Wow, how long has it been since I posted the first chapter of this story? I feel like a jerkwad right now…. Things haven't been the easiest for me lately, although that's no excuse. Oh, guess what? My teacher nearly gave me a heart attack the other day. We get a peek at our report card's and in English, he said I got an 84 in reading, and 85 in writing, and a 90 in Oral and Visual Communication. In my school, the eighties are an A- and an A, and the nineties are all A+, but in varying range. I know, it seems okay, right? Well, as an Enriched English student, I expect better then that in my grades, especially since las t year, I got a 95 in reading, a 94 in writing, and a 95 in oral and visual communication. So, anyways, my tacher comes up to a me a day or so after showing me my 80s, and says that he was actually looking at someone else's marks, when he typed up my report card, and that my reading and writing marks were actually in the 90s, and that my oral mark is higher! As you can imagine, I was pretty pissed. I nearly had a mental breakdown at home the night I was shown the rough draft of my report card (pathetic, I know, but that's the way I roll). However, I couldn't say anything, because I was in the middle of a 24 hour vow of silence for the charity Free the Children, otherwise known as Me to We. On the bright side, however, I have my first 'A' in science ever. An 81! Woo-hoo! My dad's very proud of me, (this is where I smile in an overly retarded and enthusiastic manner) because my math and science marks are up in the 'A's. I'm now freaking out because I'm preparing to go to high school, and I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing.

Anyways, sorry for this overly long A/N, and without further ado, here's the chapter!

An Apolitical Blues; BPOV;

Dreams are meant to be an escape. A refuge, for those of us who walk – or drag- themselves through the day, their only motivation the promise of a warm, soft bed, and sweet oblivion, supplied by the dreams of innocence we give to ourselves.

I have none of this. I do not have a warm, soft bed: my sheets are cheap wool, scratchy and falling apart at the seams, to barren to be warm, with a mattress stuffed with lumps of unidentifiable material crammed tightly into a too-small cot; nut even my pillow offers any comfort, hard, too hard, and foul smelling, issuing an odor with an unpleasant, sour smell, like spoiled milk. The underside of it is stiff and stained, with what, I do not wish to know.

As for my dreams- if I had but one wish right now, it would be for me to have no dreams; to simply drift in unconsciousness, unbothered by any trivial matters, or any deep wounds, simply too deep to be mended by the harsh waves of time.

You see, when I dream, it is not pleasant things that dance through my mind. It is a terrifying whirl of blood; a cascade of gore; a dance of pure terror, one in which I am eternally partnered with fear. The fear of the shadows; fear of the things that go bump in the night. Fear of the past that haunts me, and what it is that stalks me.

Fear of myself.

I roll onto my back, arms wrapped around my chest, holding myself together, as best I can- it does little. I've never found something to stem the pain, ebb the flow. I doubt that I ever will.

Light penetrates my eyelids, coloring the skin, forcing me to remember that it is morning.

Not that I have a schedule. I can sleep until about 10 A.M., at which point a nurse will deliver me my breakfast, which varies, depending on the day of the week.

Today is Wednesday, which means porridge. I hate porridge. It is tasteless and vile, slimy and sticky.

It is not, however, the meal that I dread the most. The food is nothing. It is, rather, the nurse that I would prefer to have tossed in a garbage can.

She is a short thing, shorter then I, which unusual indeed, as I stand at a mere 5"4. She barely clears 5"3, and even that is only with the assistance of her massive tangle of curls, a frizzy brown catastrophe no doubt born of excessive hair-spray.

Her name is Jessica Stanley, from what I have collected. I listen, I pay attention to each little detail- that is something I do, as best a distraction as I can get, perfection within a world of chaos; that is my sole salvation now.

However, that is drifting off topic. It is quite clear that nurse Stanley dislikes me as much as I dislike her.

No one likes me. Not even the other patients. I suppose, in a way, I've earned it. I have not talked since the night my parents died, those three years ago. I do not even display any behavior whatsoever that I even comprehend what people say to me.

I've gained the status of "mental cripple" here in the Twilight Sanitarium. And, as such, am treated with little respect. I am called names, am treated cruelly, like an animal, almost, insulted in the worst of ways. Because I am not expected to retaliate.

And I don't.

I don't see the pint in it. What satisfaction will it give me? Will it bring my parents back to life? Improbably. Impossible.

The funny thing, however, is the fact that the Twilight Sanitarium is supposed to be the best Sanitarium in the United States. Yet it treats its residents so cruelly.

I suppose, in some twisted way, that that is what makes this Sanitarium so efficient a place- it simply scares its residents back into sanity.

And that is where it fails to meet with my needs- not that they shall ever be met by any place.

The reason this place cannot help me, is because I am not insane. I am merely broken, in spirit and in mind. And there is nothing that can fix that sort of thing. I am not to be mended. I came to terms with that as best I could years ago.

I wish so very much that I could be normal once more. That I could go to school, and struggle in math like every other, cry over the stupidest things, gossip with friends, and fawn over the cutest boys in school.

But I don't think that I'll ever be able to do any of those things ever again. Its simply to normal, mundane- and those mundane things are what I miss, because that are the simplest and most necessary of pleasures, yet too close to my past, always tearing at my heart at the slightest of innuendoes. A dagger in my heart, twisting and ripping, leaving me broken and bleeding on the inside once more.

Just a day. One day, it's all I ask. One day without the pain, the suffering. I don't care how it comes about, as long as it happens. I can fall into a coma, I can be dragged into some shadowed corner, unconscious, to be murdered by an inmate of Twilight Sanitarium. Either way, I can offer my synergy.

I open an eye. All I see is the white of the walls. The white of the ceiling. The pale wood of the floors.

I open the other eyes, rolling my head to the side, staring at my room.

If there is one positive thing to be said of Twilight Sanitarium, it is this; the accommodations are pleasant enough, if one pays enough for boarding. The town of Forks pays for my housing.

At the mention of Forks, the blade in my heart jerks violently once more.

To distract myself, I cast my eyes about the all too familiar room.

My room is spacious, which, in its lack of furniture, gives off more of a mien of emptiness. Very few pieces of furniture are in my room. A wardrobe in the far left corner, several feet to the right of that, a small desk and wooden chair. A overstuffed armchair striped with white and yellow is in the far right corner.

My favorite feature of the room, however, is the window on the far left wall.

It bulges out from the rest of the wall, enabling a small rest, which is covered with a long, rectangular cushion.

I have spent countless days sitting there, staring out the window into the outside world.

The Sanitarium is surrounded by a large park full of trees and flowers and shrubbery. The park itself is enclosed by a ten-foot-tall stone wall, with black iron spikes protruding every inch or so from the top.

I can't remember the last time I smelled fresh air.

I can't remember the last time I felt the cool caress of the wind,

I can't remember the last time I felt the welcoming sensation of sunrays on skin.

Neither can I recall the tickle of grass upon my bare skin, the chirping of birds as they sang from where they are perched in the trees, nor the welcome feeling of rain drops kissing my skin.

I have seen it all from my room, which I always try my hardest not to leave. However, I am weekly subjected to "socialization" with the other inmates of this Sanitarium. Apart from that, I never leave my room, not even for the bathroom, as there is a door close to my bed that leads into an adjoined washroom, complete with bathtub- no shower. Showers used to be my favorite.

There is a knock on the door leading into the hallway, and the heavy metal of it makes a loud, low screeching noise of protest as it swings inwards, revealing nurse Stanley, standing there with her expression of pure contempt, as she strides in, with disdain and repugnance, towards me.

She sets it down on the floor in front of me, before tearing my sheets off of me. "Get up." Her voice is hard and steely.

I do not comply, merely lying the way I have been for the past many minutes.

"I said, get UP!" Her fingers put harsh pressure upon the flesh of my arm, as she drags me up into a sitting position. When she releases me, I do not move, merely stay in the position she has placed me in.

"Eat." She commands.

My eyes gaze at her, through her, glassy and distant.

"Fine. Starve. I don't give a damn."

I do not move.

She stoops down a little to my level. "Jesus Christ, you don't see shit, do you?" Her hand waves in front of my face. "Little shit." She swears, shaking her head in disbelief.

"Hey? Hey you! Can. You. Hear. Me?"

I do nothing. Say nothing.

She places two fingers on the skin of my hand, pinching my flesh between two manicured nails, cutting into my skin.

It stings harshly, and she applies more pressure.

My eyes water, yet I do not blink, do not respond, give her no hint that I am aware of anything she is doing.

She withdraws her hand, and as she does so, I can feel beads of hot liquid trickle down the back of my hand, between the crevices between my third and fourth finger.

"Fuckin' freak." Nurse Stanley says, exiting the room, her voice a low mutter, for her ears only. Yet they reach mine, but only because to her, I have none.

As the door closes behind her with another shriek, and a small click, I finally look down, down at my hand.

Crimson red stains the porcelain white of my skin, stains my chemise-like night gown, white as snow. The contrast between my blood and the material is a startling one.

I turn to tray. Porridge, a glass of milk, a wedge of grapefruit.

My stomach growls, a slight sound, but I ignore it. Bile churns to greatly in my stomach for me to contemplate eating this morning. It would be a waste of effort, for it to only be thrown up the way it came down.

With this thought, I stand. I grab my white house coat, a thin material that still manages to give off slight warmth, and slide in on over my night gown, walking in small, shuffling steps towards my window, sitting down on the cushioned seating carved into the wall beneath the window.

There, I relax my back against the wall, legs drawn up, into my chest, arms wrapped around them, my cheek resting against the harshly cold pane of glass, barred by metal on the outside, as spatters of rain begin to fall from the cloudy sky, the sky weeping as I have, so very many times.

End of chapter 2. This goes out to Bellgren, for letting me do this story. You rock! Sorry I haven't updated in a while.