The shoves of staff were a kindness in comparison to the ice-baths and electroshock therapy the asylum frequently forced upon its residents. Nevertheless, even a worm will turn given enough abuse, and Jonathan had reached his capacity for suffering.
Jumpy yet quiet, the teenager generally kept to himself. A loner, though he was never truly alone. Not since his father forced serum into innocent veins. Now, every moment Jonathan was haunted by that omen. The being was a protector of crops, and thereby life, and yet, simultaneously a symbol of death. It was a being of darkness, of agony. And, in a way, a friend. Perhaps it was only because Jon had never before had any proper friends, but while he was terrified of the phantom, he found a hint of comfort in it.
His relationship with the scarecrow was complicated, and something which occupied his every waking thought. Often, he took to sketching the presence, as drawing had always been his way of making sense of the world. So, when a guard snatched his paper from the youth, sneered and began tearing the art before widened eyes, something within him snapped.
Jonathan had never been intimidating. Soft spoken and meek, and hardly of a stature where strength came easy to him, never before had the option of violence come to his mind. Perhaps the toxin, or the apparition itself, had planted the response within him. Regardless, in an instant the young man leaped at the worker and began viciously clawing.
Quick work was made to subdue him, but not before he managed to draw crimson from the tormentor. The sight of the liquid made his chest churn, in equal parts guilt and pride. He had been in isolation since the incident for three days now, when his thoughts were interrupted by a young doctor allowing herself inside his room.
Before she had the chance to sit down or even introduce herself, Jon questioned, “Is he okay?” Though he wasn’t sure which answer he hoped for.
