I Feel Like A Ragdoll

by crystalemerson

Summary:

brainwash
/ˈbreɪnwɒʃ/
verb
verb: brainwash; 3rd person present: brainwashes; past tense: brainwashed; past participle: brainwashed; gerund or present participle: brainwashing

pressurize (someone) into adopting radically different beliefs by using systematic and often forcible means.

 

It simply makes no difference if you escape the mental estate. The lies and manipulation will get into your skull and burn away. Two brothers turn against one, but who's really to blame?

Notes:

i've got no idea how long this one will be so strap in :D

Chapter 1: Chapter 1

Remington's ears pricked up as he heard a noise. Lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling, he became mildly interested in the noise, and wondered slowly what it could be. His mind's questions were answered when part of the wall by his head swung back. A door! He had forgotten that his little cell had a door.

He sat up, and turned around so that he could see who or what was going to come in. On a second thought, he moved backwards so he was leaning against a wall. It was not that he was scared; more that this way of sitting was more comfortable.

He observed as a pair of shined black shoes appeared in the doorway. Slowly, he moved his gaze up the figure. He was wearing a long red jacket with coat-tails reaching his knees, with a fine silver waistcoat and a pure white ruffled shirt. On his fingers, he wore a spectacular array of rings, and he had a large, chain-like necklace around his neck with stunning jewels embedded into shining gold. The man's hair was cropped and grey, and his face was weathered and looked a little stressed.

Remington was overcome with awe. He could not remember the last time he saw so much colour. He gazed up at the man, enraptured by his flawless appearance. Who was this person? A king?

The elegantly-dressed man moved into the cell, and the door was locked. He strolled over to Remington.
"Don't you know it's rude to stare?" he snapped, but the boy on the ground did not appear to hear.

Remington flinched as his face stung sharply. The man in front of him moved his hand back. He must have slapped him. Remington met the piercing grey eyes.
"Huh?" He was utterly confused. "What... What did I do?" he asked. "Who are you?"

The man laughed, and knelt down so he was at Remington's level.
"Brilliant," he muttered under his breath, smirking. Then, louder, "I am Lord Lieseil. Who are you?"
Remington considered for a moment, frowning, before replying, "I'm sorry, I'm completely baffled. Is 'Lord' REALLY your first name?"

Lord Lieseil laughed again.
"No. It is a title. Who are you? And I'll give you a clue: you DON'T have a title."
Remington wracked his brains. Who was he? His brain was clouded by months of solitude, and he couldn't work it out.
"I don't think I know, Lord Lieseil. Should I know? Do YOU know? Can you tell me?" He hoped this 'Lord' would help him out, because he didn't have a clue.

"I do know who you are. You are Remington Leith."
Remington tested the name out in his head a few times.
"I like that. But why can't I have a title? I think 'Lord Remington' or 'Lord Leith' would sound good."

Lieseil's face darkened. He raised his hand and slapped Remington; harder this time. Remington yelped and tried to hide behind his legs.
"You don't get a title because you are a bastard," he spat.

"Ouch. Okay," said Remington, sounding a little muffled from behind his knees. Considering, he added, "What's a bastard?"
Sighing, as if he was tired of Remington, Lord Lieseil took a photograph from his pocket, and put it down in front of the boy, who could not pick it up with his arms trapped in the straitjacket which he had donned for so long.

"Those. Those are bastards," he said, and left.

Remington peered at the photograph. It contained three people; a person who looked like a pirate, a person dressed in what appeared to be an expensive suit, and a person with spiky hair and dark eye makeup. He did not recognise any of them.

He studied the three people for a bit, trying to work out what made them 'bastards'. But after half an hour of failing to understand, he gave up. His brain was tired; there had been far too much excitement today, compared to what he was used to. So he went to sleep. Those 'bastards' couldn't be that important, surely.

*

The next day, Remington found himself staring at the photograph again, but he was not really seeing it. It was just another place to lay his mostly empty gaze. He still could not work out if he was meant to know these people, or if Lord Lieseil had just given him a random example.

A few hours passed, when he noticed something on the ankle of the one with spiky hair. A small tattoo of a dying rose. He'd seen that before. He glanced down at his own ankle, and back up at the picture. No, he had not imagined it. Both his ankle and the one in the picture had the same small dying rose. And suddenly, a spark of recognition lit in his brain for the other two people in the photograph: his brothers!

And suddenly, things began to fall into place. His mind raced as memory after memory hit him like a truck. Living with his brothers; being taken away to this place; the bruisings and the beatings; the chains and the locks on doors; the needles and the drugs; the punches and the kicks and the slaps he had received; the Lords; his brother, Sebastian, whipping him and then keeling over; his other brother, Emerson, telling him he would be okay, LYING; the room filled with water and nearly drowning; Lord Warhol nearly shooting him; Lord Warhol REFUSING to shoot him; the liquid pain they had often used on him-

He stood up, and cut his own thoughts off with a rasping scream, his voice hoarse from excessive disuse. Tears ran down his face as he remembered everything that had happened to him- everything they had done to him. His skinny body shook as he was hit with painful memory after painful memory until everything was as clear in his mind as it had been when it was happening.

Once all of his joyless memories had returned, he knelt on the padded ground and sobbed, occasionally screaming loudly. Why? Why had they done it? Why had he forgotten? Why had he been allowed to remember now? Why was he even still alive?

"Fuck you!" he shouted, and he hoped that every sick individual in this fucking establishment who had hurt him or his brothers could hear him.

Chapter 2: Chapter 2

Emerson was frustrated. He kept starting drawings, but he could not get anywhere with them. He had stopped using his favourite brand of pens because all he could think about every time he picked one up was how he had had to cruelly destroy them, along with his art, at the estate.

But even using different pens was no help. Every time he drew, he was violently reminded of the mental estate. In escaping, he had lost a part of himself.

He had lost something else too: his dear brother Remington. Apparently, he had died some months ago, but Emerson had only just learned of his passing. Frequently, he found himself crying; mourning his joyful, smiley older brother. He grieved far more often that he drew, and he could not even find a reprieve in his artwork, as he normally would have done after losing someone close.

And, he supposed, he had lost Sebastian too. The older brother had gone straight to his room when they had got to where they were staying, and barely came out. He didn't seem to care that Remington was dead; neither did he seem to care that Emerson was falling apart.

Three weeks after the escape, Emerson stood up with a huff, throwing down his pen. He couldn't concentrate. Grabbing a jacket and pulling it on, he yelled out to Sebastian, even if he didn't care, that he was going out. He got halfway between a grunt and a mumble in response.

Emerson was aware that this was stupid and dangerous. Austin had found the safest house for them to stay in, and warned them over and over again to stay inside. People would be looking for them, and staying in was the safest option.

But Emerson was sick. Sick of staring at a blank page. Sick of staring at the same four walls. Sick of grieving, and grieving alone because his big brother didn't care. He needed to get out of the house before it suffocated him, even if it meant risking getting caught.

Frosty air hit him and wind nearly blew his hat away when he stepped over the threshold. He grabbed onto it, and then turned up his collar, partly to shield himself from the wind and partly to hide his face. If he was a hunted man, he may as well at least try to hide.

He hurried out and walked with purpose to nowhere in particular. He just needed to move. He did not know this area, and therefore knew nowhere and no one worth visiting. So, he wandered aimlessly, not paying attention to where he was going.

After about an hour of walking, Emerson found himself in a wide, empty street. Something in his subconscious niggled away at him as he meandered down the middle of it, but he was lost in his thoughts and he couldn't be bothered to work out what could be wrong.

One second too late, he suddenly realised that he had been being followed, as two pairs of heavy hands descended on his arms, yanking them behind his back. He yelled out in fear, writhing and trying to dodge out of the grip of his captors, but they were too strong.

Inwardly, he cursed himself. Stupid, stupid. He should have just stayed in the damn house, like Austin had told him to. But instead, he'd gone wandering in a place he was not familiar with, and now this was happening.

The kidnappers pushed him to his knees, holding his arms away from either side of his body so that he could not defend himself. Still, he struggled and fought. The street around him appeared completely empty, and screaming out did no good.

Panic truly started to set in, then. He didn't want to go back. He didn't want to! He wasn't sure he had the strength to endure it again. But he clearly had no choice in the matter.

Emerson's eyes were filling with tears. Not again. He couldn't do it again. The tears spilled over his lashes and down his flushed cheeks. It was hopeless; he didn't have a chance against these people. And it was his fault; he should have stayed inside!

Someone got a cuff on one hand, and his wrist protested, still trying to heal from the last time. The feeling of the metal biting his skin sent him hurtling into the past, and he squeezed his eyes shut. Why couldn't they have knocked him out? At least then he wouldn't have to be so scared.

With this arms secured behind his back, his captors dragged him up and started to walk him towards a black van parked nearby. He stumbled, his eyes darting around for anyone who could help him, but there was no one. The kidnappers kept him upright and pulled him along anyway.

He attempted to walk, but his knees were weak, and he ended up being dragged like a scarecrow. The people opened the van and threw him inside, slamming the door and leaving him in total darkness. He ended up laying on the floor. He felt the van drive off, and sighed wretchedly.

*

After a couple of hours of constant driving, the van slowed to a stop. Emerson, who had been sleeping on and off, sat up blearily. Light streamed into the van, and a shadow was cast over Emerson by a tall figure with a gas mask and a gun, beckoning at him to get out. Owing to the gun, he did so quickly, but his stomach was full of dread.

There were more guards outside the van, who took his arms and frog-marched him into a nearby door. Inside was just as he remembered: uniformed grey walls, with doors with closed hatches at regular intervals. A wave of terror and dread and bad memories washed over him so strong that he was forced to throw up the contents of his stomach onto the floor, desperately trying to bend over while the soldiers tried to keep him moving.

Thankfully, when the faceless guards realised what was happening, they stopped for a few seconds, giving him just enough time. Thankfully, because he might have choked otherwise. But the reprieve was brief, and they shoved him along even quicker afterwards.

They came to a door, and Emerson was pushed inside, the guards removing his cuffs before swiftly shutting the door. The only thing inside the room was a sink. Not bothering to think about its proper purpose, he ran up to it and made use of it, washing the acidic taste from his mouth and splashing his face with the cold water. It probably wouldn't do much good; he knew he would end up crying again. Nevertheless, he made use of the water while he had it.

When that was done, he sat down on the floor and tried very hard not to cry again. Before very long, the door opened again, and he was cuffed and taken through the hallways again. But the room they put him in was very different to any other he had seen in the estate.

The interior of the room was a stark contrast to the monotonous corridor outside. Rich, maroon wallpaper covered the walls, interspersed with paintings and light fixtures, which cast an ambient glow. There was a fire blazing in the fireplace. The centrepiece of the room was a decently sized deep mahogany dining table, laden with food, and scattered with candles.

Emerson slowly walked around the room, and decided he didn't trust it, so he sat down on the carpeted floor, backed up against a wall, as far away from the door as possible. His wrists were still fixed behind his back, which was a shame. He couldn't fight anyone who entered like this.

He had no doubt that someone WOULD enter. There were only two chairs at the table. So someone was definitely going to join him here.

Sure enough, after a few minutes, the door opened and Lord Warhol strolled in. Emerson fumed, but had the sense to keep his mouth shut. Being rude would only make things worse. And at least it wasn't Lord Lieseil.

Emerson didn't move as the older man approached, but he bowed his head in respect. He did not want to get in trouble.

"Emerson! Dear boy, how fantastic it is to see you again!" cried the Lord cheerfully, and Emerson was surprised by the use of his actual name. It had always been 'Pirate' or 'Bastard' the last time he was here. Unsure of how to respond to such an upbeat declaration, he kept his mouth shut. It was not 'fantastic' to be here.

Some contempt may have shown in his face, or it could have been the Lord's plan all along, but suddenly Warhol was not strolling, but stalking towards Emerson, defenceless on the ground. Two seconds before it happened, Emerson had the distinct feeling that something bad was going to happen. And it did.

Smiling, Warhol pulled out a gun and aimed it at Emerson's head. Emerson's eyes widened in horror as he came face to face with the dark barrel.
"What the f-" he began, scrambling to get out of the firing line. Warhol held up a finger disapprovingly.
"Watch your language," said the old man patronisingly. Then, he corrected his aim so that he was pointing it at Emerson again, who had moved.

"But you have a-"
"Gun. Yes. You see it? It could kill you. One little slip and your brains would paint the wallpaper. Do you understand?"
Emerson nodded, feeling sick from the picture that Warhol had just painted in his mind.
Warhol smiled.
"Good. I wanted you to understand that I could kill you at any moment. Take that into consideration when you make any decisions about attempting to cause trouble. Got it?"
Emerson nodded again.
"Perfect," said the Lord, and put the gun in his belt where it was clearly visible to Emerson. Then he took a small key from his pocket and threw it at Emerson.
"Get the handcuffs off, and then let's eat."

*

The meal was mostly silent at first. Emerson picked at his food, too confused and wary and scared to eat. It was clear that there was nothing wrong with the food, however; Warhol was eating from the same dishes. Emerson simply didn't know if he could keep anything down. Warhol had laid the gun next to him while he ate, and Emerson couldn't stop looking at it.

"You know, you are allowed to speak," said the Lord after a bit. Emerson had, until that point, kept his mouth shut out of fear of putting a foot wrong and meeting the barrel of the gun again. He considered for a moment, before quietly asking a question.
"Why did you kill Remington?"

Lord Warhol threw his head back and laughed loudly.
"What? What's funny? You killed my big brother!" Emerson could feel his temper rising, and fought to keep it down.
After laughing for a bit, Warhol stared Emerson in the eyes and said, "Dear boy, Patient X is not dead. He's right here!"

Emerson's head whipped around as curtains on the wall which he had assumed covered a window were pulled back remotely, showing a stark white room. A small, dark-haired figure was huddled on the floor.

Emerson stood up abruptly, making the crockery and cutlery clatter on the table. He ran to the window and pressed his face against it frantically. The dark-haired person was clearly crying, although Emerson couldn't hear it. But Emerson would recognise that face anywhere.

It really was Remington.

Chapter 3: Chapter 3

Notes:

thanks for continuing to read this stuff :)

Sebastian heard a sharp knock at the front door, and jumped, before he realised that it was probably just Emerson wanting to be let back in. Sebastian wasn't really sure why he had gone out; hadn't Austin told them to stay inside? But that didn't matter now he was back. And it wasn't like Sebastian could be bothered to care, anyway.

He put down the book he had been reading, and headed downstairs. He could see a shadow through the frosted glass, and wondered when Emerson had grown that tall. The person at the door looked 6'2 or more.

Sebastian pulled open the door, and was about to slouch off and continue to ignore his brother, when he realised something. The person on his doorstep definitely wasn't Emerson. They stood, towering, wearing all black, and a gas mask. Sebastian stepped back in mild surprise, and vaguely thought that perhaps it would be appropriate to try to fight this person. So he threw up his fists, fairly robotically, and called up the distant memories of the last time he had fought someone like this.

But before he had a chance to launch an attack, the person thrust their hand out in a staying motion, holding an envelope. The other hand flew to rest on a pistol in their belt. Sebastian stopped. He couldn't fight a gun; that was just stupid. So instead, he took the envelope from the gloved hand, eyeing the person in mild suspicion. As soon as he had taken it, the person left down the path and disappeared into the night, leaving Sebastian standing alone, with wind blowing into the house through the open door.

He opened the letter with his thumb, noting the quality of the paper, and the royal crest on the wax seal. A strange sensation came upon him; the feeling of slight concern. He hadn't felt anything in a while. He removed the heavy paper from the envelope and began to read.

"To Mr. Sebastian Danzig,
Lord Alister Warhol and Lord Bartholomew Lieseil would like to request your attendance at a dinner tomorrow evening. A vehicle will be provided to escort you. Please note that attendance is compulsory."

Sebastian set the letter down on a table, before closing the front door. And, for the first time in months, he felt something: cold dread. Had they really known where he and Emerson had been this whole time? And therefore... what had happened to Emerson?

*

The next evening, he was sitting in a lavishly decorated room, with maroon walls, and a grand spread of food on the table in front of him. He waited, not wanting to eat anything in case it was drugged. He was horrified to be back here at all; were they going to lock him up here for even longer? Is that why they had asked him here?

The door swung open, and Lord Warhol entered. Sebastian bowed, although he wasn't sure why. It was not like he was trying to protect his brothers anymore; Remington was long-dead, and he had no idea where Emerson was.

The older man took the other chair, beaming.
"Sebastian," he began. "How lovely it is to see you here again."
Sebastian clenched his jaw, angered by the absurdity and idiocy of the statement. He was quite shocked, too, that his emotions were returning.

"Now, now," scolded Warhol. "There is no need to be angry. I brought you here because I need to explain something to you. About Remington."
At that, Sebastian tuned out, becoming indifferent again. His brother was dead. He no longer cared about that. He drifted out of the room, no longer paying attention.

He was brought out of his trance by the sudden and deafening crack of a gunshot. He jumped violently, and searched frantically for the source. His eyes rested on Lord Warhol, holding a smoking revolver, looking irate.
"You weren't listening, bastard. This is important. Pay attention, or I won't miss next time," said the old man. Sebastian turned, taking in the sight of the bullet lodged in the wall behind him, only a few inches away from where his head had been.

"Anyway," continued Warhol, as Sebastian came back to face him. "I was telling you about Remington. When we told you he was dead, we weren't lying. But he is not dead in the way you thought he was. You see... his mind is dead. His thoughts, memories and personality are gone. Everything that made him Remington is gone. So, your brother is gone. But his body still survives... Empty. He is dangerous now. We call him Patient X, and he is very unstable."

Sebastian was confused. His brother was alive, but he also wasn't?
"Why are you telling me this?" he asked.
"Because, my dear Sebastian, we need your help. Patient X is insane, and we fear that he may escape us soon. If he does, he could be very dangerous, and it's likely that he will seek you and Emerson out." Warhol paused and looked Sebastian straight in the eyes.
"We need your word. If he escapes, will you bring him back? As I said, he is not your brother anymore. He doesn't recognise anyone, and he is dangerous. Will you help us?"

Sebastian considered all this strange new information, slowly processing it. If this was true, and his brother was alive, did he really want to aid these horrible people in bringing him back if he escaped? But then, if he really was dangerous, and not who he used to be, surely it would be better for everyone if he was contained? Perhaps the Lords genuinely did mean well. He decided that he had to assess this for himself. Eventually, he asked, "Can I see him?"
"Of course," said Warhol, surprising him.

Curtains which had been closed before were jerked open to reveal a hauntingly familiar figure in a white room. He was standing facing the window when the curtains drew back, and the menacing angle of his head made him look like the devil incarnate, with the bright, harsh lights casting shadows under his eyes. When the curtains opened, he scowled even more, and turned around defiantly so that his back was facing them.

Sebastian had seen enough of his face to recognise him as Remington. But something was wrong here, clearly. The Remington he knew would never turn his back like that, especially after months of not seeing his brother. Sebastian had not been recognised by this threatening shell of a person, that much was clear. If that didn't scream insanity, what did? This person was clearly not Sebastian's brother anymore.

"Sure," said Sebastian in a monotone voice, staring at Patient X through the glass. "I'll help you."

Chapter 4: Chapter 4

They had moved Remington to a new cell. There was nothing much different about this one apart from a large window spanning the length and height of one wall. There were clearly curtains or something on the other side, so he couldn't see what was on the other side of the glass. The rest of the room was just stark white, like his old cell, and everywhere apart from the window was padded.

The childlike, vacant version of himself that he had been for the past few months would have been delighted and intrigued by the move, but Remington was too caught up in the grief of his own traumatic memories to care. He was still swamped in hurt and anger, and every time he closed his eyes, there was a gun to his head or a whip at his back. So he didn't particularly care about the move.

However, he was a little more bothered when the curtains opened for the first time. He caught the movement in the corner of his eye, and whipped around to see what was behind the glass. He had absolutely no idea what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn't what he saw.

Through the glass was a dimly lit, fancy-looking room, with a dining table in the centre. Sat around it were about eight smartly-dressed men, some smoking pipes. When the curtains were drawn back, they all turned eagerly to the window, leaning forward to get a proper look.

Remington eyed them with suspicion and disgust for a few seconds. What was this? Was he some kind of freakshow attraction now? Why were they all staring at him? Their gazes were pernickety and invasive, and he hated it. He couldn't hear what they were saying about him, but he could hear them pointing and making comments, some taking notes, and others even chuckling.

He bristled, and scowled viciously at the stupid party, but this seemed to excite them even further, and their note-taking got more frantic. Remington huffed in exasperation, but quickly realised that anything he did was going to cause a flurry of activity. It pissed him off; had they forgotten that he was human too?

There was nowhere he could hide from the stares. The cell was small, and the entire wall was taken up by the window. So he turned his back to the men, and made no further movements. He wasn't going to give these rude people the show they so clearly wanted.

But blocking them out was more difficult than he had expected. It was more than just not seeing them. He could feel their eyes burning into his skin as he sat with his back against the glass. He knew that the men were most likely crowded around, behind and above him. It was hard to ignore them. Of course, he was used to being watched; there were cameras everywhere here. But having people right there, mere inches away from him, was different.

He found himself watching a small amount of the orange light which had managed to show up against the glaring white of the cell floor. When, after a few hours, it disappeared, he cautiously turned around, and breathed a sigh of relief when he confirmed that the curtains had closed again. Thank fuck that was over.

*

Over the next couple of weeks, he was watched almost constantly from the window. He had realised that he wasn't really in a cell, but a viewing gallery. And it was not fun. He would be watched for hours by a group of people - always different people - until they got bored and left, and then he would have about half an hour before the next lot came in. The cycle was relentless.

The worst part was that they didn't even leave him alone while he slept. He would curl up with his back to the glass to sleep, but that didn't help much when he woke up screaming from horrific nightmares, thrashing against the straitjacket. Those were the times when the observers had the most excitement, he supposed.

There were some days where he couldn't keep in his emotions, and he often found himself shaking, trying not to cry out loud, in case they could hear him. But he inevitably began following a set of rules he had set for himself: show nothing, give them nothing, and only turn around when the curtains were closed. When he was caught out by the curtains opening, he wouldn't look at their faces or make eye contact; only scowl and turn around definitively.

One day, the curtains were closed when he woke up, and the door opened instead, a few minutes after. Soldiers grabbed him, and he was too unsettled by his latest nightmare to care as they dragged him through the hallways. They threw him into a room which was small and grey and quite different from the cell before.

He did not have time to take in his surroundings, however, as soon after he arrived, Lord Lieseil came in. Remington hissed and moved back a bit; he did not like being in close proximity to this vile man.
"Oh, shut it," demanded Lieseil.
"No, you," shot back Remington, and smirked. Had he really just 'no you'ed Lord Lieseil?

He received a very hard kick to the face in response, and swore colourfully when his nose started to bleed. Cursing earned him another kick, so he shut up.
"Come here," said Lieseil, beckoning. Remington shuffled backwards, making Lieseil sigh tiredly. "Fine then. Let's try this, then. Come here," he said, and produced a painfully familiar needle. Now it was Remington's turn to sigh tiredly, as he stood up and moved closer to Lieseil. He stared the older man directly in the eyes.
"Don't you dare with that fucking needle," he said in a low voice.

"If you behave, I won't use it. And don't even think about stealing it like you did last time, or we'll never let you out."

Let him out..?

"When you say 'let you out'..." began Remington, almost hopeful, but aware that Lieseil had probably just said that to fuck with him.
"Shut up," snapped Lieseil, and before Remington had a chance to protest, he produced another, different needle, and shoved it into Remington's neck.

Three seconds later, he hit the floor, and the world went black.

Chapter 5: Chapter 5

Notes:

i've got 2 more chapters lined up so expect them soon, i had a massive writing spree and i can unfortunately see where this is going now

"But Emerson, you don't understand!"
Emerson sat across from Sebastian in the living room of their 'safe' house, glaring stubbornly and refusing to believe the obscene things he was being told.
"Oh yes, I don't understand that our previously dead brother is actually alive, and apparently fucking dangerous!" he yelled back. "Sebastian, do you even KNOW Remington? That kid couldn't be dangerous if his life depended on it! He's just not like that!"

"But you didn't SEE him, Em! He didn't even recognise me! He just fucking growled or something! It's not him in there anymore!"

"I did see him! And- And-" Emerson paused. When he had seen Remington, he hadn't even turned around to see. He'd just been crying. Had Emerson really seen enough to judge?

"Well- Even if he is 'insane and dangerous'- not saying I believe it- why would we take him back to that infernal place? They clearly made him like that; what good would returning him do?" Emerson still wasn't sure he believed this nonsense.

"Because- Because I don't think it WAS them who made him like that! They didn't change us, so why him? Maybe he was just already like that, on the inside," mused Sebastian.

Emerson exploded again.
"Do you HEAR yourself? We spent ten months in that HELLHOLE, and you're telling me that wouldn't have changed him? And so much for not being changed ourselves. Sebastian, you don't CARE anymore. You walk around all day, not giving a damn about anything. You just let me WALK OUT OF THIS HOUSE the other day and I was TAKEN BACK. If you cared one bit, you would have STOPPED me. And me? I can't even pick up a fucking pen without having flashbacks! So don't you give me the whole 'they're actually the good guys here' speech because it's bullshit!"

Now Sebastian was glaring.
"If they're so awful, why do you think they just let us walk out of there today, huh? Why do you think they warned us about how dangerous Patient X is? Do you think they would have done that if they weren't trying to help?"

Emerson didn't have an answer. He scrabbled around in his brain, trying to find a quick retort, but there was none. Of course, he didn't want to believe this, but the doubt in his brain was getting stronger by the minute. Maybe- just maybe- Sebastian wasn't wrong.

"Tell me more about how he acted when you saw him," demanded Emerson.
"Well he was properly angry when he saw me, and then he turned his back. Emerson- he didn't know me. Not one bit. He's gone, Emerson. All there is left is an unstable shell."

"But he's still there, isn't he? In the estate? So we actually don't need to do anything, right?"
"Right, unless he gets out. But I swear to you, Emerson," said Sebastian with a sincere look in his eyes, "I would not have believed Lord Warhol unless it was ABSOLUTELY clear he was telling the truth. I'm Remington's big brother. I wouldn't have agreed to ANYTHING if it were not in his best interests."

Looking into his big brother's eyes, all Emerson saw was truth. He sighed miserably. He would just have to accept it. Patient X was insane.

*

Emerson heard the thud of the newspaper on the mat, and strolled to pick it up. He found himself reading a lot recently, as he didn't feel like drawing, and in the newspaper, there was always something new and interesting to read about.

But today's headline made his insides turn cold, and he dropped the paper. After a few seconds, he picked it up and checked he had read it right, which he, regretfully, had.
'PUBLIC WARNED AS PATIENT X ESCAPES MENTAL ESTATE.'

"Sebastian!" Emerson almost-screamed. As the older brother appeared in the hallway, Emerson shook, saying quietly, "Re- I mean, Patient X got out."

*

Emerson began to dread the daily newspaper. The first couple of days after the report of the escape contained in-depth descriptions of why Patient X was dangerous, and what to do if someone sighted him. He was described as 'dangerously charming, and fully capable of brainwashing people to believe he is innocent' and 'a deadly liar'. Emerson sadly wondered what had happened to his smiley older brother to make him like this.

But, on about the fourth day, the headlines were shocking.
'DOUBLE MURDER AT THE BANK, PATIENT X SIGHTED COVERED IN BLOOD.'
"Oh, god," breathed Emerson. A murder? No, two murders? Eerily intrigued, he continued to read.

Apparently, two citizens had been stabbed, seemingly at random, at the bank, but not a single Midas had been stolen. Another passerby had reported a 'very disturbing sighting' of Patient X, covered in blood, running.

Emerson felt sick. This settled it. The Remington he knew wouldn't hurt a fly. He was clearly insane; there was no doubt about it. But it didn't make it any easier to deal with, and he ended up sobbing as Sebastian hugged him. Remington was really gone.

Chapter 6: Chapter 6

The headlines only got worse. A child dead in a playground. The elderly librarian suffocated in the library. A bride-to-be killed at a dress shop. And all the killings were accompanied by sightings of Patient X.

Sebastian could hardly sleep at night. He tossed and turned, tormented by the horrendous things his 'little brother' was doing. On top of the obvious awfulness of the crimes, something was bothering Sebastian.

One night, it came to him. He shot out of bed and ran to the bookcase to get a map of the town. Using coins as markers, he plotted out every single place where a murder had been committed.

His stomach filled with dread as he realised the pattern. The places formed a line, and after, perhaps, one more kill, this house would be next in line. Either himself or Emerson might die soon.

*

When Sebastian awoke the next morning, he was not prepared for what he read in the paper.
'SHOP OWNER KILLED IN LATEST OF PATIENT X'S BRUTAL MURDERS.'

At first it seemed normal. Horrible, but normal. A young shopkeeper had been brutally stabbed to death in his shop, and Patient X had been seen, covered in blood. Sebastian sloped upstairs to mournfully add a coin to his map.

But as he put the Midas over the fated man's shop, a realization hit him with the force of a steam-train. He felt like all of the air had been knocked out of his lungs, and he sat down abruptly on the bed. He knew that shop. And he knew the owner.

The person who had taken them out of the mental estate. The person who had found them a safe-house. The only person who visited them. Their only friend.

Austin.

*

Sebastian sat in a black cloud of grief. He missed not feeling. Every time he attempted to get up and function, the realization of Austin's death forced him back down again. And it seemed like Emerson was the same, when he worked it out.

Except, while Sebastian stewed and did nothing, Emerson could be heard violently wrecking things downstairs. And Sebastian didn't have the heart to stop him. It had clearly been more difficult for the younger brother to acccept Patient X's insanity, and now, Patient X had just murdered Austin. So, Sebastian thought it was perfectly justified for Emerson to be breaking things.

Eventually, as night drew in, Sebastian drifted into a heavy sleep. But when he awoke, it was still dark. He sat up groggily. Something- a sound- had woken him up, but he couldn't remember what. He glanced at the clock: 4am.

Laying back down, he tried to go back to sleep, but a minute later, he heard the sound again which had woken him up; a feeble knocking at the door. He tried to ignore it. It was probably just someone high on anhedonia or drunk. They had probably already gone. But he heard the sound again, and sighed, getting up. He moved as quietly as he could, so as not to wake Emerson who was passed out on the living-room floor, with broken stuff all around him.

Sebastian absently pulled the door open, rubbing his face tiredly. His eyes slowly moved up the figure on his doorstep. Black boots, white and black striped trousers, strange white jacket... familiar face... covered in blood... and a painfully sharp-looking, bloody knife in the figure's hand.

"Patient X," Sebastian breathed.

Chapter 7: Chapter 7

Notes:

this work has only got an epilogue to come... another work will follow in this series though

as usual might take like a 10 day break or something in between to get out of this work and finish some other stuff. i'll write the epilogue soon, then i'll take a break, won't be that long.

Remington woke up in another new cell. It wasn't blindingly white, which was nice. The walls were grey, and there was a bed, which was pretty cool. He'd missed beds, having slept on padded floors for so long.

He had woken up on said bed. He was still wearing the straitjacket, but he was delighted to find the arms unbuckled. He rejoiced at this discovery, and enjoyed stretching them liberally, after months of inactivity.

But once he had enjoyed his new privileges for a bit, he grew suspicious. What was he doing here? There was definitely a reason why he'd been moved, but he just didn't know it. Sure, a bed was great, and being able to move was great, but he didn't trust this situation at all.

He'd been awake for about an hour when something was shoved through the hatch in the door. He warily went to get it, and realised with mild confusion that it was a newspaper: The Obsidian Chronicle. Glaring up at him was the bold headline: 'PUBLIC WARNED AS PATIENT X ESCAPES MENTAL ESTATE.'

Patient X... That was him! What? Escaped? But... he was here! Wasn't he? And why would the public need to be warned? Remington fumbled to reach the page with the story, and began to read:

'Yesterday, a highly unstable and extremely dangerous individual known as Patient X escaped Lord Warhol and Lord Lieseil's mental estate. He was last seen wearing a straitjacket, and is quite tall with dark hair. Lord Warhol has personally urged all citizens to be vigilant, as no-one really knows what X is capable of. Any sightings must be reported as soon as possible to the authorities. DO NOT approach X as he is dangerous, unpredictable and insane."

Remington was yet more confused. He had not escaped. He knew for certain that HE was the Patient X that they were talking about, but he was still IN the estate. And what was all that about being 'extremely dangerous'? Sometimes he punched walls if he wasn't wearing a straitjacket... Did that count? And he definitely wasn't insane.

Was he?

*

On the next two days, he received the newspaper. The stories were mostly about him, painting him out to be a dangerous, threatening, brainwashing, cheating, lying, insane individual. And they kept going on about how he had escaped. It was most confusing.

On the fourth day, it was even worse. They started blaming a violent double murder on him, and someone had apparently 'seen' him running from the scene, covered in blood. What the fuck did this mean? He hadn't killed someone.

As the days passed, it got no clearer. The murder of a child. The murder of a librarian. The murder of a bride-to-be. The murder of a shopkeeper. It made no sense. he had killed no-one. He would NEVER kill someone, and especially not in the brutal ways it reported here. At least he could rest assured that this meant these people hadn't actually died, right?

He was taken to see the Lords after the shopkeeper, in that negatively nostalgic room where the gun incidents had occurred.
"Patient X," grinned Warhol.
"Oh, drop the niceties. Spit it out, whatever it is," spat Remington.
"Temper, temper," tutted Lieseil, and Remington shot him a death glare.

"We just wanted to kindly let you know that everyone The Obsidian Chronicle SAID you killed, is actually dead. Doesn't matter that you didn't kill them. They all died anyway," smiled Warhol. "We killed them all. But no one will believe you if you tell them that. I think you knew one of them too..."
"Who?" demanded Remington, suddenly a little panicked.

"Oh, the shopkeeper... I think his name was Austin," smirked Warhol, and Remington sighed. He hadn't known Austin well, but he was really nice. And these fuckers had murdered him.
"Well, fuck you," he hissed.

"We'll see you soon, Patient X," said Lieseil ominously, and both Lords left. Soldiers came in soon after, but instead of taking him out of the room, one of them produced a rag, covered in what look suspiciously like fresh blood. They grabbed him roughly by his hair, and rubbed the soaking thing over his face, covering it. He struggled to get out from under metallic-smelling cloth, but it was gone fairly quickly. Then, they took him out of the room.

He wasn't taken back to any cell. They pulled him along until they reached a set of three doors that had to be opened one after the other. And then... sunlight. Remington squinted as he was pushed into a closed courtyard where a black van was parked. The guards threw him into the back and closed the doors, plunging him into darkness.

*

The van drove for hours. Remington was too confused and scared to speculate about where he might be going, so he simply laid, staring dully into the darkness, mourning Austin, the bouncy kid who he had not really had the time to get closer to.

Eventually, the motion of constant driving ceased, and the doors were pulled open. Pale moonlight streamed in as soldiers pulled him out roughly. He was in front of a small, nondescript house.

"Take this. We have guns on you, so don't turn on us. Your brothers are in that house. Goodbye, Patient X," said one of the faceless soldiers, and handed him a large, bloody knife. Remington took it, dazed, before his mind caught up. Brothers! Suddenly, he was racing up the path, and knocking at the door. Nothing mattered but getting to his brothers.

It didn't even occur to him that, to his brothers, he would look exactly like the insane murderer he had been painted to be.

Notes:

please do lmk what you think!

love the void x

Chapter 8: Epilogue

Notes:

ik it's short but it's an epilogue so shhhhh

Warhol’s personal diary- 24th December
The stage is set. Everything is properly in place. The actors are primed and ready; but they are not actors. They are merely puppets, controlled by me. They are the tools of each other’s destruction. Why should I bother to destroy this family… when they can do it better themselves?

My work will rip through their bond, their trust, their love for each other like an atomic bomb. And they will dance. Because it is very amusing to make people dance.

The stage is set. The puppets are ready. All we need now is for someone to say

*
“action! Sebastian, he made you tell him we would bring him back if he came to us! But, if they don’t know he’s here, maybe we don’t need to take action! Maybe we can just… hide him?” Emerson was clutching at straws.

“Emerson! Look at him!” yelled Sebastian, making Emerson flinch. He’d had enough of arguing. He flicked his eyes towards Patient X sitting on the floor. They’d rebuckled his straitjacket and tied an ankle to a pipe so he couldn’t hurt them. He was covered in blood, and he had been carrying a huge knife before Sebastian had knocked it out of his hands.

“Do you see? We can’t just hide him- It’s not even him anymore! He’ll kill us!”
“No, I won’t,” interrupted Patient X quietly.
“Shut up! Just- Just don’t listen to him, Emerson. Remember what they said? Patient X LIES! He’d be better off in the estate.”

Emerson was conflicted. They’d been fighting over this for half an hour now, but he wasn’t even sure why he was bothering. It was nearing impossible to believe that the person in their living room was anything other than a murderous lunatic.

“And,” continued Sebastian, “remember that he killed Austin. How can you even disagree here? Besides, you know they’re probably watching the house. They’d figure out he was here eventually. Let’s just take him back.”

Emerson sighed. He knew it was true. He knew that Remington was gone. But he still didn’t want to believe it.
“Let’s not make a decision tonight. Let me sleep. We should wait until morning.”

“Do I get any say in this at all?” asked Patient X. Emerson was suddenly overcome with rage.
“No! You don’t! You are a lying, cheating, murderous son of a bitch! You are not my brother! My brother would never kill someone like you did. You killed my friend! So thank you very much, we will be deciding this!”
“But I didn’t-“ protested X, but Emerson didn’t hear the rest, already stomping upstairs to bed. He would deal with this in the morning.

And he already knew what the decision would be.

Notes:

i've never written anything like this i hope i did good

 

lmk what you thought of this work x

Notes:

tell me what you think in the comments

thanks for reading!

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of Lost In The Mental Estate