Full Summary: Forced to stay with a bunch of other criminals does not sound fun. Not at all. But then again, if there is a cute one, it must seem better, right? Carlos has to stay there for a year, mixing with the other inhabitants. But one catches his eye. The mysterious, silent and elusive Logan, the boy no-one talks too. Can Carlos work the boy out, all the while living through the horror the facility provides?

Imprisoned

Chapter One; You Gotta Love Life.

I stop dead in my tracks, suitcase clutched in hand, staring down at my mother. I can see it in her eyes. Guilt, sadness, most of all, regret. Regret that maybe this was the wrong choice? Regret that maybe, just maybe, if she had stood up for herself, I wouldn't be in this mess? Or maybe it's regret that her eldest son didn't turn out so perfect. My eyes cast downwards, noticing my little brother, Rico, clinging onto her leg, tiny hands wrapped around it for protection. He has no idea what's going on. Never has, really. That's what I admire and envy from him. He's always had the advantage of being oblivious to it all, whereas me, the eldest, had to listen to it non-stop.

"Bye Carlos," Mom whispers, silent tears streaming her face.

For a slight moment, I feel guilty myself. I'm leaving her, but she know it's not by choice. Either go to that place or pay a fine. We aren't exactly rich, so naturally, paying something we couldn't afford was out of the question.

"Bye Mom," I reply, my voice more icy than I expected. I crouch down, letting my eyes be level with Rico's. "Bye buddy."

He nods his head, rather than responding, which I guess is a good thing. Despite being oblivious, Rico has always been dramatic, and right now, it's something neither me nor mom really needs. I sigh, straightening myself out, noticing him walking the path, heading towards us.

"Are you ready, Mr. Garcia?" he says, voice polite but strict.

"Yeah," I nod, turning on my heel from my family, facing my escort. Short, brown hair and definitely muscular. I could try to escape, maybe even outrun the idiot. But something tells me that not only will he catch up, but he'll definitely take me down, clearly being more physically stronger than I am. I see his hand drop down, ready to take my suitcase from my hand. "I can carry it myself, thanks."

He restricts at my venom, and it takes everything to bite back my growing smirk. Strong and fast, but clearly intimidated. Something tells me he's dealt with a lot of problem teenagers, and although he should learn to not be afraid, I guarantee every single has reacted different. I can tell that by the faint scar on his forehead, stretching just over his right eye.

"You're not allowed to carry your own luggage, Mr. Garcia," the man responds, voice staying firm. "It's part of my job to take it from you."

"So you can check it for dangerous weapons, right?" I raise my eyebrows, turning slightly to see my mom and Rico, still watching.

"Not necessarily," he says calmly. "It's just protocol, that's all."

Seeing the man eye me very carefully, I decide I'm too tired to even fight back. I drop my luggage to the floor, listening to the sound of the material meet the concrete as I turn once more to my family, the last I'll see them for a year.

"I'll be back, don't worry, just a year," I say confidently, even though it hurts to be away for even that long. "Just try and be safe."

I direct those words at mother, which she nods, grasping my hidden meaning. The safe part isn't for her directly, but rather an instruction. To keep Rico safe. I turn once again, noticing the short man had already scooped up my luggage, staring at me with his piercing blue eyes. I would say I'm intimidated, but I'm far from it. It's more respect than anything. Something in his eyes tells me that he's faced many kids, prying them away from distraught parents, sending them to a place that helps them. It doesn't look fun, his eyes tell me that, seeing as the pity swamps them.

He gives me a curt nod, trying to walk down the path. I follow slowly, turning every so often to stare at my family. I've always felt more of the adult, rather than the child. At 16 and I already feel older than I am. Kids my age party and chill with friends, whilst I work two shifts after school, desperate to help my family stay afloat. He was supposed to help, but still I found myself tired and drained, be the sole provider of the family.

The man, who I still don't know by name, opens the trunk of the black car, tossing my luggage in before walking around, climbing in the passengers seat. The only thought that satisfies me is that my family get money for me trying to make ammends for my wrong-doing. That's all I need. I pull the door open and climb in, sliding onto the black leather seat, closing the door, losing the sight of my family forever.

The hum of the car keeps me calm during the journey. The driver, by his own choice or by my escort's, has put up the partition that divides the front and the back. I don't whether it's soundproof or not, but either way, it's deadly quiet up front. That doesn't help my nerves one bit. Me, left in silence, with my thoughts and my thumbs, playing together on my lap. It could have turned out different. I could have used the slightest self-control, and maybe, just maybe, I wouldn't be sat here in a car, heading to my new home of a year.

I haven't heard much about Springwood Hall, only that it's a converted manor, changed into something of a correction facility. Best in the state, they say. But what they really mean, is that it takes the toughest and most awkward cases, seeing as the hall is private and relatively small, but it's methods of correction are well-known, seeing as I've heard it down the grapevine. Otherwords, I'm being placed their because they simply believe I need to be around a small group of people, rather than a large and over-crowded detention hall, where the possibility of me reacting is a lot larger.

I admit, I have anger problems. But when it comes down to it, it requires a lot to make me explode. A lot. A large and over-crowded hall of delinquents isn't going to change a thing, unless someone would to try and push my buttons.

"You okay back there? You're awfully quiet."

It's the voice of the driver, no doubt, seeing as it doesn't sound like my escort.

"I'm fine," I hiss, annoyed by his apparent stupidity. "Although I could say the same about you up there. Lost, are we?"

"Far from it, kid." he replies, arrogance laced in his voice.

Kid. Something I never got to be, and yet, they refer me as one. I wonder if the 'kids' I'll be living with feel the same, because no doubt, they're all crazy and are criminals.

"We're here, Mr. Garcia," my escort's voice booms, loud and clear. "Springwood Hall."

"I think I could tell by the words that the idiot driver babbled," I retort. "But of course, feel free to remind me every couple of seconds."

I hear his sigh very lightly, when the scratching sound of the partition rolling down disturbs it. I can see them both, sat there in their black suits, looking rather official. When he turns around, I notice those piercing blue eyes, pity still clear.

"Must you be so rude, Mr. Garcia," he says softly. "There's no need for it."

"Sure," I scoff. "Because sending me to a nut house is the perfect solution and I wouldn't be pissed about it at all."

He sighs again, turning around as the car makes it full stop. Through the window, I can see the grass and trees in the distance, making the area look more and more like it's deserted in the middle of the woods. That's the beauty of Springwood Hall, no-one has a damn clue where it is, besides the employees. I watch as my escort climbs up and out the door, a clipboard clutched in his hand. I go to open my door, feeling capable of doing things by myself, when the driver snaps his head around.

"You stay." he hisses.

"And you call me rude?" I smirk, leaning back and crossing my arms.

"I don't like kids like you," he glares, eyes trained on my body. "You think you're all big and mighty, just because you've now got a criminal record. Somebody needs to knock you down to size."

"That's funny," I raise an eyebrow, cocky as ever. "Because I never said anything about liking you, seeing as all you're good for is sitting behind a wheel and turning it. Doesn't take a genius, and yet, you still manage."

I can see the red flush his face, clearly getting annoyed by my attitude. It's fine, I think to myself, you won't have to see him ever again after this. Maybe in a year, but by that time comes, I would care even less than I do now.

"You watch yourself in there, kid, Springwood is notorious for it's methods. Your mouth won't go unpunished."

"Bite me." I spit back, leaning just a little bit forward, closing the gap.

He looks shocked at my apparent temper, possible rumours being spread about me being true. He takes that to his mind, clearly, as he snarls before turning back, in perfect sync with my door being open.

"They're ready for you," the escort says, letting the sunlight pour into the back of the dark car. I nod, tired of the constant need to fight back against these people. It's definitely a need, not a choice. They treat me in a certain way, I'm going to respond in the same way. Be nice, I speak nice. Be a bitch, I attack. Simple. I step out, my trainers grounding against the pebbles that litter the driveway. I spin on my heel, noticing the large and luxurious building looming into the sky, piercing the clouds so high above. Trees surround it on all 3 sides, the only open area being the driveway and it's pretty garden of colourful flowers, a large water fountain in the middle. "There are exactly 19 residents, you making the 20th."

"That's nice of them," I reply bitterly, watching the stubby man pull my suitcase from the trunk, placing on the ground for a second. "Did they save it especially for me?"

I can't see him, but I'm almost positive that he rolls his eyes as he picks up my suitcase once again. It's a good thing they tell me I can only bring one, otherwise, I think I'd feel slightly guilty for the man.

"Mr. Garcia, I must warn you, Springwood doesn't take to kindly to rude inhabitants," he says sincerly, walking up to me and pass me without a second thought. "So I'd be careful, if I was you."

I make a note of his tone, realising that he sounds more serious than before. But really, as I follow the man up the path and ignore the eyes burning into the back of me from the spiteful driver, I'd expected him to be a bit more forceful. Some of the most worse teenagers from California end up at Springwood, and by that neat scar, I can tell he must deal with some fighters. Luckily, today, I'll just use my words. They can be just as cutting as my fists.

The door opens, a petite redhead with glasses standing in the entrance, waiting. I watch her as a sickly smile spreads across her abnormally pale face, corners of the smile curling up under her eyes. My escort places my suitcase on the floor, nodding politely at the lady, turning to leave. But before he does that, his hand lands on my shoulder, lingering for a while. I take it as a sign of comfort, which worries me slightly more as I continue my glare at the woman.

"I'm Dr. Philips," she says, extending her hand towards me. For a moment, I stare at it, debating what to do, until finally, she pulls it back. "No manners, that's fine, Springwood can change that for you," her smile falters for a second, only reappearing even more sickly. "As I was saying, I'm Dr. Philips and head of the Springwood Hall, I'm in charge of everything that goes on around here, as well as montoring each individual of our lovely family."

Family. They say you can't choose your family, and right now, the words sickens me as I realise it's right. These other 19 crazy people are going to be my family for a year, whether I like it or not and I know I definitely don't like it.

"I am the one who does therapy and counselling, which is compulsory, unless I know of your reasons for not attending. Everyone has a different schedule, and whilst all of you are under 18, small classes do also happen," Dr. Philips nods curtly at the woman behind the white desk, who quickly hands out a pink piece of paper to me. I take it, slightly reluctantly, only giving in when I notice the redhead's evil glare. "That is your personal schedule. The pink squares that are marked with a blue circle are your therapy sessions with me, whilst the gold circles are your free time."

"That I am shocked," I breath, staring at the paper and thankfully finding out I have gold circles in nearly every other square. "Where do I go for free time?"

"Your quarters, the rec room, the canteen area or the reading room," she replies quickly. "As I was saying, and finally, the red circles are your classes. Many of which you square with a few, selective others."

I nod, choosing not to speak. There's no point, and seeing the woman's wicked control over things, I can tell she'd beat me in a verbal match hands down.

"If you'd like to follow me, I'll show you to your quarters." Dr. Philips smiles, heading down the long, narrow hall.

It takes a while for it to sink in, but after walking for a few minutes, it's more than clear that the building is full of narrow hallways, each one looking exactly the same as the other. Same white ceiling, same white walls and same bleached wooden floor. Everything so white, I feel more out of place then ever. It's this and when I looked up at Dr. Philips' white lab coat, do I realise that it's clearly been done to soothe potential problematic patients.

Finally, we reach a flight of stairs in a clearing, as we walk up, I can hear the faint noise of talking and even some light screaming. Clearly normal, as Dr. Philips chooses to ignore it as she takes me down yet another narrow hallway.

"This is the boy's hall and this.." she says as she stops outside a door marked in bold, black letters saying 2J. "This is your quarters, Mr. Garcia."

The door swings open, revealing, to my surprise, a large room that is also cleaned down in whiteness.

"More white?" I frown, stepping into the room with my suitcase in hand.

"Yes, Mr. Garcia, more white," Dr. Philips glares. "It's neutral, to calm anyone who isn't."

I can't help but feel that those words are clearly directed at me. There's no doubt about that, seeing as I'm the one with the huge anger problem that doesn't want to disappear. I feel her glaring as I throw my suitcase on the bed, watching the springs bounce it slightly until it comes to a complete stop. I smirk, noticing the glaring hasn't ceased.

"I think I'm more than settled," I say sarcastically, turning around to face. "Thank you, Dr. Philips."

"The weekends are when free time is all day, unless you have a therapy meeting," Dr. Philips replies emotionless, stepping out the door. "Don't miss one, Mr. Garcia, otherwise the price to pay is dearly."

She stalks away, leaving my door open. I can't help but feel her words have a hidden, more omnious meaning. The woman definitely intimidates me more than the escort or driver, simply because unlike them, she's in her terrority and I'm nothing more than an intruder. And like terrorities and intruders, I know I'd be cleaned out within seconds if I place my footing wrong. Either way, nothing will change. I'll pull through the year, show my remorse and go home before I know it.

I sigh, turning to the window, noticing the metal bars that slide across it. I frown, crossing the room and trying to pull the window open with my hand. It doesn't move.

"What the fuck.." I breath, pulling at it again to find it still not opening. The bars I get, clearly it's to stop the mad ones jumping. But for god sake, a year without being able to open a window? I turn, trying to work out my quarters. The bathroom doors sit in the corner, and whilst it opens, it only reveals a simple bathroom, barely bigger than a closet. The only furniture my room seems to adorn is the metal bed, decorated with white linen and a bedside table with a draw, a white bottle lamp sitting on top.

Nothing elaborate, in fact, the bare minimum.

I flop down onto my bed, carelessly knocking the suitcase onto the floor and hearing the bang, it echoing across the room. I lay there, looking up at the ceiling, noticing there isn't even a light up at all. A simple ceiling, painted white.

"This place gets more and more fucked up." I say to myself, pulling my arms up so my head has something to lean on.

"Hi.."

I hear the small, almost timid voice and instantly shoot up, staring at the person in my doorway. He's well-built, easily taller than me with tanned skin, deep blue eyes and perfect, way too perfect, hair that sweeps across his forehead.

"Hi.." I reply, leaning back and propping myself onto my elbows. "Can I help you?"

"You're new, right?" he responds, avoiding my question. The way he shuffles from one foot to the other tells me he's a crazy. "I mean, you are new, aren't you?"

"I think that much is obvious.." I raise my eyebrows, noticing how awkward my words make him in a flash. "Are you okay?"

His eyes widen, the blue only becoming brighter, but this time, it looks more like fear. I can see his whole body go stiff, his fingers mindlessly gripping onto the bottom of his shirt, tugging it despite the fact that it won't stretch no more.

"Dude, you okay?" I repeat, standing to my feet. The minute I do, I can see his body relaxing, hands curling away from the shirt. "Yeah, I'm new here. Carlos."

I feel like I should put my hand out to shake his, but something tells me he won't respond or he might freak out once more. Then again, it just be me. Everything here seems out of the ordinary, so what difference will a crazy kid make?

"James." he responds, which makes me smile. I don't know why, but he seems so childlike and that only reminds me of Rico.

Then, almost as if repeating my actions, he grins wildly. "Carlos, you have to come and check out the rec room. It's amazing!"

I look at him, puzzled. Seriously, I'm a genius. A crazy kid, how great. He jumps on the spot, grinning, before dashing off down the hall. I don't move for a moment, debating on whether he's a harmless crazy kid, or some psychopathic murder whose luring me to my death. I decide that he must be harmless, otherwise I'm sure Dr. Philips would have had him in a straight jacket for the entire duration of his stay.

"Carlos, come on!"

I sigh, walking towards the door. I guess this was going to be a long year. A long fucking year indeed.

I know, I'm such a bad person, leaving Struck By Thunder unattended and not updated for ages when I came off hiatus and blah. I'm sorry, but to make up for it, I have this? My updating schedule is completely doomed. But hey, you have to love me, right? Please say you do. You guys are my life.

This story will be fun. All criminals, nutty and an ominous correction facility. Perfect, if you ask me. Need to bring more angst and such.