DISCLAIMER: Nothing is mine, not the characters, and not the song. The song is Sting’s, the HL characters are Davis/Panzers, and the BtVS characters are used and abused by Mr. Joss Whedon.

NOTES: Okay, there isn’t much crossover in this, but Buffy shoes up a few times. ;) This is a very dark piece, btw, and contains crude discussion of non-consensual sex between a minor and an adult. (AKA, child abuse, sexual and physical.) Richie is a pre-immie child, however, I took liberties and set this in the nineties. (About 1999) That’s about it. Oh, and if the "F-word" isn’t your cup of tea, I suggest you turn back now. Hey, it’s fine with me. I hate tea! ;)

RATING: R

Looney Tunes Lockup
By: Lady pixie

DAY 1

All you guys do is lie to me. You think I’m someone to mess with? Screw you! I am who I am. All these people are trying so frigging hard to make me someone I’m not, and I can’t do a thing about it. Sucks to be me. Everybody lies. It’s crazy, I swear. My old man puts it on my ass and no one cares for, like, eleven years. Then, Daddy Dearest loses his fucking job and Little Miss Social-Welfare-I-Love-You-So-Much-You-Little-Cutie-Pie is all over us. I hate my frigging foster parents. I hate my frigging social worker. I hate my frigging life. Somebody shoot me. I hate them all. Here I am, on and off the bloody streets for my entire twelve years, selling my sorry self for twenty or thirty bucks a screw, suck, or lick and nobody gives a freak. Then my old man can’t pay his lousy taxes and those bitches yank me the fuck out of my home, away from that blonde bitch and my dad. It’s for the best, I guess. I mean, I get sick of taking his shit and her bitching, but they still be my folks. My *foster* folks, I mean. My old man cheats on my mom, and sometimes he screws me ya know. I already said that didn’t I? I sorta dwell on that sometimes, cause…oh fuck, it hurts like a bitch. Damn. I am a bitch, ain’t I? He ain’t even my real old man, ya know? He’s just my foster dad. I could’ve told my caseworker, I guess, but, fuck, it’s screwed up, ya know? Really fucked. I’m a real sick bastard ain’t I? I wanted it, the old man said I did anyway. I must have wanted it, or he wouldn’t have done it, right? Damn, I’m a bitch, a real bitch. It sorta makes me wanna die. Do you know what it’s like to wanna die?

It starts with an ache, down in your tummy. It hurts real bad and makes ya wanna cry. You try to get it away, but it won’t go. It’s always there, nagging at you, daring you. I gave in once. I cut up my arms somethin’ bad. They bled for, like, forever. It hurt real, real bad, but it felt good too. It made it all go away, all the hurt. There was something worse than the pain and guilt in my tummy, somethin’ more real, more solid. I probably would have done it again, cut myself I mean, but the bitch walked in and screamed for the old man. He came in and beat me somethin’ bad. I got blood on his woman’s towels. It pissed him off. He hurts me when I piss him off.

DAY 2

They tell me I’m here cause I cut myself up. Here happens to be Compton Meadows Mental Clinic, a nuthouse, also known as Hell. I’m not just Daddy’s bitch, I’m Daddy’s crazy bitch. Makes me feel bad for all those times I called girls crazy hoes. I mean, look at me, I’m just as bad, ya know? I didn’t even have the courage to stand up to my fucking father. Nope, I just got down on my knees and sucked the bastard dry. I could have said no. I must of wanted it, or I would have said no, I would have made him stop. I wouldn’t have let him—

It don’t matter. I ain’t there anymore. I’m here in the crazy ward, lockup for loonies. I’ll fit right in with the Looney Toons that are locked up here. I already met a transvestite/compulsive liar, a blonde that thinks vampires are real, and a borderline psychotic that dresses like a yuppie. The say I show signs of Dependant Personality Disorder. I asked what that meant, but nobody would tell me, so I looked it up. It means that I can’t make decisions on my own, lack initiative, agree too easily, and I panic over minor losses. Now, is that worth locking someone up for? I think it’s stupid, I ain’t crazy, I just wanted to…to… get away. Hell, if ya could believe everything that stupid book said, everybody in the whole wide world would be declared a psycho nutty.

DAY 3

I heard them talking today. They said I was abused. I don’t remember being abused. Sure, Dad and the bitch smacked me around a little maybe, but that don’t count, do it? And the whole thing…you know, the *thing*… that don’t count as abuse, does it? I don’t think so, I mean, I wanted it… I think. It’s kind of hard to remember if I wanted it or not. It was the old man and my secret. I remember that. And I remember it hurt. It always hurt. He liked that, I think. You can buy kiddie porno with that shit in it. Pain and stuff like that. Told ya I’d lived on the streets. I’m not stupid though; I stay away from pimps and porno creeps. I don’t wanna end up dead in some motherfucking alley. I really, really, really don’t. Or in a snuff film either. Is there really snuff? I don’t know, but I saw 8mm and that shit is *scary*! I’m glad Nick Cage killed the dude in the mask at the end. He was a bitch. I would hate to end up like that chick in the flick, all dead and stuff, a picture of me having my brains fucked out immortalized on video or 8mm film or whatever forever. That would blow.

Wait a second, I *want* to die—don’t I? I don’t really want to live but I don’t wanna die either. Is this what Purgatory’s like maybe? The nuns at that orphanage I lived in for awhile talked an awful lot about Purgatory. They didn’t like me though. Sister Mary Clark said I had a filthy mouth; the rest of the Sisters weren’t that bad though, not really. Sister Mary James didn’t even know what pussy meant. I thought that was funny. She was nice; she’d bring me cookies sometimes. The orphanage wasn’t bad at all, not like this place. This place is really yucky sucky. Yellow walls with peeling paint and a nasty hospital smell, kinda like a mixture of urine and meds.

Meds. They got me higher than the crack-hoes on the Strip. Valium, Ex-Lax, Sleep Right, plus prescription stuff that I can’t even pronounce. Fucked up, huh? You go to a hospital and they give you Valium. This place is really, really fucked, I mean that. Really, really, really fucked. Except my old man’s bitch slaps me when I use that word. So maybe it’s not, maybe it’s just messed up.

DAY 4

Buffy, the girl who thinks vampires are real, says that they do shocks here. You know, shock treatment. They did it on her after she ran off. I think that’s shitty. It ain’t right to mess around with, like, people’s brain waves or whatever. I hope they don’t do none of that shit on me, like, cause I cuss or whatever. I just want out of here, is that too much to ask? I hate this place, hate it bad. It makes me wanna scream and cry and yell and hit all at the same time. I can’t though. My daddy would beat the shit out of me after I got back home if he found out I had cried when I was in here. I told a nurse that and she says I ain’t ever gonna have to go back there. I told her she’s a naïve bitch. People like me don’t get breaks. They’ll send me back and he’ll hurt me again. I’ll run away and do stuff that’ll get me sent straight to hell. Then I’ll go back home and he’ll hurt me some more. I hate my life.

I wanna die.

DAY 5

Sometimes I just sit there, gripping my wrist, staring at the bulging blue veins that lace my wrist, counting as they bump upwards then back down. One-two-three-four, one-two-three-four. Bump-bump-bump-bump, bump-bump-bump-bump. I look at the scars on my arm and think about how easy it would be to break the mirror in my bathroom and run the sharp glass against the veins, living, loving, and begging for the real pain, needing an end from the pain in my tummy. But I won’t. He gets off on my pain, I refuse to do the same. It won’t help anything, I already tried to slit my wrists. Look where I ended up. It turns out you won’t die from slitting your wrists unless you cut them down to the bone. Otherwise, they can just patch you up again. Silly me, I never was one to do my fucking research.

I told Buffy that and she said that dying is not fun. She told me she died once, but her friend breathed into her mouth and woke her up. But her vampire boyfriend couldn’t help her ‘cause he has no breath. She said it messed her up pretty bad. Buffy’s real nice. She’s real pretty too, but man is she thin! And a little crazy. But who here’s not?

DAY 6

My teachers hated me in school. I never researched nothing, never did a single paper. I was glad when Dad and the bitch stopped making me go. The teachers never even noticed; however, the nurse did. She used to drag me into her office every single day and ask me where I got each of my bruises and cuts. Ran into a door. Fell down some stairs. Tripped and fell into my dad who hit me in the head with War and Peace. Okay, the last one is a lie; Dad’s never read War and Peace. He did hit me with an erotica novel called War and Piece once. Does that count? I doubt it.

That nurse got on my nerves. She never believed me that I was okay. She even asked me if Dad even, like, touched me or anything. Of course, she didn’t mean touched, she meant *touched*. The same old questions asked, the same denial. I’d tell her no and she’d press some more. The whore never understood that they were all I got. Once, about a month ago, I told her everything, but I guess she never got around to doing anything. I dunno, she just never called me to her office again. It’s funny how people don’t always want to hear what they say they want to hear.

I talked to Buffy again today. Her mom was here for Parent’s Day. Her mom is *so* nice. I wish my parents had been like Ms. Summers. But hey, not everyone can be happy, right? It’s not the end of the world… Man, now I’m depressed. I’m gonna go get Buffy to tell me some more about vampires.

DAY 7

Today, the nurse here said my mouth is really nasty. I thought that was funny. Of course it is has she forgotten where it’s been? Hey, people need to let off me. What’s wrong with saying fuck and shit? They’re tough words. People don’t mess with you as much when you talk tough. I guess I wore this mask to hide my fears. So fuck everybody, cause nobody’s gonna mess with Richard Ryan. No fucking way. I may only be twelve, but I’m still tough.

I am tough.

I am tough.

I am—Oh screw it! Sometimes I don’t feel tough. Sometimes I feel like every bitch who comes along has the right to use me as his personal pin cushion. Do I want it? The psychiatrist (I know how to spell it cause I asked) says that I didn’t. That it wasn’t my fault that he hurt me. That I didn’t want him to and that he lied when he said I did. She says he’s a pedophile. I didn’t know what that was, so I looked it up too. It means someone who gets a hard-on around kids that haven’t hit puberty yet. And she acted like that was weird. Come one, half the guys I’ve met are like that. But maybe that’s just because I’m a slut maybe I attract guys like that.

I hate being blonde and pretty. And I am pretty. Everybody says so. I wish I were fat and ugly.

DAY 8

Some people want to take me home with them for the weekend, a big guy and his blonde chick. She’s real pretty. Looks like Buffy will when she grows up. The lady volunteered to paint a mural in the TV room. She sees me one day and gets all mushy eyed like suckers always do. We started talking and she invited me over for Christmas. She says nobody should spend Christmas in a place like CM Clinic. I can see her point. After all, Jesse calls it SM Clinic. I told her I’d think about it. I don’t know what she wants in payment, she didn’t say. But that ponytail guy is awful big and pretty fucking scary. I may be twelve whole years old, but I’m not very big. My new caseworker, Melinda, says I’m rail thin and sweetly short. I have no clue what she means, but I guess that o-fucking-kay. What should I do? I really wanna, but… I don’t like it. I’m not scared, no way am I scared of them or anything stupid like that. But people don’t give anything away for free. Ever.

The nurse said that most people take things from others and give things for, like, for free. That hurts because she looks at me weird, like I’m a screw up cause I think that you owe something to someone when they help you. Does that make sense? Probably not, I’m pretty much a fucktard. I think that if someone gives you something, you owe it to them to give something back.

This coming from a kid who let fags put it on his ass for a set of clothes or thirty bucks. Ha. I’m a real fuck up, ain’t I?

Maybe I’ll go with the woman, I mean she seems nice. Her name’s Miss Noel. Very Christmas-y, huh? That would be kinda cool. Buffy’s going home with her mom. Staying with Miss Noel on Christmas could be okay… But can I trust her?

Can I trust anybody?

DAY 9

Today was Christmas. I didn’t go with that lady. I don’t know what they wanted. I mean, they wouldn’t just invite me over, would they? Christmas sucked. I’m on a thousand downers and I’m drowsy. I haven’t taken my meds in three days; I’ve been hiding them under my tongue. I took three days worth of pills today. I felt empty and they filled me. No one should be alone on Christmas, and Buffy’s not here to make me stop. I‘m glad she’s not, cause I’m not alone now, I’m filled inside. They make me really drowsy though. I can barely write even. The letters on the page are all blurring together, making my head swarm like a thousand little bees are buzzing, buzzing, buzzing away. It makes me happy, so, so happy. I haven’t been happy since… since I was born. I think. Probably. I wonder if I’m going to die? The world is turning so fast it sort of scares me… Why is everything so blurry? I think I’m sleepy… I just wanna lay down and take a little map, er nap, not map, I can’t even think straight and my head hurts and I just wanna die… So maybe I’ll… die… Buffy did… but I deserve it, she didn’t… My dad used to…

I gotta stop thinkin’ about him! That jerk-off doesn’t matter! Whoa, the room’s spinning… I’m tired of Dad fucking my brains out... but hey, what doesn’t kill me just makes me tougher! Fuck him! Fuck him to…to…Bermuda!

Oh my gosh… I can’t see straight and I can’t…. think… at all…

I’m gonna pass out….

I can’t do thi—

THE END

Thanks to Space for the lyrics.

Ghost Story

By Sting

I watch the western sky

The sun is sinking.

The geese are flying south

It sets me thinking.

I did not miss you much;

I did not suffer.

What did not kill me

Just made me tougher.

I feel the winter come

His icy sinews

Now in the firelight

The kiss continues.

Another maiden caught

The same old trial.

The same old questions asked,

The same denial.

The shadows close me round

My jewel remembers

I look for answers in

The fire's embers.

Why was I missing then

That whole December?

I give my usual lie:

I don't remember.

Another winter comes

His icy fingers creep.

Into these bowels of mine

These memories never sleep.

And all these differences

A cloak I borrow.

We kept our distances

Why should it follow?

I must have loved you.

(bridge)

What is the force that binds the stars

I wore this mask to hide my scars

What is the power that pulls the tide?

I never could find a place to hide.

What moves the Earth around the Sun?

What could I do but run and run and run?

Afraid to love, afraid to fail

The master of the sail

Long grows her fingernail

And slowly sinking

Another day begins

And now I'm thinking

That this indifference

Was my invention

When everything I did

Sought your attention.

You were my compass star

You were my measure

You were a pirate's map

Of buried treasure.

If this was all correct

The last thing I'd expect.

The prosecution rests

It's time that I confessed;

I must have loved you.

I must have loved you.

I must have loved you.

(fade out)