Like so many times before, Steven is thrown into consciousness somewhere unfamiliar. Gasping like a fish suddenly ripped from the ocean, like his lungs have collapsed in on themselves and he has to force the air in. He's slow to rise onto wobbly legs, left reeling as he gazes around at his surroundings. Oh no, he thinks as he finds three things notable about this place.
1. He's been here before.
2. His right ankle is chained to the floor.
3. He can't feel Marc or Jake.
Any of these revelations would be overwhelming enough on their own, but all three of them thrust on him like this has Steven feeling like he's died all over again. He knows he hasn't died again though, or at least he thinks he knows, because his heart is beating so loud and so fast in his chest that it is the only thing he can hear.
"Come on, Steven," he whispers to himself, a hushed tone being all he can manage, "focus. One thing at a time."
First things first, he's been here before. This room, that is. It's the loo from his old job at the museum, where he had been attacked by the jackal Harrow had summoned and where Marc had saved them. He would recognize it anywhere, yet this time it looks... Different. The walls are matte black, hieroglyphics scattered everywhere and glowing faintly. The lighting was dull and flickered a fuchsia that hurt his eyes, reflecting brightly off of the mirrors. There was no door, no way to exit, just empty stalls and rows of sinks and mirrors.
Do not even get him started on the mirrors. Like before, they casted an effect of looking as though there were a thousand rooms and worlds stuffed into the washroom. It feels claustrophobic in there, and yet like it is too open at the same time, like he was just out in the open with no cover. But in the mirrors, he only sees himself. His actual self, wearing the same clothes he had in the asylum, no alters in sight. When he waved his hand, his reflection waved back - no delay, just his own hesitation as his hand shook.
He tried to take a step forward, but is almost sent toppling over when his foot caught on taunt chains. He steadied himself and glanced down.
Right, the second thing.
A cuff was attached to a short, rusted chain bolted to the tiled floor, restraining him. It digs into his ankle, and his bare foot, he notes curiously. He only has about a foot of room to move.
What the hell was going on? Where was he?
Where was Marc and Jake?
His mind has been silent since he woke up, save for his own panicked thoughts. No voices asking if he was okay, no cursing in another language - nothing. It unnerved Steven so, his head hadn't been quiet like this in a long time; maybe for the first time ever, he is alone with his thoughts.
"Marc?" He asks softly.
No answer.
"Jake?" He tries again.
Still nothing.
"Please, guys, if you're hiding, now is really not the time. If I've upset you, I'm sorry but I really need you right now. Both of you." He pleads, suddenly so alone and so, so scared.
Only the silence hears his begging and has nothing to say, leaving him alone in an all too quiet room where everything was too much. The fuchsia lighting is too intense on his eyes. The chain is too heavy in his ankle. He was too alone.
Steven sinks to the floor, moving his legs as best he could to sit crisscross. Taking in a deep breath that was supposed to be calming but felt dense instead, he closed his eyes and tried to force someone, anyone, to take the reins. It's difficult, digging deep into his own mind in search of the people who were there for him when he needed them. And he needed them now. He didn't know how he got here, in this odd prison of sorts, but surely if they were there, Marc or Jake would know how to get them out.
After a while - too long - he begins to feel himself disassociate. He went searching so far into his mind that he was retreating and there was no one to take over the body.
Blinking sluggishly, he tried to wave away the fog that had settled over his mind. He grabbed the chain to center himself, the cool metal sending chills throughout his body, and rattled it against the tiled floor. The calming breath he takes feels more like a hiccup.
"What would Marc do?" He asks, "What would Jake do?"
Forcing his eyes to stay open, Steven scours the room for some kind of sign. Something for him to cling onto.
On his third look around the washroom, he spots it; a wooden bat resting in one of the sinks, as if someone had been washing it and just left it there. And if someone left it here, that meant that there was a way to get into the room, and a way to get out.
"Because, whatever they can do," Steven says, filled with a new sense of determination, "I can do too."
Rising again, he takes a few steps forward to test how far the restraint would allow him to move. The answer is not far - the chain goes taunt and the cuff digs sharply into his skin. Steven winces, eyes cast down to the restraint and then to the bat. He is still about a foot or two short of the sink where the it rested.
"Come on," Steven says through gritted teeth, stretching his arm out as far as he can. He did the same with his leg, inching only slightly closer. "Come on, please."
There is a sharp pain in his ankle, then something warm running down it. He stops abruptly, going pale. Slowly retracing his steps backwards, he finds little dots of red decorating the dirty tile floor. The cuff had cut into his skin, blood flowing out from under the restraint and down his foot.
The room seems to sway for a minute as Steven becomes unsteady on his feet. He was never good with blood - he tried to avoid it at all costs. When blood was involved, Marc or Jake (usually Jake) would take over so Steven could retreat into the mind, then they would let him know when the coast was clear. They never complained about having to do this for him, there was a little teasing from Jake but he knew he meant nothing by it. They preferred it this way; anything they could do to help the system, they would do.
Steven shakes his head. There was no Marc or Jake here to protect him from it now. If he wanted to get out, he was going to have to do it on his own. Marc would have been able to get out of this predicament no problem. Jake would have already been out of the chains by now, ready to kick some arse. If they could do it, he could- No, he would too.
Steeling himself, he marched forward and tugged on the chains once they pulled again. It hurt worse now, metal digging into the fresh wound. Luckily though - if you could even say that - only the actual chain itself was rusted, not the cuff. Steven stretched out his arm again.
He was so close to grabbing the bat, but he was still too far away.
Steven pulled on the chain harder, grinding his teeth. Tears sprung in his eyes as more blood spilled down his foot, making the floor slick. "When danger is near," he hisses in pain, "Steven Grant has no fear."
His shoulder aches from the stretching and tugging on his muscles. His whole right side burns in tandem with it, nerves shot as every inch forward draws out the agony.
"When danger is near, Steven Grant has no fear," repeats Steven, hot tears slipping down his flushed face. He is so, so close to the bat.
His ankle twists and he stumbles, crying out in pain. It only motivates him to keep going. "When danger is near," he screams, "Steven Grant HAS NO FEAR!"
Something gives, a loud metallic popping noise follows, and he is pitches forward with the force. Falling hard, he slams his chin on the floor. His vision goes white and all he can hear is his blood rushing in his ears, but he is aware he cries out in pain - not by the sound, but by the harsh pull on his vocal cords.
"Ow! Fuckfuckfuck," he cries, his voice coming out in a wheeze, "bloody me!"
Once the world seems to slow down and come into focus, Steven carefully shifts onto his back and lays there on the floor, trying to catch his breath. His right leg is alive with agony, throbbing so hard he feels it wracking through his whole body. Maybe that had something to do with the muscle he'd pulled - possibly dislocated - in his shoulder and the blood falling from his chin, but whose to say.
Steven doesn't even want to think about getting up, but he's not going to get anywhere just laying on the floor like this.
He moves slow, taking his time. A quick glance cast at the chain shows that one of the old links, more rusted than the others, had snapped and set him free. Sitting up, he feels a hint of the hell he was surely in store for once he is able to get to his feet. Shifting his body as delicately as he can and holding onto the edge of the sink counter to steady himself, Steven is able to get about halfway up before white hot pain shoots through him. His yelp is high-pitched and grating on his ears, but the whimpers that follow are worse, he regards bitterly. Breathy whines and winces seem to echo in the silent room, making his feel pathetic and alone. The tears that fell didn't make him feel any better.
If Marc was in your position, a voice of doubt in his head tells him, he wouldn't whine and cry like this. He would take it in strides. Look at you, one little scrape and you fall apart. Pitiful little Steven, in need of saving yet again.
Gripping the counter so tightly his knuckles go white, he tries desperately not to focus on his hiccups as he cries.
Using the sinks as leverage, he pulls himself up oh so slowly until he is standing and leaning heavily against it. Steven's eyes lock onto his reflection and he loathes what he sees; red-rimmed watery eyes with telltale tear tracks streaking down his noticeably paler face, dark curls falling over his forehead where his eyebrows rest brunched together, blood smeared on his chin from a deep gash where a bruise has already begun to form, his lips quivering.
He looks a right mess.
Steven shakes his head, trying to erase the image from his mind like an Etch A Sketch. "Not the time," he mumbles.
Pulling himself closer to the bat takes longer than he would like to admit. But once he is close enough, he grasps it tightly in his hand. It doesn't feel as triumphant as he thought he would. In fact, he feels the same. Suddenly having the piece of wood in his hand doesn't magically reveal how to leave the loo or how to find his alters. It was just a bat, an ordinary tan one with a solid weight to it, but that was about all it had.
"What now?" Steven asks with a frown.
Time slowed to a crawl as he stared at the bat, wracking his brain for what was the next step.
Out of the corner of his eyes, something caught his attention. One of the mirrors was blacked out, as if covered in pitch black paint.
No, not blacked out... It wasn't a mirror at all, but a hole in the wall the size and shape of the mirrors around it.
Steven's eyes widened. A hole. An exit. A way out. How had he not noticed it before? He had scoured the washroom three separate times and hadn't seen it. In fact, as he thought back to it, he was sure it hadn't been here when he was looking earlier.
"What is going on?"
His attention never left the hole in the wall as he slowly dragged himself closer, almost as if he would blink and it would disappear. He wasn't absolutely positive that it wouldn't do that to him, the magic or whatever was going on here in this washroom seemed hell-bent on screwing him over. Yet, with his eyes trained on the hole the entire painstaking process of crawling over, nothing changed. It was like it was a black hole, ready to swallow Steven whole.
He was almost willing to let it.
Pausing in front of the sink where the hole sat, Steven stared into the void it created. "Hello?" He called, leaning in a little closer on wobbly legs and sore arms. His voice echoed around in the space. "Is anyone there?"
The echo warped into a familiar voice, "Hello? Steven?"
Steven jumped, nearly dropping the bat. His grip around it grew tighter as he raised it in a defensive stance. "Oi! Who's there?"
"Are you there, Steven? Where have you gone?" The voice called back in sympathy that didn't quite reach like it seemed to intend to, rattling around the hole and into the washroom. The mirrors shook on the walls, threatening to fall off and take Steven with them.
"I'm here! I don't know where here is," he glanced around at the commotion of the rattling mirrors, "but I'm here! Please, help me!"
"I can't help you if you would let me, Steven..."
Steven lowered the bat, "What? What do you mean?"
The voice began to fade away, like a song ending on the radio, its tone condescending as if it were talking to a stubborn child. "Where are you, Steven?" The echo hardly carried any noise by the end of the question.
"No, wait please!" Steven pleaded, rushing in as close as he could stand on his injured foot. His fingers scratched for purchase on the slink counter, trying desperately to pull himself up and towards the voice. "I don't know where I am or what's going on. Please don't leave me! Please!" His ankle throbbed sharply in agony as it pressed against the counter, but he didn't care.
"Marc! Jake! Anyone, please don't leave me here!"
Without thinking twice, he gripped the edge on the hole and pulled himself in. And he fell, no floor below to catch him. The flickering fuchsia lighting of the loo washed away into nothingness. There was no wall, no floor, no ceiling - just Steven falling unceremoniously with the wooden bat clutched in a white-knuckled grip. Steven wanted to scream, to beg for the voice to come back and do something, to kick and cry and just doing anything. But he couldn't.
Steven fell deeper and deeper into the void, deeper and deeper through the rabbit hole.
He jolted to his senses in a firm plastic chair, the metal legs scraping against the floor with a high-pitched shriek. He suddenly finds his voice, screaming all over again. It echoes through the bright wide room, and there is another voice there - the one from earlier - asking him to calm down in a soft, but firm tone. The sudden change in setting disorients him, like when he woke up in the washroom. Here, in this room, everything is bright white and sterile looking, much different from the pitch black hole he fell down. It looks like an office. An office he has seen before.
Oh fuck.
"Steven? Steven, can you hear me? I'm going to need you to stop screaming." Says the last person Steven wants to see. Crouched in front of him and looking well, and real, and very much alive, he regards Steven with that false sense of kindness and compassion - the end of his sentence twisting up slightly like he was talking to a frightened, mindless animal.
Dr. Harrow.
"You- You're supposed to be dead." Steven stammers.
The doctor raises an eyebrow, "Excuse me?"
"You're supposed to be dead," he repeats, "Jake killed you. He told us as much. How are you here?" Steven twists around in his chair, wide eyes taking in the bright office of the doctor. It looks the exact same as the last time he - they, he and Marc and Jake - had been here.
"Well, it's appears that Jake lied to you. Because, as you can see, I am very much alive." He chuckles, as if this statement was funny, and didn't sent chills down Steven's spine.
Steven shakes his head. "What am I doing here?" He whispers, staring down at his hands.
Dr. Harrow rises and begins talking again, something about mandatory therapy sessions and DID and whatnot, but Steven had stopped listening. There is a splinter in the center of his right hand, where he had been holding the bat earlier. But the bat was nowhere to be seen, having seemingly disappeared after Steven had appeared here. His eyes travel further to the floor, where a small pile of blood gathers under his bare feet. He pulls at the legs of his pants, raising them to look at his ankle. Sure enough, it was bleeding; a line of split skin from the cuff - which, like the bat, was now gone - surrounded by a large circular bruise covering his ankle in a deep purple.
What. Is. Happening?
"Steven, were you listening?" Dr. Harrow asks, finally noticing that he had not been playing attention to his monologue.
They spend a moment staring at each other, before Steven breaks the eye contact. "This is all a mistake - a nightmare, really. Yeah, a nightmare. I'm not supposed to be here. Here, this place, this isn't real... I'm not dead, we're not dead, so I'm not supposed to be here. You're dead. Jake killed you, he shot you. You're not alive, so this isn't real." He's rambling, he knows he's rambling and he knows he sounds like he's gone absolutely batty, but he knows he truth.
The doctor sighs, like he is talking to a child who just won't listen. Steven bristles at the sound, "You don't believe me."
"You'll have to forgive me, but no, I do not. We have this conversation every session without fail, so I've grown tired of having to repeating myself. This is something the others have grown to understand and come to accept, despite how stubborn and challenging they can be, and yet we have to have this conversation once more. Why do you think that is, Steven? Why do you think it is so hard for you to accept the simple truths of the world?" Dr. Harrow asks, but Steven doesn't give him the satisfaction of a reaction. He just frowns and glares at the glasses perched on the bridge of the doctor's nose.
"This, right here," Dr. Harrow stated in annoyance as he gestured to the two of them and the office, "is the real world, Steven Grant. Even Marc, his mind so tortured and broken it fractured into three different people, and Jake, homicidal maniac he is, understand that this is real. Those dreams, or hallucinations, or whatever you wish to call them - of superheroes and Egyptian Gods talking to you - are not real."
Steven jumps to his feet, not even caring to hide a wince as his right foot hits the cold floor. "Oi, do not talk about them like that. You hear me? Do not." He says, his voice deadly serious.
This catches the doctor by surprise, the venom lacing his words.
"And why is that? You and I both know I speak the truth. You and Jake were created because Marc suffered a immense amount of trauma in his childhood, it made him who he is today. It created all of you. It made Jake vicious and irrational. It made Marc violent and unwilling to ask for help. And it made you, Steven, weak and in constant need of saving."
"That's not true! Marc and Jake are not bad!" Steven cries, defending his alters. He wasn't going to dispute what Harrow said about him, because there was no need, was there?
"They're not?" The doctor did not look convinced.
"No, they're not. And they're not violent. They just want to protect the system; Marc and Jake just want to protect us."
"And you don't?"
Steven was thrown off by the question, all his bravado from earlier disappearing instantly, mouth gape as he lifted his hands to his chest. He clutched them together, ringing them slightly. The splinter pulled at his skin. "...I do. I do, I just have my own way of doing so. There are different methods of protecting something that don't require you to have to be... More Aggressive."
His words are unsteady, like he is trying to convince himself as much as he is trying to convince Harrow.
"You mean dangerous." Harrow suggested.
"They aren't dangerous!" Shouts Steven. The doctor raises his eyebrows and Steven takes a limping step back, shrinking in on himself. He twists the fabric of the long sleeves of his navy pullover between his fingers, eyes cast down at his feet. "They aren't. They rarely get violent - it's only used as a last resort.... W-When there is a threat."
Dr. Harrow steps closer and it feels like he towers over Steven, making him feel impossibly small. "Both Marc and Jake have become violent with me on several occasions. Are you saying they see me as a threat?"
"If the shoe fits, mate," Steven mutters under his breath.
If Harrow hears this, he gives no response. He just walks back to his desk with his cane in hand and sits down. He motions with his hand for Steven to take a seat as well. Steven remains standing, not moving from his spot. His leg throbbed from the strain of having to stand on an injury, but he would rather die again then give the doctor the satisfaction of seeing him follow an order. Maybe Steven from a few months ago would have listened right away, the same Steven who was foolish enough to trust Harrow and walk right into a trap.
Maybe that Steven from months ago and the one who stood in front of the doctor today were the same, and nothing had changed.
"Can we please continue on with the session," Dr. Harrow asks as he readjusts his glasses, "or are you going to continue to be difficult and argumentative?"
Steven crosses his arms, "I don't think I'm being argumentative."
Rubbing his temple, Dr. Harrow sighs, "Of course you don't."
"In fact, I think we're done here," states Steven. He takes a limping step closer to the door exiting the office, and then another. "I think I'm good on the therapy front here, doctor. I'm ready to go home, and go back to the way things are. With the two people who mean the most to me, as well as my best friend Layla. So, thank you, but I'm leaving now."
"You know you can't do that, Steven. You know that that door remains locked for the entire duration of your sessions." His voice is chilling, unsettlingly monotone and cold.
Steven stops, going stock still. "What?" He breaths out the question in an uneasy voice.
"The door is locked, and will remain locked until four o'clock. Go ahead," Dr. Harrow gestures to the offending door behind Steven, "try it. I assure you, I am telling the truth. I often am, but all of you in your body never seem to trust me. Why is this that?"
He ignores the question in favor of limping towards the doorknob, his movement shaky and hesitant. Steven grasps the handle firmly, and twists. It doesn't budge.
"See?" Harrow calls from behind him.
"Why would you lock the door?" He questions, leveling the doctor with a skeptical glance. "That seems like a safety hazard... And highly unprofessional."
The doctor laces his hands together and rests them on his clear desk. "Your fellow alters attempt an escape at least once per session; which wastes my time, it wastes the orderlies' time, and it wastes other patients' time as well. And knowing you, Steven, you don't want to put others out. Or inconvenience them." Harrow glanced up and chuckled as if recalling something particularly funny, "Jake's record is five attempts in one session. We have had to start strapping him down to the chair just to keep him here, and I always have to keep an extra sedative on hand just in case he gets too rowdy." He pats a pocket on his sweater vest.
Eyes widening, Steven limps slightly closer to the supposed doctor. "No! Please don't do that! Jake's claustrophobic - leasing him in place will only upset him more." He pleads.
"Oh?" Dr. Harrow raises an eyebrow, "Is that so?"
Nodding feverishly, "Yes. Tight, confined spaces, and being stuck and unable to move sends Jake into an utter panic. Please don't do that to him."
"Alright, I will keep that in mind for next time." He pauses, as if lost in thought before continuing, "You seem to care an awful lot for the others, yes?"
Steven cocks his head to the side, what kind of a question was that? "Yeah, of course."
"You're empathetic, and compassionate, and kind-hearted to a fault. You care a great deal for two people who appear to be incapable of reciprocating these feelings. And yet, you continue to look out for and stand up for Marc and Jake. Why is that?"
Had he not of been thrown off by this topic that Harrow seemed so keen on pursuing, Steven would not have answered. And yet, he weirdly felt a need to justify himself. "Because they have both done so much for me, it's the least I could do for them. A little kindness and human decency can go a long way. And... And I like being kind. I know that out there, in the world, people don't often choose to be nice. Sometimes it's easier to choose not to be. But I know from my own experience, that one simple act can improve someone's day and really make a difference."
"And do people often return the favor?"
Steven stops and thinks for a moment. He is reminded of Donna, always so bitter and making snide comments both to Steven's face and behind his back. Of his former coworkers, who couldn't even be bothered to learn his name. Or of the people who gave him strange looks in public, just because he was a bit odd - usually looking down on him unfavorably due to becoming overwhelmed occasionally or his old habit of falling asleep on public transit. And, most of all, he thinks back to Harrow. Arthur Harrow, who had taken advantage of Steven's disposition to obtain the scarab, who shot them and brought them here to this asylum in the first place. Who passed judgement on people before they even had the chance to decide how they were going to behave.
"No."
"And why is that?"
"I... I don't know." He admitted.
Dr. Harrow leans back in his chair. "Well, I believe there may be several reasons. One is, like you said earlier, sometimes it is easier to choose not to be. Sometimes it is easier to just steamroll over people instead of taking the time out of your day to be kind. Another could be that you may not come off the way you intend. People might think you're trying too hard, or that you want something from them - much like activists in parks chatting strangers up to try and get them to donate to a cause.
"But, it could also be that you've just made it easier for people take advantage of you. By being compassionate, you're basically waving a white flag that reads 'I'm a doormat! Walk all over me!' Others will then be able to identify that you are an easy target, because you're kind. You come of as very meek and unsure of yourself, and - you'll have to forgive my bluntness - pathetic." Dr. Harrow expounds without a single hint of sympathy. No, there's something similar in the words, but twisted and bitter - cruelpity, Steven thinks resentfully.
Again, like many times in the conversation, Steven finds himself speechless. How was he supposed to respond to that? Was he even supposed to? Or, was this a time where the doctor was correct?
He wasn't exactly subtle in his methods of getting through to the British man. Steven's eyes watered against his will as he thought back to how Harrow had made him confront the fact that his mother - his actual one, not the image he had built in his head - was dead.
"I would say the way you are is akin to that of a worm, would you? After a nice shower of rain, they wiggle their way to the surface to enjoy it, but become stuck and eventually dry out, and die. Because they are too stupid, or perhaps stubborn, to retreat. All because they got the tiniest taste of a good thing." Explained Harrow, looking at Steven but not seeming to see him. Almost like he saw through him, to his insides. "You are that way with people and human decency. You want it, you crave it. You are so desperate for it that you willing give it away to others in a failed attempt to receive just a smidge back. But, did you ever ask yourself if you deserved to be treated kindly?"
Steven blinked at the doctor, a frown etching its way deep into his face. The tears that had begun to brew earlier now fell softly, wetting his pullover when they met. "Please stop." It barely comes out, more of a ghost of a whisper than not.
Dr. Harrow ignored his plead, continuing with his belittlement of the crying man before him. "What? You think just because you act all sweet and innocent, you deserve to be treated fairly? Like a person, when you hardly qualify as one? Please don't kid yourself, Steven, it just makes you look more pathetic than you already are."
"Why are you telling me this?" His voice cracks, as the tears build and build and build, until his vision is almost too blurry to see properly.
"Because, it is my job as your doctor in this institution to help you come to realize these facts. As I told you earlier, I often tell the truth, and yet you continually choose to not believe me. You don't want me to discuss Marc and Jake, and their faults during our sessions? Fine, then I will gladly point out yours. Maybe then you will come to realize that this isn't the make-believe you insist on it being. This is real life.
"And, to be honest with you, I've grown tired of our sessions together. At least Marc puts up a fight and Jake is mildly entertaining. You," he sighs like Steven is the biggest inconvenience there is, "you're just boring. You whine and cry, and you're so miserable. Always in constant need of saving, can't do anything yourself. It's always 'Oh, Marc! Come help me Marc!' or 'Jake, please, save me!' Well, boohoo, Steven."
Steven's knees buckle and he sinks to the floor, his injured leg finally give out. He lands hard, his knees sting. But it is nothing compare to the pain in his chest, the doctor's cruel words cutting straight to his core. His breath catches in his chest, becoming erratic and too thin.
"Please," he begs.
"Do you think either of them act like this? No, they don't. They act like adults, not an insufferable child like you do. And it is my professional opinion that both Marc and Jake would be making progress in their sessions, if they went so bogged down by you. Because you are a fucking burden."
A sob punctuates the end of the Harrow's words as Steven curls further in on himself, head tucked onto the top of his thighs. His voice fails him as he tries to beg the doctor to stop, to just stop and leave him be.
Why can't he just leave him be?
Even with eyes squeezed shut so tightly that it hurts, Steven knows that he's somewhere different now. He could feel it - the shift in locations; the way the tile floor morphs into a wooden one under his legs, the change in temper that wracks a shiver through his already trembling body, all of it. He is in the same position as before in Dr. Harrow's office, curled in on himself on his knees with his forehead pressed firmly into the soft fabric of his joggers.
Sobs silently tear through his body. He doesn't scream, he doesn't make a sound. He wants to. Oh, how badly Steven wants to. He wants to scream, to shout, to curse, to make any bloody sound. But he can't. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out - just hot breath against his thighs and excess drool from the crying. Despite how much he wants to do something to fill the void, Steven remains silent.
Everything hurts. His injuries from early throb, the pain still persisting despite what feels like eternities passing. A headache pounds behind his eyes, adding to the pressure there from the crying. But, above all, his heart aches.
It aches for Marc. It aches for Jake. For all the things they've loved, they've lost, and they'll never have. But it doesn't ache for Steven.
He feels nothing for himself except loathing.
Once his tears have dried, a second set follow not far behind. But they don't linger. Eventually, he is just laying there on the floor, breathing slowly. Steven doesn't feel any better; he is still upset, but a hollow feeling has overtaken the need to cry.
He finally finds the courage to look around to his new surrounds, and much to his disappointment, he doesn't recognize where he is. It's reminiscent of the layout of hallways of the asylum where he and Marc went when they died. Except, it has the same lighting as the washroom he had been in earlier - the fuchsia still grating on his eyes. The matte black walls and glowing symbols have even followed him out this far.
Frigid air sends a prickle down Steven's spine, goosebumps popping up along his arms under his pullover. A breeze makes his tearstained face feel tacky, but he resists the urge to wipe them away.
He sits up on his knees and pain spikes up in his ankle, but he chooses to ignore it. Instead he focuses on something else that catches his attention; beside him on the floor is the bat from earlier, his bat. How it got here, he hasn't the faintest clue. But it was here with him now.
That was more than he could say about his alters.
As soon as he thinks the negative thought, he immediately feels guilty. It wasn't their fault that Steven was here and they weren't. It was like Harrow had said, he just had a knack for getting himself in trouble. And needing to be saved, a voice of doubt tells him in his head.
He doesn't disagree with it.
Using the bat as support, he rising to his feet. He's annoyed to find that he is still limping when he walks - it was moments like this when he wished that he still had the healing help from Khonshu. He didn't miss that silly old bird in the slightest, but he did have his perks about him.
He began walking forward, towards what he wasn't sure. But it sure wasn't going to do him any good standing around, twiddling his thumbs. Much to his chagrin, he finds that this plane of existence, or wherever he was, had a lot more in common with the halls of the asylum than he had initially thought. The hallway as a whole rocked slightly - like the boat on the Duat had - and was aligned with dark wooden doors with windows that allowed you to peer in, but they didn't reveal anything help. They just showed memories of Steven's - particularly mean-spirited ones at that; Donna yelling at him in front of visitors at the museum, being hunted down by the jackal, being shot at by Harrow's men, etc. Really, just stuff he didn't want to relive.
The farther he walked, the louder and nastier the memories got. Steven wanted desperately to shut out the sound, to cover his ears with his hands like a child might. But that would just be proving Harrow right, would it?
One of the doors had him wishing he would just get over himself and cover his ears though.
To his left, he heard a static voice demanding that he lose their number. He turned to face the door, and was met with his own face. He - past Steven - was sat outside at a steak house, looking as though he was playing dress up in someone else's clothes, and looking absolutely miserable. His eyes were downcast, his frown droopy, curls falling out of what little hold the gel he had used held. A waiter walked past and he ordered a steak, and ate it slowly and sadly. Once the memory finished, it picked back up from the beginning again.
Who's to say how long he stood there, watching the memory over and over again. But every time it restarted, he just grew more and more upset. Harrow was right, he thought bitterly, he really was pathetic.
His grip around the bat in his right hand tighten and before he knew what he was doing, he swung it into the glass of the window. The memory shattered on impact, showering shards everywhere. Several small pieces scratched his hand, but he didn't care. It was finally quiet. He chuckled a little - it was more of a giggle really, a bit of the hysterical side. He was crying too, his cheeks wet, but he didn't care. It was quiet.
The quiet didn't last long, the voice of Donna from behind him pulling him from his minor euphoria. He whipped around, almost tripping over his bad ankle, and found her degrading his work. She was yelling at him in this memory window, past Steven visibly hyperventilating. But Donna didn't understand, and kept up her tirade.
Steven raised his bat again. He had always hated her voice. "Fuck you, Donna," he spat through gritted teeth, and struck the memory. Again, it shattered, but this time his giddy euphoria was replaced with a searing hatred. Was this how Jake and Marc had felt in the past? Did it even matter?
Steven began a tirade of his own, storming down the hall and striking any window memory he came across. Those two phony officers who had arrested him in his flat? Destroyed. The men that had shot at Layla in Egypt? Obliterated. J.B. calling him 'Scotty'? Good luck going to work in the memory after Steven was done with you, mate.
All the while, he yelled at the memories, at the people in them who hurt him or who refused to help him. Here, he found the voice he lost earlier and oh, did he scream.
He yelled until his voice cracked and his throat was hoarse, and he couldn't anymore.
It felt cathartic, like an immense weight was being lifted from his shoulders. Normally Steven would not behave this way, too scared to upset someone and draw attention to himself to make a sound. But here, it was nobody's business what he did. And he let it all out. All the trauma and anguish and self-loathing, and everything he had in him came rushing out in a desperate roar.
There was only one memory he hesitated on shattering; a lone door at the end of the hallway drenched in that obnoxious fuchsia lighting. He stood there staring at this one with his shoulders tense, jaw clenched, and breathing raged longer than he had the Dylan one. In this memory, he watched as his mum screeched at a young Marc, who sobbed hopelessly, as he stood there. Older Marc, his Marc, was trying to drag him away. Wendy Spector kept going on and on, screaming at the young boy that it was his fault his brother had died.
At this one, his anger turned to something darker and uglier - pure unfiltered rage. Rolling his shoulders and rising his bat, he swung wide.
Steven feels the swing connect before he even registers that his surroundings have changed once again. He is momentary blinded by stark white lights. He can barely hear the slam against skin over his own screaming, but what he does make out in the madness is a pain of cry and something falling bodily.
Bloodshot eyes shoot open at the noise, and Steven finds himself once again in Dr. Harrow's office. Clutching not his bat, but Harrow's cane. Standing over a fallen Harrow, staring up at Steven with shock in his eyes as blood fell from a large gash on his temple.
The cane fell from his grip and hit the ground with a clatter, landing near the doctor's shattered glasses.
His hands fly up to cover his mouth, all the rage and anguish he felt burning deep within him having fizzled out into terror that paralleled Harrow's. "Oh my days!" Steven gasped, his voice cracking from the screaming, "Dr. Harrow, I'm so sorry! I-I didn't mean- I wasn't- I was trying to- I'm so, so, so sorry. Please, I'm so sorry!"
He tried to take a step closer on shaky legs to help the prone doctor, but Harrow flinched back.
"You stay back, Steven Grant!" He cried, pointing an accusing finger towards the British man. "You stay right where you are, don't come any closer!"
"No sir, please! I didn't mean to hit you!"
"You didn't mean to attack me with my own cane?" He questioned incredulously.
"I-I- I don't know what happened!" Steven tried to explain, "I thought I was somewhere else. I thought I was about to break out of a never-ending hallway and finally be able to go home!" His hands fluttered around, shaky from the adrenalin comedown.
A loud rapping on the office door startled Steven, causing him to flinch back. His heart pounded as the sharp adrenalin from earlier was replaced by debilitating panic and dread. "Dr. Harrow, are you alright? We heard screaming, do you need our assistants?" A orderly called from behind the door.
The doctor's attention shot from his accusatory glare at Steven to the door, "Yes! Yes, please come in."
The door flies open, and three orderlies storm in, their eyes widening as they take in the scene before them. One of them, an older man with flowing white hair Steven vaguely recalled being called Crawley, rushed over to Dr. Harrow's side. The other two, the 'officers' who arrested Steven in his apartment, dashed towards Steven and gripped his arms. "Harrow, sir, what happened!"
"He attacked me!" Harrow exclaimed, despite Steven frantically shaking his head. "I was just trying to conduct my session with him and help him get better, when this madman grabbed my cane and hit me with it out of nowhere!"
"No, no! That's not what happened. I didn't mean to!" Steven cried. The tight grasps on his upper arms burned like a fire. He tried to break out of their grip, to get as far away from their touch as he could, but they held strong. He could feel his panic building into a full-blown attack, seizing his muscles and causing him to tremble. "Please let go of me."
"What would you like us to do, Dr. Harrow?" The man on Steven's right asked, elbowing him in the ribs when he tried to tug away, as Crawley helped the doctor to his feet.
"I'm afraid we are going to have to take the same precautions with Steven Grant as we do his alters. For now," Harrow dusted himself off, seemingly fine now despite the blood still drippling from his temple, and reached into his sweater vest's pocket, "I believe it is in everyone's best interest - including Steven's - that we return him to his room and begin him on stronger medication. As he is clearly struggling with differentiating between what is real and what is a hallucination." He said firmly, and pulled a syringe from his pocket.
Steven began thrashing harder, trying to break free and get out of there. "No, please stop! Please, I'm so sorry. No, no. Stop!" The two orderlies forced him down to the floor, pressing him flat on his front with a foot on the small of his back pinning him to the tiles. Hands moved from his upper arms to his wrists, tugging them together. "Please don't touch me!" He begged, but his pleads fell on deaf ears.
"This is for your own good, Steven Grant of the giftshop," the doctor said calming as he stepped closer. He moved slowly, one step taking eternities, as if time itself was also out to get him. He didn't know what he did to piss off the concept of time, but he probably deserved this - just like he deserved all the awful things that happened to him. "I was wrong about you. I thought that maybe, just possibly, the weak and pathetic front you put on was genuine. But now I see it is all fake. You are a burden and you deserve this." Harrow declared, crouching down and jabbing the needle into the trembling man's neck.
Steven screamed, tears falling anew, and selfishly he called out for his alters to help him, save him, or even just to be with him as his eyes were forced closed against his will.
Tires shrieking on asphalt and the smell of burning rubber pulls Steven in consciousness. He jerked up, almost pitching himself right over again as he was hit with a rush of vertigo. Once the world came into focus, he found himself sitting on a familiar street. His old street - or, well, Marc's old street - the one he grew up on.
Steven huffed. He was getting real tired of closing his eyes one place and opening them somewhere else.
He took a moment to take stock of himself before he even humored the idea of standing up. He was still wearing his clothes from the asylum - which was good, and was still barefoot - not as good, and still had that damned cuff on his right ankle - definitely not good. The cut it had left had stopped bleeding a while ago, but his leg as a whole throbbed and was bruised like there was no tomorrow. He was pretty sure he had at the least twisted his ankle trying to escape the chains. His shoulder ached as well, but that was lower on his list of concerns. There was a crick in his neck, surely from the needle Harrow had used.
Lord, that had turned into quite the shit show.
Slowly rising to his feet - which turned out to be a difficult task as it seemed the sedative wasn't finished yet, Steven sighed and rubbed at his eyes with his sleeve. What he wouldn't give to be back in his flat, laying in bed as someone else fronted so he didn't have to exist for a while.
Limping slowly, Steven ventured out into the street, trying to determine why he was here. Was this the real world and he had just so happened to find himself on his childhood street? Was this a hallucination, like Dr. Harrow claimed he had been having? Or, was this memory, like he had experienced with Marc what felt like lifetimes ago. People passed him without a glance, so either they could see him or they were actively choosing to ignore him. So, not much different from his everyday life.
But, given the fact that he was covered in tears and blood, he was inclined to believe they couldn't see him.
He peered around at the streets and the homes, trying to find something he recognized. Something that could help him out of this mess he found himself in. Anything.
"Steven?" A voice called hesitantly, as if the person wasn't sure he was actually here. He flinched at the sound subconsciously - the last time he followed a voice calling him, he wound up getting berated in an office. "Steven!" It called again, more sure of itself and excited.
He spun around, searching for the sound, and also tripped over himself when he spotted who was calling for him.
"Jake?"