@sequine: they're gone. and they're never coming back.
when it came from the mouth of michael wheeler, jane knew honesty was to be found in any opinion. her dearest friend, with whom silence was not scary but comforting, where the darkest patches of humanity turned bright with promise. “i know.” although, she didn't. nor did he. nothing was guaranteed, not to girls like her who were raised for slaughter from the very beginning, faceless amongst the other cattle within old quarters. do not lie to him— you know him well enough to know he'd never crave such a thing. it's a noisy life she led, tainted by the lies in her past and what-ifs of her future. she hadn't any reason to love herself, especially not when she was no more than a shaved skull and jutted bones; gentleness had been rejected to the point that to see it, to experience it, was uncharted territory. as she grew into girlhood each and every day, how could she not worry about it being stolen?
“but,” she pulled in a deep breath and silently counted to five, then released. she remembered everything from that time, more ghost than girl, and had not yet conquered the ability to move on despite best efforts. to think someone would appreciate her, without wanting something in return was still a slightly foreign concept. “sometimes i bee-leave they might come for me. and... and i will wake up there. be trapped. that i won't be able to find you, or max, or...” she forced her speech to halt, before embarrassing herself with superstitions. it was the slow rot that terrified her most— to continue growing here, in this life built by the skin of her teeth, only to be thrown back inside the prison once called home, for all development to be wiped away in a matter of seconds. sam assured her, becky revolved her world around jane's secured safety, now mike spoke it aloud: those people are gone, you aren't going back to that lab. why couldn't she trust it wholeheartedly? there was some trust in their words and affirmations, but she needed proof.
“sorry.” jane murmured with a short laugh, trying to bring some ease into the conversation, proving she understood she was acting foolishly; she didn't want to cause alarm even while these things haunted her. “i know it is stupid to think this way. they are bad thoughts. i should not feel them.” only on your deathbed, when the shackles of this place finally release you, you'll fathom the truth of this freedom. a half-smile offered, salt laced in her endless lesions— at least he was always a welcome relief, an antidote of sorts. she wondered if her weeping poisons could ever be fully cleansed, washed out. they are the price of her life, the arcane bustling inside her. jane ives could not live without the doubt.