I'm such a numpty. I got back home last night, and realised that there is actually a typing programme on my phone, so I could have typed up the entries. And then I realised that I had left what I had written down on paper nine hours away, where I had been staying. So now, behold, as I... IMPROVISE! I can remember roughly what I wrote. Except for that two page long deduction that I can hardly remember a few sentences from. Bleh. You'll have to bear with me on this one!
And then, this went and deleted it's self. So. I was in a mood with this fic, but have finally got round to posting this that has been sitting around for what feels like ten years.
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Entry 121/2
I'm leaving. Tomorrow. There is something wrong with me. I am actually looking forward to going back to school. Of course I am looking forward, that's the direction that most people look. I mean that I am expecting it to be a positive thing. Today is also the anniversary of my mother's death. I don't like anniversaries, because they always bring back memories of things that have already happened. I wish there was a way of deleting memories permanently, to cut the cords of association that bind you to things that you want to forget. I don't like metaphors either. I read that one somewhere in a book. I would like to know the title of the book, and the page and the paragraph where that phrase was written, but I can't remember. I want to forget and remember certain individual pieces of information, but my mind doesn't work like that. It is a mess. I can see highly irrelevant detail as if I was looking at a photograph, but anything that I need is always somewhere just out of my minds reach. Some anniversaries are supposed to be happy. Apparently that's why we have them, so that we can remember all of the good times. This is illogical, because nothing is entirely good. I dislike Christmas. I was always sent home until my parents died, and Mycroft made it miserable. We always used to fight, and mother used to cry, and father would shout. I don't have any of my Christmas presents with me at school. They were left at the house that I used to live in before I moved into Eastgate High. Mycroft still owns the property, but neither of us ever goes there. Christmas here is also not enjoyable. Most pupils go home for the holidays. I don't have a home to go to, so that doesn't bother me particularly. By that, I don't mean that I don't have a house, which I don't anyway, but I don't have a home. The difference between those two words, house and home has always been a mystery to me.
House
house/hous/
Noun:
A building for human habitation, esp. one that is lived in by a family or small group of people.
Adjective:
(of an animal or plant) Kept in, frequenting, or infesting buildings.
Verb:
Provide (a person or animal) with shelter or living quarters.
Synonyms:
noun. home - dwelling - residence - family - household
verb. lodge - accommodate
Home
home/hōm/
Noun:
The place where one lives permanently, esp. as a member of a family or household.
Adjective:
Of or relating to the place where one lives: "your home address".
Adverb:
To the place where one lives: "what time did he get home last night?".
Verb:
(of an animal) Return by instinct to its territory after leaving it: "geese homing to their summer nesting grounds".
Synonyms:
noun. house - residence - dwelling - abode - habitation
adjective. domestic - native
adverb. homewards - at home - indoors
According to this, school is my home, because I spend most of my time there. But someone once told me home is where your loved ones are. It had been nothing, a passing comment, but it made me ask the question- do I really have a home? I don't love anyone. People are animals. Why love an animal?
My head is clearer now. They haven't connected me to the drip for three hours. The doctor has just finished the next one now. I can hear his heavy footsteps and the clank of tubes against metal as he pushes it across the floor to my bed. I lie and think. There is so much. Mycroft is hiding something from me. This is not how it usually happens. He tells me everything that he can, and if he can't, he tells me that he can't. That is of course unless it includes mother or father. Is this about them then? Is this why he didn't visit me today? I remember the night before, in the library. He had appeared so silently, stopping me from seeing whatever Ms. Sharp had been going to show me. There are a few ways that he could have known I was there. People, passing by me in the passageway, and through the windows that had seen me as I walked through the hospital. This wasn't enough though. I had only seen five people on my way there, and the walk took me half an hour. They could have given him the general direction, but it would not have been enough. Besides, why would my brother want to ask them anyway? They probably would not have thought twice as they saw me pass, and forgotten about it, as stupid people do.
Someone could have fixed a tracking device to be clothing. Unlikely. Mycroft would have been too worried that I would have found it, so he wouldn't bother trying. Unless of course he knew that I'd think this and wouldn't bother looking for one.
And then there's the CCTV, but no-one is ever on duty.
The corridor- I passed the CCTV control room. There was a sheet of paper on the door, with the signatures of all of the people who checked up on the room. There was a signature once every half hour, until seven days ago, but there was no date.
Seven days ago, the signatures decreased to every four hours. A hospital would not stand for this lapse in security, meaning that the security guards must have been in the room for the whole four hours. This is unusual, because CCTV is usually only used to find evidence
after something has happened. The signatures also changed. The basic structures were the same, but pressure was applied at different points in the letters. Other than that they were identical. They had to be forgeries, if someone had gone to such an extent to replicate the original signatures. But it didn't fit. If they were going to that extent to conceal themselves, why had they only marked that they had been there every four hours? And this happened seven days ago. Why seven day ago? But there were other vital points also.
A doctor put away some strong antiseptic into the wrong cupboard. One of the nurses corrected him, explaining to another that he was new- only arrived six days ago. That was yesterday. In fact, it is the very doctor that is wheeling the fresh drip towards the bed now. I look at him, really look at him properly for the first time. He hasn't slept properly for about a week. Coffee stains. His hair is unwashed, his skin pale, bags hanging beneath his eyes. Unshaved for about four days. Unacceptable standards in a hospital like this. He brings the needle towards my arm. I can hear his heart rate quicken, see his pupils twitch with nerves. And I am still writing this.
The needle punctured my arm, and a sudden wave of exhaustion hit me. Of course. How could I have been so stupid? There was a sedative in the drip! Every time- the Nurse Natalie had said that this doctor had been looking after me as soon as I arrived, and yet he had arrived seven days ago. STUPID STUPID STUPID STUPID
Mycroft had lied to protect me. Or conceal something. I had only been here a week. I had never been really ill. He had drugged me, watched me constantly through the CCTV. That was how he had located me in the library yesterday. Whatever he was trying to conceal was on the computer. Suddenly everything made sense. People working here, were working for him. I had the dates wrong. That's why he hadn't visited me today, because it wasn't the anniversary of my mother's death. He had constructed a cage around me, and all of these people were important. That's how Ms. Sharp had known who I was, who Mycroft was. She had been part of the cage, and had discovered something that even the others working for my brother did not know. And she had tried to warn me, therefore breaking the chain. Whatever this was, it was important. A matter of everything. Mycroft knew that I would find out- whatever it was had I stayed at school. She was going to endanger my life, even if she hadn't realised. In my brother's eyes, the penalty for that it-
Oh God.
Before I knew what I was doing, I had ripped the tube from my arm. The haze that had gathered before my eyes began to lift, as the supply was cut. I began to run. The doctor shouted, jumping back in alarm and surprise. Equipment crashed to the ground and a woman screamed. I raced down the ward, near oblivious to everything around me. I had to get to the library. But my suspicion was also confirmed. He was there, running behind me. The doctor who had only been here seven days. I knew that I wasn’t fast enough. My heart pounding, feet thudding on the ground, I could never outrun him. He reached out. I didn’t stop running. I could feel his breath on my neck. This is ridiculous. I am a patient, in a hospital, being pursued by a doctor who looks as though he wants to kill me.
Only one chance.
I spun abruptly, and he leant back in surprise, as I jumped and grabbed as his hair, somehow managing to yank his head backwards, bending his back even further. With my other hand, I grabbed his shoulder and threw my legs up under my arms, effectively climbing up the front of his body. Pushing on both of his shoulders, I grabbed the metal pipe on the ceiling, which carries the water for the sprinklers, in case of a fire. I swung, kicking him hard in the back of the head before he had time to react. I let go, and fell to the ground, as the pipe snapped from the bracket, and water burst out everywhere as the pipe exploded under the pressure. I didn’t stop to see what damage I had done. I jumped over him, and ran off down the corridor again, jumping from side to side to avoid slipping in the puddles that were rapidly forming in the corridor. I didn’t stop to think about the damage that I had done. All that was important now was that I got to the library. But of course it was too late.
The doors loomed ahead of me, and I crashed into the room, soaking and panting. Ms. Sharp was gone. There was a young man sitting up at the desk. He raised his eyebrows above his circular spectacles in surprise at my dramatic entrance. I thundered, if it is possible for a human to thunder, which it isn’t, up to the desk, yelling at the top of my voice.
“They’ve killed her haven’t they? They’ve killed Ms. Sharp!”
He raised his arms in front of his face to protective himself from the spraying water that issued from my sleeves as I gestured violently with my arms.
“I’m right, aren’t I? They’ve killed her!”
I lunged towards the desk, and grabbed him by the wrist before he could stand.
“TELL ME THAT I’M RIGHT!”
A look of absolute horror passed across his face as he saw something behind me. I span round, but there were already firm, brutal hands clasping my shoulders. I writhed and kicked, but to no avail. I felt a stabbing pain in my arm, and everything shut down.
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And that was not over dramatic or anything. Dun dun dun. I apologise for not including many of these clues in former entries. I am ashamed of myself, and intend to go back and add them in.
Again, sorry for the wait. I have started another, and may be able to post it later today, but I am not sure. I hope this was worth waiting for, although it was very probably not.
And just to let you know, this is nowhere near the end of the story. It seems like something big has happened, but just to warm you, I get out of that one most unfairly in the next entry.c;
by Starthorn » Fri Apr 06, 2012 9:20 pm 
