Ukrainian, motherfucker, do you speak it?

who: svetlana. open to others via PM, too. (hannah, bethany, sophie, owen)
where: freakout central
when: who knows?

Knowing something was very damn wrong when she woke up in a bathtub, Svetlana was in instant spazz mode. She'd grown accustomed to that horrible blue bed, waking up every morning, pulling herself and her sheets out of it and curling on the floor. They'd put her in a fucking bathtub. A big, deep, clawfoot bathtub, with a huge pile of blankets and pillows, and an enourmous patchwork quilt that smelt (rather disturbingly) just like her Grandmother. These fucking scientists, with their stupid fucking sense of humour.

She screamed and leapt out of the bath. And then she whirled around maniacly taking in her surroundings. The ceiling was draped with big expensive bolts of rich blue and green silks. The floor was carpeted in a plush white carpet, and the walls were painted a soft creamy colour, with the odd artistic shimmering fish daubed on the all in shiny ocean hues. It was decorated like her old fucking apartment, with Alexis' stupid fucking underwater theme in the living room. He'd been so bloody proud of those fish and she rememebred telling him that white walls were good enough for her - although secretly, she'd thought it was really rather fetching. But she never could let him win an argument. Never-ever. Oh God.

There were differences, though. Instead of a couch there was a clawfoot bathtub with no taps. And instead of a fourth wall with huge bay windows looking over the city of Kiev there was a stretch of wooden floor with floor-to-ceiling (which was pretty large, considering without the cloth the ceiling was overwhelmingly high) mirrors and an expensive polished wooden ballet barre. Svetlana saw these things of course, along with the computer terminals dotted randomly around, and the fridge and microwave in the corner, and the little cupboard door in the corner marked with the little skirted stick figure of a woman's bathroom. She saw all of it. The thing she saw most was the complete fucking lack of doors and windows.

She screamed for what felt like an hour. Until her throat felt raw, until it felt like her fucking lungs were bleeding. Not again. She'd been vanished. She'd been kind to Owen and they'd seen her fucking weakness and they'd put her back. Ready to start again. No no no no NO. She ran over to one of the huge mirrors and pressed her face against it, panting and fogging up the smooth glass. If you're watching me from behind these, you twisted fucks, get a good fucking look was what she tried to convey through the glass. She pounded a frail fist against it with conviction, and screamed again - rawer this time, like someone with throat cancer, but still filled with bile and pure hate

Then she ran to each computer in turn and typed furiously in Ukrainian.

I'll fucking kill you. I'll fucking kill you. You better fucking NOT let me out you bastards, because I will kill the shit out of you. This is where you put the people you vanish? In these little rooms, try to remind them of home, leave them to die? YOU SICK FUCKS. I'll fucking destroy you. You think you've broken me? Just wait. You won't even know what broken is after I get my hands on you. You'll be beyond broken. You'll be fucking ORGAN SOUP.

Pressed send. Ran back to the mirrors with venom in her eyes and heart and spat right into the middle of her own reflection. Shrieked.

And then, fuck it, back to the bathtub, where she curled up and sobbed. Svetlana hadn't cried for months, not properly, not like this. Snot and tears mingled and caused her to cough while she cried. She didn't even care. She wanted to cry and cry and cry until her body was too dehydrated to continue.