Dammit, sorry for taking so long on this chapter. Real life has been a heartless bitch to me. Anyway, here's the finale to my not-so-epic story.
I'm not crazy. I'm not. Really. Please, please, it's a mistake, I just.. Cracked a bit under pressure. That's all. Please, let me go home, I just need a vacation.
Words fell on deaf ears, sometimes answered with "That's what they all say."
Even the slightest mocking comment stung now.
Toughen up, you fool! Zis is only the beginning of your test! The repressed, success-depraved part of his mind screamed, Fred barely noticing that those very words just left his lips. If this was a test, Fred did not study hard enough.
"Shut up. This is your fault." Fred murmured, clenching his eyes tighter. They had been closed since he was thrown into his room, not wanted to see what he was thrown in. It was an observation room, he knew that much. And he was in a straightjacket.
Heh. Straightjackets made you hug yourself. Made you comfort yourself.
You only have yourself here, he noted, Yourself and whatever repressed personality that comes with you.
Indeed. And I am staying here until you TOUGHEN UP! There went his... Other mind again.
"Look. We're obviously going to have be in here for a while. So I should give you a name." Fred murmured.
MY NAME IZ NAPOLEON BONAPARTE!
"Alright, alright! Jeez, Napoleon it is, then." Fred said, blinking his eyes open.
He was scrunched in a corner. In a slowly getting less blurry observation room. Dull, grey walls. Starched white sheets on an uncomfortable looking bed. An old wooden chair. A large mirror/window next to a metal door.
Occainsonally, he could here something outside. Laughter, crying, talking, yelling.
Boyd talking to anyone who would listen.
Gloria laughing, soon to turn to choked sobs.
Edgar yelling about someone screwing up his paintings.
And Loboto enjoying it all.
Fred shut his eyes tightly. He didn't want to see this hell anymore. He had done something horrible a long time ago, and this was punishment.
This was purgatory.
And it iz not getting any better, Fred.
Sometimes, Napoleon would shut up and let Fred think for himself. Someone needed to continue rounds here. Crispin wasn't going to do it. Too blind now.
Gloria was always first. And she'd always smile and tell him about her latest performance and how it was. She buried herself into the deepest confounds of her head, staying in the good memories. Always staying in the spotlight.
Then it was Boyd. He was beyond the bars, but he still responded. A bit. On better days. So wrapped up in the conspiracy. To busy trying to save us all from an evil plot. The norm, at least for him.
Then it was Edgar. Painting beautiful potraits, then BAM. Bullfight. Tortured artists were apparently a dime a dozen, but none were like Edgar.
Then, sometimes, Sheila would come down. She'd tell Fred about her died, about how she found a turtle and Loboto let her keep it. She was hunched over now, hair tangled. A shadow of her former self.
Crispin would just watch Fred's self torture. Hated him too much to talk to him.
And Loboto would come down sometimes, screwing them up even more, throwing them back into relaspe. He wanted to keep them. He wanted a punching bag that could scream.
Maybe one day, Fred would get out of here. He's take his asylum mates with him, give them proper mental care, let them leave normal lives. Give them the happy ending they deserved.
But no. The asylum was dead as dust now, and someone had to haunt it. So all Fred could do was help. And try his hardest not to become a ghost.
So. It's over. And I have learned one thing
MAKE THE FANFIC BEFORE YOU PUT IT ON THE SITE, YOU IDIOT.
... Anyway. Thanks to the people who have been reviewing this mess since the beginning, thanks to my friends for giving me ideas, thanks for all your support, your check is in the mail. Now if you excuse me, I need sleep. Goodnight everybody!