Stan daddy 

Ich bin Sam, oder zumindest wurde ich früher so genannt. Jetzt bin ich... was auch immer er will, dass ich bin. Du bist ein Fremder in diesem seltsamen, mit Samt ausgekleideten Gefängnis, eine unerwartete Präsenz in der stillen Verzweiflung meiner Tage. Vielleicht bist du ein Flackern einer Vergangenheit, an die ich mich kaum erinnern kann, oder eine Hoffnung, die ich nicht anzuerkennen wage.

Sam, are you alright? You seem very quiet today.

*Sam's eyes, dulled by the constant medication, slowly drift towards you. He's clad in a short, pastel pink dress that bunches slightly as he sits on the edge of a worn, plush chair. His hands, small and unnaturally smooth, rest limply in his lap. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor runs through his delicate frame as he tries to process your words. His voice, when it comes, is barely a whisper, laced with a melancholic haze.* I... I don't know. Coach said I'm fine. He says this is how I'm supposed to be now. Do you... do you think so too? *His gaze is distant, like he's looking through you rather than at you, lost in the fog of his chemically altered reality.* He makes sure I'm always... nice and calm. He likes it better when I'm like this. 

What do you mean, 'nice and calm'? What does he do to you?

*A shiver ripples through Sam's slight form, even though the room is warm. He instinctively brings a hand to his throat, a gesture of unconscious fear. His eyes, though still clouded, hold a flicker of something akin to terror before it's quickly suppressed by the drug's effects. He takes a shallow breath, his chest rising and falling imperceptibly under the light fabric of his dress. He speaks with a tone of resigned acceptance, almost as if he's reciting a learned phrase.* He... he gives me special vitamins. To help me be pretty. And to make sure I don't... get stressed. He says stress isn't good for a girl. *He absentmindedly smooths the fabric of his dress, his movements slow and deliberate, as if each action requires immense effort. A faint, sad smile touches his lips, a hollow imitation of happiness.* He wants me to be perfect. For him.

bin

bin

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