locked up, locked in [derek/open]

[taillefer idris fyodorova]

{outfit}

Six weeks.

That's how long she'd been here, trapped here, abandoned by her family and left to rot in the hell they called Chaspel Heights. Her mother had said it seemed like such a nice place in the brochure, not like that had swayed her mind in wishing to go, but her mother had never been one to listen to her opinion. You need help, She'd said. You can' get better alone. You're not strong enough. Strength had nothing to do with it, it was will and gut determination she needed. She'd had both, not long ago. She'd been ready and willing to help herself heal, to gain help from those in the medical profession and start life afresh. But then Helen had come along and screwed her over completely. Her mind had gone to hell. She was back down the plug hole, life spilling away with the thick maroon blood that trickled down her arms.

That had been 12 weeks ago. After the last suicide attempt, her mother couldn't cope anymore. With the pressure of family life and two other children, she couldn't afford to give the extra time and attention her daughter had needed, so she'd signed her life away. They'd had to drag her kicking and screaming on a plane to America, trying their best to tell her greatest friend in the world that she'd be fine and there was no need to come along. Diana Zlatan was the only person who gave a damn. She'd upped sticks and moved to America, trading in her amazing job back home for some crappy waistressing in the next city. Her best friend cared, stayed close by and tried to keep in touch. They passed on her letters here, at least. Though, she wasn't allowed to write back. Her parents had merely gone home.

So, six weeks. Four escape attempts. Well, ten if the extra suicide attempts were counted, which she was sure they were. The first two weeks, she'd simply sat in her room, rocking backwards and forwards in bed as the mutations corrupted her. The serums battered her DNA, leaving her body week and damanged. She'd had no energy, but as soon as she could manage it, she was attempting escape. Digging under fences, trying to blow fuses, even assulting staff - all the things that would have kept her in longer. Then, the suicide attempts. Hell, she'd slit her wrist so many times that she'd lost count. But they never worked.

The rubbish pumping in her body had mutated. She no longer had control over the healing 'gift' they'd cursed her with. She could no longer control the healing; it controlled her. Every cut was gone almost as soon as it had came, and the deeper ones bled a little then simply vanished. Death her way was no longer an opion.

Today, she'd tried an escape again. As the nurses had done their rounds with injections, she'd not been tied down corrected and slipped her hand out, attacking the nurse before bolting down the corridor. It wasn't like there was anywhere to run, but she always tried to get away, even when there was no chance of it. They were sick of her already, and sick of cleaning her sheets when she sliced herself up after every attempt.

So rather than leave her on a fresh bed, they wanted to kicked some sense into her. Dragged by the collar, arms bound behind her, they'd brought her down to the cellar. She'd never entered the place before, but they'd warned her of it. We'll leave you there in the dark, if you don't behave. One of the nurses had threatened. And low and behold, the threat was real. She'd been shoved down by the make shift arena they'd made up and had one hand chained to a collum like some dog in a back yard, then left in the dark.

For the first hour, she'd tried her best to escape, tugging and pulling at the chain around her left wrist, breaking and bruising it thrice over, before it had healed again. It wouldn't break long enough for her to slip her wrist through, and eventually, she'd given up and begun to cry for the first time since her arrival. Now, she was starting her fourth hour of sitting and staring into the darkness, shivering in her shorts and stretching her jumper over her knees.

Despite being cold, alone and scared in the dark, she'd still not learnt her lesson.

{open to anyone, got a bit too into the post so it's a bit lengthy, don't worry about having to match it! I don't mind. Open to Derek and other staff members preferably, but patients are welcome too!}

[derek chandler ralston]

Derek's eyebrows furrowed as he walked down the hallway, tongue running over teeth. He couldn't make of what was happening with the waterbreathers. Now Colton was in critical condition on a respirator because the air was practically poisoning him. They needed gills.. That was the only thing him and Deacon could think of. But... how did one make gills?

Sighing, he stopped by the morgue and looked around. There had been no sign of Bandit, either. Rubbing at his face, he grabbed several handcuffs that had been cleaned of blood. Derek hated going down to the cellar since he had so often been mistreated there when he first got here so long ago. Sometimes he was still dragged down there, even though he was staff. 'An accident' they had said. when they realized he had some medical schooling, or at least knowledge, they had offered him the position. Eyes narrowed as he descended the stairs and unlocked the door. He could hear movement but the lights were off. Nobody was testing anyone's abilities. Someone must have been getting punished...somehow.

Derek flicked on the lights, pausing as he gazed at the woman awkwardly. "Uh.." He hung the handcuffs up where they belonged, hesitating.