Here it is, my first Bones fanfic! Aren't you guys proud? xD

Disclaimer- I wish I owned Bones, but I don't. I wish I owned Zack Addy, but I don't. I wish Eric Millegan owned me, but he doesn't. xD

Author Say's- Enjoy!



I looked around the small cell-like room. Sure, it wasn't the lab…or my house, but it was a lot homier than prison. Prison. That was where I was supposed to be…considering the crime that I had claimed to commit.

Murder. I shuddered at the thought.

I wondered what my fellow scientists at the Jeffersonian thought of me now, being a "killer." And my family. It seems like years since I have seen any of them.

Each day here is pretty simple.

First, I get served breakfast in my room. Most of the food is water-soluble, for now. They won't even trust me with a fork. They say I haven't reached that point in my "life journey."

I don't take much interest in psychology. Dr. Brennan never really cared for it, so neither did I.

Silverware isn't much use to me right now. I refuse to be fed by anyone other than myself, but because of this, it takes me at least an hour to finish my meal.

The reason that my hands are inferior at the moment is because bandages are still wrapped tightly around each hand…from the explosion. It's been two months now and they still wont let me take them off. The hospital is in the midst of my phalange reconstruction. They've taken some flesh off my gastrocnemius and my gluteus maximus to do some skin graphs on my left pointer finger, middle finger, and thumb. My ring finger and pinkie finger on the left hand are, more or less, destroyed. On my right hand they are doing graphs on every finger except my pinkie. The fingers which cannot be reconstructed will be replaced by prosthetics.

They do not know how long these surgeries will last. I estimate that I'll have my bandages on for two and a half months more.

I would be able to calculate more accurately, but these sedatives they put me on cloud my brain. Every time that I ask them if using sedatives on patients in the mental ward is legal, they simply walk away. I suppose the reason that they put me on them is because they render me "dangerous," though with these bandages, there is little that I could possibly do to harm them.

But back to the schedule.

At precisely 10: 15 am, the ward let's in visitors. The visitors can only come Sunday through Wednesday and only one visitor is allowed access into the facility per mental patient.

I haven't had any visitors yet.

They bring me out of my room out at visiting time and put me into a small cubicle in a row of about ten cubicles. Each cubicle is occupied by one man. All of the men in my row have been brought in for murders.

Jonathan Brandy, the man to the right of my cubicle who murdered two cops, has a visitor everyday.

Her name is Sandy Smithers and she is his ex-fiancé. She has obtrusive cheek bones and incredibly white blond hair that is most certainly bleached. I would say her natural hair tone is a sandy brown considering that her hair turns more like that color toward the end of each month.

Over all, I would say that she is fairly attractive.

Mr. Brady and her are no longer engaged, Sandy tells me, though there is an "undeniable spark" between them.

That's what she says at least. I for one see no spark. She's not really supposed to be talking to me, but seeing that I have no one else to converse with, I frequently rebuff the rule.

Everyday she asks me if I want her to blow me a kiss good bye. Everyday my answer is the same, "If you would like to, Miss Smithers."

She breaks into a fit of giggles whenever I say that. I never thought it was so humorous.

When visiting hour is up, at 11:15 am, we report back to our cells.

At 12:30 pm, lunch is served. It is very similar to breakfast.

At 2:00 pm, I begin therapy. These sessions are conducted by Dr. Melissa Calder. She asks me series of questions which I answer as simply as possible.

"Why did you become Gormagons's apprentice, Mr. Addy?"

"It's Dr. Addy actually. I completed my degree when…"

"Dr. Addy, answer my question."

"He made me feel important.'

"Why did that make you feel important?"

"I was his apprentice."

"Why was being his apprentice important?"

"I was the second in command and was being trained by him."

"I know what an apprentice is, Dr. Addy. I want to know why it was important to be his apprentice."

"I just told you."

That's about the time that she picks up her briefcase and leaves.

At 4:30 pm, another psychiatric therapist comes in. His name is Dr. George Donovont. He does not ask me anything. He does not talk at all, except for a, "Hey there Dr. Addy," when he comes in.

At least he gets my name right.

Dr. Donovont observes my movement, my facial expressions, and my over all behavior. I think that his job is extremely ridiculous.

At 6:15 pm when he finally leaves, I am served dinner. Dinner is almost the same as breakfast and lunch, only I get a piece of texas toast accompanying the bowl of mush. I have never cared much for texas toast. It is far too greasy and the butter that is put on top could never be natural. They over season it with garlic and toast it until it turns all crumbly.

I must admit, though, that I have acquired a taste for the toast. It tastes much better than mush.

At 8:00 pm, Dr. Calder comes in to check on me again. This time, she doesn't ask questions. If she does, it's just small talk.

"How are you, Mr. Addy?"

"It's Dr. Addy. We already went over this."

"Dr. Addy."

"I'm well."

"Just well?"

"Am I supposed to be doing better than well?"

"Well…no…I guess not."


"Have you ever seen the movie Charlotte's Web?"


"Charlotte's Web. It's my daughter's favorite movie. She's five and I'm going to get it for her birthday next week when she turns six."

"I don't recall…"

"A talking pig becomes friends with a talking spider, and the spider saves his life from the farmer who is planning to slaughter him."

"No. I've never seen it."

"You never got out much, did you?"

"Not really."

At 9:15 pm, the lights are dimmed and I change into my outfit for tomorrow with some help from Dr. Donovont. It is rather infantile having to be helped by someone else while getting changed.

When I get into bed, I normally stare at the picture Angela once drew for me when I was king of the lab, which I taped to the cell wall, until I drift to sleep.


I took me forever, so please don't tell me my work was in vain.

R+R. Constructive criticism craved!