Page 40 of Lolli-Gag
Finally, it slows, and my head lolls to the side. I take a deep breath and, with eyes unfocused, I listen—not for pattern, but for endurance, but most of all for her. They’re not trying to breakmy body, instead they are attacking my clarity, the one thing I rely on. If they succeed, I won’t be precise anymore. I’ll be something far more dangerous. So, I sit back and let the noise rush through me, letting it take over until I hear it. Her.
“Killian… where are you? I’m scared. I can’t find you,” her voice whispers.
“I’m here, my perfect Canvas. I’m right here,” I whisper as the tone shifts again. I try to focus on Lolli but the pitch changes the minute I try as if it’s watching me think—like it knows where I’m about to land, only to rip it away before I get there.
“Killian… please answer me. I need you. Please. It hurts so fucking bad,” she cries out, and I grit my teeth.
“I’m with you. Just follow my voice,” I whisper, but nothing. I need to adapt. They built this room for me. This isn’t general disruption; it's tailored and engineered for precision. The lights snap off, and I’m sent into total darkness. The sound remains, but her giggle amplifies.
I thrash against the leather, making the metal chair shift a little.Good.The bolts are loosening, but the sounds increase, and without sight, I have nothing to anchor to, nothing to map.
A voice cuts through the static. Clear—too clear.
“Killian,” it sings, and I freeze. It’s familiar, and I tilt my head.
“Repeat,” I say as my words crack.
“Killian,” it says again, only closer this time. Right behind my ear. My fingers twitch on instinct.I hate that.
“Source?” I demand, but then another voice.
“Doctor.”
I gasp.No. They wouldn’t. They couldn’t.That voice—belongs in a different room from a different time.Controlled. Clean. Perfect. Not fucking here. Never fucking here.
“They’re using my memory,” I say. Auditory recall. Familiar stimuli to destabilize cognitive grounding.Idiots.But the soundspikes, cutting through my thoughts, destroying it before it finishes forming. My head jerks, and I growl. “That’s inefficient,” I snap loudly. My chair vibrates harder as the restraints pull against my wrists, causing my muscles to tense. I force them to relax, but the voices layer in now. Not just one. Many. Calling my name. Calling me “doctor.” Then a voice cuts in, and I go still.
“You missed something,” it says, and I shake my head.No. I don’t miss things. I don’t—“You missed something,” it repeats, and my pulse spikes again.
“That’s incorrect,” I say as the wordincorrectfeels too—heavy.
“You always think you see everything,” the voice says, but only closer now. I can feel its breath caressing my neck as the sound crawls into me. “But you don’t,” It states.
No. That’s not—I catalog everything. I observe everything. I correct fucking everything. That’s what I do.
The sound surges, overwhelming me once again as everything collapses inward, and my thoughts scatter into fragments like puzzle pieces. I reach for one but lose it. Another—gone. The pattern isn’t just gone. It’s impossible. They didn’t remove order, they replaced it with contradiction. Nothing aligns. Nothing resolves. Nothing finishes.
My head drops forward as I hear her giggles again. The noise fills the space behind my eyes, building pressure—not pain… just overload. I can’t process fast enough or filter anything anymore. My hands clench and the restraints bite into my wrists, except I don’t feel it. I don’t feel anything except—everything. All. At. Once.
“Stop!” I spit. It’s not a command it’s a fucking request. The voices laugh but they are distorted and layered.
“You can’t fix this,” it says, and my head lifts slowly.
“No,” I whisper. Because even now—even here—there is one thing they haven’t taken. Me. The thought stabilizes me butbarely. I inhale. Not steady or controlled but intentional. “They removed structure,” I whisper. “But I don’t need theirs.”
The noise surges, only angrier, sharper, which means its reacting and if its reacting, then it's not perfect. My lips twitch then tilt slowly—crooked. “I’ll build my own,” I growl. The words feel unstable leaving my lips, but it’s enough for now.
I lay my head back with half-lidded eyes and take a deep breath. I don’t search for the pattern or try to solve anything, I just endure—adapt and survive. The only thing getting me through this is her—my Canvas—My Lolli-Gag.
Down the Drain
Lolli-Gag
They make me shower. No asking or suggesting. Two orderlies stand outside the stall like I might crawl down the drain and disappear into the pipes like Pennywise. Maybe I could—I should. Things might be easier down there instead of up here.
The water comes on with a cough, a sputter—thin and miserable. The stream hits my skin, making me flinch. Lukewarm. Always fucking lukewarm. Never hot or cold. Never anything enough to feel real. Just this in between temperature, like Hillsboro doesn’t want us clean. Just rinse, processed, and reset.
I stand beneath the spray with my hands at my sides while the white paint melts off my face in streaks. Red slips down my chin as black runs from my eyes like broken rivers. I look down and watch it circle the drain. There goes my smile… There goes—Lolli. The girl who knows how to laugh when the world opens its mouth.
