• This is a little one-shot for my poor baby Jessiah Blackwood. He's a lovable little murderer with a sad past. Now, I'm not going to go into the trainwreck that is his backstory, but I will sum it up: When he was a teenager, he accidentally (YEAH, ACCIDENTALLY) killed the love of his life, the Korean beauty, Amelia. Ever since the murder, he's been looking for redemption as well as peace with anyone, (anyone Asian, that is). Unfortunately, they never survive an encounter with him, but that never stops him, either. He's pretty much just looking for Amelia to apologize, but she's dead and been dead for a while. It's all quite sad, really. This is non-canon, as well, because I haven't committed him to an asylum yet. So yeah, enjoy this after-effect of me watching too many insane asylum movies.

    It itched, it itched terribly so.

    A soft, aggressive noise left his chapped lips as he scratched at the small plastic bracelet wrapped snuggly around his wrist. His nails, grinding against skin, creating angry red lines. He pulled on it, gnawed on it before finally smacking his hand on the cold ground below. He gave another noise, this one a bit louder than the last as he tugged on his messy blonde hair. His eyes narrowed as he looked down at a thin, red trail that crawled across the floor: blood. Blood from the scratches. Great, just great... It was bad enough he'd hurt himself, but now the unimaginative and unintelligent orderlies and the petty doctors would point the Suicide finger at him. What a moronic assumption, there was no way he'd take his own life, no way at all. And damn it all, it still itched.

    His eyes now fell across the smudged ink lettering on the bracelet, the very thought of it making his chest tighten. Blackwood J. He felt a bit sick looking at it, a laughter half-full of fear making him shiver. Blackwood J. The more he looked at it, the more it got to him. Blackwood J. Ugh, it was all so maddening. Ha, ha ha... Mock him they might, but the more time he spent in this accursed loony bin, the more it got to him. Without a doubt he was insane, criminally even, but let it not be said that he were crazy. This place made him crazy. No one here understood a damn thing about him, no, no one even tried to understand. He was just a serial number and a medication prescription to them, he wasn't even human to them. He wasn't the petty, crazy chap they had unfairly labeled him, oh no, he was going the kind of crazy that made him wail, that made him thrash about, that awoke the others in the darkest pits of the asylum, that made him berserk until he slipped quickly into unconsciousness due to the powerful sedative they shoved in his veins.

    But what turned this seemingly harmless creature into the ballistic little blonde bombshell he mysteriously transformed into? None could say for certain, no doctor or nurse, no brainless psychiatrist. No one, not even Mr. Blackwood himself. He was a naturally gentle thing, even in his most passionate moments of sheer violence, he could be as tender as a lover. What brought this new brutish persona was anyone's guess.

    By God, that bracelet still itched badly.

    He could feel it, it always started when his pulse quickened, his heart slamming painfully against his ribcage, threatening to burst forth and flail pitifully on the floor in a shiny wet mess of blood. He shuddered at the very thought. But it didn't let up. It got worse, just as it always did. He gave a noise; it originated low, rumbling in his chest and up through his throat, a growl-like sound, really. It then was repeated, slowly starting to form into a name.

    Her name...

    His eyes grew wide, a sudden flood of horror striking him to the very core; he had to get out of here. He was insane, not crazy, he could function outside, well, aside from the murders, but even so. He was so close, so very close, close to the end of everything. He had to get out, he just had to.

    And it itched. And itched. And itched.

    Blackwood J. Blackwood J. Blackwood J. Blackwood J. Blackwood J. Blackwood J. Blackwood J. Blackwood J. Blackwood J. Blackwood J. Blackwood J. Blackwood J. Blackwood J. Blackwood J. Blackwood J. Blackwood J. Blackwood J. Blackwood J. Blackwood J. Blackwood J. Blackwood J. Blackwood J. Blackwood J. Blackwood J. Blackwood J. Blackwood J. Blackwood J. Blackwood J. Blackwood J. Blackwood J.

    It was screaming at him now, that ******** bracelet, it wouldn't leave him alone. And Hell, he was screaming himself, screaming for her, screaming her name, calling out for her.

    It itched. Blackwood J. It itched...

    He didn't even see the orderlies come in, ready with their restraints and their syringes, drawn to the floundering man, poised and ready to pounce on him.

    "AMELIAAA!! AMELIAAA!!"

    Even though his madness, one thing remained vividly clear: He was crying. That was odd, it say the least, in these fits he rarely cried. But he still called out, still cried for her, still beckoned.

    "AMELIA!! AMELIAAAA!!"

    And it still itched, even when they plunged the needle deep into his arm. Even as the world began to blacken around him.

    "A...Amelia... Ameliaaaa..."