, I turn to look at the screen, greeted by a black and white, ever-morphing Rorschach image across the multitude of displays to create one screen.

For a few moments, I’m mesmerized by the shifting images, but then my head feels like it’s full of static.

My ears start ringing, and my eyes lose focus.

Every muscle in my body feel like they’re contracting and relaxing rapidly, sending a kind of pain I’ve never felt before through my body.

I let out a gasp, then a groan of pain, unable to close my eyes, unable to look away from the screens.

Then, like a television losing power, the world goes black.

---

When I wake, I’m on the floor of the cell, in a cold sweat.

I feel light headed, nauseous, sore.

I take a deep shaking breath, feeling my stomach turn. I shakily turn myself so I’m on my hands and knees, my stomach lurching. I cough, my stomach and chest tensing, and, before I can try to stop myself, vomit spills out of my mouth and onto the floor. I cough at the soapy, sour taste, spitting.

“The first time is a rollercoater, for sure…” a voice rings out to my right.

I jump a little, and look, seeing the man from before sitting on the floor, against the glass wall separating us. I furrow my eyebrows, staring at him, hugging myself as I shake.

He isn’t looking at me. “I’ve never seen a woman down here,” he muses, “most are patients up in the hospital. You must have piqued their interest,” He them looks at me and gives a soft smile.

I take a deep, shaking breath. “What’s going on?” I ask, my voice soft, shaking.

His smile drops slightly. He looks away. “Science…” he says, bitterly, “they use us to test an idea of a deceased doctor, trying and trying to make it work…” he brushes his knee off, and sighs. “I’ve been brought down here for…oh, a few weeks now,”

I feel my heart sink. “Will they keep us here?” I ask.

“No,” he says, “when everyone is awake again, they’ll take us, one by one, back to our cells. These…‘treatments’ happen once or twice a week, depending on how far along in their schedule you are,”

I sigh. I sit down, making sure not to sit in my vomit. I take a deep breath, looking down at the ground.

The itching crawls across my body again, and I start to scratch at my arms, squeezing my eyes shut. I bend forward, almost until my forehead reaches the floor, sobs bubbling up my throat.

“Why do you cry, darling?” The man asks.

I take a deep, shaking breath. “Abe will be so mad at me…” I sob, “…if I’m not home in time to make dinner…to take care of John…if he finds me here with you…”

“Who’s Abe?” He asks, gently.

“My husband…” I whimper, gripping my head, then take a deep, shaking breath.

My door opens, and I look up, yelping as the guards come in.

One grabs me, and stands me up, the other grabs my wrists, forcefully putting handcuffs on me.

“Wait!” I shriek, kicking, thrashing, “Wait! Put me down! Please! You’re hurting me!”

“You’ll hurt more, if you keep thrashing like that,” one guard grumbles, “come on,”

I look over the shoulder of the guard who is holding me, getting a glance of the man who I was speaking with, watching through the glass walls of his cell.

He looks concerned, and yet entertained, one hand pressed to the glass of the cell.

My heart flutters a little.

I’m forced down the halls of the lab, back to the elevator.

Notes:

MURKOFF PSYCHIATRIC SYSTEMS
PROJECT WALRIDER
Mount Massive CO
Case Number: 164
Patient Initials: BMK, “Bridget”
Consultations Dated: 2013.02.28
Initial Date of Patient Consult: 2013.02.28
Patient Age: 32
Gender: Female
Observing Physician: Dr. Walsh

THERAPY STATUS:
Initial Consultation of possible Engine candidate.

Baseline dream description: Nightmares and memories. Plans to progress to Stage 1 Hormone schedule.

DIAGNOSTICS:
Burns along forearms, scars on back, wrists and throat. Physical shows signs of past physical and/or sexual abuse.

Initial MRI shows slight abnormalities in REM/NREM cycle, though not worrisome.

INTERVIEW NOTES:
Bridget at first did not respond to her own name; only responded to “Rose” or “Mrs. Keller”. (Note: Rose is the name of the patient’s mother, though she had no contact with her mother since she was twelve). Shows signs of PTSD induced paranoia/delusions, constantly tidying her cell for when “He” returns “Home”, tucking a bundled up bear into her bed as if it were a child.

Refused to answer questions about herself, saying “Abe would know better”, or “I’ll wait until Abe is home to answer questions, sir,”. (Note: Srgt. Abraham Keller [deceased; Fire Marshal for Chicago Fire Department] is patient’s Father)