Chapter Text
They keep you for ninety days. That's the deal.
It's been eighty-eight days.
They don't let you be left alone for very long, or feed yourself without a person monitoring your eating process. It was hell just convincing them that you don't need someone to help you get ready for bed. It didn't really support your argument either when there was an incident months ago where you couldn't get the stupid noises in your head to stop screaming, and you foolishly believed that pressing a knife to your arm would make things better.
Today's supervisor, Evelyn, is particularly picky in making sure you've eaten every morsel of oatmeal in your bowl. She's watched you for over a month now, so she's softened a smidge in allowing you leg room. But not enough to make you comfortable with her presence.
You're sitting in a white cafeteria. There are spots of colorful flowers placed around the room to lighten up the atmosphere, and a few paintings are framed along the wall. There is idle talk amongst the patients, at least from what you can hear from your table. Only Evelyn is daring enough to sit with you.
The humming in your ears has you glaring down into your black cup of coffee.
Evelyn has used this opportunity of silence to break out her clipboard. "Status update, Mister Upshur," she states.
"Peachy."
"Speak honestly." Her hash stare has you sighing in aggravation. A month of the both of you having to deal with the other's unbending temperaments has you equally sick of one another.
"Look, can't I just go home?" you ask impatiently. "I haven't killed anyone, I haven't caused any sort of trouble. I don't see why you need me locked up like this."
Evelyn clicks her pen and adjusts her clipboard so you can't peek over to see what she's writing. It can't be pleasant, you're certain.
"For the tenth time, Mister Upshur," she says, "you are to stay here in Refuge for ninety days exactly, unless your stay is prolonged because of any more...incidents."
You scowl. "I barely touched that guy," you argue, but Evelyn stops writing with finality and stops your protest with an immediate glare.
"Reports say that you broke his arm," she replies brusquely.
"He was in my way."
"There was no excuse to get security involved," Evelyn sighs. "You're a loose cannon, Upshur. Do you expect me to shorten your stay at Refuge because I believe you're sane enough to step out into the real world?"
You bring your styrofoam cup up to your lips with a raised eyebrow. "Would you?"
She gives you the intelligent form of a scoff that plasters her grim expression. "If it were up to me, I would have you registered at least for another month." Then she sighs heavily. "But your therapists say you've made progress in your recovery, so I have to go by their word."
You wouldn't call it "progress". The least you feel like you've done is stop sitting like a statue when the therapists attempt to coax you to talk about your emotions. Granted, you've taken a few techniques from their sessions, particularly for nightmares or violent impulses. But you don't call it progress because it hasn't fixed what's wrong with you. Not really.
Evelyn checks her watch as you slowly sip the black liquid, drawling on time. "It's almost ten," she announces. "Finish up, your appointment's in twenty."
You're about to make a show of doing the opposite, and taking your sweet time in sending your dirty dishes back to the carts along the corners of the cafeteria. But you're so unbelievably close to getting out of this rehab center now. If Evelyn can write you up for even the smallest of scenarios (okay, breaking one's limbs was bad, but it only happened once), you don't want to test her patience any more than you've already been doing.
So you give a sigh and slam your now-empty cup down on the tray and heave yourself off of your chair.
Evelyn makes nothing of your display and clips her pen calmly back on her clipboard. "Trevor will come and get you," she says, "I'm going on break."
"Thank god," you mumble, and gain a dirty glare that pierces your back all the way to the cart.
You abandon Evelyn in the cafeteria and make your way back to the stairs, where your room resides on the fifth floor. A few doctors peek at you from the corners of their eyes, but you seem stable enough today so that they let you pass without question. Besides, you're leaving in two days; they don't have to see you anymore after this.
The elevator doors open as you step out to the emergency stairway, but you've learned your lesson in relying on elevators.
When you're alone again, behind closed doors, do you let out a tremendous sigh, and the buzzing regains itself in your brain. You squeeze your closed eyelids with your palms and grab your forehead with clenched fingers. Looks like the daily headache has decided to kick in already.
At least the medication has been helping you with your diagnosed schizophrenia. That's why you see things when you close your eyes, they tell you. It's all trauma, every inch of it. No need to worry, a little bit of therapy and pills and you'll be functioning in no time.
That's what they say, so that's what you attempt to believe. But something is always itching in the back of your mind, like a thought you're forbidden to think but begs for attention regardless. It makes itself known through the hazy patterns that flash across your vision when you blink. It's something bad, but when you probe for answers all you get is a pounding headache.
You don't need anything else to haunt your nightmares, you eventually decide. Remembering Trager and Walker and everyone else is enough for now.
It's five minutes for a quick shower, and another five to stand in front of a mirror to convince yourself that it's you staring back, it's just you, just you. The doctors said depersonalization was another cause of the trauma, and don't overthink anything, because that makes it worse.
So eventually you decide that yes, this is you, and this is who you'll be for the remainder of the day.
By that time, half of your alone time is up; Trevor will be here soon to practically hold your hand and walk you to your therapy session. At least he's not as strict as Evelyn is; he's cut you much more slack beforehand, so you're not that worried about his upcoming visit.
Everything in Refuge is run on a tight schedule, to help you adjust, they say. Every inch of your day is calculated to the last minute to help you— you don't know how, but you suppose it does help you not be as alone with your thoughts as your brain demands you to be. As long as you can shove away thinking, you'll live.
Your therapist wanted a bunch of notes. He wanted a list of goals you're going to set for yourself once you step foot out of rehab, so you're not drowning the moment no one is there to tell you to take your medication or shower or practice coping techniques.
Your room is messy. No matter how much your supervisors fuss about the state of your environment, you assure them that this is just how you've always been. Flinging notes and books this way and that helps you remember to get things done, or at the least they sit around and mock you until you finally get up and finish your work.
The notes you'd promised are atop a stack of books on your nightstand. Amongst nightly reading did you finally finish your task, but it wasn't completely difficult. You already know life is going to absolutely suck the moment you're out of here, so you didn't have much to write down. But he'll take it; it's better than nothing, you suppose.
The headache takes into a throbbing state, where you begin to rub the sides of your temple fiercely with the pith of your missing index finger. The black tendrils at the corner of your sight curl in and out, and your head throbs as the vision dissolves into static. Red, hot static that begins to scream in a high pitched tone and has you doubling over on your bed mattress. You give a hiss of pain as the sensation spirals into your downward spine and ribs. It feels like something is almost trying to get out of you.
It's screaming.
You need to g e t o u t
There's a knock at the door that snaps whatever is crawling around right back into your subconscious, and you tumble backwards onto the crinkled sheets, panting heavily, suffering the aftermath of yet another dumb "schizophrenic" episode. The buzzing dissipates into a soft hum, and then it's nonexistent.
You are still here. You still exist.
The door knocks again, hesitantly this time.
"Miles?" Trevor. "Are you in there?"
The concern in his voice springs you right back upwards, and the feeling makes you reasonably dizzy. You take another minute to attempt to rub your eyes before you reply, "Yeah, sorry."
"Is everything alright in there?" Trevor calls, and you can't say that you had another episode. You need to get out of this stupid rehab center; you need to look as sane as possible in order to do so.
"I'm fine!" You readjust yourself immediately and shove all signs of the recent panic attack away. You grab your notes and quickly slip on a grey t-shirt lying on the floor. "I was just...grabbing something."
There's a small silence that has you thinking that he didn't believe you, and he's going to rush in and question you and you'll be stuck in Refuge for another month or two.
But eventually, there's an, "Alright. Well, we're running a bit late, so you might wanna hurry up."
You flip the door open to face Trevor, and he gives a start when you exude an instinctual glare that you immediately have to soften. You have to remember that you're trying to look normal here.
"I'm here," you announce, and wave your notes in his face. "Told you, I was getting something."
He takes into account your jesting character with sucking in one bit of his cheeks just enough so he looks like he's biting back a comment.
"You know, if you cleaned your room, we wouldn't have this issue," he finally says, stepping aside so you both can head for the stairway. You take the lead wordlessly.
You look back over your shoulder to see his disapproving stare. "I told you, my mess helps me think," you argue.
Trevor sighs. "I know. But still, it'd be nice to come in and not see the aftermath of a hurricane in there."
You're about to offer a good-natured chuckle, but you stop yourself. He still treats you like the equivalent of a patient, even after so long. No need to encourage his attempts of friendship; he might start to thinking that treating you so helplessly is going to be acceptable.
Instead, you mumble, "You're more than welcome to clean it if you have a problem."
You don't even catch Trevor's response to your empty threat; you're too busy slowly putting one foot in front of the other, because no one is here. It's just you and Trevor, and he's not going to hurt you. You're safe. You're fine.
The instinctive fight or flight beating of your heart quickens as you trail your steps down the stairway. You're so used to sprinting down like there's no tomorrow, like someone is breathing down your back and about to reach for your throat.
God, you're so helpless that by the time you've finished the last pair of stairs you're outwardly cringing at yourself. You're glad that Trevor can't catch your facial expression from behind.
It's a while of heading towards the therapist's room in an awkward state of silence, but eventually you're able to brush Trevor off your back and enter the room where, once again, you have to be dissected from the inside out to make sure you're safe and stable.
Dr. Song is already settled on his chair, papers scattered on his lap, when he greets you. You respond by placing your stack of notes on his own pile and sitting yourself down on the couch across from him.
He gives you a curious gaze as he examines the papers you'd handed him, pawing through the contents with the look of a student being given a new textbook.
"What is this?" he asks, keeping his voice a sense of friendly curiosity.
You cross your arms to indicate that you've relaxed into your seat. "You said you wanted those, right?"
And then his old eyes, crinkled with age, brighten with recognition. "Oh! You completed the assignment?"
You sniff. "It's what I'm known for." He doesn't catch onto your sarcasm, and if he does he says nothing to address it.
Instead he observes the concept of the papers, not truly looking at the context, and gives an approving nod, protruding his lower lip in surprise.
"I'm glad you did as instructed, Miles," Dr. Song says. "This is essential in making sure you're ready to step out of The Refuge with a clear mind and accurate objectives to strive for."
You'd kill for a cigarette right now.
"Let's see," Dr. Song takes a moment to observe what seems to be the first item on the list, and his eyebrows scrunch into exposing an expression of confusion.
You straighten your position a bit so your elbows are resting on your knees, intent on his unnecessary input.
He makes eye contact with you, but his gaze is curious yet guarded with the professionalism that his emotions won't be examined as easily.
"It says here, 'get up to watch sunrises'," Dr, Song recites.
You nod. "I thought it'd be nice to wake up and see something in the morning. Keep me motivated, you know."
His eyes brighten, but his stoic frown only curls up slightly as the edges to indicate that he's pleased with your response.
"That's a very encouraging goal," he agrees with a nod, and his praise seeps into his tone. "It's a unique perspective to view the dawn of a new day as an awakening for new opportunities."
You give a halfhearted shrug. "I guess," you murmur. "I can't see shit outside my window. I want to at least see something."
You do have something, though, when you look out the window every morning here. You're just not ecstatic that you can look out onto more windows, since your room is among others that curve to support a courtyard down below. Once a bird ran into your window, though, so you can't say your view has always been boring.
Dr. Song gives a thoughtful hum and makes to grab a marker. "I'm going to put a check mark on this one," he tells you, and the squeak of the pen has you clenching your jaw at the pitched noise that emits from it. Your ears have grown quite sensitive.
On the next goal, his face does something funny that you can't understand. His voice is marginally balanced as he recites: "'Go to Washington D.C.'"
You frown, confused by the sudden deter of positivity in Dr. Song's voice. "Yeah?"
He looks at you, expression frustratingly guarded, as always. "Any reason why?"
"Not really," you say honestly. "Just seems like a nice place to be. Seems like I'd enjoy it."
There's more to it; you feel attached to D.C., oddly enough. Like you belong there, maybe in a past life or some shit like that. It'd help put two and two together if you could see the sights yourself. But of course, you don't tell Dr. Song this, seeing as he's acting super weird about it, and you don't want to push his patience.
Contemplative and quiet, Dr. Song eventually adds a remark of his own off to the side of the paper. He explains, "How about you settle down first, and maybe D.C. can be another time, yeah?"
You don't see why he's emphasizing so much on the subject, so you just sweep it under the carpet and mutter a, "Yeah, sure," in order to keep the train rolling down the tracks. The sooner you're done, the sooner you can leave.
You go through the small list like that, with Dr. Song giving a few tweaks to your ideas (you'd talked for a while about getting a dog; in the end, you let Dr. Song talk you out of it. "It's a good idea for later," he assured you). Occasionally he'd completely cross one out (he expressed strong disapproval on "getting a beer").
Overall, he claims you're improving, and that these are good, simple goals to reach for once you're out.
At the bottom of the list, however, when he catches your final vow, his face begins to darken.
You frown and lean back into the cushion. "What now?" you ask, borderline irritable at this point. But you have a feeling you already know what you're about to be chewed out for.
He doesn't say anything, instead turning the paper so that you can read where he's placed his marker under, so you know which one he's talking about.
Underlined multiple times, in all caps, you'd written, "FIND KID".
You lock eyes with Dr. Song and give him a bitter sort of look. You don't even attempt to argue with him; you already know what he's going to say.
He sets the note back down with a disappointed sigh, and adjust his glasses on the brim of his nose. You feel like a young student about to be chewed out by his school principal.
Dr. Song seems to hesitate as he looks somberly at you. "Miles," he begins, "We've talked about this."
You hold up one hand immediately in strong defense. "I don't understand the problem," you argue firmly. "It's reasonable, isn't it?"
Dr. Song gives you a rather condescending glance. "Miles, I thought we both came to terms that this 'Chara' is nothing more than a schizophrenic illusion. Just a coping strategy for witnessing the horrors of the experience."
"But what if they're not?" Your voice is close to begging at this point. "What if there was an actual kid that traveled with me through the asylum? What if that's a possibility here?"
He shakes his head. "There's no one by the name of 'Chara' that was registered into Murkoff's systems. They didn't treat adolescent patients."
"They said that their parents signed them up for the treatment for money," you argue.
"We've discussed this. Chara's backstory emits from your sympathy for the patients that were forced into the program against their will. You're projecting pity onto a nonexistent Variant because you don't know where else to put it."
You clench your jaw. You knew the minute you wrote that list that you'd be receiving this sort of pushback.
"You saw the footage," you growl. "There was a kid with me the whole time."
Dr. Song takes this into a brief moment of consideration, but he doesn't seem convinced. "The footage was confiscated," he finally says, slowly. "But they allowed me access to your notes that you took."
You force back the urge to groan. You know what point he's about to make next as he searches for the proper papers to support his next explanation.
"Not once in your notes have you ever mentioned a child traveling with you," Dr. Song says, navigating the copies of the notes with the knowledge of one who's scanned said papers a thousand times before. "At least once or twice do you use a 'we', but the rest doesn't give any sort of evidence that you had company outside of yourself."
You stay silent out of spite. There was a reason you'd done so, you recall. It was out of respect for Chara's presence; you didn't want the public to make any more of a nuisance of themselves for when they grabbed hold of Chara and perhaps even yourself. You didn't want them to be pushed into interviews or brought attention in anything else they'd performed; it wasn't their fault that they were in there.
Besides, if you remember, there's a vague memory of you writing out a last-minute apology to Chara in your notes, when you had retreated into the underground lab. But all you hear in Refuge is that you didn't, you didn't, you didn't.
At your lack of argument, Dr. Song seems to believe that he's bought you into his bullshit theory that Chara doesn't exist.
"The sooner you accept this, the better," he reassures you, and makes a move to cross out the note.
You blurt out, "What if I look for them anyway?"
He pauses and arches a brow as he looks back up at you. You've gotten his attention now.
"Say you're right," you reason. "Say the kid isn't real. But if I figure that out myself, wouldn't it help?"
You're spouting nonsense at this point for a reason you aren't completely conscious of. But Dr. Song seems considerate again.
"I suppose that would help you move on," he eventually agrees. "But what would you do?"
You cross your arms again as a gesture of confidence. "I'm a reporter. I snoop."
He nods slightly, so you're assuming he's on board with you now. Some form of relief unclasps its hold on your stomach.
It's a moment of quiet, and you think you're about to be dismissed. But Dr. Song sets his marker down and takes a sip of his water set on the stand next to him. He usually does that when he's about to delve onto a touchy subject, and you find yourself stiffening.
"If Chara was real," he begins, "and you managed to find them, what would you do next?"
You don't have to think hard. "I'd tell them I was sorry."
"Sorry for what?" he presses.
You take a minute to observe the ticking of the clock. You want to get out of here more than anything else.
"I...we had a deal," you tell him, even though you recall reciting this story before. "We promised to get each other out."
"If you held up your end of the bargain, and you're out, doesn't that mean that Chara would be out too?" Dr. Song interrupts.
You shake your head. A funny noise is buzzing in the back of your head again. "I don't remember," you mumble.
He nods. "I understand that it's hard for you to remember how you escaped," he says, sounding considerate. "It's common for trauma survivors to blur events together in a method to avoid the exact emotions felt in said event."
You can't help but feel like that's not exactly what happened, but when you try to think hard, you find yourself biting back a groan of pain as the angry pulsing regains itself in your mind. It's best to ignore it; you don't want to unlock anything that may come with remembering exactly what happened when you and Chara had finally escaped.
A part of you questions whether or not you really ever escaped. Maybe it was all just a figment of your imagination. Maybe you died and this is the afterlife. You don't know.
"What else would you tell Chara?" Dr. Song prods, and you look at him to avoid the temptation to sprawl onto the couch and allow your aching brain to take over.
What would you tell them? Besides you're sorry?
It wouldn't be right to keep clinging to them; they have people caring for them, right?
"I guess..." you trail off in thought. "I guess I'd just say goodbye?"
Dr. Song perks up. "Why so?"
You look down at your hands and the useless nubs remaining of your index and ring fingers. "Because I don't know what else to do for them," you admit in a low tone.
It's a moment before Dr. Song seems to approve of your plan. "That's fair," he says. "You're acknowledging that you're not in a proper place to care for a child."
"I wasn't planning on adopting them," you snap; god, you're the last person who should be relied on to be a parental figure in any kid's life. Especially not Chara; you owe it to them to have them break away from you altogether.
Dr. Song shakes his head. "I wasn't talking about adoption," he protests gently. "Not all parental figures are actually parents. If what you've told me about Chara is true, then it sounds as though they really admired you, because you were safe to them."
Guilt. You feel nothing but guilt now.
"You're not in a position to be looked up to," he continues, then adds quickly, "At least, not for a while. Let yourself heal first, let that be your main priority."
He snaps his notes shut. "You've shown much improvement from my time with you, Miles," he concludes. "Once we figure out this whole Chara situation, we're on the right track."
You don't say anything else. You let him blab on about healthy techniques to practice once you're outside Rehab's closed doors, what to do in case your family comes back, that sort of stuff.
It's an hour of listening to his rants on recovery before he finally stops and gives you a professional sort of smile that you don't find emotional attachment in if you looked hard enough.
"Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder is never easy for anyone," he finishes. "Be kind to yourself once you're outside our care here. And don't do anything stupid."
Then he shakes your four-fingered hand and brushes you gently out the door. You head right to the vending machines and grab yourself a bottle of soda. It's the closest to alcohol you'll get in this stupid building.
-
"You've got to be kidding me."
The nurse typing on the computer gives you a helpless shrug. "I'm sorry, Mister Upshur, but you haven't been permitted to live on your own quite yet."
You give something close to a snarl. Something in your chest is tightening with anger.
"What do I need to do to prove that I can live without you smartasses breathing down my neck every five minutes?" You snap.
She holds up her hands in a defensive gesture at your sharp voice, but her eyes are bright with caution. "Sir, if you want to live with a close family member instead, I'll see if they can be a little reasonable—"
"No."
You don't want him getting involved.
The nurse sighs. "Then I don't know what to tell you. They won't let you leave without clarification that you're able to step out of rehab with all the necessary tools needed to—"
You interrupt again, furious. "You're never going to let me go home, are you?"
"You are going home," she reasons. "You're just going to be supervised for six weeks to make sure nothing goes wrong."
"Do you do this with all your patients or am I just a special case?" you ask acidly. Every part of your body is stiff, and you find that your heart is beginning to twist and ache in a horrible way. They don't trust you. They won't let you go back home.
The nurse hesitates, eyeing something on her monitor before giving a rather hesitant nod.
"I'd say special case," she finally admits, looking sheepish. "You've been separated from the rest of Murkoff's....victims. The current agenda insists that those affected by Murkoff receives intensive care from trauma, including therapy, medication, and nurses from specific rehabilitation centers and programs to constantly provide for them."
You let out a long groan. "So what? I get an in-home babysitter for a few weeks?"
"Not babysitter," she clarifies with exasperation. "Just someone who's going to live with you for a while, just to make sure you're on the road to recovery."
Then the nurse clicks something that enables a printer beside her to spit out a piece of paper. She briskly hands it to you from across the desk, and you snatch it from her hand out of curiosity.
"Here's some information about your supervisor," she says, pointing to the paper you're holding. "His name is Jackson Wrent. I think you'll enjoy him."
You scowl and stuff away the paper; you don't even attempt to read it. "Doubt it. But thanks."
You storm away from the desk, feeling dark and bitter. Some section in your hindbrain is feeding off your negativism with satisfaction, so that it feels right to be a grumpy hot mess. You make your way back to your room and unceremoniously stuff everything away in your suitcases.
Maybe you should have just died in the asylum. That would have made a lot of things easier.
Then you remember Chara.
No, you wouldn't leave them like that. But living is so hard.
When you're finished, you plop yourself down onto the bed and fall into a restless sleep filled with images of decapitated heads and surgery wounds.
-
A knock on the door awakens you, and you sluggishly get to your feet. Your body feels like it's been slammed into by a truck, but you let the medication's affects of productivity kick into autopilot and allow you to trudge off the bed.
When you open the door, you're greeted by a practical ray of sunshine packed into one person. It's the clothing, you decide, all pressed and folded neatly to give him a scholar sort of look. His plaid sweater and the matching bow tie are a tad much, you decide.
The man is a bit shorter than you, with a shaven head of black, curly hair and light chocolate skin. His glasses are black-rimmed. He holds out a hand to you with a small smile.
"Miles Upshur, right?" he asks.
You run your eyes with an exhausted sigh. It's way too early for this. "Who the hell wants to know," you mutter, your words sleepily tying together to make you sound intoxicated.
He takes away his hand hesitantly. "Oh, sorry. Didn't introduce myself." Then he straightens his posture.
"My name is Jackson Wrent," he introduces, sounding like he's reading off of a Hallmark greeting card. "I'm your--"
You cut off his speech with a rude waving of your hand. "Yeah, yeah. Babysitter. I'm well aware."
He gives a small start of surprise before registering what you mean with what seems to be an understanding nod.
"Unreasonably close to that, yes," he agrees, and you perk up. "I'm just here to make sure you don't kill yourself, basically."
At that, you find yourself giving a scoff of laughter. "Fair enough. Just be sure not to make a nuisance of yourself."
"No promises," he replies with a grin. Then he adds, "I'm sorry for waking you up so early. They said to get you to breakfast pretty quickly today, since you have a lot of packing to do."
You turn back to your packed room, eyeing the suitcases you'd thrown on the floor after cramming them full, in order to make room on your bed to sleep. "Not much."
Jackson peeks over your shoulder to where you're staring at your room, twisted upside down and inside out to make sure you didn't forget anything.
"Seems like you're all set in here then," he pulls away from the doorway with a satisfied smile. "Wanna head down for breakfast? They might let us head outside if we finish early."
Any opportunity to get out of here sounds appealing, however tired you are. You give a slow nod. "Sounds good. I'll head down after a shower."
Jackson returns your nod. "Alrighty. Guess I'll see you there."
Then he heads back down the hall, leaving you in the brightened hallway. You watch him leave; you're surprised he's not practically skipping, the way he's holding himself up like he's about to bounce off his feet.
If he's going to be this way the entire time, you might have a trouble with his perky exterior. But overall, he seems reasonable. At least he didn't ask to walk you down, like you're a helpless child. That's the key in confirming that he's way too eccentric-looking, but you guess he'll do.
-
You both end up alone, at a table in a corner, with you staring down at your omelette.
Jackson didn't bring any sort of supplies with him, like Evelyn or any of your other supervisors usually do. You wonder if he's just trying to make a decent impression. Has he heard of you?
"So, Jackson," you venture, just to break the silence. It's much quieter than usual in the cafeteria, save for the clanging in the kitchen. "Tell me about yourself."
He perks up with registered surprise. "Oh, alright," he says. "What do you wanna know?"
You shrug, taking a thoughtful bite of your omelette. "I don't know, just, your life, your dreams, what you're doing with your career path that you ended up in this hellscape."
Jackson doesn't seem to take kindly to your passive accusation, but he stays quiet on it. He takes a minute to think as he sprinkles pepper onto his eggs.
"Well, there's not much to say, really," he finally admits. "I went to the University of Michigan to pursue in psychological science, I ended up with a degree in photography. Don't ask me how that happened."
You perk up and swallow your mouthful of eggs. "Photographer, huh?"
Jackson shakes his head with a chuckle. "Not really, at least I don't think so. I guess the professors saw something in it. Some sort of 'calling' or shit. They kept pushing me towards it, but...it wasn't what I wanted to do."
He sighs and settles back. "So I went back, got the degree in the career I wanted, and now I'm here."
You frown. "What does this job have to do with the psychology field?"
"More like the medical field," Jackson corrects. "I want to use psychology somewhere, but I'm not sure yet. So I guess you could call this experimenting."
"Spoonfeeding traumatized adults?"
He laughs, but you don't find the question humorous. "I prefer calling it a hands-on sort of experiment. It helps me get an intimate sort of experience with patients I might be working with."
You suppose that makes sense, but you're not about to show any sort of approval at his statements. Instead you take a slice of bacon on your plate and snap an edge of it off to chew it.
"So I'm your lab rat," you clarify, and you're surprised to see that Jackson nods in good nature.
"If you'd rather be called that," Jackson teases. Then he goes quiet, seeming suddenly uncomfortable so he twiddles his fork along his plate. It doesn't make any sort of squeaking noise, you notice, thank god.
"I saw your footage," he finally admits, exhibiting discomfort at the thought. "Man, they really put my skills to the test by assigning me you."
You can't help but almost laugh. "Yeah, I'm hell. Don't act surprised."
Jackson doesn't seem to have your sense of humor, instead saying wistfully, "I'm just surprised you survived."
Nodding, you mutter sourly, "So am I."
You finish up your omelette in the silence that follows, and your train of thought shifts into the idea that if Jackson saw the footage, and Dr. Song didn't, maybe there's a change that he can confirm that maybe Chara is real. Maybe Chara did travel with you. Maybe he even has information on where they are now.
But you fling your fork onto your now-empty plate with bitterness. No, you don't want to know anymore. Chara could be real, or dead, who knows? Perhaps ignorance truly is bliss.
Jackson is curious at your sudden bad temper, but he says nothing about it. You decide that if he keeps that up, he'll be a decent housemate.
You point with your remaining index finger at his half-empty plate. There's still a good leftover bit of eggs left. "Are you gonna finish those?" you ask.
Jackson sputters for a quick moment, like what you asked wasn't written anywhere in the manual instructions on how to take care of you.
"Oh! No, no I'm not." He pushes the plate quickly over to where you can grab it, and you reach across the table to do so. As you pull the plate onto your tray and over your empty one, you see Jackson giving you an inquiring look.
Then you notice his gaze is fixated on one of your hands.
You grab your fork and absentmindedly stab it into the eggs with a roll of your eyes. "Go ahead and ask me. Everyone else does."
He seems skeptical, but eventually he asks carefully, "What happened to your fingers?"
You take a sip of your orange juice nonchalantly. "Crazy doctor cut them off."
"Oh." Jackson's face twists into a disgusted grimace as he takes one last gaze at your missing digits before regaining eye contact with you, almost respectfully.
"Christ, dude," he sighs. "You're like Indiana Jones mission gone wrong."
You almost choke on your juice with amusement. You guess that's one way to put it.
By the way that Jackson's eyes seem to brighten at your response, the atmosphere becomes a bit looser.
When he goes on to talk about his job and his family or whatever, you find yourself tuning in every now and then, rather than completely zoning out like usual. It's about five minutes into a "conversation" before you both realize that you finished your meal a long time ago.
-
The rest of the day is chaos; Jackson allowed you to walk around the courtyard a bit to at least get your legs up and moving, but that was the only luxury the rest of your day carried. All you received was documents shoved into your face, multiple tests, a lot of people making absolutely sure that you were sane enough to release to the public.
You end up slamming the door to your room at the end of the day and letting the weird swarm in your mind take over for the rest of the night.
There's another knock, and you have to practically snarl a, "Come in."
This time, Evelyn is behind the door, and she saunters into your room, taking into account the lack of cleanliness amid the rummaged drawers and bedsheets.
"So you're the reason we're running low on housemaids," she comments passively.
You rub your eyes wearily. "I think I'll miss you most of all."
"Sarcasm is a fool's response," Evelyn says, annoyed. "I'm just coming in to give you the final papers."
"The final papers?" You drag yourself onto the edge of the bed with a tired sigh. "Or the final-final papers?"
Evelyn narrows her eyes. "I see that you've been through the excruciating trial of leaving Refuge."
You groan. All this paperwork and constant clarifications of testing your sanity almost makes you want to give up and just stay for at least another month to avoid all this. Almost.
Without making another snarky comment about your irritation, she unclips a handful of papers from her ever-present clipboard and hands them to you.
"This is just confirming that you've gained Refuge's permission to continue to participate in Murkoff Recovery Program, and a couple of documents expressing the idea of Witness Protection Program."
"Gee, thanks." You pick up the documents with zero interest in the content. They've signed you up for so many programs already. Like it's going to fix what happened.
And then Evelyn leaves with a small goodbye and departs from your life. Good riddance.
Tomorrow, you're going to be as close to freedom as you've been given for months. Having Jackson around will be its own pain, sure, but at least you can head back to your apartment and at least attempt to pick up where you'd left off.
Still, you remember Chara. And you remember Mount Massive like a pain in your side that you can't erase. Something is always going to be off, especially since you'd been denied full closure on any of these subjects. Unless you count the constant claims from Dr. Song that Chara never existed in the first place. Even Jackson's refusal to mention any sort of companion you may have traveled with is considered questionable. Maybe you really are losing it.
You let the buzzing reside into almost a relaxing background noise, as it draws you into another frenzy of horrid nightmares.
You'll figure everything out in the morning.