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For All The Wrong Reasons	By : darqstar Category: G through L > House of 1000 Corpses Views: 4942 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own House of 1000 Corpses, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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LEGAL DISCLAIMER: I do not in any way own any part of the movies House of 1000 Corpses or The Devil's Rejects. I do not own most of these characters. They are the property of Rob Zombie, Liongate films, and whoever else holds a commercial or property license over them. This is fan fiction, intended for the sole purpose of entertainment. No one has been paid to write or host this story. No one is paid or will have to pay to read it.

THE STORY ITSELF DISCLAIMER This story is rated NC-17, for disturbing images and excessive violence as much if not more than sexual contents. If stories involving murder, rape, extreme violence, cannibalism, humiliation, and so on, are not your cup of tea, DO NOT READ IT. If you are under the age of 18 don't read it either.

Specific warnings for this chapter: Nothing worse than what you've seen so far.

Chapter Three

Present and Past

�Honey, there are some people here for you.�

A voice breaks me from my thoughts. I gasp for a moment, forgetting where I am and what has been happening. Even though the voice is non-threatening, I cringe before I remember that it's Coggs, the man who has been so sweet and fatherly to me.

I look up and see a man and a woman in paramedic uniforms looking at me. I see Coggs has stepped off to the side so that they can bring in the stretcher, or portable bed, or whatever you want to call it. I look over at Coggs, terror rising in my chest. These people will want to touch me, and I don't want to be touched. I stare at Coggs, wordlessly trying to beg him not to let these people touch me.

�It's okay, Honey,� he says. �These people are not going to hurt you, they only want to help you.�

I want to fight, but I know it will do no good. I don't have the strength to fight anyway. Coggs comes over and kneels down with me, as if to comfort me as the paramedics prepare to take me away. �Go with them, Honey. They're going to take you to the hospital and help you. As soon as I can, I'll come visit you. I know you must be feeling so alone right now, but you're not alone, you have people that care about you.�

He's right. I do feel alone. Horribly alone.

I let the paramedics help me onto the gurney trying not to wince as they secure me; trying not to shake too much, as they touch me. I don't think I'll ever find it easy to be touched again. Even those fatherly touches Coggs has been bestowing on me are difficult. I alternate looking at them. Both of them are trying to be as professional as possible, but the sight of me sickens them. I won't hold that against them; in fact, I don't even blame them. I haven't seen what I look like in a long time, but I'm sure it's a sight that would make most people sick to their stomachs.

They try talking to me, as well. Just as Coggs did, they ask me my name. I point to my name carved into my thigh. Just as with Coggs, they cringe. They don't tell me that's no longer my name anymore though, they just act as if I never showed them and stop trying to get me to talk.

They bring me up the stairs and load me onto the ambulance. The girl comments that I hardly weigh a thing, and the guy agrees with her. They are beginning to act as if I'm deaf. It doesn't bother me; that, too, is something I've grown used to.

As the ambulance takes off, they give me some oxygen, and start doing other things to me. I don't like being touched, but it isn't painful. It's more that my mind screams to me that being touched, any touch, is wrong. To try to block it out, I close my eyes. I find lately that it's a lot easier to escape in my own mind, focusing only on my thoughts than anything happening outside of me. I've learned that if I'm too aware of what's on the outside of my mind, it can lead to a lot of hurt.

I might have drifted off - I might not have - but it seems like the ambulance has barely driven off, and then I'm in the emergency room. Nurses are surrounding me, doing so many things to me, that I start to feel like I'm some type of exhibit in a hands-on museum. A cuff is put around my arm and pumped up until it hurts so bad, that I wish I could cry. My hand is cleaned off with something that is so cold it feels like it's stinging. I look at it, shocked to see how pale and clean it looks compared to the rest of me. A nurse begins to insert a needle into me. She sticks it into my skin, moving it around, and it's uncomfortable. She takes the needle out. She puts it back in and moves it around more. She keeps doing this over and over again, and I don't understand why. I just know it hurts.

�Shit, she's so dehydrated - finding a vein is impossible!� Her voice is brimming with frustration.

�Watch yourself,� another nurse says sternly. �She can hear you. Here, let me try.�

The second nurse is able to get the needle in the way it should go. Soon enough, there's a bag of fluid dripping into me. Meanwhile, other workers are cleaning off other areas of my body with the same, cold, stinging stuff that was used on my hand. Little sticky pads with tiny metal things are being stuck to my flesh. Wires are being clamped onto the sticky things. I start hearing beeps and pings coming from behind me, indicating that I've been hooked up to various machines.

Even though that one nurse pointed out that I can hear, they all talk as if I'm not even there. In a way, this almost comforts me. I'm so used to being a non-entity.

�You think she's the worst of the lot?�

�It wouldn't surprise me.�

�She's so filthy, she needs to be washed down.�

�You're right, see if you can clean her off a bit. She's so dirty now, I'm afraid of infection. Be sure to clean her carefully, especially any areas you're going to use for injections or for hookups.�

�Did you see her thigh?�

�Yeah. Terrible, isn't it?�

�Those animals!� Those last words explode out of a nurse's mouth, like a verbal gunshot.

�I don't think she'll ever be able to get rid of that.�

�Don't say that, they've made such strides in plastic surgery these days. I'm sure something can be done. Might not look as if it never happened, but at least they can make it so it can't be read.�

�She's covered in cuts and bruises.�

�She's got lice.�

�I'm finding a lot of deep scars too. I think they went after her with a knife or a razor more than once.�

�She's had some broken bones that have healed improperly.�

�Yeah, I've noticed that too. But I don't think they're going to re-break and set them right until she's a lot healthier.�

This chatter goes on all around me, it's all about me, yet I feel strangely detached from everything they're saying. Someone gets some warm, soapy water, and I'm washed off. When that is done, I'm not exactly clean, but I'm less filthy than I was. A hospital gown is put on me, over all the wires and things that have been attached to me.

A doctor comes in, which sends all the nurses but one out of the room. The doctor talks in this hearty voice that sounds so ridiculously fake that I know I'm disgusting to him as well. Like everyone else, he asks for my name. I don't even bother to show him my thigh, he'll probably just tell me it isn't my name anymore, like everyone else has.

When he determines that he's not going to be the miracle worker and get me to talk, he stops asking me questions and does all the talking instead. For some reason that I cannot understand, everyone seems to find it necessary to talk around me. I suspect they think that it's a comfort to me, that maybe I've spent most of my new life without hearing human voices. Nothing could be further from the truth: I've been bombarded with people talking to me, at me, near me, and around me.

He starts on the �brave� and �remarkable� trip that Coggs had talked about, telling me how wonderful I am for having endured everything that has happened to me.

I start to tune him out. He continues to poke at me, prod me, do whatever it is he needs to qualify how bad a shape I really am in, but I no longer listen to him.

*****

I had no idea how long I was unconscious after Rufus had slammed me in the head . When I woke up, I was in one of the cages with five other girls. I don't know how long they had been there before I arrived. It was hard to tell the passing of day into night in this basement.

I suppose I did all the usual things you'd expect a normal person in my position to do. I bemoaned my fate, and I explored the cage I was in over and over again trying to find a way to escape. I tried to find out information from my fellow cage mates. When they could give me no hope, I tried to talk to other folks down there.

The best I could piece together, in the beginning, is that we were in some sort of holding area. Why were we being held? To be tortured, killed, maybe drugged, and, in some cases, maybe even eaten. Members of the family would come down and select whomever they thought was �worthy� of their attention. That person would be led off, and, in most cases, would never be seen again. If they were returned, it was most likely that they'd be in such bad physical shape that they wouldn't make it through the next twenty-four hours. Sometimes, though, someone would manage to survive long enough to be selected again. The general opinion was that no one ever made it past two selections. Since there was a very high turnover of people staying in the basement, and no one had a chance to poll anyone who left, it was impossible to find out who held the record for being selected the most times and surviving it.

Apparently, the family didn't care who they grabbed for the cages, or how many. There was no real system; it seemed as if they took whomever crossed their paths. How they could get away with this as long as they did will always be a mystery. But, this �take anyone you can, whenever you can� approach led to times when there were more people than the family had time to �select� for their games. As a result, some people never were picked; they were left to slowly wither away, likely to die of dehydration or starvation. In some of the cages, the prisoners fought each other like wild animals. Food was pretty much non-existent; so if you wanted to eat, you'd stop looking at your fellow prisoners as victims, and more like a source of protein.

Eventually, the truth began to sink into my thick skull; here I was, and here I would die. I stopped trying to find ways to escape the cage, knowing it was impossible. I stopped trying to talk to the other prisoners, because they had nothing useful to tell me and most of them were so crazy, I was afraid they'd make me crazy just by talking with them.

I don't know if you'd call what came over me an acceptance of my fate; I think it was more just being unable to handle the pure, raw terror that threatened to overwhelm me. If I'd been forced to feel that terror all the time, I think my body would have just quit. The terror kept my blood racing, my heart pounding. Fine for cases when you can flee from the situation, but I couldn't run. Instead, it was as if someone threw a blanket over my mind. Yes, I knew I was still in a terrible place. I was vaguely aware of what was going around me, but the worst of it was somewhat softened. I just got into this state of almost... pleasant numbness.

For awhile, Rufus and Tiny were the only members of the family I saw. Rufus came down later and brought another person for the cages. Tiny's bedroom was down in this basement, so he was always wandering in and out.

Tiny was about the only way of getting food and water in the cages. He took some of his meals in the basement sometimes, and, if the mood struck him, he might toss his scraps into one of the cages. Occasionally, he'd even walk down the aisle with a bucket of water and plastic tumbler that was small enough to fit through the wire spaces of the cage. He'd distribute these �water shots� until he was either interrupted, the bucket went empty, or he became bored. I really think Tiny looked at us as his responsibility, as if he were our keeper. In his mind, I'm even willing to bet that he thought he was taking pretty good care of us. Besides being deformed and deaf, I think Tiny was mentally retarded. He'd probably be classified as �functional� if he'd grown up in a normal family, but he sure didn't have that chance. No one taught him that if you wanted to keep people in cages alive and somewhat healthy, you needed to feed them regularly and provide a constant source of fresh water. The little dribbles of water and scraps of food just weren't enough.

I was luckier than some. My cage mates weren't fighters, so when Tiny did toss food in our direction, we would grab for it, but we wouldn't attack each other for more. We didn't try to steal water from each other, either. In fact, the first time water was brought, one of the girls took a sip from the cup, a small sip, and then passed the cup to the next girl, who passed it on to the next and so on. Everyone, myself included, got a sip of water from that cup. Tiny filled it up again and the same thing was done. I realized these girls had decided that their way of surviving was to band together. Everyone got the same amount of water or food. This �all for one and one for all� attitude was rather touching, considering what went on in the other cages around us. I should have been even more touched when they included me into their little group, but I just accepted it.

Sometimes I could hear noises coming from upstairs and I'd wonder about who the occupants of the house were. I shouldn't have bothered; soon enough, I'd be meeting the rest of the family.
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For All The Wrong Reasons