Setting
Default Location for The Murder Therapy
Minimap
northwest |
north |
northeast |
west |
You are here. |
east |
southwest |
south |
southeast |
Murder Therapy Asylum is a part of 
The Murder Therapy.
8 Characters Here
Aurelia Marcelina Valius [0] "I'm so sorry, Mama, I am. I wish I didn't have to, but you just made it so hard."
Vera Therese Ahlgren [0] "That is a legitimate fear, and it's not freakin' funny."
Rika Kasper Adriaan Colijn-Tjader [0] "I-I'm A Doctor. I'm A Doctor A-And They N-Need Help. It's Okay. N-Nothing To Stress Over."
Layla Marx [0] "I didn't want to hurt them, I only wanted to kill them."
Avery Lynn Johnson [0] "It's only when I drink..."
Vivienne Noir [0] Femme Fatale Extrordinaire
Benedict Carlton [0] The quiet murderer.
Samantha Holt [0] "I'm a sick person. I know that. How could a normal guy do what I did? . . . It was like another guy was inside me."
Start Character Here »
Setting
0.00 INK
:a u r e l i a:
Arrival was standard, I suppose, from what I've seen on TV. There were a few forms for Gustav and I to fill out, handed to us by the sickeningly optomistic left-handed secretary, and I went on my way. The woman, she explained to me that because of my circumstances, I would be under lock down after a certain time, and that â following standard psychiatric treatment procedures â I'd be watched very carefully for behaviour for the next seventy-two hours. Three days. Three days I, and the other patients, would be under close watch. It wasn't like I didn't understand, or like I wasn't used to it. People watched me all the time. An Italian resident of Sweden isn't exactly the most common sight. On top of that, it wasn't my first time going through the seventy-two hour watch. Before I had come to the Murder Therapy Asylum, I had been in a hospital where I was kept until I could get a transfer to a more suitable facility. I suppose that's standard as well, too. Then again, nothing about my situation could really be called 'standard'. I killed my mother. I killed seven other people, mostly women, that they were aware of. I stopped counting after a while, but I was sure that they were missing at least two or three, but who was I to correct them. Part of me wondered how I could have just killed them so easily. The human life is such a fragile thing, and it's so easy to disrupt its flow. It was so easy to end it. That thought was so abstract that I'd found my mind wandering toward it whenever I was alone with my easel. There were so many paintings of mine based on that very subject, enough to fill the bottom of my closet back at home.
Luckily, my painting supplies weren't considered 'dangerous weapons', except for the knives, which it's true could be used to kill someone, but I'd never defile art with the blood of a tainted human being like that. Never. Art is meant to be the purest expressions of ones mind, hence the reason that there's no wrong way to create it. It has to come from the heart, and as long as it does, it's beautiful. At least, that's how I see it.
The way I see it, someone had created the Murder Therapy Asylum as an expression of their heart to help those that they believed had a second chance. It was like... a home for the criminally insane, though how insane could any of us be? Sick, yes, but insane is just another term for radically different. I suffered chronic depression and anxiety, two things that made me different from most people that I knew, and I was practically normal until you added the fact that I enjoyed watching peoples' faces as they died and imagining them as my mother, repenting in her bloody death for everything she'd ever done to me. Yeah, that was what made me insane. Radically different, if you will. It was why I stood there in the hall, several bags gathered at my feet, watching Gustav leave me there, his car speeding off down the driveway. He was my last connection to mia madre, and in the fact that she was the last connection to mio padre, Gustav was also indirectly the last connection to him as well. There was this lump forming in the pit of my stomach as I watched the bright red Sunfire speed off down the driveway without hesitation. Elise hadn't even bothered to come along to say goodbye to me. That, in and of itself, was heartbreaking, and though I'm prone to tears at the slightest twinge of sadness, I didn't cry for this.
It just wouldn't have felt right.
Arrival was standard, I suppose, from what I've seen on TV. There were a few forms for Gustav and I to fill out, handed to us by the sickeningly optomistic left-handed secretary, and I went on my way. The woman, she explained to me that because of my circumstances, I would be under lock down after a certain time, and that â following standard psychiatric treatment procedures â I'd be watched very carefully for behaviour for the next seventy-two hours. Three days. Three days I, and the other patients, would be under close watch. It wasn't like I didn't understand, or like I wasn't used to it. People watched me all the time. An Italian resident of Sweden isn't exactly the most common sight. On top of that, it wasn't my first time going through the seventy-two hour watch. Before I had come to the Murder Therapy Asylum, I had been in a hospital where I was kept until I could get a transfer to a more suitable facility. I suppose that's standard as well, too. Then again, nothing about my situation could really be called 'standard'. I killed my mother. I killed seven other people, mostly women, that they were aware of. I stopped counting after a while, but I was sure that they were missing at least two or three, but who was I to correct them. Part of me wondered how I could have just killed them so easily. The human life is such a fragile thing, and it's so easy to disrupt its flow. It was so easy to end it. That thought was so abstract that I'd found my mind wandering toward it whenever I was alone with my easel. There were so many paintings of mine based on that very subject, enough to fill the bottom of my closet back at home.
Luckily, my painting supplies weren't considered 'dangerous weapons', except for the knives, which it's true could be used to kill someone, but I'd never defile art with the blood of a tainted human being like that. Never. Art is meant to be the purest expressions of ones mind, hence the reason that there's no wrong way to create it. It has to come from the heart, and as long as it does, it's beautiful. At least, that's how I see it.
The way I see it, someone had created the Murder Therapy Asylum as an expression of their heart to help those that they believed had a second chance. It was like... a home for the criminally insane, though how insane could any of us be? Sick, yes, but insane is just another term for radically different. I suffered chronic depression and anxiety, two things that made me different from most people that I knew, and I was practically normal until you added the fact that I enjoyed watching peoples' faces as they died and imagining them as my mother, repenting in her bloody death for everything she'd ever done to me. Yeah, that was what made me insane. Radically different, if you will. It was why I stood there in the hall, several bags gathered at my feet, watching Gustav leave me there, his car speeding off down the driveway. He was my last connection to mia madre, and in the fact that she was the last connection to mio padre, Gustav was also indirectly the last connection to him as well. There was this lump forming in the pit of my stomach as I watched the bright red Sunfire speed off down the driveway without hesitation. Elise hadn't even bothered to come along to say goodbye to me. That, in and of itself, was heartbreaking, and though I'm prone to tears at the slightest twinge of sadness, I didn't cry for this.
It just wouldn't have felt right.
Setting
0.00 INK
(( OOC: I'm sorry. I had to write something. ))
"Mr. Benedict Carlton is the prime example of a sick, and deranged human being," a booming voice spoke, enhanced by the acoustics in the small room. "This is easily spotted - if not by his clear lack of guilt for the things he's done - then by the actions themselves. I believe the best course of action is to have him admitted to a psychatric ward, as it is still possible to save his mind due to his young age."
And that was his defense. Benedict sighed, looking over at the man taking a seat next to him. His attorney gave him a stern expression in return, as if daring him to contradict his statement. Please, his eyes seemed to say. Tell me this isn't the best defense you can get.
He supposed he was right. In the beginning, Benedict had been very careful. It was the subtle slip-ups that mattered, and unfortunately, once the police had noticed one of them, the others had become more easy to track.
"Mr. Carlton is not deranged by far," the prosecutor protested. "In fact we have seen through this trial that he is an highly intelligent young boy. I beg of the judges to take this into consideration. How can someone this composed, and serene, possibly be that of an insane mind? Mr. Carlton was not driven by compulsive behavior, nor have we seen any indication that he lives in a reality twisted by his own mind. If we put this man in psychological care, he will lie himself to his freedom and be out on the street again by the end of the year! My claim is to give him 21 years of prison for what he's done, out of hatred and personal gain. Let's make sure our streets are safe."
Benedict's attorney smiled. He could understand why - in his mind the case was as good as won. Meanwhile, Benedict was the one who would have to suffer through therapy. Out in a year indeed - if the doctors saw fit, they could keep him there for the rest of his life.
"This court will assemble again at eighteen-hundred-hours for the conviction," the main judge said importantly, and banged his hammer. Benedict lost himself in a daydream in which he battered the man to death with the very same item, until he was once again led out of the room by agents he had come to know on first-name basis of the last couple of days.
Benedict Carlton was deemed psychologically deranged, and shortly after, he was sent off to Murder Therapy.
"Mr. Benedict Carlton is the prime example of a sick, and deranged human being," a booming voice spoke, enhanced by the acoustics in the small room. "This is easily spotted - if not by his clear lack of guilt for the things he's done - then by the actions themselves. I believe the best course of action is to have him admitted to a psychatric ward, as it is still possible to save his mind due to his young age."
And that was his defense. Benedict sighed, looking over at the man taking a seat next to him. His attorney gave him a stern expression in return, as if daring him to contradict his statement. Please, his eyes seemed to say. Tell me this isn't the best defense you can get.
He supposed he was right. In the beginning, Benedict had been very careful. It was the subtle slip-ups that mattered, and unfortunately, once the police had noticed one of them, the others had become more easy to track.
"Mr. Carlton is not deranged by far," the prosecutor protested. "In fact we have seen through this trial that he is an highly intelligent young boy. I beg of the judges to take this into consideration. How can someone this composed, and serene, possibly be that of an insane mind? Mr. Carlton was not driven by compulsive behavior, nor have we seen any indication that he lives in a reality twisted by his own mind. If we put this man in psychological care, he will lie himself to his freedom and be out on the street again by the end of the year! My claim is to give him 21 years of prison for what he's done, out of hatred and personal gain. Let's make sure our streets are safe."
Benedict's attorney smiled. He could understand why - in his mind the case was as good as won. Meanwhile, Benedict was the one who would have to suffer through therapy. Out in a year indeed - if the doctors saw fit, they could keep him there for the rest of his life.
"This court will assemble again at eighteen-hundred-hours for the conviction," the main judge said importantly, and banged his hammer. Benedict lost himself in a daydream in which he battered the man to death with the very same item, until he was once again led out of the room by agents he had come to know on first-name basis of the last couple of days.
Benedict Carlton was deemed psychologically deranged, and shortly after, he was sent off to Murder Therapy.
Setting
0.00 INK
Avery sighed and tapped her foot against the white tiled floor. She let her blue eyes wander up the white walls, and across the room to the white plastic chair. The room was far too white for her liking, and had that 'too clean' smell of sedatives and disinfecting spray and bleach.
It had been a week in about 3 months that Avery's mind wasn't clouded with drugs and alcohol, and she could think clearly. Something that Avery didn't like to do often. She rejoiced in the familiar pinch of the needle sinking into her skin, and the burning of alcohol as it ran down her throat. These sensations had become her friends; her only friends. And whenever she was feeling down or upset, they were there for her. Unlike her parents.
She shook the thoughts out of her head, and sat up, so her feet couldn't touch the ground, and she could swing her legs. She looked to the door, which had been closed and locked, and then to the window next to the wall, where a group of people gathered, and watched her with intrigued expressions. Her dull eyes followed the movements of their hands scribbling down notes on their clipboards, and then watched them mumble to themselves and each other. They were observing her.
She hopped of the table the nurse had firmly placed her on earlier, and stumbled momentarily as her legs got used to the new weight. She walked up to the window pane, and watched them watch her. It was funny. The first time she wasn't under any influence but her own, and she felt absolutely nothing.
She pressed her forehead against the cool glass, before retreating, and slamming her head down onto it as hard as she could. It didn't shatter around her, only caused her head to throb unbelievably. She felt something warm and wet trickle down her forehead, before it began gushing violently down the bridge of her nose and over her eyes, down her cheeks. Her own blood never fascinated her, it had to be someone elses. She looked at the glass she had effectively cracked and studied the intricate, tiny webs of stress marks that the force of her blow had created. They were almost miniscule, and she had to squint to see the pretty pattern.
It was only safety glass. Something she deemed not worthy of destroying. She waited patiently as a group of nurses and workers came in, one holding a finely tipped needle. 'Sedatives!' Avery thought, morbidly excited. Finally, she felt gripping hands as they held her down, and the familiar prick of the needle.
Finally, something she was used to.
It had been a week in about 3 months that Avery's mind wasn't clouded with drugs and alcohol, and she could think clearly. Something that Avery didn't like to do often. She rejoiced in the familiar pinch of the needle sinking into her skin, and the burning of alcohol as it ran down her throat. These sensations had become her friends; her only friends. And whenever she was feeling down or upset, they were there for her. Unlike her parents.
She shook the thoughts out of her head, and sat up, so her feet couldn't touch the ground, and she could swing her legs. She looked to the door, which had been closed and locked, and then to the window next to the wall, where a group of people gathered, and watched her with intrigued expressions. Her dull eyes followed the movements of their hands scribbling down notes on their clipboards, and then watched them mumble to themselves and each other. They were observing her.
She hopped of the table the nurse had firmly placed her on earlier, and stumbled momentarily as her legs got used to the new weight. She walked up to the window pane, and watched them watch her. It was funny. The first time she wasn't under any influence but her own, and she felt absolutely nothing.
She pressed her forehead against the cool glass, before retreating, and slamming her head down onto it as hard as she could. It didn't shatter around her, only caused her head to throb unbelievably. She felt something warm and wet trickle down her forehead, before it began gushing violently down the bridge of her nose and over her eyes, down her cheeks. Her own blood never fascinated her, it had to be someone elses. She looked at the glass she had effectively cracked and studied the intricate, tiny webs of stress marks that the force of her blow had created. They were almost miniscule, and she had to squint to see the pretty pattern.
It was only safety glass. Something she deemed not worthy of destroying. She waited patiently as a group of nurses and workers came in, one holding a finely tipped needle. 'Sedatives!' Avery thought, morbidly excited. Finally, she felt gripping hands as they held her down, and the familiar prick of the needle.
Finally, something she was used to.
Setting
0.00 INK
Vivienne peers out the blacked-out windows of the police van; as she'd expected, newspaper photographers and journalists are waiting by the gates of Murder Therapy, clamouring to take her photograph. The van slows, and she can hear the driver yelling at the press to move out of the way so they can pass through.'Black Widow Trapped!', or 'Femme Fatale Faces Fate' will surely be headlines in tomorrow's newspapers. Moments later, once the van has come to a shuddering halt and the engine has stopped, a man in a bulletproof vest slides open the back doors and signals for her come out - backwards, and with her hands in plain view, of course. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see camera flashes; she'd wave to them, if her hands weren't bound.
She'd killed dozens of men; that's more than most eighteen year olds can boast. When she'd been caught - covered in still-warm blood which is not her own and wearing nothing but lingerie - she'd let them wrap her in tinfoil blankets to preserve whatever sembelence of dignity she had left and lead her into the waiting arms of the law without protest. Her lawyers had built their case around her gender - how could someone of the weaker, fairer sex, someone so young and fresh-faced and so very, very pretty possibly kill a full-grown man unprovoked? - and it had swayed the jury...they didn't sentence her to prison, anyway, but instead recommended intensive therapy.
Inside the clinic, she's handed over to a woman in scrubs and led through seemingly endless clinical white corridors with squeaky floors until they reach a waiting room.
She'd killed dozens of men; that's more than most eighteen year olds can boast. When she'd been caught - covered in still-warm blood which is not her own and wearing nothing but lingerie - she'd let them wrap her in tinfoil blankets to preserve whatever sembelence of dignity she had left and lead her into the waiting arms of the law without protest. Her lawyers had built their case around her gender - how could someone of the weaker, fairer sex, someone so young and fresh-faced and so very, very pretty possibly kill a full-grown man unprovoked? - and it had swayed the jury...they didn't sentence her to prison, anyway, but instead recommended intensive therapy.
Inside the clinic, she's handed over to a woman in scrubs and led through seemingly endless clinical white corridors with squeaky floors until they reach a waiting room.
Setting
0.00 INK
:v e r a:
Silly Vera, troughs are for horses.
My laptop sat open on the left side of my desk and I stared blankly at the screen. Where had that thought come from just now? Who's to say, really; my thoughts came and went like summer breezes and such, so I never really dwelled on them that much. I didn't really have time. I had too much work to do as the secretary, more than I thought I would... all this checking in and answering phone calls, signing and forwarding papers to their proper owners. Mailing things, faxing things, recieving mail and faxes and phone calls, then returning all these things. When it got hectic, it was hectic, and when it was boring.... I put my feet up on the clean right side of my desk, turning just so in my swivelling chair to keep my legs from actually being on my right side. My heart skipped to think of whatever could be on my right, and not in the good sort of way. I don't know why, but I've always been afraid of things on my right. I mean, not always because it had to start somewhere.... I'm scared enough that I can't even write with my right hand, even though most lefties have really bad hand writing. Mine is... okay, but it's not the best either. I started writing with my left hand in the fifth grade, and I was still trying to get used to it. Some things just take time. A lot of time. Like getting comfortable in a sleeping bag when you're camping out on a mountain and there's a rock right under your spine. Do you know that feeling? You don't want to. It sucks.
I helped the Italian boy sign in and explained to him the seventy-two hour watch system, which he claimed he understood, and went back to sit in my chair. I could see the look in his eyes... not just the repentance and perhaps regret, but also the fact that he wasn't exactly sure about me. I smiled to myself, squeezing a foam stress ball in my right hand so hard that it was oozing between my fingers, releasing it, then squeezing it again. It was a therputic activity that I was supposed to do in my spare time to excersize the thought of having something on my right. Walls and other inanimate objects of the sort were just fine, I wasn't afraid of having empty desk space or an office lamp that was screwed down next to me â however, potentially threatening (and also harmless, but I suppose I didn't have to point that out) objects like paper, staplers, forks, pencils, pens, people, computers, food, plates, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, couldn't even come near me on the right, or else I'd have a panic attack and that's never fun. Still, I didn't have to stress myself about watching the little foreign kid as his step father left him, not even looking back. He had so many bags with him, like he was prepared to stay awhile.... I felt bad for him. I really did. My parents were a little more than upset with me about being the failure of the family, but I'd never wanted to kill one of them, and neither of them had ever turned their back on me like that before. As far as I knew, I was still their son, even if I dressed like their daughter, and they still loved me. Even if they were disappointed, I still had that.
I looked up when one of the nurses brought in a young woman sporting bright orange hair, which techincally one would consider, but that was just too orange to really be red, anyway. I watched her from behind the safety of my plexiglass and then reached for my clipboard. I had already properly filed the paperwork on Sebastiano Aurelia Marcelina Valius-Oxenstierna because I'm a neat freak like that, and had loaded up the necessary required forms for my documents. Still squeezing the stress ball, I made my way out to her as quietly as possible, so as not to disturb the Italian, and held the board out to her. "Excuse me, Miss, I'm going to need you to fill out these forms for your admission." After being rid of the board, I used my one hand to clear my dress â which was powder pink for today with mauve trim, fell just below my knees and worked perfectly with the flats I'd picked out because I wasn't used to heels just yet â and smiled brightly like I wasn't afraid of her jumping up and stabbing me in the face with the pencil. Seriously, the same thoughts were running through my mind while signing in the Italian â I'd been squeezing onto my stress ball just as furiously then as I was now, and I wasn't letting up. "Do you need me to explain the seventy-two hour watch, or are you already familiar with this?"
Silly Vera, troughs are for horses.
My laptop sat open on the left side of my desk and I stared blankly at the screen. Where had that thought come from just now? Who's to say, really; my thoughts came and went like summer breezes and such, so I never really dwelled on them that much. I didn't really have time. I had too much work to do as the secretary, more than I thought I would... all this checking in and answering phone calls, signing and forwarding papers to their proper owners. Mailing things, faxing things, recieving mail and faxes and phone calls, then returning all these things. When it got hectic, it was hectic, and when it was boring.... I put my feet up on the clean right side of my desk, turning just so in my swivelling chair to keep my legs from actually being on my right side. My heart skipped to think of whatever could be on my right, and not in the good sort of way. I don't know why, but I've always been afraid of things on my right. I mean, not always because it had to start somewhere.... I'm scared enough that I can't even write with my right hand, even though most lefties have really bad hand writing. Mine is... okay, but it's not the best either. I started writing with my left hand in the fifth grade, and I was still trying to get used to it. Some things just take time. A lot of time. Like getting comfortable in a sleeping bag when you're camping out on a mountain and there's a rock right under your spine. Do you know that feeling? You don't want to. It sucks.
I helped the Italian boy sign in and explained to him the seventy-two hour watch system, which he claimed he understood, and went back to sit in my chair. I could see the look in his eyes... not just the repentance and perhaps regret, but also the fact that he wasn't exactly sure about me. I smiled to myself, squeezing a foam stress ball in my right hand so hard that it was oozing between my fingers, releasing it, then squeezing it again. It was a therputic activity that I was supposed to do in my spare time to excersize the thought of having something on my right. Walls and other inanimate objects of the sort were just fine, I wasn't afraid of having empty desk space or an office lamp that was screwed down next to me â however, potentially threatening (and also harmless, but I suppose I didn't have to point that out) objects like paper, staplers, forks, pencils, pens, people, computers, food, plates, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, couldn't even come near me on the right, or else I'd have a panic attack and that's never fun. Still, I didn't have to stress myself about watching the little foreign kid as his step father left him, not even looking back. He had so many bags with him, like he was prepared to stay awhile.... I felt bad for him. I really did. My parents were a little more than upset with me about being the failure of the family, but I'd never wanted to kill one of them, and neither of them had ever turned their back on me like that before. As far as I knew, I was still their son, even if I dressed like their daughter, and they still loved me. Even if they were disappointed, I still had that.
I looked up when one of the nurses brought in a young woman sporting bright orange hair, which techincally one would consider, but that was just too orange to really be red, anyway. I watched her from behind the safety of my plexiglass and then reached for my clipboard. I had already properly filed the paperwork on Sebastiano Aurelia Marcelina Valius-Oxenstierna because I'm a neat freak like that, and had loaded up the necessary required forms for my documents. Still squeezing the stress ball, I made my way out to her as quietly as possible, so as not to disturb the Italian, and held the board out to her. "Excuse me, Miss, I'm going to need you to fill out these forms for your admission." After being rid of the board, I used my one hand to clear my dress â which was powder pink for today with mauve trim, fell just below my knees and worked perfectly with the flats I'd picked out because I wasn't used to heels just yet â and smiled brightly like I wasn't afraid of her jumping up and stabbing me in the face with the pencil. Seriously, the same thoughts were running through my mind while signing in the Italian â I'd been squeezing onto my stress ball just as furiously then as I was now, and I wasn't letting up. "Do you need me to explain the seventy-two hour watch, or are you already familiar with this?"
- 5 posts here • Page 1 of 1