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It's 3 am, I'm sick. Cold has me in its grasp, glands all up and feeling lethargic, bunged up, tired. Can't sleep and writing something very strange. Stranger than usual even. Don't know if it's working but couldn't sleep and therefore had to get up and write it.
Going back to bed now. May finish it tomorrow (later today) or not. Depending on how strange it is.
White Walls
White walls surrounded him, closing him in, trapping him, leaving him short of breath, panting sometimes with the panic that lurked beneath. Always beneath.
Days had no meaning - there was no day or night in this place. No way of measuring time's passage, the lights never dimming and white walls always surrounding him.
Meals were no good for marking the hour. He seldom ate, his appetite quashed by the apathy this place bred in him and maybe by the drugs they fed into his system in place of food. He suspected they didn't bring him meals regularly, perhaps because of that.
'Delusional.'
That's what they told him, the words sliding past lips on which fake smiles were pasted, smiles that never reached their eyes. Something, buried deep in what remained of his mind, untouched as yet by the drugs, by the fear, by this place, these white walls, there was a doubt. Something that said 'too many drugs'. Something that said 'white walls and never let out isn't right'. Something that said 'this just isn't right'.
Perhaps that was delusional too.
He couldn't remember when he'd stopped speaking, stopped acknowledging them with more than looks. Stopped cursing, fighting, or even maintaining an icy silence, one that bore no relation to the empty silence now. He suspected it had been a while. He suspected that they'd maintain it had always been like this. That his silence was why he was here and not a result of his incarceration.
He remembered pain - dimly. He couldn't remember why there had been pain or what had made it stop. Again, he suspected that they'd insist that was a delusion too. But there were marks on his arms, old scars and new, mingled in with the neat round track marks left by the needles. Scars he couldn't explain, couldn't remember how he'd come to get. The needles he remembered.
He thought he may once have fought against that too. Fought and failed. The memory, again, was dim, troubled, but still retaining sufficient power to keep him still, keep him curled up in the corner of this white room when they came in. Watching them with wary eyes as they changed the bed linen, lay out new clothes for him, placed his meals on a tray on the floor. No table. Perhaps he was expected to break it, wasn't to be trusted with it. He didn't know. Found it increasingly difficult to care.
They didn't talk to him much, not anymore. And he… he'd long since ceased to speak. Maybe that was why they didn't watch him closely anymore. Maybe that was why he'd taken them by surprise.
'Delusional' they'd said. Was it a delusion when their necks snapped, when he drove fragments from their broken noses into their brains? Was it a delusion that he knew how to kill neatly, precisely? His memory was blurred, fragmented but his hands, his feet knew what to do. They needed no instructions from him. They lashed out neatly, coldly. Precisely.
The same instinct that had him lashing out so effectively had him moving before the alarms could be set off. Had him running, his bare feet slapping against cold ground, stones cutting them. He ignored the pain, barely registering it. He remembered worse… dimly.
They were in disarray, not expecting his sudden bid for freedom. They regrouped, searched for him but panic lent his feet wings, some understanding that this time the drugs wouldn't stop, would take away his last few memories and he would be lost forever. He was surprised to find that that thought still had some power over him. Enough, anyway, to keep him moving when the stitch in his side threatened to steal his remaining breath, when he stumbled and fell, grazing elbows and knees, overlaying old injuries with new.
It was night. That helped. He longed for the sun, the sight and the feel of it, memories of that also dim, but that part of him, the part that kept him moving, had him fighting, told him logically that night provided cover, that night hid him from their eyes, at least until they could organise enough to switch the floodlights on.
He made it over the wall before they could.
There were dogs, he could hear them, and that, if possible, got him moving faster, some primal fear of fangs ruling him. Instinct, the knowledge of prey perhaps. Keep moving, keep running, find shelter, hide.
Help.
He kept moving along dimly lit streets, avoiding them much more easily now, the alleyways helping. They were dark, twisting, fetid. His bare feet slipped on rain-slicked concrete, the smell of rotting garbage and urine filling his nostrils.
He broke out onto a street, frantic eyes looking left and right. Empty, no cars, the windows of houses dark and empty. Late then.
He didn't even consider knocking on doors, still running on instinct. He kept low, crouched over, ready to duck back into alleyways, doorways, if the need should arise. He moved rapidly, nonetheless, occasionally risking an outright sprint, when the cover, when his aching muscles and side would permit him to.
He didn't know what he was looking for. Until he found it.
He had no money to feed the maw that seemed to gape at him, the slot filling his senses until he shook his head, attempting to clear the confusion from it. His hands, again, knew what to do even if his brain didn't. They picked up the receiver, dialled a number, one that, that small, logical portion of his brain told him, he didn't need money for.
The number came easily, ingrained deeply into his mind and yet he was still surprised to find it there. And to find it answered.
Silence, again, listening to the voice at the other end squawk at him. And then another number came, two digits this time, and he managed to squeeze it past an unco-operative throat, the first words he'd spoken in so long.
He gave them a street name too, and the name of the public house opposite, before retreating back into silence. The voice continued to yap at him, demanding answers when he had no words. No words left at all. He took the receiver from his ear, staring down at it for long moments, a frown creasing his brow as sluggish thoughts stirred in his brain. And then he placed it carefully back in its rack, sinking down to his haunches, watching, waiting, silent.
This time the walls weren't white, though. They were glass and clear and he could see through. Saw, hours, minutes later, the car screech to a halt outside, its headlights illuminating the small booth in which he cowered, leaving nowhere to run to.
Friend or foe? The question circled his mind, meaning little to him. He had no energy to run anymore. White room or… something else perhaps. Whatever. His reserves of caring had now run dry.
Figures clambered out and there were more words, unmeaning. He struggled to focus, the exhaustion now hitting him like a hammer, sapping everything from him, leaching him dry. To empty now to do more than sit there as the figures approached.
Nowhere to run to and no energy to run even if there was.
His sanctuary was breached, cold air gusting around his bare ankles, making him realise just how chilled he was. Again, the thought had no power. Blue eyes peered down at him, wrinkles around the corner, concern in their depths. Familiar somehow, and yet not.
"Sam?"
Again the name was familiar and yet not.
"Oh Christ, Sam." There was relief in the voice, in the face and eagerness in the arms that reached for him, helping him to his feet. "We thought we'd lost you for good."
Hadn't they?
Going back to bed now. May finish it tomorrow (later today) or not. Depending on how strange it is.
White Walls
White walls surrounded him, closing him in, trapping him, leaving him short of breath, panting sometimes with the panic that lurked beneath. Always beneath.
Days had no meaning - there was no day or night in this place. No way of measuring time's passage, the lights never dimming and white walls always surrounding him.
Meals were no good for marking the hour. He seldom ate, his appetite quashed by the apathy this place bred in him and maybe by the drugs they fed into his system in place of food. He suspected they didn't bring him meals regularly, perhaps because of that.
'Delusional.'
That's what they told him, the words sliding past lips on which fake smiles were pasted, smiles that never reached their eyes. Something, buried deep in what remained of his mind, untouched as yet by the drugs, by the fear, by this place, these white walls, there was a doubt. Something that said 'too many drugs'. Something that said 'white walls and never let out isn't right'. Something that said 'this just isn't right'.
Perhaps that was delusional too.
He couldn't remember when he'd stopped speaking, stopped acknowledging them with more than looks. Stopped cursing, fighting, or even maintaining an icy silence, one that bore no relation to the empty silence now. He suspected it had been a while. He suspected that they'd maintain it had always been like this. That his silence was why he was here and not a result of his incarceration.
He remembered pain - dimly. He couldn't remember why there had been pain or what had made it stop. Again, he suspected that they'd insist that was a delusion too. But there were marks on his arms, old scars and new, mingled in with the neat round track marks left by the needles. Scars he couldn't explain, couldn't remember how he'd come to get. The needles he remembered.
He thought he may once have fought against that too. Fought and failed. The memory, again, was dim, troubled, but still retaining sufficient power to keep him still, keep him curled up in the corner of this white room when they came in. Watching them with wary eyes as they changed the bed linen, lay out new clothes for him, placed his meals on a tray on the floor. No table. Perhaps he was expected to break it, wasn't to be trusted with it. He didn't know. Found it increasingly difficult to care.
They didn't talk to him much, not anymore. And he… he'd long since ceased to speak. Maybe that was why they didn't watch him closely anymore. Maybe that was why he'd taken them by surprise.
'Delusional' they'd said. Was it a delusion when their necks snapped, when he drove fragments from their broken noses into their brains? Was it a delusion that he knew how to kill neatly, precisely? His memory was blurred, fragmented but his hands, his feet knew what to do. They needed no instructions from him. They lashed out neatly, coldly. Precisely.
The same instinct that had him lashing out so effectively had him moving before the alarms could be set off. Had him running, his bare feet slapping against cold ground, stones cutting them. He ignored the pain, barely registering it. He remembered worse… dimly.
They were in disarray, not expecting his sudden bid for freedom. They regrouped, searched for him but panic lent his feet wings, some understanding that this time the drugs wouldn't stop, would take away his last few memories and he would be lost forever. He was surprised to find that that thought still had some power over him. Enough, anyway, to keep him moving when the stitch in his side threatened to steal his remaining breath, when he stumbled and fell, grazing elbows and knees, overlaying old injuries with new.
It was night. That helped. He longed for the sun, the sight and the feel of it, memories of that also dim, but that part of him, the part that kept him moving, had him fighting, told him logically that night provided cover, that night hid him from their eyes, at least until they could organise enough to switch the floodlights on.
He made it over the wall before they could.
There were dogs, he could hear them, and that, if possible, got him moving faster, some primal fear of fangs ruling him. Instinct, the knowledge of prey perhaps. Keep moving, keep running, find shelter, hide.
Help.
He kept moving along dimly lit streets, avoiding them much more easily now, the alleyways helping. They were dark, twisting, fetid. His bare feet slipped on rain-slicked concrete, the smell of rotting garbage and urine filling his nostrils.
He broke out onto a street, frantic eyes looking left and right. Empty, no cars, the windows of houses dark and empty. Late then.
He didn't even consider knocking on doors, still running on instinct. He kept low, crouched over, ready to duck back into alleyways, doorways, if the need should arise. He moved rapidly, nonetheless, occasionally risking an outright sprint, when the cover, when his aching muscles and side would permit him to.
He didn't know what he was looking for. Until he found it.
He had no money to feed the maw that seemed to gape at him, the slot filling his senses until he shook his head, attempting to clear the confusion from it. His hands, again, knew what to do even if his brain didn't. They picked up the receiver, dialled a number, one that, that small, logical portion of his brain told him, he didn't need money for.
The number came easily, ingrained deeply into his mind and yet he was still surprised to find it there. And to find it answered.
Silence, again, listening to the voice at the other end squawk at him. And then another number came, two digits this time, and he managed to squeeze it past an unco-operative throat, the first words he'd spoken in so long.
He gave them a street name too, and the name of the public house opposite, before retreating back into silence. The voice continued to yap at him, demanding answers when he had no words. No words left at all. He took the receiver from his ear, staring down at it for long moments, a frown creasing his brow as sluggish thoughts stirred in his brain. And then he placed it carefully back in its rack, sinking down to his haunches, watching, waiting, silent.
This time the walls weren't white, though. They were glass and clear and he could see through. Saw, hours, minutes later, the car screech to a halt outside, its headlights illuminating the small booth in which he cowered, leaving nowhere to run to.
Friend or foe? The question circled his mind, meaning little to him. He had no energy to run anymore. White room or… something else perhaps. Whatever. His reserves of caring had now run dry.
Figures clambered out and there were more words, unmeaning. He struggled to focus, the exhaustion now hitting him like a hammer, sapping everything from him, leaching him dry. To empty now to do more than sit there as the figures approached.
Nowhere to run to and no energy to run even if there was.
His sanctuary was breached, cold air gusting around his bare ankles, making him realise just how chilled he was. Again, the thought had no power. Blue eyes peered down at him, wrinkles around the corner, concern in their depths. Familiar somehow, and yet not.
"Sam?"
Again the name was familiar and yet not.
"Oh Christ, Sam." There was relief in the voice, in the face and eagerness in the arms that reached for him, helping him to his feet. "We thought we'd lost you for good."
Hadn't they?
