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Mr. Danya
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((Vanessa Stone continued from Dark Necessities))

Why had she come back to the asylum? A test of courage, she guessed. Something to steel her nerves. Something to overcome her ghosts. Cam’s ghost.

She didn’t have any better ideas, anyway. It had been two nights since she’d ran from Kaitlyn, and little ground had been made. It was weird, spending so long with just her own company. Was she avoiding people? If she was, she was doing a damn good job of it. But hey, what was avoiding people compared to the weirdness of a terrorist kidnapping slash mass murder? She'd chalk it up to cabin fever, or whatever.

So yeah, going back to the building where she’d seen her best friend die. Awesome.

She’d made it in the door, already choking on a huge lump in her throat, but maintained her steely resolve. She was tilting her head side to side, chewing her lower lip and humming audibly, trying her hardest to rebel against the anxiety filling her and not let it show. She’d missed breakfast that morning, as an angry growl rumbled in her stomach. The nerves were killing her appetite.

Distracting herself, she reflected on the announcement. Still no dead Alessio, that was good. Still no dead Kaitlyn either, so that was a plus, she guessed (and apparently Alan Banks would live another day; good for him).

Coleen though, that had been a shocker. Apparently she was actually a literal two-face, given Arthur’s untimely end. It was actually really unsettling to hear that her not-so-favourite bandmate had done something so callous, and there weren't a lot of things that unsettled her (not before this week, anyway). It had given her a serious case of goose bumps, and she'd been trying not to dwell on it. It hadn't worked very well, though; things to dwell on were mounting up.

Nancy was dead too, which was meh at this point. One less psycho around was probably for the best. That’s how she'd written the whole thing off, anyway.

She was probably forgetting someone important, but by then she was getting tired of the names of the deceased. The one she cared about most was already gone, so until Alessio showed up on it she’d just have to plough on.

So there she was, out of announcement and still on the ground floor, the crypt closet that she was avoiding still waiting upstairs.

Oh hey look, ‘art therapy’. That sure did sound like a more appealing place to go.

Shit, Cams loved her art.

She shook her head, cleared that thought, and went inside. Therapy was probably the last thing anyone would be doing in this room anytime soon, given the complete mess it was in and that awful smell that was floating around.

“Oh Christ!” she squealed, finally spotting Mitch’s decaying body. It was a good thing she hadn’t eaten that morning, or she might’ve not been able to hold back the bile. Instead, it only made it as far as an unpleasant acidic belch.

She stared at the body for a moment, letting out an awkward groan through shut teeth without blinking, a similar reaction one might have to a huge social faux pau. She'd been trying to avoid bodies, damn it.

She swallowed, then turned away. Waited a moment, then turned back.

So, what was she supposed to do here?

She walked over, crouched down and leaned in. The putrid odour wafted up her nose as a fly crawled out of the hole in Mitch’s face, probably done laying its eggs. Grim.

She’d seen a few dead bodies at this stage, or rather, she’d played Resident Evil. Duh, it wasn’t the same thing, but it was kind of eerie where the similarities were. This one wasn’t moving, which she supposed was probably better. The last thing this island needed was zombies.

She chuckled at the corpse, just a little. The humour helped. Sort of.
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Resident Evil · Art Therapy