It’s the lights that get her, every night. The Facility was always garishly lit, blinding fluorescent beams bouncing off every available surface all hours of the day. The clinical aura, the feeling of being watched, observed, forever crawling beneath her skin. She can’t remember ever falling asleep, she only has brief gaps in her memory to prove that she even slept at all back then. But she grew accustomed to the constant white glow, and now the darkness is so stifling she finds it impossible to breathe.

Intellectually, Laura knows this is the best she’s ever had it. She’s laying in a bed, a real bed, in a house with a person who appears to be non-threatening, but instead of being comforted she’s being suffocated. She wants to turn the bright white lights back on and curl up on the floor like she used to, to pass out without consciously having to relax, but the last time she did that she woke up to a very disappointed Remy, and she’d rather not deal with that again.

She doesn’t know what to make of Remy. She doesn’t understand what he wants. He doesn’t have any tasks her needs her to perform, and she can’t think of anything else she could offer in exchange for his support. He seems to care about the condition she’s in, and gets upset if she hurts herself, even when it has no effect on him. It’s confusing. She doesn’t understand.

She doesn’t understand a lot of things. Without orders, without a direction to follow she is lost, completely. She’s closer now to real people than she ever has been, but she’s still miles and miles away with no idea how to traverse the distance.

Unable to breathe, she throws the covers off the bed and climbs out, aching for light but unwilling to turn one on. She needs a release, and even if her arms will heal she’ll have to clean up the blood and that might wake the rest of the house, and everything is too much and her chest is constricting and she bolts for the window, yanking it open and practically throwing herself out.

Luckily, her room was on the ground floor, otherwise the noise of her legs breaking would’ve woken someone. She lands in a poised crouch, listening for any movement. When none comes, she straightens up and wanders out into the street, breathing in the night air. It’s cold enough to give her the shock she needs to start pulling herself back together, one piece at a time.

Sucking in deep breaths as she starts off down the road, toward the city center, Laura starts to regret not grabbing a jacket, or anything other than the pajamas she’s wearing. It’s still ingrained in her not to be noticable, and an unaccompanied minor dressed inadequately for the weather might attract concern in the nicer part of town. She begins to consider stealing something to wear, but the steady rhythm of her walking and the cold biting at her skin eventually turn her thoughts to a mere hum. She wanders, physically and mentally aimless, less and less aware of her surroundings.

Laura doesn’t come back to herself until she feels someone touch the small of her back. In an instant, she’s nothing but cold logic, painfully present in her body. It’s a man. Late 30s. He intends to harm. He is like many, many other men she has met. She thinks she is scared, but she cannot feel. She thinks she wants to turn, to leave, to run back to the house with it non-threatening occupant when he says
“Follow me.” It’s a command. And she is the machine.

She follows.

The next time Laura comes back to herself, he’s touching more of her. She feels herself start to fade away again. Except this time, she can feel fear. This is not the release she wanted. She did not want to be a thing. To belong to someone. She doesn’t want to belong to this man. She never wants to belong to a man ever again.

She leaves herself again. But not to become a blank slate, a machine waiting for an order. Laura is so very, very tired of receiving orders. She sends the order this time. And the order is to ram her claws through this man’s eye sockets and out the back of his head.

He hits the ground with a wet thud. Laura steps right over his body, not even stopping to wipe the brain matter off her hand. She just wants to go back to the house. She works her way back up the road, walking purposefully instead of the mindless wander that brought her down here. She has a destination now.

As she turns back into the driveway, she sees the kitchen light is on. Remy must have noticed her absence. Did he go to check on her during the night? Why? Again, Laura is perplexed by Remy’s behaviour. She makes it to the front door and finds it unlocked; he expected her to come home again. He must have trusted her to go out on her own and return safely. Something inside her warms at that. She opens the door and enters quietly, just now noticing how much her bare feet sting from walking on the pavement.

“Petite? That you, or should I start charging cards?” Remy calls from the kitchen. Instead of answering, Laura moves into his line of sight. He immediately stares down at the blood covering her arm, staining her pajama shirt.

“Need a towel?” He says after a beat.

“Yes.” She responds.

He hands her a dish towel, but doesn’t offer to help clean, a decision Laura is thankful for. She doesn’t want to be touched right now. After she’s wiped herself down, the towel is ruined, which she feels surprisingly sad about. It’s the first time she’s felt sad all night.

“So,” Remy sighs, leaning back in his chair, “Who did you kill tonight?”

“A man.” Laura replies.

“What was he doing to warrant the undoubtedly swift death he got?”

She pauses. She isn’t sure why the words stopped in her throat, but after a second they make their way out. “He touched me.”
Remy’s whole demeanor changes. He’s alert in an instant, no longer casual but clearly shaken. “Laura. He what?”

Laura’s demeanor remains unchanged. “He touched me. I killed him. Was that wrong?”

“No,” He answers firmly, “No, it wasn’t.” His catches her gaze, eyes searching for something in her face, though she isn’t sure what. “Are you okay?” He asks softly.

She glances down, then says “Yes. None of the blood is mine.”

“That’s not what I meant. Do you feel okay? What just happened must have been… awful.”

Yet again, she is confused. “I thought Logan told you my past.”

“I know, you’ve seen some bad stuff, but this is different, this is--”

“I was a child prostitute.” She says flatly, cutting him off. “I have been touched by many awful men. This is not different.”

Remy doesn’t seem to know how to handle that information. He goes quiet for a long time, before he says “Oh, petite.”

He doesn’t say anything else, but she gathers his meaning. It’s not pity on his face, but rather a sorrow for what she’s gone through. Laura doesn’t understand it, like she doesn’t understand most of Remy’s emotions, but this one, she appreciates. It doesn’t suffocate her, it isn’t expecting anything of her, it’s an acknowledgement of her life experiences.

Suddenly aware of how tired she is, Laura sways on her feet for a moment before catching herself.
“I am going to go to bed,” She announces. Remy nods, and she starts towards her room before turning and adding, “I would like to leave the lights on.”

“Sure thing, petite.”

She turns on every light in her room before settling down, and is asleep before she even thinks of changing out of her bloodstained pajamas.

(She’ll wake up in the morning to a fresh set of clothes waiting on the chair beside her bed.)