A/N: So, I was watching Repo! The Genetic Opera (which, by the way, is my new favorite movie; go see it) and the song (yes, it's a rock opera) Infected came on. I thought it sounded a little like a Samara song, and the girl singing it (Shilo, played by Alexa Vega) sort of looked like Samara in some shots. So, yeah. Oh, and some lyrics were changed to fit the story (it wouldn't do any good for Samara to be calling herself Shilo).

"Samara, take your medicine." The doctor instructed, holding out a pill.

The small girl stared at the looming man from underneath her curtain of hair. Without showing any sign of emotion, she took the pill.

"Now you have to swallow it." He said in a condescending tone.

Idiot. Samara knew what the pills would do. Her thoughts and reaction time would be slowed. Her speech would become nothing more than a mumble. If this was a new kind of dosage, as it usually was, she'd probably become sick later on. But there was nothing she could do- not if she wanted to stay here. It was better than going home. She begrudgingly ate the tasteless substance.

"I'll be back to give you your next dose in a few hours." Doctor said, and walked out. This wasn't new to Samara. She didn't have any visitors; she didn't really know anyone beside her parents, and she didn't care for them.

It would be nice to have someone come in once in a while, though...

Too bad she was sick. Sick in her mind, oftentimes sick to her stomach, and of course, there was the definition of sick that meant something such as disgusting, or terrifying. She was definitely that kind of sick as well.

She spoke for the first time that day. "I'm... infected." Her voice had quite a bit of melancholy in it. Her voice became stronger as she confirmed, "I'm infected, by your genetics!" She scolded the doctor, even though he had already left. She was sure the message would reach him.

"'Samara, I'm the doctor!'" She imitated in the same dreary tone that he had been speaking to her with only moments ago. She put on a more gruff and angry voice as she recited, "'Samara, I'm your father!'" These were what she was sick of hearing. Controlling, accusing, scared- everyone's voice held a different emotion, and she hated them all.

"'Oh, Samara, that was close!'" As if anyone cared.

"'Take your medicine.'" It wasn't medicine, it was poison. Everything here was. "I'm infected, by your genetics!"

"'Samara, you're my patient. Samara, be more patient!'" Patient for what? Did they expect her to think they might set her free some day? Yeah, that was going to happen.

"'You have limitations, don't go chasing flies.'" Limitations which they were so kind to provide. She didn't have limitations, she had power. If they stopped believing her parents and maybe listened to her, she wouldn't be so inclined to use them for bad things.

"'I must be protective; you cannot be reckless!'" She could not be anything, not when they were keeping her in this room. If she could just use a little of her strength, she'd be free. But of course, they always made sure that any source of strength was just out of her reach. "That's what is expected, when you are infected."

She couldn't take it anymore. She had so much to say, and so little words. "I'm infected by your genetics. I'm infected, by your genetics!" They did this, not she.

It was hopeless. They hated her for what she was, for what she couldn't control. She had tried, and created more pain. "And I don't think that I can be fixed, no I don't think that I can be fixed!"

The genetics you were born with determined who you were. You couldn't change them. So why were the doctors trying? "Tell me why, oh why are my genetics such a bitch!?" She wasn't sure what that word meant, but she knew it was bad. She knew that she'd been called it, so it had to be bad.

She had to sit down now. This was the part of her medication that she hated most of all. She'd feel paralyzed, and yet so close to movement. Everything in the world seemed to go by slowly, even her own pulse. "It's this blood condition. Damn this blood condition!" She sort of knew what that word meant. It was definitely bad, like her.

Well, according to her mother. This was all her fault. She'd told about what Samara was able to do. At first, it was harmful stuff. Rearranging plates and such. When she grew angrier, however, so did the things that she did. Sometimes, she didn't even realize she was doing them. "Mother, can you hear me? Thanks for the disease!" Thanks for everything. For putting her there, for letting her dad mistreat her. "Now I am sequestered, part of the collection. That's what is expected, when you are infected."

She repeated the words a few times to herself, taking them in. This brought her to a question. "How much of it's genetics? How much of it is fate?" Maybe she was supposed to be like this. Supposed to be here, supposed to hate. Was she going to be like this for her entire life?

"How much of it depends on the choices that we make." She said, even if she didn't believe it. It was sort of comforting to think she could control her own life.

She wondered what she looked like. Did she still look like her mother? Although she had never been able to see the resemblance, her father had told her that she looked like her mother... before he began to hate her, of course. "He says I have her eyes; do I also inherit his shame?"

Shame had inspired him to put her here. Maybe she could manipulate her emotions to help herself? "Is heredity the culprit, can I stop it, or am I a slave?" She didn't even want to think about the last possibility. She couldn't spend the rest of her life here, she couldn't.

Unfortunately, it was the likeliehood. The harsh truth of never escaping brought her right back to the anger she had felt before.

"I'm infected, by your genetics!" That was all that mattered. She was infected, she would stay infected, she'd always be infected.

"What hope has a girl who is sick?" She pondered. "What dream of a life past this fence?" Well, that was a joke. "It really makes no difference,
'cause I know that I'll never be fixed!"

She couldn't be fixed, but maybe she could be... adjusted. Yes, that was the word. Just while the doctors weren't around. She would hide the pills, and wait until they set her free. It was a flawed plan, but maybe... Samara needed some hope in her life anyway. She cautiously walked to her door.

"Oh, I want to go... outside. Outside." She might be able to gain the pity quota right now. She strengthened her voice as much as she could, and repeated, "I want to go outside. Outside..."

A/N: The end. By the way, go watch Repo please.