Title: the space between your bed and wall
Info: Sucker Punch, Rocket/Baby Doll, Rocket/Sweet Pea, PG-13. Title and epigraph are from Bright Eyes’ “The Calendar Hung Itself”
you make me happy oh, when skies are gray and gray and gray.
you should clarify: you aren’t sure if she’s real. of course, to say this, that you aren’t sure, acknowledges that maybe you’re in the right place. but sweet pea, she cups your cheek and she says that a place like this will do things to a girl, do things that even the world outside hadn’t managed already.
(you got a hold of a pair of scissors, once, and stared at your wrists, at the little rivers there. it didn’t seem right, to put something so cold against something so warm. you chopped your hair instead, watched the limp pieces fall to the ground, some catching in your uniform. it was like a ballet. your head felt lighter after that, even when they bruised your arms shaking the scissors free, dragging you away. you thought you saw a hint of a smile on sweet pea’s face.)
so when you say you aren’t sure if she’s real, you should clarify that you are in an asylum. currently, not living there. living implies home. living implies life. this place is neither.
you don’t remember her arriving. sweet pea does, the once or twice you’ve snuck to her bed and whispered “baby doll” in each other’s ears, your fingers tracing codes into her palm. you remember four things, a fifth, something she couldn’t name. you remember the curve of her mouth, the blush of her cheeks.
dr. gorski tells you to lay back, let the music wash over you, and baby doll is there, knife in her hand. she’s there, in an instant. you barely have to scream.
and after, she touches your forehead and says “there, there” and you lean into it, your hands in her lap and your eyes closed. you don’t cry, because it’s useless to cry in a place like this. there’s a taste of something bitter on your lips, dry and cracked. and across the theatre you see sweet pea nod, and you think you see a hint of a smile.