Author: JustAnotherStori PM
This is the story of what happened to Jewels after everything. I do not own Can't Get There From Here.Rated: Fiction T - English - Friendship - Jewel & OG - Chapters: 3 - Words: 1,776 - Reviews: 3 - Favs: 1 - Follows: 2 - Updated: 01-10-13 - Published: 02-09-12 - id: 7820812
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
This place isn't so bad, after a while. It's clean. Not clean like the creepy interrogation room Officer Johnson put me in. This looked clean. Everything is either white or blue. I had been given a room, with no roommate so far.
I've spent months here. I'd long since figured out that I'm not getting out. Daddy must be busy with international business. That must be why he hasn't bailed me out. Or maybe this is an elaborate plot invented by our publicist. An heiress put in a mental hospital? I can only imagine the type of coverage Daddy is getting. Fuck Paris. I'm what's hot now.
"John Doe?" I hear a voice say.
"Jewel," I correct my nurse.
She walks through the door in her pink scrubs. My nurse is a real sweetheart. Pretty, too. On the really bad days, she sometimes comes and talks to me. She let's me complain about how they put me in the men's wing. ( A fact that still insults me.) She actually listens. Now, if only she could get my name right.
She hands me two pills. A green pill and a blue pill. I get a pearly, little, white one later before dinner. I've never lived in a place that endorses pill popping. The only major difference is the drugs. No ecstasy, no MaryJay, not even the fake stuff. I can only take what I'm given.
"Not according to the records," She says.
"Fuck the records. My name is Jewel!"
She gives me a scolding look for cursing. We're not suppose to curse. They find it disrespectful or something. Well, I find hypocrisy disrespectful. After all the time spent getting us to open up and "express ourselves," they burden us with speech restrictions. We also can't talk about sex. We can't even say the word sex unless referring to gender identification. It's ridiculous.
After downing the pills with some water, I see my nurse with her lips pressed tightly together, like she's keeping in a smile.
"What?" I ask.
"Did they tell you yet?" Her voice comes out sort of whispery and strained..
"No. What is it?"
She finally let's the smile escape. "You're Level Six starting today!"
I can't help but widen my eyes at this. Level Six is the last level. After that, I'm outta here.
Everyone starts on level zero. You gotta work your way up and try not to get bunked down. Actually getting out is sometimes referred to as "Level Seven."
I'm a little too shocked for any real reaction, so I fake a smile. "Wow...That's great..."
She giggles and leaves the room. As soon as she's out, I let myself collapse onto the bed and stare up at the ceiling.
I feel a little guilty for not trying to escape. I should be trying to get bunked down, messing up on purpose to get kicked out. I should get back where I belong.
But when Officer Johnson brought me in, I felt too weak to fight back. I slumped around for weeks. I took any pill they gave me, I did everything I suppose to, and I did it all without even realizing it. It wasn't until two months later that I even realized I was on Level Two. The only reason I snapped out of it was because people kept questioning me. Why aren't you reaping the rewards? Level two means wandering the halls without an escort. Whoo-hoo.
The worst part is, I'm becoming what they want me to. It's those fucking pills. They're trying to trick me! Trick me into thinking everything I know is a lie! I'm actually starting to doubt the existence of my wealth. Crazy, right? Nobody can tell me my memories of Mum and Daddy are a lie. I remember them, damnit! We use to play together. We would take trips to the park in our Rolls Royce.
And 2moro and maggot and OG and Rainbow and- Those people. How do I know those people? I'm not like them. So why am I having these memories of them?
I remember them being my friends, and I remember 2moro. I remember making them a I've never been homeless.
And it was exactly like this, staring at the ceiling with a throbbing, torturous pain in my chest and head, that I thought; Where do I belong?