scratch that; reverse it.


oh, hey there guy. you’re probably here looking for something to read.

well it just so happens i’ve been doing a bit of writing the past couple of days. i’ve even been doing a bit of writing that isn’t my normal navel-gazing oh my god i’m so terrified of life why do i have to actually do stuff in order to learn things and become what i want to become i’d much rather hide under the covers and read my book with a flashlight even though it gives me a crick in my neck and woe-ish is me get me a beer, bar wench bullshit.

(no, really, i’m aware of my own thought processes–just as i’m aware that i didn’t use to be this much of a neurotic mess. thanks for pointing that out. you can be honest with me, i promise. i won’t hex you or anything.)

so here you go:

The cops found her sitting on a bench in the park, muttering to herself and looking for all the world like an earthquake victim: dirty, disheveled, wild-eyed. And crazy out of her gourd.

They tried to coax some semblance of coherence out of her, with no luck whatsoever. She wasn’t violent, as far as they could tell, and her clothes, though torn and dirty and spotted with blood were clearly well made. She wouldn’t let them get close enough to determine if the blood was hers, or if she was injured, though she didn’t seem to be. They presumed she wasn’t homeless, but they couldn’t get any explanation of her situation out of her, no matter what they said. So they gently steered her into the back of their squad car, and took her to the hospital.

The ER staff had no better luck with her than the cops had. She muttered incessantly, in no tongue anyone present recognized, and would shy away from almost any touch. Eventually, one of the nurses was able to get her to change into a hospital gown and take a sedative. They didn’t admit her—under what name?—but gave her a quiet room out of the way of most of the patients, and kept an eye on her. She curled up on the bed, muttering still and ticking unknown things off on her fingers, and eventually grew quiet and shut her eyes.

The nurse went through her clothes then, looking for some form of identification. She found nothing except a scrap of paper with a name written on it: Adam Pearson; and a phone number.


After this point, this turns very clearly into fanfic, and quite frankly I’m not going to let you read anymore of it. Unless you ask real pretty. SO THERE.



3 Responses to “scratch that; reverse it.”

  1. Trauma-induced psychosis FOR THE WIN!

  2. I am intrigued! More please.

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