She wakens, dark eyes wild and stands in her tiny (four walls, a bed; is there a door? I don't know I don't know, is there) room and curls into herself. Her nails are digging into her arms but she does not feel its sting, its itch.

(all she remembers is laughter bubbling out of (her lovers) lips, cold nights ripe with warmth and love (and lust; there is always lust) and the heat of (her; the only one she can see) fingers twisting, mirth and happiness staining her mind; I love you I love you she babbles still. The dark of her (I see only you) eyes, so clear in the light, so dark in the night, smile and Myka smiles back at her; I love you too.)

I. am. not. crazy. she scrawls on the walls and her fingers are sore; they do not give her a pen to write so she traces insanity's voice on the walls. The screams echoing from other rooms makes her want to fall, I am not crazy, she begs, but the stain on her soul keeps proving her wrong. (why else would she ever aim a gun at her beloved's head?)

We are the broken ones, she whispers to the stale air, we are locked up and we never see THOSE WE LOVE AGAIN.

Helena falters, nails scrambling into her skin. I want I want I want. She looks around at the four white walls. and. she. does. not. make. a. sound. She falls to the ground, hands digging into the careful white of the carpet they saw fit to place in her room. Insanity is whispering in her ear, the world is not fit for her, not fit for her, not fit for her, the whisper-soft voice static in her mind. (you grate; you hurt; get out get out get out) Her dark eyes stare at walls, blank white, pure white, and she sees only the vibrant red of Christina's blood staining her mind, her tiny daughter so much flesh, so much blood, who knew such a little body could hold so much blood, and she. wants. to. scream.

Scream and scream and scream and.

I love you, she wants to say, I love you I love you I love you, on repeat like a song she can't get out of her head, but who is she talking about.

This madness, she thinks, this damn thing. She has her lucid moments, when she looks clear eyed at the shock of blackness in the corner of her room, and turns away. She huddles in the corner, and the white walls remain white walls.

(she lies inside white-washed walls and thinks of days when the colors were vibrant and the only white she knew was the gleam of Myka's smile.)

(she hates these moments the most)

But the darkness always comes back, covering her mind; she is broken, shards of redwhiteblackgreengreengreen stabbing at her and all she sees is the clarity of Myka's eyes, angry angry (and so very sad) forcing a gun to her head, you kill me now, (but who was the mad one here then?)

Myka Christina Myka Myka Myka her heart babbles, Christina Christina Christina.

She wants she wants, but the (regents, caretakers) don't give her what she wants and all she wants is her love(s) the cool grip of a pen (quill, she'd told Myka, goose feather) and the scratch of pen nib to paper, stories like so many colors behind her eyelids, magic simply waiting to happen.

(so many colors h.g wells remembers, the vibrancy of a book gleaming in her hand, and she never expected anything would ever mean more to her then those ideas)

Myka remains though; she is haunted by Myka's curls, remembering coming apart to Myka, curls a curtain around them. She remembers the look of lovemirthhappiness and all Helena wants (want; v. to feel a need or a desire for; wish for) is Myka looking at her with so much love.

But want is tangled in her mind, strings covering every corner; want want want but no matter how much she wants, she cannot have.

(there was insanity then, love bleeding to madness; she turned from the safety of Myka's arms and it all ended staring down the barrel of her gun, Myka crazed with (angergrief) and. where did we go wrong.)

When Helena wakes up, her arms are painted in red, skin stinging; her nails are tinged red.