Author's Note: Yayy! Finally I started writing something different and it's with Oliver. Furthermore, the title of the one-shot is under the name of one of my favorite Slipknot songs Eyeless. Don't accept literally that the female reader is eyeless in the imagine! Haha!

Keep in mind that the reader is always an adult over the age of 18!

It's a dedication to my lovelies sociopathsis , k_aldxnx , JunykoWalker, southernauthor, Trash_Bag_123, Candylady69, BecciXxXx, stallonesgirl Celeste-Moore ! I hope you like and enjoy the new imagine with Oliver and the female reader!

--- *** ---

The irony just spoke volumes about the bright contrast between the majestic esthetic of the autumn and your imprisonment in the most ill-famed mental hospitals for criminally insane just moments ago. The irony of the fate exposed its own real face. Another primly vibrant mask fell off dexterously from the façade. As dexterous as the soft summer breeze. As strong as the physical strength's megawatt invincibility.

You didn't have any idea what on earth was going on. How unspeakably crude was of your step-father that participated legitimately in your family life after your biological father's inescapable demise due to a heart attack at fragile age! Your mother genuinely unconditional, unceasing enamored with your step-father who was a bright contrast of your deceased biological father! Unlike your current parent Edgar Lucas that was the crucial reason why your freedom was utterly deprived, Jayden Kennedy was rather your parent figure and ideally equating to your ideals and character's perpetual development since your initial appearance in this crudely cold, nevertheless, authentically expansive world. Jayden Kennedy taught you abundance of things which your mother Zeal Edith didn't have the true motive and aspiration to rear you up.

You have rather reared up with Zeal Edith in a modest household located somewhere in Boston's slums. She has never tolerated and supported your ambitions and wishes at all. Notwithstanding her majestically potent bond with Jayden Kennedy, consequently you didn't have the nerve to inflame their short-tempered persona and confronting their darker sides, swathed thickly, marvelously grotesque mantle of ethereally timeless ebony mantle.

"Keep your hands off me, you pigs!" Manifesting to writhe in the tightly irresistible, succumbing grips of two orderlies biding your shoulders and torso to diminish the chances of your eventually villainous attack, while the autumn soft breeze gently, benevolently fanned your H/L mop of glossy H/C strands curtaining your profile and bouncing up at each motion, regardless how effortlessly wee or dynamic was. At the moment, the villainously hair-rising landscape of your parents propping on the door frame of your modest one-story household transfixing their gawks on you, igniting the luminously searing glint of fierce smugness and bare haughtiness glazing their indiscernible ebony pupils. Heinously smug, lukewarmly prim smirks tugged at the corner of their pink mouths, while the older woman managed to fold her arms across her bulky chest.

"Shut your filthy mouth!" Shortly before one of the orderlies to manage to smack a dazzlingly hazy slap across your freshly young-looking facial features, his dry, berry-coloured tongue struggled to elaborate the authoritatively austere, raspy caution as candid reminder conveying its important message to you to illuminate vibrantly bright the wee inkling of the villainously non-verbal retribution you are earning for your rebelliously headstrong retaliation.

Lukewarmly silver, brassly resentment shimmered past your step-father and mother's glassily heartless gawks, unmasking their true faces of their ruthless natures underneath its thinly translucent veil of emotionlessness. They didn't have any benevolently altruistic intentions of clashing with the staff members of the mental hospital you were about to be committed. Little did you know why they faked the real motives of your imprisonment. You didn't do anything wrong. The parents are presumed to support and unconditionally loving their children, regardless their worldviews kindling their mutual discords on certain topics they weren't aiming to accomplish at all.

How they were far cry from adequately sober and sane to call the administration of Briarcliff to bring one of the least bloodthirstily detrimental beings to participate in the wretched souls' company and the emphatic destiny subjugating them with the unsacred retribution of the unthinkable escape to join the general population's ethereally divine freedom? The medley of the goth brushes exquisitely painting and roughly contouring the lunatics' façades that populated the madhouse in the goth brushes of arcanely apocalyptic fatigue, tremendous misery, frigid hopelessness and monotonous lifelessness dolled up beneath the thin, untouchable veil of the compound.

Seconds before your petite-frame was lugged inside the passenger back seat to recline categorically, your E/C optics rimmed with twin fat crystalline tears slowly but surely effloresced onto your lower eyelids, struggling to stubbornly trickle downward your well-sculptured cheeks. Jayden Kennedy and Zeal Edith cold-heartedly jaded imbibed each ounce and each muscle your captors constricted obdurately to bid your essential body parts that were capable of manifesting boldly your non-verbal protests. Almost establishing being out of Zeal and Jayden's sights, the sanitarians played their own cards right.

--- *** ---

--- Dream ---

The aggressively howling wind echoed through the lifelessly hoary walls of the miniature site your petite frame was confined and tingling alarming tones into your vulnerable ears.

Oblivious to your current location, inhumanely hypodermic frigidness enveloped your immobile figure, curled up in a ball on the cement flooring. Your H/L cataract of indisputably disheveled H/C strands curtaining your façade sprawled ruthlessly reckless on the cement floor. In spite of the inescapably hypodermically icy climate whiffled in the meagerly furnished room. An arctic nightmare. Was it actually a nightmare, wasn't it? All alone in empty, poorly furnished room where no single soul's plucked up courage to set foot inside the arctic nightmare.

The constant feeling of being watched like an Achilles Heel by the blood-curdling shadows casted in the outskirts of the site and devilishly baleful demons eagerly chasing with their potently peckish vibrantly vermillion, rotund embers, igniting the very blazes of their murderous hunger to corrupt their impending prey.

As soon as you came to your senses and you managed to fashion into balled fists your petite, flimsy hands to rub your groggy jewels, thereafter your oblivion to the foreign, undiscovered site railed your train of thoughts. The majestically thick, ethereally silken mantle of jet-black darkness smartly rigged the miniature site. Foreign, undiscovered due to the worst foe of every human being whose powers didn't link to the supernatural to detect anything behind the ethereally timeless darkness.

Oddly, a weightless chiffon oyster-white angelic off-shoulder gown guarded your upper and lower body. The genuine sensation of bareness underneath your bare feet readjusting your straightened posture to face the absolute reality of the wild dream's celestial, unnatural real, uncomfortably spiked your tissues' starkly exposed flesh to ghost smoothly the meekly feminine, humble footsteps grazing softly the concrete.

Bearing a semblance of a blind person whose windows to the world didn't connect to grant with the utter vision of everything encompassing, thus you maneuvered to amble up towards the meagerly old wooden door after fumbling clumsily lazy with your fidgety, weathered fingers to assimilate more non-verbally your surroundings if they were actually there. Patchy hollow of emptiness webbed its sole prey of its own reverie's realm. You!

Once your weathered, icy fingers fumbled the wooden embroidered entity before you until it slithered sleekly down to the doorknob and twisting it before to broadly swing and nefariously fiendish whining its own ballad to the imminent destination. The magnificently authentic, esthetic wintery vista of rich snowfall and ferociously antagonistic howl of its wintery zephyr apt to dance in the thin air shortly after discovering the only simple way to escape the desolated compact cabin in the nowhere of the hazy forest. Ocean of monumentally bare trees embellished with thick snowy blankets pinning the dark, lifelessly dry branches. The sky, itself, fabulously clouded the wee inkling of any sunny entity to bountifully filter with modicum of light the wintery landscape. It resembled an endless winter day when the sky's luxurious illustration of baby blue, indigo and fuchsia brightly artistic, deftly daubed the inevitable brushes of the coldness.

No other single soul inched appropriately your proximity. You were all alone in the wintery woods. Solely the company of the dilapidating old, desolated cabin, the sea of trees, the opulent snowfall and the ferociously invincible winter zephyr escorted soothingly your loneliness.

--- *** ---

--- End of Dream ---

--- Back to Reality ---

--- A Handful of Hours Later or So ---

"Miss Y/N L/N, is everything alright?" The suddenness of the honey-mouthed, appealingly eloquent puncture of the juvenile psychiatrist's enquiry snapped you out of your reverie realm abruptly, dwelling in the profound outskirts of the inescapable absolute reality. Thoughtlessly pronging his coffee brown huge, roundish gemstones with yours, consequently you manipulated your brittle, delicate fingers to knead on circles recurring your temple to prevent any migraine or otherwise explicitly vivid, scintillating reveries and hysterical flashbacks flashing your vortex of thoughts and vision.

You have been seating in Dr. Oliver Thredson's office for a few minutes shortly after the diabolical hydrotherapy, the series of mugshots flashing the tattooed Polaroid photograph of your despondent, lifeless profile paired with the young sister of the church that educated you detailed about the madhouse even bringing you to the head nun that appeared to be her mentor eventually. The atmosphere, Sister Jude and the majority of the lunatics misted relentlessly your vision and train of thoughts with the true sentiment of the evanescence into the foreign, undiscovered realm of the monstrous madness being part of your daily life's incessant clashes and comfy settling in your physical and mental despondence and the demons and shadows' nirvanic intoxication.

In spite of you weren't gravely fond of the mental hospital's austerely dull, inexorable tedious ambience and the staff members' unceasing crudeness impacting on the treatment you profusely earn from them after dipping in the rich cataract of the sable, mist liquid of their fiery hostility, fierce anger and unavoidable resentment sousing subtly your identity.

The only staff members whose treatment equated to adequately kindhearted and altruistic were Monsignor Timothy Howard, Sister Mary Eunice and of course, Dr. Oliver Thredson. They were the three of a kind of the rich, celestially aureate waterfall of compassion, altruism and amiability emulating to the adequate treatment each low-spirited patient they're presupposed to harvest eventually.

Even though Briarcliff was literally the somber sanctum of the sable melancholy and eternal hopelessness where you would scarcely find even modicum of support and comfort bracing you with its owner of the persona's dazzling illumination.

"Oh yes, doctor!" Registering a childishly docile, mousy bob of your head in solemn agreement to obscure any wee hints of relentlessly baleful doubts to contour the older gentleman's charming, freshly youthful facial attributes, your fingertips dawdled reluctantly humble on its currently occupied territory of your physique. Your temple. And the frequent rubs on circles on reflex wasn't unseen by the young doctor. Replacing your straight line with a vague, sympathetically profound smile tugging at the corner of your roseate, chapped lip was your best weapon to arm with to blur any patterns of stormy wretchedness. "Yes!" Inhaling inwardly the snort coursing through your tiny, flexible nostrils, throughout your hands perched mousily on your lap of your rigidly shapeless palish deep blue patient gown. "Everything is okay. I don't know how I lost myself in the dream I just had."

"It's okay, Y/N! Just relax!" The friendly reminder conveying its meaningfully authentic message to you to diminish the physical and mental pressure on yourself, meanwhile, you readjusted your seating posture as the heart pulses ushered cold-bloodedly monstrous to amplify its thuds in your brittle ribcage, sensing the genuine power of Oliver's coffee brown optics curtained beautifully with his dark Times New Roman eyeglasses conveniently embroidering the bridge of his nose. "Good!" After clearing his throat gruffily with a dry, nevertheless, pleasantly honey-mouthed cough to cleanse the thickness contracting his elegant Adam's apple and one of his mammoth, veiny hands' long fingers crooking around the cancer stick to take another drag at it and then curve his lips in a soft O to puff the severe unhealthy grizzle dim somewhere else to permeate its own disastrous infectious cloud in his office. "Let's start in the beginning. You were committed mainly because of your step-father and your biological mother, right?"

"Mhm! That's right."

"Okay! And they think you're deeming you delusional."

"They're just making stories just to draw a long bow that doesn't equate to the actual snake pit I'm currently living in with them. I have never insulted or beaten them." In order to prevent any further, more detailed posed questions begging for an immediate, rational answer, subsequently your attempts to sort your mind and utterly rely on your rational thoughts to pour down in its ultimate construction of vowels and syllables in your brutally honest revelation to object your guilt and insanity your parents accused you in. Little did you know what you might expect from the psychiatrist as a forthcoming reaction submerging your revelation. "They aren't like the other parents to support or at least respect their children's wishes and so forth. It has been always like that after my father passed away when I was barely eight years old."

"I don't think you're delusional, according to them," Another drag of the cigar length suffocated along with the dramatic pause to amplify the tension's inexorable, tremendously invincible might, comfortably settling inside the hoary walls of the office. "But I'll find another alternative to grant you the freedom you truly deserve, Y/N!"

"I'd like to thank you for your understanding and kindness, Doctor! It seems you are the only," The series of childlikely girlish, bashful stutters slipping sloppily from your tongue tip's fat equated to the parallel of Oliver's continuous jerking of his slim forefinger to indicate his solemn disagreement about the formality you traded mutually. "Person there or amidst the fewest that aren't brashly cruel to the innocents."

"Please, Y/N! It's just Oliver."

Behind every kindhearted soul there was always a monumentally somber, infernal demon living inside its own new home until its true light leaked and streamed through its whether adrenaline or apogee. Was Oliver genuinely capable of granting you the ultimate freedom or that was another inkling of false hope?