Rejected Revenge Chapter 3 (first half)

Chapter 3 (the first half)

Feet running down the hall way.  Banging and crashing.  Unnerving laughter.  Heavy sighs.  Groans, moans and screams.  Wheelchairs and walkers.  Drool, vomit and feces.  The smell churns the stomach, the smell of a veterinarian clinic that hasn’t been cleaned for months, maybe even years, with the smell of food, piss and vomit.   The sounds of screaming and crying, of torment and torture send chills down the spin.  The sights of the disabled and broken break the heart and tear at the soul.  Those who had been here long enough are oblivious to it, they are immune.  They no longer notice.   This is a condemned house of horrors, home to the damaged, rejected and damned.

Purple grass and orange sky.  A man dapperly adorned in a Victorian era suit, spinning his top hat on his cane while a woman scantily dressed in 1920’s flapper attire, tassels, pearls, feathers smokes a cigarette with a cigarette holder.  She looked like Marion Davies, the soft blonde hair and big doe eyes, he, on the other hand, looks like more like Gene Kelly, chiseled face and eyes that dance.  Together they are like watching an old Katherine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy movie.  They sit at the end of the bed of a tiny woman, childlike in her features, drugged and strapped to a bed.    The room is like any other hospital room, plain and white. All the furniture here is old and metal.  They are patiently waiting for her to awake, eager to talk with her. The woman in the bed is called Her.  Everyone calls her, Her because no one knows her name, so they ended up calling her, Her.  Once she starts to arise, they waste no time in letting her know exactly what they think and how they feel.

“You really shouldn’t do that.”  Dera tried to say in the most compassionate way possible, however the undertones of her frustration could be heard.  She was getting tired of worrying about her friend.

“You know they don’t understand.”  Dante was angry, not with the woman lying in the bed, but with the people who had put her there as a form of punishment.

She (meaning Her) looks away, out the window, she stares at a large bird with its wings out stretched.

“You can’t hide from us.” Dante said, now with his hat on his head and he pokes her with his cane.

“Life is easier when you don’t fight.” Dera said placing her hand on the woman’s leg.

The woman stares at the bird who slowly turns into a tree.  The purple grass turns green and the orange sky blue.  The drugs are kicking in.

“See, they make you play nice.”  Dera said, half happy that she wouldn’t have to worry about her friend and yet a bit forlorn because she hates to see someone she loves be unable to express themselves or even be themselves, especially under sedation.

She half hazily tries to focus, open her eyes, and tries to take in the contents of the room.  The man and woman gone.  She smiles.  Dede is sitting on the dresser.  Dede is an antique, turn of the century doll.  This is her doll, one of the only things she owns.  She, meaning Her, has had this doll since she was a child.  The doll is old and torn.  It has the same dead stare as the woman in the bed.  A stare that sends shivers down the spine when others see her face.  The doll sits on the dresser and stares, as if looking into the souls of all those who enter the room.  Yet, for Her, seeing the doll on the dresser brings her comfort.

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