The Alternative

October 7, 1972
Blue Sage apartment complex
2:43 AM

Doctor Richard Marks has spent over half of his life in psychology. And had, by the suggestion of a colleague, spent most of his career interviewing what most called dark cases.

The nutcases, really. The dangerous nutcases.

Murderers, molesters, sociopaths and psychopaths alike. Those that had assaulted, behavioral glitches and mood deficiencies. The sorts of wicked and vile creatures that, by the general public's opinion, should be euthanized.

Call it what you will; Emotional masochism, passive sadism. But Mr Marks was very good at keeping his stomach strong while he assessed such minds.

But there was an oddity in his presence as of late.

A woman, whom was not a murderer. She was not a rapist, she hadn't attacked anybody. Her manners were, generally, quiet and easy. She was the sort of woman that mewled in delight and simply held her tongue in distaste.

She hummed prettily, quoted eloquently. In her was a gentle, profound sort of intelligence. Something that attracted everybody to her- Perhaps they wished to protect her, or they might crave her generosity.

Overall, she was a kind, amazing little creature that demanded the attention and admiration of all that met her.

Her name was Juniper Cunnie. And in her head she had developed a very brutal, very systematic torture.

In June Cunnie's mind was her own personal Hell... Or so he was told.

Mr Marks had been nothing but astounded. Was still puzzling over her nature and why he had been put on a case so mild. She wasn't anything more that manic depressive- at most. Perhaps paranoid, but any person was allowed to be whilst locked in a padded cell.

He sat alone at a rickety coffee table, Cunnie's profile and the notes he had taken on her spread before him.

Most of his notes read as above; They were scarce and only did well to identify her vague personal information. Stupid and insignificant things he had uncovered in simple conversation.

Her favorite color was gold. She liked jewelry with turquoise. The little thing detested jeans, however the facility did not permit her to wear her own clothing. She had joked about hating the uniform- that was the only thing that seemed really odd to Dick Marks.

Cunnie had been strapped to a foam rubber cot with two inch leather guards. Securing her legs was thick cotton to leave her immobile if she did happen to get out of the guards.

On every square inch of her cell was padding.

So why was her only complaint to that of the uniform?

And her file... Where his notes were scant, the file was an exact length of five hundred and sixteen front to back pages, four cassettes and twenty-seven photos.

He had only made it to page fifteen so far. And was becoming more and more confused as he read on. It was the notes taken from her previous therapist. A man by the name of Wallis Smith. She had been a patient of his for one hour every Thursday. Before three months prior to her being committed, she had held a seat on his leather couch.

His notes were as boring as Mr Marks'. They only detailed what Marks suspected as well. Manic depression, anxiety... All up until December 13, 1970. The last session she ever attended. There was nothing but one word: Disassociation.