Dangerous

Alex

Fake driver's licence, check.

Stolen car, check.

Stolen phone? check.

Well, that's what you get when you're not supposed to be in any database -- Not exist, technically. But, as Alexander did exist, he might as well do something useful. Currently, that meant driving a 17 year old girl to her quarters.

He stopped the car at a red light and checked on the passenger seat. The beige interior agreed with her in terms of tone and over-all clothing and aesthetic choices. Not really wanting for attention, Charlotte seemed most comfortable as her shoulder slumped in the oversized blue sweatshirt, which said, F.C Chelsea -- probably not technically hers.

He tsked. Even in her most vulnerable form, she was playing dress-up of sorts. Trying to hide her petite form in layers of clothes and bury herself somehow. Cover herself under someone else's huge essence.

Currently, she leaned her head against the window, eyes half closed. She looked half alive. Half was better than nothing.

From what Alex had seem, most drug addicts never got better -- not really. In all his years, not once had he had the privilege to see anyone stay clean. But they had tried. Some, had come close. Once, someone close to a brother, almost got clean from heroin. The days before getting better, his he was a wreck, he would scream and shout and yell and break. Over and over. For days. Shouting, bleeding, sweaty. He had to be hospitalized due to the blood. The cravings and need for distraction. But, somehow, two weeks after the agony, somehow... he seemed better. The screaming abated, and he'd smiled, once. It was enough for the next few years when wouldn't... get better. Not never.

Of course, Charlotte wasn't a drug-addict; but from what he knew, many intense emotions were almost like a drug. Withdrawal brought another set of problems and complications. Distractions, lies and fresh scar marks that were unique and could be understood from the view of addictions and resulting withdrawal in some way.

He looked over at her, again. Her long curly hair framed her tan-olive complexion. Her thick eyebrows were furrowed in some sort of deep thought. A jumble of knots reminded Alex that it could go either way -- she could take her life, take someone else's, or get better.

As the green blinked, he drove again.

The moments from before came to his mind. Her expression all too clear. He's seen it before. It was one of self-loathing. He pushed harder on the accelerator, swerving against a blue beetle with a mother and child inside. He swallowed some of the anger, realising, if there would be accidents, at least three people around him, wouldn't have deserved it. Anger, as usual, wouldn't do Alex any good.

From what he'd figured, any guy who ended up in place such as St. Claire's. was a mess -- no doubt about it. It was the place where those who were deemed a danger were placed. And not by mistake -- many tests ensued as far as Alex knew. Most of them had no qualms about taking a life, and many of them had the psychological makeup of someone who are proud of who they are, or are beyond wanting to get better. Those committed seemed to leave more victims in their wake.

Maybe the system made a mistake? Alex considered. Especially given that Charlotte pulled him out of Orange Palm Jails herself -- and technically, he was innocent.

He is innocent. He didn't deserve it.

He didn't hurt anybody.

The hardest prisons are those we can't escape and which follow us unto death. Those months in isolation had made Alex realise that he wasn't worthless and didn't deserve to be the fall-guy -- and then Charlotte showed. Why she tried speaking German, was beyond him. The whole thing might've worked fine in English -- but she... may have been playing dress up again. Girl in all black and leather and high heels with danglers calling attention to the right places.