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A Different Kind of Angel |
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The night is not a place for you, child Stay in your sunshine, your happy, your home Do not go willing to darkened places There is more to this world than you wish to know
Time moves slowly here. A meaningless blur, dripping by like molasses. I don’t remember any day from the previous. I live my life like an outsider, watching my own time slip by. I stopped counting days a long time ago. I don’t know what day, what month, what year it is. I don’t know my own age. I suppose I’ll die here. But that will be a long time from now, and in the meantime, I’m still here. Slowly rotting. I live here without thinking - without caring. The things that used to mean the world to me... now mean nothing. I feel a faint stitch of panic far down inside me, fear of losing my last thread connecting me to the human world. It twitches, and it aches, and then it's consumed and replaced by calm indifference. There was a time when I couldn’t stand this place. I’d scream, thrash, break down into my little episodes causing damage. I’d try to escape. I’d hate the staff for keeping me here, and I’d hate Them for putting me here. That hate had brought up things I’d fought hard to control. People had gotten hurt. And then suddenly, the crushing waves of rage had stopped. It might be the drugs. They never told me what it was. Tranquilizers? Something strong. Something special, just for someone like me. Whatever it is, it works. I don’t have episodes anymore. I don’t get angry, I don’t get sad. I haven’t been happy for a long time, so that wasn’t much of a loss. I’ve stopped caring – about anything, or anyone. It’s much better this way. In time, I’ll forget who I am, what I’ve done, why I’m here. I’ll sink into a blissful nothing. I’m already halfway there. The world will forget Joel Ridley, and the destruction he left in his wake. They’ll have a deep wound to heal over, but time heals all. And we have time.
March 7th, 2082. 6:50 pm The woman strode down the hall with stiff legs, arms held closely to her sides. Her eyes locked straight ahead, fearful of making even the briefest contact with the people who lined the walls. She donned a sleek navy suit, her auburn hair pulled tightly back in a professional bun. She carried the air of an aristocrat, which contrasted with her athletic form. She was obviously uncomfortable in her surroundings and the people that came with it – walking faster than necessary, taking special care not to touch anything. She’d entered the building into a cheery reception area, bright with evening sun, marred only by the heavily locked steel door to the right. Cutting off the receptionist’s greeting with a flash of her ID, the woman gained entry to the hall behind the door. The hall started out just as cheery as the reception room, large (though barred) windows lining the walls between room doors. Patients in off-white milled around outside the rooms, chatting and seeming almost normal. Five minutes and another barred door later, the atmosphere went downhill. Windows shrunk, walls pressed together, and the air turned stale. Wild eyes stared through slots in the doors, and the laughter bouncing off the walls was more crazed than cheery. The woman shivered in the sudden drop of temperature, her mind flickering to the jacket she'd left in the backseat of her car. She could almost see her breath rising from her mouth. The walk was silent for minutes. The woman's hand squeezed at the handle of her leather briefcase nervously. The end of the hall seemed nowhere in sight. Finally, as another door came into view, so did a lone, hunched figure. He shuffled along towards the woman, muttering under his breath. “Death. Death inside.” The woman kept wary eyes on the man, shifting her briefcase to her other hand, out of this newcomer's reach. As the patient reached the woman, he stopped, turning towards her suddenly with a raised fist. She gasped, stepping back involuntarily, her back hitting the wall. The man tracked her face through a curtain of greasy hair. "Scared of me?" he growled. "There are worse things here. Death behind these walls." He raised a hand to her face, running a finger down her cheek. She shuddered, turning her face away. The man stepped closer. She could smell his sour breath on her face. "I'll tell you what you should be afraid of, little girl." His rough hand found her throat, and grabbed hold with a rough jerk. The woman's face burned, her ears pounding with a sudden rush of adrenaline. Her hand found her pocket and stealthily slipped inside, gripping cold, slim metal. This man was strong, but she could be faster. She pulled out the blade, heard the soft snikt as it slid open. She tightened her grip, ready to swing upwards, then-- "Get away from there!" A new voice. Hurried footsteps. The patient was distracted for a split second, his grip loosening, allowing the woman to shove away from him. She turned to see a doctor hurrying towards them. He halted a few feet from them, the patient and him frozen in a silent standoff. "You should be in your room, Moscovitz," the doctor finally said. He had snowy white hair, neatly cropped, and a matching beard. Though he was of slight build, he carried himself in quiet authority. The patient looked back with a defiant expression. "I don't feel like going to my room, doctor. I don't think I will." The doctor grimaced slightly. He muttered something under his breath, and sliced his palm through the air. The patient suddenly stiffened, and just as suddenly began walking away, swinging his arms like a toy soldier. The doctor approached the woman, who was still plastered against the wall. "I'm sorry about that," he said. "We’re having a bit of trouble with the patients tonight. Restless bunch. I’ve been rushing around all evening.” The woman took a deep breath, brushing at her clothing. "It was nothing." "Really, I'm sorry. Moscovitz here is a little disobedient. We were sure he was in his room." The woman shrugged distractedly, eyes on the retreating patient. "I should be going. Business to take care of." A nod. "Yes. You're the woman from... well, that company. I know where you're headed. I'll escort you if you like." "Alright." They set off in silence, through another hall with no windows at all. Somewhere in the distance, the woman could hear horrible shrieking. She forced herself to ignore it. They reached another massive door, this one thicker than the other, towering up to the ceiling. There were no locks and bolts on this one, just a huge slab of smooth metal. A sign on the left wall read Special Treatment. They stopped outside. "I don't know why you people want to bother with this one," said the doctor. "He's been unresponsive for years. We've been lowering the dosage of his treatment steadily over the months, but still. Nothing." The woman's expression didn't change. She recited the words the Boss had said. "He might respond to a familiar face." "Oh, I don't know about that. His mind... he seems to be completely detached. Withdrawn from his physical self." Something like uncertainty clawed at the woman's stomach. She locked eyes with the doctor. "We have to try." The doctor shrugged. "Well, have a go if you want. I'll be in the third ward." He muttered something again, and the door rose from the ground with a clang, retreating into the ceiling. The woman blinked in the sudden white light that engulfed the hall, momentarily blind. She paused, arms outstretched, trying to blink away the spots dancing in front of her eyes. When they finally cleared, she stepped forward into the final room. The door slammed shut, sealing her in. The room was no larger than seven feet each direction. The floor, the walls and the ceiling, all padded with thick white material. A deafening silence hung in the air. The only colour in the room was the man’s shock of golden hair, hanging limp around a paper-white face. He sat on a small cot at the far wall of the room, done up in a complex straightjacket. Strange metallic ribbons slithered like snakes up and down his arms, binding him to his cot. Familiar violet-grey eyes lay open, bloodshot and unseeing. He didn't notice the woman. He barely seemed to breathe. The woman’s heart broke instantly. His appearance shocked her, a far cry from the vitality that had once shone from him. He was still young, but solitude and some unknown torment had done its damage. This man was a stranger – a shadow, a living dead man. It took full minutes before she recovered her voice. “Joel?” He did not respond. They had warned her off this – she’d known that he might not even remember who she was. Still, she'd let unreasonable hope slip into her mind. So sure that their closeness would have stood up to all those years. “Joel? It’s me.” Her voice came out too high-pitched, little a small girl. She cleared her throat, battling down her rising emotions. Disgusted at herself for weakening so easily. “Do you remember me?” No response. They were too late, she thought with a pang of fear. He was already gone. She forced herself to get a grip and be professional. She tried again. “Joel... listen. We need you back.”
Twisted Black Roses · Sat Sep 19, 2009 @ 08:24pm · 0 Comments |
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