( I do not own this story. I did not write it I just loved it a whole lot so I thought I should share it. credits to @greyeyes7 fan fiction.net )
He was thrown in his cell, his head slamming against the wall, causing a pounding headache that, at the time, he didn't know would last for the next two days. After the depressing, gray brick came into focus, he looked around his small home. It consisted of a metal bedframe, an impossibly thin, yellow mattress, and the smell of sorrow.
'Like it or not, he thought, this is my new home,' he thought. He pulled himself up (a difficult feat in his straightjacket) by pushing his weight onto the wall, and pushing up with his legs. Once he stood up fully, he collapsed onto the bed, the mattress providing about as much support as he expected it to.
He rolled onto his back and sighed. He thought about everything that had happened. But eventually, like always, the thoughts of the ridiculous accusations gave him a large headache (this time to couple the one he got when entering the premises), and he found his escape through sleep.
He stepped out into the commons. The light shone in through the windows, making the place seem a little less dreary, but considering the fact that the patients were all depressed, it clearly didn't add to the conditions of the asylum.
The commons had this ridiculous song playing—this horrible, repetitive song that nearly drove him insane as soon as he walked through the doors. He imagined that on a normal day, there would be lots of bustle—people chatting, playing games, and then there was the occasional chronic masturbator.
But this day...this day was different. Because on this day, Bloody Face himself stepped through the large, wooden doors and into the commons. Kit was convinced that had he not been known for this crime, people wouldn't look twice at him. They would regard him as just another man in a blue shirt and pants. But everyone knew Bloody Face. Everyone knew what he had supposedly done.
He froze as soon as he stepped in, taking a moment to assess the room. Everyone looked at him, doe-eyed, as if they were afraid they'd be his next victim. A Hispanic woman held a rosary towards him and began uttering something in Spanish. A man with his hands in his pants had momentarily stopped pleasuring himself to get a good look at the famous murderer.
But there was a girl. She wasn't looking at him. Out of everyone there, she was the only one to not stare. Her blond locks were wrapped up in a ponytail, perfectly in place, as if she had just left a salon. He couldn't see her full face, but she briefly shifted in her chair, allowing for Kit to catch a glimpse of her rosy cheek. She sat at a card table with a pinhead, both appeared to be enjoying themselves—the only bunch out of the whole asylum with legitimate smiles on their faces.
Kit stepped forward, watching as some of the crowd continued business as usual, while others stared out of the corners of their eyes, as if he wouldn't notice. But he didn't care anymore.
He walked straight towards the card table and sat across from the pinhead, with the blond on his right. She looked up, startled at his sudden entrance, and her eyes widened. At first, he thought it was because she recognized him as bloody face...that was until she said, "Jimmy?" She looked down at his hands and back up at his face. "How—what?"
The pinhead was going absolutely nuts. She jumped up and ran around the table, giving Kit a big kiss on the forehead before the guards barked at her to let go of him. She skipped back to her spot across from Kit, the smile still on her face, and with the word "Jimmy" coming out of her mouth at rapid speed and on repeat.
Kit shook his head, "I'm Kit. Kit Walker."
The blond nodded, as if she knew that, then glanced back down at the cards she had in front of her, muttering something about hands and impossibilities. Kit tilted his head and raised an eyebrow, unsure of what to think. The pinhead looked terribly confused, and said to him, "No Jimmy?"
