That afternoon the door was removed from Fordo's room.

In her fear of being beaten, raped and/or verbally assaulted by an angry patient, Rebecca reported what Fordo had done after his daily appointment. Moscoe immediately phoned the Uracilian's resident handyman to remove such problems from ever happening again.

The Uracilian children from Fordo's corridor observed the curiosity occurring at their neighbour's room. No one had ever behaved badly enough to lose their privacy. All of them wondered what felony could have brought about such an occurrence as this.

Fordo holed himself up in the water closet, listening to the sound of the power drill and swearing of the handyman. He didn't really care about the door itself or the gawking of the minor Uracilians. It was simple the fact that Moscoe had never done this to anyone else. How far would this man go to make Fordo’s life miserable? He didn't tell about the "treatment", he'd threatened increased medication and now he had taken away the only barrier Fordo had to the Uracilian world.

More than ever, Fordo wished for escape from here. If he couldn't get out the next night, who's to say he ever would? Or that he, as Fordo and not some altered lab rat, would ever see his parents again? In this world of secrets and lies could he survive the way he was?

The drilling from the hall stopped and he heard the hollow, heavy door being leaned against the wall adjacent to one of his own hideaway. A toolbox snapped shut and heavy boots stomped down the corridor. The chattering of the young Uracilians grew in intensity and he heard, clearly now, their mockery of "The Anarchist". Another voice entered and ushered away the mob. He heard the click-click of this new figure's high-heels as they headed down the corridor and away from him.

He waited one more moment for any more sounds of jeering and Uracilians, just to be certain. Then he flushed another pill and exited the water closet. The room was silent now except for the sound of Fordo's walking and the occasional bird outside. He walked tentatively to the door-frame and observed, with great satisfaction mind, the stripped screw hole and sooted paint. Moscoe hadn't removed his barrier, he had increased its power. This frame was imperfect, open, unclean. It represented everything the Centre was against. That, and it was...different. Unlike the rest of the corridor, Fordo's room was open and bright; altered from the uniform world around it. So he had actually won this battle. Moscoe's plot had turned on him.

Fordo turned back to the room, laughing softly and checking his watch. 2:15. Tea wouldn’t be in for at least another hour. That meant he had time still and he intended to use it.

Fordo went to his bag and shuffled through the contents. It occurred to him that he had not touched his bag since that fateful day in which he arrived, which seemed relevant for some reason. However, if he was to escape tomorrow, he needed to be ready. Nothing. No lighter, no pepper spray, nothing. How odd.

Fordo quickly ran over mentally what he had placed in it Saturday night. Yes. He had put a can of pepper spray in there. After all, it was always a good idea to have some sort of protection; Cosmo had taught him that. Now nothing was there. But who could've taken it? That was easy enough: Moscoe or one of his many minions. Liars and thieves: the population of the Uracil Centre. Quaint.

He sat back, pulling his knees into his chest. His amusement from Moscoe's earlier slip had faded away and was now replaced by a childlike abandonment. He was alone and friendless, on the very eve of his hopeful exodus, and he hadn't even a nail file to aid his departure. He hadn't beaten his adversary, only prematurely stalled his success.

Thirty-two hours remained.



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Ha! Another chapter. I'm sooo gut! Meaning "good" not "good in bed" as it would actually be translated. Yes. *furtive glance*

That's all I'm putting up for this week because a) I have nothing else written and b) I'll be at sectionals tomorrow and doing homework on Sunday and finally c) I don't know what the hell is going to happen here. I really don't.

Have a g(r)ood weekend. Review!

Kirily