A/N:Well, I just thought I'd give this a shot. Let me know if it's worth continuing. I've had trouble posting, so if you read this when I first posted it, I apologize.

Edited Nov. '10: MANY thanks to the beta-god, Jasper's Destiny, for beta'ing this for me! It's new and grammatically improved, all thanks to her!

This is ratedM! If you're not 18, please do not read! This story contains language, violence, and (hopefully later on) lemons!

Disclaimer:I own nada.

Welcome to My Insanity

Chapter 1: Bella POV

Mention a werewolf one time and where does it get you? Currently strapped to a bed in The Quiet Room at Oakforest Behavioral Center for Troubled Young Adults.
Apparently, 'asylum' is no longer a politically correct term. Heaven forbid we offend the crazy people!
A few more days in this room and I might actually need the meds they dish out like Tic -Tacs.

I finally manage to peel back my swollen eyelids so I can glare at the overhead lights.
The first time I woke up in here was a little surreal.
Of course, the ache in my ass where they'd jabbed the needle full of the good drugs had assured me that I was, in fact, really here.
What messed me up was that there are no windows.
No clock.
No way of telling how long you've been here or when you might be free.
The lights always remain on and no noise penetrates the padded walls.

That was then.
When I still cared.
This is now.
And right now, the only thing mildly irritating is the drool I can't wipe off my cheek… and the fact I have to piss.

The most pressing question right now is why am I here? Not the great mysteries of life shit.
Or even- where did my life go so horribly wrong?
As in, why am I in this particular room on this particular day with my ass sore again?
Oh! I remember now.
I drifted off after they took me down and brought me in.

Friday evening

One...Two...Three...

Through my closed eyelids I count the lights as I'm wheeled backwards down the dingy white hall toward my own personal hell. I'll have nothing to keep my mind busy, no distractions to keep me from remembering...

Nuh-uh. Not going down that road just yet.

Back to The Quiet Room.
Whoever thought it was a swell idea to put a diagnosed schizophrenic, who doesn't even bother speaking when awake, in a stark white room with nothing but a past supposedly so mixed-up in delusions it's impossible to know the truth, and the voices in their head to keep them company should really get a cookie.
Or a shiny, new penny.
But did they ask for my input? No.
My opinion doesn't matter, after all. I'm just the psycho strapped to the table.

As a mythical creature once informed me, I am a strange human. That still applies. Apparently, no matter how much they numb my body, my mind stays alert and lucid.
It's my own little fortress of solitude. Cue the theme music.
My head is the only safe place I have, so that's where I reside more often than not.

With my body floating in its drug-induced euphoria and my eyes closed, I listen.

At the foot of my bed I recognize the soft footfalls of Dr. Thomas.
Dr.T, who must have obtained his degree through a correspondence course somewhere in the Caribbean, is an older gent, late forties with salt and pepper hair and kind eyes.
Completely incompetent psychologist and a horrible judge of character, but an all-around nice man.

I often refer to him as Captain Oblivious. I like to picture him with tights and a cape to go along with this.
You may think he should have to earn this distinction, but, believe me, he has. He started off when I arrived last year as a lowly private. But through hard work, a series of rather serious medication blunders, and several totally off-base, asinine assumptions, he worked his way up through the ranks.
My personal favorite was when he was convinced I belonged to a gang.
Ah, that was a good month.

Cap. O is currently discussing the 'incident' with Scott (aka Perv 1).

Perv 1 is a big guy, about 6'3 with sandy blond hair, who in his high school football glory days was probably stacked quite nicely.
Now it looks like he's been swiping too many of the patients' puddings.Just say no, Scott.
He's kind -of handsome, in that BMOC kind -of way.

So not my type.
He's neither a figment of my imagination nor a mythical creature.
Better luck next time, sport.

The last player in this scene of my loony bin melodrama is Jeremy.

Jeremy is your typical apathetic employee who's seen too much to care about one more injustice in the world.
Everything about him is, well, average.
Average height. Average weight. Average looks.
The only thing above average is his ability to see innocent, helpless people taken advantage of on a regular basis and not do a thing about it.
Coward.
People like this used to anger me, but now I have a pill to prevent me from experiencing any strong emotion.
It's usually quite effective.

I know only a fraction of the wrongs done in here, so I can only imagine the level of self-loathing and guilt this causes.
It can't possibly do much for his ego and manly pride.
But I judge not.
It's the whole pot/kettle scenario.
Now, don't misunderstand, I'm my own unique brand of coward, but yellow none-the-less.

At least he has some excuse.
If he got fired, who would take care of his invalid mother?
Of course, if all I had to look forward to for the next 10-20 years was rolling around mother, bed sores, and the next rousing episode of Jeopardy, I might do myself in.
But I digress.

Five...Six...Seven...

"What happened, Scott?"Cap. O asks."I really thought we were making progress," he mumbles as an afterthought.

"I have no idea, sir," Perv 1 lies. "Maybe we should keep her on lock-down after her quiet time in case she's becoming a danger to herself or other patients," he adds in his most concerned, super-helper tone.

I can't believe this fucker! He just wants easier access!
I'm momentarily grateful for the paralysis. I'd hate to break my 'vow of silence' over this ass.
What little control I have in this life, I'd like to keep.

"I d-don't really think that would be good. B-besides, she's n-never acted out without someone instigating before," Jeremy replies quietly from his place by my head as he guides us along the hall by pulling on the right rail.
I think he was actually standing up for me.
I'm making a mental note of this monumental occasion.

Nine...Ten...Eleven...

"Let's see how she responds on Monday after a couple of peaceful days in the quiet room," the doc says thoughtfully after a rather lengthy pause.

Two DAYS.
This is where the heavy, dramatic, mental sigh comes in.

Well, that's what you get, Isabella, for trying to stab the perv on a Friday afternoon.

I guess the Cap has weekend plans.

It's not even like a lot of damage was done. Not from lack of effort on my part, but it was a plastic spoon.
He surprised me, so I didn't even get a chance to shape it into a prison shank.
Not a knife.
Not a fork.
A SPOON!

I need to be careful. I'm getting close to caring.

But for goodness' sake, IT WAS A S-P-O-O-N!
Even wielding a spork, I'm sure I could've managed something note-worthy.
Now, if he was the one strapped down, I wouldn't hesitate to try to castrate him with above-mentioned utensil.
But he's not, so I can't.
Oh, well. A girl can dream.

Actually, I can't.
Thanks to the little orange pill.

As it stands, Perv McPerverson is sporting a nice shiner on his left eye due to a strategically- placed elbow.
He also has a few scratches on his forearms from the broken shards of my handy-dandy jello spoon.
I barely even drew blood.

What a pussy.

I'm sure I could have landed a few more blows, but Jeremy was fast on the draw.
Seconds after that needle was plunged into my ass, all the fight drained out of my body.

I didn't flip my shit over his nasty comments whispered in my ear.
He was all up in my space.
I kept it together just fine.
Until I felt his clammy palm roughly squeeze my bare thigh.
It was on then.

Twelve... Thirteen...

My escorts come to a sudden stop.
They push my bed in head first.
I try to brace myself for the restraint check that I know is coming.
Again, I'm thankful for the heavy sedation.
One thing everyone knows: I don't like to be touched.
They even have a bright, lime-green memo hanging in the staff lounge.

As I feel hands all over my body, the screeching in my head starts.

STOP TOUCHING ME! STOP TOUCHING ME!STOP TOUCHING ME! STOP TOUCHING ME!STOP TOUCHING ME!STOP TOUCHING ME!STOP TOUCHING ME!STOP TOUCHING ME!STOP TOUCHING ME!STOP!STOP!STOP TOUCHING ME!

When my inner voice is reduced to a whimpering, I realize I need to try to calm down.
Vomit is slowly rising up in my throat.
I feel like I'm choking.
It's blocking my airway.
I need to calm down and find my happy place, but it's hard when their hands are still on me.
I can feel them grazing the skin around the restraints on my ankles, wrists, stomach, and chest.

Anytime I feel warm hands on my skin, it never fails to send me back to that night.
The heat from his hands had been scorching.
The feel of the greasy concrete against my face.
Hard and unforgiving.
His strong, rancid breath hot against the back of my neck.

Oh, God! I can't breathe!

Isabella! Stop!

I will NOT do this! No one can make me! I will not remember! I won't go back!

With the restraint check complete, and only the slightest side-boob grazing from Perv1, I hear three sets of feet make their way to the door. Every step away from me soothes my troubled nerves.
I can breathe again.
The acidic bile slowly continues its descent back from whence it came.
The heavy door closes with a muffled thump.
The jingling of keys and the sound of the door bolt sliding home tells me I'm alone.

Since it's impossible to lift my thousand pound eyelids right now, I settle for doing a 'virtual' tour of my weekend retreat.
I know from the trip down the hall - 13 lights and one left turn - that I'm in Quiet Room 3.
It's a closet of a room - solid white with two lights set flush with the ceiling tiles, both covered by metal grates that are painted white of course.
In case I somehow channeled my inner -Hulk, broke free from the leather straps securing me to the bed, and then pulled a Spiderman by climbing up to the ceiling, I guess the metal grates would stop me from grabbing the light bulbs.
Drat. They foiled my master plan.

Whatever.

The walls in here are covered with 3x3 padded squares upholstered in white pleather.
Everything is the same.
White.
White.
And more white.

The door even blends in because it, too, is padded and pleathered.
But I know where the escape is located, and that prevents me from feeling like a trapped animal.
In this QR the camera is in the right corner, flush with the ceiling and perfectly positioned to watch your every move for the duration of your stay.
My comfort comes from knowing that I'm safe.
Well, as safe as someone like me can be.
Lest we forget, I'm the danger magnet extraordinaire.
In this room, though, I'm safe from perverted human scum, bitchy nurses, and the realcrazy people.

Ah, hell.

I just remembered.
I'm gonna miss my date with red eyes.

Not much I can do about it now.

Next time, maybe you should think about the consequences before you pick up that spoon.

Know what? I'm no longer talking to you. I don't appreciate the attitude.

I'm sure my imaginary hottie will still be up for some staring at my window on Monday evening.

On that happy note, I allow myself to drift off for some much needed rest.