This chapter is dedicated my best friend friend 2K4M6W7! She's been helping me with pretty much every story I write. She's my biggest support, and my best friend! I love you, Kyleigh! Thanks for being there for me! 

A strong scent of lemon filled his nostrils. The lemon acted in place of smelling salts, jolting Oliver out of his sleep. When he opened his eyes, his head pounded. It felt as if someone was hitting him in the head with a hammer over and over and over.

Oliver felt as if, any second, he was going to throw up.

He couldn't recollect his memories. He had no idea where he was or why he was there. Oliver tried to think straight, taking in a deep breath; everything with just so fuzzy.

Oliver's vision was off, him seeing three off everything. After blinking many times, it returned to normal and he could clearly see the white tiled ceiling above him. He attempted to sit up. Everything in his body ached and throbbed, causing him to give up and lie back down.

He moaned in agony, swallowing the lump in his throat. Oliver tried again, using every ounce of strength he had left in his weak and exhausted body. This time, he was successful, being able to rest his back against the cold wall.

The walls in the room he was in were painfully bare; only white, same as the tile on the ground. The room was an average size, not too large and not too small. Oliver wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand, taking note of the bed he was lying in. It was a twin bed with plain blue covers, and white sheets.

Oliver eyed the bandage wrapped around his arm, his fingers skimming over it. Why was his arm wrapped up? Why didn't it hurt? He had, after all, been shot.

Something shined out of the corner of his eye. Oliver's view traveled down his arm, terrified to find a handcuff keeping him attached to the bed.

He yanked on the chain, it clanging loudly as the cuff dug into his wrist; he let out a frustrated grunt when he couldn't get it off. He kicked the bed post, trying to remove the section of the bed he was attached to.

The sound of his shoes against the metal revered throughout the room, however, the bed didn't budge.

And that's when it happened. It was as if he was hit with a typhoon of memories; they all came flooding in at once.

His mother was being attacked, he stepped forward, he lost control, and he lost his mom. Oliver threw his head back, eyes on the ceiling. They burned, his body wanting nothing more than to break down.

Oliver knew he should be freaking out. He was locked in a strange room in an unknown place with unknown people who wanted him for unknown purposes. He knew in this type of situation, he should let one of two things happen. He should either:

A.) panic.

Or

B.) let his other side take control.

However, without his mom, he didn't care what happened to him.

His sole reason left to live was gone. He had no other family, no friends, no anything. His father had left them when he was young, his mother's parents had died, and he didn't know anyone on his father's side.

Oliver was now alone.

Something clicked, Oliver staring at the door. It was swung open, three men stepping inside.

The last man to enter caught Oliver's attention. He bore a sour expression, hands glued to his m16a4. Kicking shut the large metal door, it echoing through the room, the short man's eyes fell on him.

"Hello," the tallest of the three shouted, standing a foot in front of him; Oliver jumped. This man appeared to be in charge. His eyes were cold, uncaring, and a hint of fear lied in them. His face was expressionless, matching his eyes. His suit was black, as was his tie.

Not a single piece of his jet black hair was sticking out; all of it being gelled back. There was no stains, creases, or pieces of lint on his suit. He even stood properly, tall and proud.

"I'm Rhys, the supervisor of this program," Rhys paused. Oliver had so many questions, so many things he wanted to say. However, no words would come out. "Ahh, a quiet one. I enjoy the ones who don't cause problems."

"I'm Zander, the head in charge of all the security around here-" The second man spoke up from behind Rhys, Oliver not even noticing he was in the room. Rhys held up a hand, silencing Zander. Zander appeared to be the exact opposite of Rhys.

Zander's eyes were kind, a light brown. His thick short chocolate hair was disheveled, making him appear as if he'd just rolled out of bed. Zander and the man at the door wore the same outfit. It appeared to be a cops uniform, minus the radio on the shoulder.

"We can play the name game later on, I'm simply here to inform you of where you'll be staying for the remainder of your life. Where you currently are doesn't have a name. In fact, only a few know of its existence. It's for . . . things like you. Things that need to be locked away."

Hearing the words from someone else's mouth hurt more than Oliver ever realized.

"Now, I know you're thinking about your basic human rights. With the things you've done, those rights have been stripped from you. You now belong to the United States Government."

Oliver felt sick. The way he was being spoke to, it was as if he was a monster. It caused Oliver's thoughts to sway. Monsters hurt people, had he hurt his mother? Could his mother have lied to him? Could Oliver been the one to cause her death?

"I know you have a very busy agenda sir," Zander cleared his throat, stepping forward. "I'll take him to his cell." Rhys crossed his arms over his chest, appearing angry and annoyed at Zanders interruption.

"Fine," Rhys muttered through gritted teeth. He spun around on the heels of his feet, stomping toward the door. "Welcome to Hell, Mr. Cahill." The guard at the door exited the room as soon as Rhys did, following him like a lost puppy. The door smashed shut with a loud bang.

"I apologize about him," Zander shook his head, unclipping a set of keys from his holster. "He's never been any good at the whole sympathy thing." Rummaging through the set, he selected a key and stepped forward.

Instinctively, Oliver scooted as far into the wall as the cuff would allow. Zander came to a stop, holding up his hands.

"It's okay. I'm just going to un-cuff you. That can't be comfortable." Zander took one slow step forward, waiting for Oliver to relax. Once Oliver lowered his shoulders, Zander unlocked the cuff. Oliver rubbed his wrist, surprised to find a cuff indent in his skin. "There."

Zander returned to his former position a few feet from the bed, placing the keys in his holster.

"I'm a friend, Oliver. You can trust me."

"How . . ." Oliver didn't want to speak. For some reason, speaking hurt. Without his mother by his side, it felt wrong to be moving on and worried about his own personal safety. "How do you know my name?"

"We've been around for a long time . . ." Zander rocked back and forth on his feet.

"Meaning?"

"Ever since the incident in Ohio with another student you attended school with, we've been tracking you."

Oliver remembered that day perfectly; the second time he'd lost control. The kid had pushed him, punched him, and knocked Oliver to the ground. Oliver lost his temper, and his ability to fight back the demon inside.

His dark side had come out to play.

"You went off the grid after that. Managed to do a good job, we couldn't find you until another case like that one showed up on our radar in Portland." Oliver remembered that as well, the guy was harassing his mother. "You hadn't . . . done anything since then. We needed to be sure you were the Oliver Cahill we were searching for."

"Why were you looking for me?" Zander bit his lip.

"This parts a little hard to digest. As Rhys so rudely stated, you are different. And this-this place is for people who are different."

"There are others like me?" Oliver leaned in, a small hope bursting to life. He had always prayed there was someone else out there like him, someone to understand.

"Not exactly like you. The others are . . . special like you, well sort of like you."

"What?" Oliver was confused. Zander shuffled his direction, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"I'll be honest with you, Oliver. The people here are bad. They've done some . . . awful things, mostly on purpose. You-"

"Are a monster like them, I know," Oliver muttered.

"No," Zander shook his head. "You are a good kid with something you can't control. What you've done accidently has gotten you in here. But, you can't forget who you are." Oliver rolled his eyes, you sound just like my mother.

Mom. When he thought of her, he couldn't picture anything but her lying there; dead.

"I'm serious Oliver," Zander snapped him right back into reality. "I've seen a lot of monsters in my day, and you aren't like them." Oliver grew quiet. He was a monster, he knew that. Oliver always knew one day, he'd need to be locked away; hidden from the world.

"Fine," was all Oliver mumbled. He was so uninterested in Zander's little pep talk. He knew everything he said was a lie.

"I'm sorry this is all happening to you, I really am." Zander rose, heading for the door. "Come with me." Oliver hesitated, only for a minute, before joining him. Zander struggled to open the heavy door, Oliver stepping through.

More white, the hall he was standing in containing both a white ceiling and a white tiled floor; matching the bedroom. The overuse of the color made him light headed. Zander rested a hand on his shoulder, steering him further down the hall.

A guard stepped out of one of the halls and around the corner, shocked. He pointed his gun at Oliver. Oliver didn't even flinch, part of him praying he would kill him.

"Why isn't he handcuffed? And why isn't anyone assisting you?"

"Stand down, Chris," Zander gave Oliver a gentle push, Oliver moving on. "He's not a threat." Not a threat.

The idea of Oliver being considered not a threat was calming; only slightly. Zander guided him into a room. Another guard stood in the room, back turned to them, behind a large metal table. The woman had a clipboard in hand, scratching off items as she counted them. Zander pulled Oliver back, stopping him.

He waited as Zander circled around him, whispering to the guard. She glanced over her shoulder at Oliver, Zander muttering something into her ear. Oliver peered around the room, her glare's hurting. His eyes fell on a mirror on the far right wall. He stepped forward, shocked by his appearance.

Oliver was clean, no dirt staining his face. His long, overgrown strands had been cut. They no longer hung over his eyelids. His midnight black hair was still messy but short. He ran his fingers through it, he hadn't felt this good in a while.

"Like the look?" Oliver glanced over his shoulder. Zander plopped a large pile consisting of a change of clothes, a pillow, and a thin blanket into Oliver's hands.

He was shocked to find these items heavy; he was so weak.

"I was shot . . . and you gave me a haircut?" The guard sent Oliver a nasty glare, trying to hide her face from Zander with her clipboard, as Zander shooed him from the room.

"We stitched the bullet wound and cleaned you up.  I believe a thank you is in order." They traveled for a few more feet before turning down the hall on the left. A set of double doors rested at the end, two guards blocking them.

As they approached the door, Zander reached into his pocket and pulled out a card. He swiped it in the scanner on the side, the tiny light morphing from red to green as a tiny beep sounded.

"Good morning," one of them greeted, not even paying Oliver any attention. The guards stepped aside, the doors opening automatically. Oliver and Zander stepped into the new room. Oliver was taken aback, unsure of how to react to the scene before him.

He could clearly see three floors of eggshell white prison cells, large crimson numbers painted near each of them. The cells circled around the center of the room, none being above the door behind him. Resting in the center were a few metal picnic tables.

People were scattered everywhere, some sauntering around, others playing cards at the table. Oliver's entrance into the room caused a painful silence. All eyes were on him; he was the fresh meat.

"Come on," Zander steered Oliver to the right, sensing his discomfort. They traveled down a hall, the walls hiding Oliver from all the eyes watching him. They passed twenty or so cells before coming upon a fork in the hall; left or right. Zander guided Oliver to the right.

"Where are we going?" Oliver questioned.

"Left would have taken you to the other floors, right is the off-limits cells." Oliver glanced at some of the people they passed as they traveled onward. A woman sat in the corner of the locked cell, clawing at the walls.

Head wiping to his left, Oliver watched a man pace around his room. He was mumbling to himself, bags clearly seen under his eyes. Was this how he was going to end up?

Zander stopped him, fumbling with the keys to cell 25. He, eventually, got the cell open. Stepping aside, Zander eyed the open door. Oliver hesitated, wondering if he should make a run for it.

But he found himself stepping inside.

Oliver knew that he needed to be locked away, he knew he deserved this. He knew this would ultimately be where he ended up. He wasn't strong enough to keep his dark side at bay, and that had resulted in the deaths of seven people; his mother was number eight.

He observed his new home; it was bare. One single bed, exactly like the one he had woken up in, rested against the wall. Oliver rested his pile of blankets and clothes on the bed, turning around to face Zander.

"Sir, we need you. We have a situation," a guard appeared at Zander's side.

"One minute," Zander instructed, the guard nodding before disappearing. Zander shut the cell, the bang causing Oliver to jump, before locking it. Zander returned the keys into his pocket, eyes locking with Oliver's.

Both of them were silent; neither knowing what to say.

"I'm sorry, Oliver."