Raegan Aldaine // D5 // [FIN]

Patient Name: Raegan E. Aldaine
Date of Birth: 17 years prior
District/Location: District 5 - Aldaine Medical Center
Admitted: Multiple occurrences; most recently 24 hours ago
Reason for Admittance: Cannabis dependence and abuse, addicted to endogenous epinephrine, misandrist, masochist, and general mental instability
Release Date: N/A

---

"There is nothing wrong with me, dammit!" I bang on my own reflection, fully aware that I am being watched through the one-way mirror. "Observation rooms" they call them. "Prison cells" I call them. Normally I try not to let them get me so riled up but this is the final fucking straw and if the furniture and various accent items and decor weren't screwed into the walls and floors I would consider throwing something through this mirror. I know they are watching. They always are.

I glare at my reflection as the speaker crackles on and she speaks, voice calm - much too calm for my taste - saying that, "Raegan, you must calm down or else we may have to run more tests to try and determine where this inexplicable rage is stemming from." I can't even help it this time. This is much too far. Screw the damn tests I will take every single fucking one of them - I don't even give a shit about how much they hurt anymore.

"Fuck you! Fuck! You!" I shout at my flushing reflection, flinging my arms around in the air, letting the rage flow. "THIS RAGE ISN'T "INEXPLICABLE" I AM IN A CAGE FOR RIPRED'S SAKE!" I look back at myself again, hair in knots, blood under my fingernails, shirt in tatters, and my feet wrapped in bandages that really should be changed. And then of course my blue eyes. After all these times of looking angrily in the mirror I don't think I have ever seen them filled with tears. Even as a child when this happened I didn't cry.

"I hate you both." I mumble, swiping angrily at the tears and turning away from them, throwing myself onto the couch, my jaw set and my fists still clenched. I could use a joint right now. sure that would be an affirmation of some sort to them but screw it, I will admit that diagnoses. I love weed and yes, I am a total addict. I live in Panem and am between the ages of 12 and 18 what on Earth do they expect?

The other stuff though-not a lick of truth to it.

---

I wake up face down on the couch, a hand on my shoulder. I try to jump up but I find my hands cuffed and a chain extending to floor. Great. Nothing like one of these routines to spruce up my day. Whatever. Three can play this stupid game. I sit up straight and smile, glancing back and forth between the two of them, gauging what exactly they have planned this time - if anything at all. They both remain silent, looking at me with pity like you would a dying puppy in the streets. I hate that. But I refuse to give in. To give in would only mean some sort of admittance of everything they say is "wrong" with me.

There is nothing wrong with me.

"How are you feeling, Raegan?" he asks, his brows creasing, his voice full with the pity written on his face. "Peachy!" I reply, much too peppy for the situation - it phases neither of them. I try not to twiddle my thumbs or tap my foot out of fear that they will claim it is a symptom of my mental instabilities. Just focus and breath. Just humor them a bit longer ...

"Just because your father is a male does not mean you should hate him, sweety." YES, okay there it is - always insisting I feel hatred towards him based on the fact that he is biologically male. Misandry. "You have no real reason to hate men do you?" Rhetorical questions now? Seriously? I lean back, scoffing as it keeps coming, waiting for my turn to speak. They always give me the chance - I guess that little fact shows how "open" and "sophisticated" our family is - and how I should feel lucky to at least get the chance to speak up. "Some kids don't get that option." Somehow that doesn't make me feel bad.

"I don't hate men. Not sure how many times I have to say it for you to believe it, but I don't." Ever since the beginning this has been a struggle for them to wrap their delusional minds around. "I just prefer women, okay?" Again with the pity faces - the kicked puppy in the streets faces - and I just have to sass because THESE PEOPLE ARE FUCKING IDIOTS!! "And you need to stop locking me up because I am attracted to women! It's not a fucking disease or disorder!"

My father picks up his clipboard and begins to scribble things down. I put my face in my hands and grumble. He steps away from me, choosing what I can only assume is a safer place in the other corner of the room. Ugh. Okay so next on the list is probably something about my epinephrine imbalance. Having fun is apparently a mental disorder now ... ? "It's not normal, but we think it may have to do with your addiction to cannabis." She nods as if it is all obvious. "Just like your addiction to adrenaline."

This is a fight I can't win. I never really have and I never really will. That's how this whole thing has been for years now. Even when I started running away from home and staying away so they couldn't lock me up they would come looking for me and somehow find me. They have even resorted to hiring thugs to beat the shit out of me and bring me back. "This is the only way we can fix you. This is the only way you can get better." They've even drugged me before ... among other things.

"Mom, I like to have fun. And if fun includes jumping from rooftop to rooftop or climbing up the water tower or getting into any other dangerous situation, I am going to keep doing it. I'm young! Having fun is what kids my age do, y'know." And all my protests seem to have broken her because I watch her jaw muscles ripple ever so slightly. Finally! Only when they finally both break do I get the opportunity to go through my "therapeutic exercises" so I can get out. Only after they think they have broken me. Broken my soul.

---

My parents have never believed in positive reinforcement. I think that maybe no one in Panem truly does, but I believe my parents are worse than even the strictest of Peacekeepers. (Anyone else love how ironic their titles are?) Now I can't say that I know exactly what they do with deadly assassins or traitors in the Detention Center, but from my experience living in this prison made just for me, if the DC is anything like this, I never want to go there. Not in a million years.

I would scream but I can't catch my breath. The restraints are digging into my wrists and ankles and if I wasn't struggling so desperately I might be wondering if I am bleeding or not. But right now, I am too focused on trying to breath. They have tried all sorts of things on me - each vice multiple times - trying to get it through my thick skull that everything about me is wrong and that this is the only way that I can be healed. But each time I ignore the pain of it, let it fill me up to the brim with rage even, and go back out into the world doing everything they told me not to do. Now whether you call it stubbornness or stupidity or maybe even both, I ask you this: What would you do to keep your identity?

I would do anything to keep them from taking it all away from me. Including dealing with water torture month after month. It hurts. But not like being strapped to a parilla. Honestly it is all such a miracle that they haven't accidentally killed me. I've done my research, any number of things could go wrong during these "therapeutic exercises" that I am subjected to. But I haven't. Proving I was born to some very smart, insane, and rather professional interrogators. They would never kill me - I am their project - but it is still horrifying.

They turn the table I am strapped to and I puke when the rag falls from my face, delaying me from gasping for air for a moment. I cough for what seems like eternity, blink as harsh light hits my eyes, and try not to scream when I just plain get water sloshed into my face. "Stop! Sto-" I begin to scream before more water is sloshed onto my face, what seems like bucket after bucket. I twist in the restraints and shake my head as violently as I can manage in an attempt to avoid the water. "Stop! Please stop! Please!"

And with my eyes closed, the water finally stops and I breathe heavy deep breaths when no more water comes. The restraints fall loose but I don't have the strength to move. More than anything, I just want to sleep. Instead I am yanked up by my hair and forced into a standing position. I finally open my eyes again. "I'll be good. Okay, I'll be good this time - I swear." The room shifts in my vision and I stumble, only to be caught by the arm and yanked upright again. "Yes. You will."

And after sitting at the dinner table, pretending my parents weren't complete psychopaths who liked to torture their only daughter, I was off. Doing the exact opposite of what I said I would. Only I was watching my back more closely this time, wielding a knife, and dreading the day I would have to face them again.

But I am still intact. I am still me.

And not a single person could ever tell me that I am diseased or that who I am is wrong. I'm much too proud for that.