No Cause For Concern

Chapter 32: Recovery Room

TW // mentions of gun violence, descriptions of injury

Tommy woke in a small, square room of stone walls and dusty floors. It was an odd sort of awakening; already he couldn't recall if his awareness had come suddenly or gradually, and he was upright. His feet didn't quite touch the floor, and his surroundings swam in his peripherals.

On second thought, maybe it wasn't his surroundings that were swimming; there was another shape in the room, a figure. It moved more like a person than a monster, but more like a ghost than a person; a shadow. Strangely, he wasn't scared by it.

He was just glad that he wasn't alone.

"Hello," he called out to it, uncertain.

"Hello, Tommy," she replied, and her voice was immediately familiar. It was fond, even. "How I've missed you."

"You know me," Tommy inferred, squinting at the shadow, but she became no easier to see. A figure with no features, there but not. He stared at her, a strange comprehending dawning on him. "I know you."

"Do you?" She sounded like she was smiling.

Tommy frowned. "I know your voice. But I haven't seen you before... though I still can't really see you now. Can you see me?"

"Only when you reach out to me," the shadow replied, "like you are doing now. You've grown so much stronger since the last time."

"But still not strong enough," Tommy noted, casting his gaze away from her ghostly form. She became a little clearer in the corners of his vision.

"Be patient with yourself," she said kindly.

Tommy appreciated the sentiment, though wasn't sure he could follow through with it himself. The shadow was moving around to his side; he watched her, curious.

"Where are we?" she asked inquisitively.

Tommy glanced around, taking in every foggy detail of the room; the barrels stacked in the corner, the shelves of old cleaning products untouched for years, the broom against the wall which had seen better days. There were spots of mold growing in the grooves of the stone brick walls, hard to spot in the dim light of the flickering bulb on the ceiling.

"The orphanage," he said, frowning. "I grew up here. Before foster care, before the apartment in fourteenth."

The shadow moved through his peripherals, examining the cramped space. He could hear the skepticism in her voice. Perhaps it was dry amusement.

"This can't be the whole orphanage," she said.

Tommy glanced at the heavy wooden door built into one wall; it was the only way out of this room with no windows or vents. A crack of light glowed from beneath the wood. He tried the round, iron handle; it was locked. There was no key. There never had been.

"No," he agreed. "It's not."

The shadow was quiet behind him, awaiting further explanation. After a moment, he gave in.

"They used to lock me in here, whenever I had an outburst," he mumbled, drawing shapes through the dust on the door with a finger. "I couldn't control my magic when I got upset as a kid. Nobody could. They didn't want me to hurt anyone, so they would put me in here until I calmed down. Until I learned to hide it completely."

A heaviness settled over the room, the sorrow emanating from the shadow more tactile than the figure herself. Tommy continued before she could say anything.

"I was lucky to have a friend in here," he said. "Ranboo wasn't great with his powers either, but he taught himself to teleport inside. He helped me calm down more than this room ever did."