Evan Peters Imagines

Writing Prompt #7

Writing Prompt: "I want to know your side. Your story."

"There isn't much to tell."

Summary: You were put into Briarcliff and meet Kit. You knew about the accusations against him, but you wanted the whole story.

I sat across the table from Dr. Thredson.

"You know, Y/N, this would go much faster if you talked," He sighed. He's obviously frustrated, his thick eyebrows knitted together.

"I don't need you inside my head," I snapped, crossing my arms. He jotted something down, watching my every move. I squinted at him, my vision blurring. He's hiding something and I want to crack it. I hope that by staring into those cold eyes, I can figure it out.

"Staring at me won't ease the tension," He sighed, taking his glasses off and rubbing his eyes. I considered running from the room, screaming and crying. But that would lessen my chances of going home.

I was sent here after an outburst against my now ex-boyfriend. He was abusive and I had enough. We would butt heads and shout at each other. Six months into our relationship, the shouting matches became beatings. My head dizzy and my body aching, I devised a plan, waiting for the perfect night.He and his friend were going to some bar, I faked being sick to avoid another fight. I waited patiently for him to leave.

With the dark covering me, I took a bat to his car. I shattered the windows and dented just about every inch of the car. He called the police and told them that I was attacking him when he came home. They dragged me to Briarcliff after spending the remainder of the night in a holding cell. He gave them consent to do anything that they thought would cure the fake mental illness I have.

"Y/N, you attacked your boyfriend. We have to talk this out so we can find a good treatment option for you."

"Stuff it," I muttered. He leaned back and sighed in defeat.

As if on cue, a security guard came in. He whispered something in Thredson's ear. I only caught a few pieces of the sentence.

"Bloody Face... state... evaluation... Kit Walker."

I read about the serial killer Bloody Face in the newspaper last week. I've been dumbfounded as to why he would do it. I know that he has his own side to the story.

"Y/N, we'll have to finish this at a later time, something has come up," Thredson smiled, standing up. The security guard grabbed my elbow, leading me from the room. I took my elbow back and shuffled slowly, ignoring the echoes of the other patients' screams. When I arrived here, Sister Jude told me that this would be a relaxing, calming experience for me.

I'm not sure if she's so deluded that she thinks this is a 'relaxing' place or if she's just plain stupid. I've been here for three months and there has not been one day without some type of mental breakdown in the facility.

The supposed Bloody Face, Kit Walker, was escorted in by multiple guards. The man and I made eye contact, not breaking it until he was pulled away. No matter how hard I tried, I would never forget those pleading eyes. He seemed to silently beg me to help him out of the restraints he was in.

The guard pushed me into the day room with the other patients. I tried my best to ignore the smell of the room. It churned my stomach every time I walked in here, making me feel ill. I sat down on the couch, braiding my hair over and

Many of the patients were given the chance to smoke, including me, but I don't engage in the habit. It reminds me of the terrible life I live outside of Briarcliff.

I caught myself thinking about my life outside of Briarcliff. Usually, I thought about my life with that dick, whether we'd have children yet, or maybe just how I would deal with the beatings and what not.

These thoughts usually made me crazier. I spend my days in a loop, thinking, avoiding the orderlies and other patients. All I want is to prove my sanity and leaving this hell on Earth, but the word is, you never leave Briarcliff unless you're an employee.

The slamming of the doors snapped me out of my thoughts. I jumped, nearly falling off of the couch.

They had thrown the infamous Bloody Face into the room. Doll watched him, petting her plastic baby that she kept with her at all times. I called her Doll because I don't know her name.

The man sat down at the small folding table by the windows. I watched him intently over my knees that I kept up on the couch. The orderlies came in with the silver trays with medicine on them, making my head spin.

Those little white pills only turn our brains into mush. My words come out jumbled and incoherent. My muscles are weak and frail. I'm easy to take over and it's easier for the orderlies to control me if I'm sedated.

I got in line behind Doll. I bit the pill in half and swallowed it, the bitter taste staying on my taste buds. I use the one half to help me numb my own personal pain. I spit out the other half into my palm when the men leave, tucking it into the ripped lining of the couch. I know these pills don't do much, but I don't want to leave my body and become a walking shell of who I once was.

"You don't seem crazy," Kit mumbled, sitting on the couch next to me.

"And you don't seem like a serial killer," I snarked, "sorry."

"I get it."

We sat in silence, thinking. Pepper walked up, handing us each a dandelion.

"Flower. For you," She smiled.

"Thank you, Pepper," I smiled back, rubbing her hand as she walked to give away the rest of the dandelions. I fiddled with the cut plant, rolling it between my fingers. The sap from the flower's stem made my fingers smell of the outdoors, of nature. When Pepper gave me flowers it only made me more desperate to get out of Briarcliff.

"Y/N? Are you okay?"

"Hmm?" I hummed, knocked out of my thoughts for the second time in 20 minutes.

"You're crying," Kit whispered, handing me a tissue from the table.

I wiped the tears away from my eyes, "I'm fine Kit."

"You know my name?"

"I've only seen it a million times in the last few days," I chuckled, trying to lighten the mood. Kit smiled and I noticed a glimmer of something in his eyes. I'm just not sure what it is yet.

"I want to know your side," I said bluntly, "your story."

"There isn't much to tell."

I frowned, "There's always two sides to a story."

Kit let out a sigh, settling on the couch. He began telling me everything. The white room. The bright lights shining in his eyes. The death of his wife. I squeezed his hand in reassurance. He seemed to be thankful for the simple action and I understood. I finally figured out the glimmer in his eyes. It was his innocence. I am a much better therapist than Thredson.

Kit took my silence as a bad sign, "I get if you think I really am insane."

"You're not. I know it."