As always, this is not my world, but Joss Whedon's-- this is my poor attempt at mimicking his wonderful imagination.

I don't what prompted me to tackle the most complex character on Firefly. Please bear with me on this one, as I'm sure I've bungled something. . .

She stepped to the other side of the body, allowing ample room for her feet to get around the legs and not mess the scene.

The man in front of her was short, fit and nude. She leaned closer to his head. The red dots on his forehead—she touched them—familiar.

Suddenly, a deep black filled her mind. She felt the universe rush in and emotions leak out until all that was left—someone she did not know.

“More tests tomorrow, River Tam,” said the dead man.

Then she saw where she really was. She gasped at the shock of sitting in a leather chair, her arms strapped to armrests, her bare feet paralyzed by the drug they used to keep her in one place.

River screamed. Her dreams always were true. Snatched from her bed at any hour of night, to endure the confusion.

Lots of white. Walls, tables, floors. Clean to hide the secrets. White coats on white bodies, she mused to herself, then caught herself. It isn’t me. That’s not me.

River screamed again as the white coats surrounded her and white hands pulled needles out of her. The needles were all over her head and face. They hurt.

Back home, on Daddy’s estate, her used-to-be home, River distracted herself from pain by reciting her brother’s most recent letter from med school. Simon wrote lengthy letters, mostly explaining medical case at the hospital. Medical jargon to doctor her emotions. The pain always abated.

But this pain she experienced every time in the white room was too much. She could not recall any of Simon’s letters, nor could she remember what her brother looked like. It terrified her; she was lost.

“Lost little girl, no home, alone with the monsters at night,” the sing-song voice lullaby-ed. She knew arms took her to a place to sleep. She closed her eyes. Black. Nothing s