I know quite a few people were hoping for "Dark Light", but too many people asked for this story for me to be able to ignore them. This isn't going to be a long story, so it won't be long before I start writing the other stories. Ladies and gentlemen, I proudly introduce the first chapter of "Love Like Crazy"!

Katherine's POV

I hate white. White isn't a color, it's the absence of color. It's nothing. So why does everyone here insist that white is so amazing?

Everything around me is white. The walls are white. The curtains are white. The bed spread is white. The sheets are white. The pillow is white. The furniture is white. Every single piece of clothing I can wear is white. I'm sick of white.

I despise white.

I'm sitting on a chair that's white, looking out the large window trimmed in white at an oasis of color. The lawn and shrubs were a bright, fresh green, and the trees had bright green leaves with deep brown trunks. The sky was a brilliant blue that made me stare in wonder.

Seattle didn't usually see sunlight like this, so I was going to soak it up whenever I could.

I could see the parking lot's deep black asphalt. The cars were a thousand different shades, with bright bumblebee yellow, deep forest green, dark haunting blue, and, my personal favorite, the glistening candy apple red on the little four-door sedan. If I get out of here soon, maybe my parents will buy a car for me. If I get to pick the color, it will be that candy apple red.

I wondered when they would let me out. I had done well in therapy, and I hadn't had an outburst since they brought me in. It wouldn't be long. Another month or two at most.

"Katherine? We brought you your guitar," one of the attendants said. "It'll help you pass the time if you play."

"Alright," I said. My voice sounded quiet and hoarse, like I haven't used it in a few days. Probably because I hadn't. There was no point in talking to anyone here. The patients were crazy and lost in their own world. The attendants and doctors and therapists all looked at me like I was less. Like I didn't quite count as a human being to them. That was fine. I wouldn't be here much longer. And this time, I was never coming back. I don't care what I have to do. I will fake sanity until the world believes me.

The attendant handed me the acoustic guitar, and I sighed in relief. It had been ages since I held the musical instrument in my hands. The dark and light wood brought me peace, and the pearl and silver strings brought me excitement. Oh, the possibilities…

I had learned a few new songs when I was out last, so I decided to play one of them. A depressing, haunting song by Paramore. What was it called? Oh, yes, "We Are Broken." How fitting.

"I am outside,
And I've been waiting for the sun,
With my wide eyes,
I've seen worlds that don't belong,
My mouth is dry,
With words I cannot verbalize.
Tell me why,
We live like this

Keep me safe inside, your arms like towers,
Tower over me."

"Katherine? Why don't you sing a happier song? I'm sure the others would appreciate it," the attendant interrupted.

"I sing happy songs when I'm happy," I answered. I don't care if I was rude. The drugs they gave me to make me "sane" made me feel fuzzy. Like my emotions weren't my own. Like I didn't have emotions. The room was nothing but a blur of white, and the other patients were blurs of white, and the attendants were nothing but blurs of white. Just blurs of white.

Everything felt dull. Even the song I was singing. The notes sounded worn and faded, and my voice sounded ancient.

"'Cause we are broken,
What must we do to restore,
Our innocence,
And oh, the promise we adored.
Give us life again,
'Cause we just want to be whole."

"Katherine? Dr. Carvay is waiting for you," another attendant told me. I silently set my guitar down and followed the nurse to a small office. This, too, was a blurry white.

"Katherine, why don't you lay down?" Dr. Carvay didn't bother with pleasantries. He always got straight to the point. He was a short, balding man in his late fifties. When I'm not on the drugs, he looks like a pedophile. But right now, he was just kind Dr. Carvay with a blurry white coat.

I settled myself on the couch, propping my head up with a pillow.

"Now, let's see if you can remember anything new about that night, shall we?" Dr. Carvay sounded sickening in his fake solicitousness.

"I don't remember anything but the same story I've always remembered," I told him – again. I told him this every session. He never listened to me.

"Let's just try, shall we?" He liked the words, 'shall we?' He thought it made himself sound smart. It just made him sound like an ass.

"If you think the answers are going to be different this time, why not?" I answered dully. I was in the not-caring mood. Again.

"Right. Let's start from the beginning. Tell me everything you can remember from that night," Dr. Carvay prompted.

"It was Mom's birthday that night, and she had convinced Dad to go out to dinner to celebrate. The babysitter they had hired for the night was useless; she passed out drunk less than two hours after my parents had left," I paused, the memories began flooding in. As always, it was too much, and the words just started to pour out.

"My older brother Tom had just turned eight years old that month, and I was six years old. We were just watching a movie, a Power Rangers movie I think, and we were using the drunk babysitter's back as a foot-stool. Someone knocked on the door, but Tommy said we shouldn't open it."

I started sobbing, remembering what had happened. How horrible it had been. How… completely impossible it was to describe. No drug could dull this kind of pain and fear. Trust me, the doctors have tried.

"Suddenly, we heard a big boom and the front door was on the ground, and he was standing there. He was really tall, and he had this horrible look on his face, like he was anticipating something wonderful. Tommy started yelling at him to go away, but the man just smiled. He was walking towards us, really slowly, and he was so scary, and – and–"

I was sobbing too much to speak, but once I started talking about that night, I had to finish. I had to make them see what happened that night. I started speaking through the sobs.

"The man… he was so tall and big and his skin was white… and he was… pretty. Like someone you expect to see in a magazine, except he didn't look all carefree like models do, he looked hungry, and… he was in the hallway, then he was next to us, and Tommy was on the ground bleeding, because – because – the man had… he pushed his hand through Tommy's chest. Like someone punched through cardboard, except it wasn't cardboard. And… and then the man lifted Tommy above him and started drinking the blood that was dripping from the hole in Tommy's chest! Drinking it like a vampire!"

I had to stop for a minute to catch my breath. The sobs were shaking my whole body now, but I didn't care. I had to finish the story, and I had to do it now.

"I can still see Tommy's face looking down at me… he looked so surprised. He never saw it coming… then… the man smiled, and said I looked terrified. That I looked perfect, and he would come back for me when I was older so he could take me away and I would never see any of my family again and he would make me like him and… his eyes were red! This hideous, bright crimson red that just stared at me and I can't get them out of head! I tried to hit him, tried to get Tommy back, but his body felt like stone, like ice. He just laughed and dropped Tommy and said he would come get me when I was old enough to join him!"

Dr. Carvay just looked at me while I cried and sobbed and screamed. Nobody came to help the doctor. Screaming was common place around here. After about ten minutes, he asked, "What happened next, Katherine?"

"I sat there and cried, holding Tommy's body until my parents got home. My mom started screaming and my dad called the police. They kept asking me what the man looked like, the one that killed Tommy, but they didn't believe me. When I kept telling them that's what I saw, they called a psychiatrist in, and he and my mom put me in a place like this, and said when I stopped telling tales I could come out. When I stopped saying it was an inhuman man that killed Tommy, they let me out. But now I see that man every now and then, and I freak out, thinking he's come back to kill me, but the doctors say he hasn't, and they put me back in here."

Dr. Carvay put a reassuring hand on my shoulder. "There is the difference between myself and those other doctors, Katherine; I know that you will never remember what truly happened that night, and we have to accept that. Your mind is too traumatized to bring back those memories safely. What we're going to do is stop you from thinking that the killer is coming back for you. That is our main goal, and once you achieve it, you can go home."

"Home," I whispered longingly. I missed my house on the southern Oregon coast. I missed my father, who had been nothing but supportive and loving my whole life. He never blamed me for this mess I had become. My mother loved me, too, and I missed her as well.

"We're going to focus on teaching you to ignore these irrational fears," Dr. Carvay continued. "Once you can do that, a normal life will be yours."

"I hope so," I whispered. A normal life… so many teenagers complained about their parents or their siblings or their high school or other completely normal things that I would give anything to have. Was a normal life too much to ask for?

I left Dr. Carvay's office to get lunch. I made sure to pile my tray high, getting seconds of everything. Except dessert, of course. "I'm just hungry today," I explained to the cafeteria supervisor. She just stared at me.

According to all of the doctors and attendants, I was far too thin for their liking. I was a little tall for a girl, and that didn't help. I moved to my preferred table.

"Hey, Beast," I greeted one of my few friends in this hellhole, Chris. He was a Native American that was about six foot five with bulging muscles. There wasn't an ounce of fat on the kid (and I use the word 'kid' loosely). Since the doctors were afraid he might overwhelm the staff if he got out of hand, they had him on a strict diet and he got absolutely no exercise. He still remained a beast, hence the nickname.

"Hey Beauty. Please tell me some of that is for me," he said, eyeing my overflowing tray. Because he was getting sick and malnourished with the doctors' orders, I got extra food for him whenever I could. His beastly frame was the inspiration for his nickname, so when some of the younger kids heard me use it, they started calling me Beauty, so we could match the Disney movie. So now we were known as Beauty and the Beast.

I didn't think I was pretty; it's kind of hard to tell around here because there are no mirrors (glass is too much of a hazard in a mental facility). Plus, no one cares about beauty around here. Everyone is too focused on other things.

"Of course it is. I'm not that hungry," I answered. He sneakily started taking some of the food items on my tray and placing them on his own. We made sure the attendants didn't notice.

When there was nothing but two slices of pizza and a salad on my tray, Beast gently pushed the tray towards me.

"You're looking a little thin, Beauty. You need to start eating more, or those drugs are going to overpower your system," Beast suggested oh-so subtly.

I glared at him. "I'm not too thin," I said firmly. I started to eat the salad, though, because the drugs already affected me enough. I did not need anything stronger. Ever.

Beast just leaned back and smiled a very smug smile. Jerk.

Most of the time, I couldn't understand why Beast was here. He was calm, friendly, and he was just so normal. The only time I remember him sounding insane was when he told me why he was here.

"I turn into a giant wolf," Beast said proudly.

"What?" I gasped.

"Yeah, I turn into a giant wolf when I get really mad. It's why I'm so huge and built. It's the wolf gene," he said this all so matter-of-factly that I almost believed him. "It happens in my tribe when vampires get too close. The young men of the tribe turn into giant wolves to protect the tribe from the blood-suckers."

"Really," I said calmly, not letting him know I wasn't buying a word of this.

"I transformed during a bonfire, so there were no wolves around to help me when I changed. As soon as I turned back into a human, I made the mistake of going straight to my parents and telling them what happened. They shipped me straight here, and I haven't been out since."

"Okay. Turn into a wolf right now. Prove you aren't insane," I challenged. He would have an excuse about why he couldn't. They always did.

"I have to be extremely pissed off to transform," Beast explained. "Otherwise, nothing happens. The drugs they make us take here are so strong, they control our every emotion. I can't feel rage, or anger, or sadness, or anything. They're too afraid I could get out of control and no one will be able to stop me."

"I see," I said, clearly not believing a word he said, and we changed the subject.

So Beast was now my dose of sanity whenever I was here. They brought him in when he was about fourteen years old, so he had been around for a while. I don't know how I got through those first years here without him.

"That tasted so good," Beast smiled contentedly. "I haven't been full in ages. Thanks, Beauty."

"No problem, Beast."

"I have my hour session in a few minutes. When I come back, you better be playing the guitar and singing your lungs out. I want to hear the new songs you learned," he tried – and failed – to say sternly.

I laughed. "I'll see what I can do."

Beast got up and sauntered down the hallway. I took a few more bites out of one piece of pizza, but I quickly lost my appetite. I just threw the rest away.

I went back into the main room where my guitar waited for me. The white walls and ceiling and everything else that was white threatened to cave in on me, but the cool feel of the guitar in my hand banished the feeling. I tuned it back up, and went back to playing. I decided on a classic. If you haven't heard this song, you've been living under a rock for the past fifty years.

"Hey Jude, don't make it bad.
Take a sad song, and make it better.
Remember to let her into your heart,
Then you can start to make it better."

I continued to play for endless hours. I don't remember how many. Here, time doesn't really exist.

First, I would like to say, I am not crazy, so I have no idea how accurate of a setting I just gave for the mental institution. What is there are things I've picked up from TV or have made up completely to serve my plot-needs. So if I got something wrong, I kind of don't care. Other than that, please review! I'll update faster if you do! And thanks for reading my new story!