Okay, this has no meaning and doesn't fit in with the current series at all but I wrote it on a Nico-Di-Angelo whim after watching loads of depressing films at three in the morning.
I don't recommend it.
So anyway, here I go!
This was the beginning of the end.
He knew it like he knew the breaths his lungs would take, the beats his heart will make.
Death didn't seem like such a bad deal now.
His black hair matted and tangled, his clothes torn and stained with blood. The black rings round his eyes stood out from his haggard, pale skin. His bones were clearly visible, only a taunt layer of bruised, bloodied flesh between them. His ribs were straining, outlined against his skin, painfully obvious, visible through the rips and tears in his shirt. Collar bone was potruding against his neck, frighteningly prominent.
The beginning of the end.
At least they had stopped singing now. For the first month or so, every second of every hour of every day, they sang. Weirdly high voices echoing like crazed people, delirious and demented, hysteria building in their songs.
He never saw them. They didn't like to be seen.
They just sang. All the time.
Eeny Meeny Miny Mo
Catch a tiger by the toe
If he hollers, let him go
Sometimes Nico even sang along with them.
Eeny Meeny Miny Mo
Eeny Meeny Miny Mo
EENY MEENY MINY MO
They shouted sometimes. They didn't say anything but hell, did they shout.
It was like thousands of people all screaming and shrieking all at once. Just a wild, frenzied seething bubble of noise.
Yet nobody was never in the room.
Except for her.
She never spoke. She just sat. Curled up in the corner. Watching him with baleful eyes.
But she never said anything.
After a while, Nico didn't even notice her. Either she was there, watching silently, or she wasn't.
He didn't care anymore.
The resigned, blank expression on his face, casting a eye over his cell, no recognition flickering in his eyes, no pain drawing across his skeletal face, no emotion. A numb mask. That he had endured so much, hurt so much, traumatized so much, that he switched off. Opted out of his life until things became bearable, tolerable. Only there in body, a lifeless husk, but not emotionally, not mentally. His emotional and mental self was in a corner, watching him with blank eyes.
He existed physically; physically he was alive. The rise-and-fall of his chest signified the fact he was alive. As did the breath rythmically whispering in and out of his lips. As did his heart sluggish beat. Physically, he was alive. But mentally, intellectually, he was dead.
You could see in his blank eyes, in his blank face. He had given up. He was waiting to die.
The cell was white. It was spacious, a perfect square. White walls, white ceramic floor, white ceiling apart from the single, bare lightbulb hanging from it. A white door, metal, with a hatch for meals to be pushed through. Everything was so white, it hurt to look at it.
I wonder when the girl will come back.
I wonder when the voices will start to sing again.
Its lonely without them.
It was the beginning of the end for Nico Di Angelo. And the saddest thing?
He didn't even know he was insane.
Well. That was disturbing to write. I had this idea that during the war, Nico had to do something awful and it pushed him over the edge and he went insane so they locked him in a white room for the rest of his life because he was a danger.
As you can tell, I am a perfectly normal, sane teenage girl. Remember; please review? Even if you hated it or think there's no point because its just a oneshot. It will make my day :)
~Zoe~TheInternetGoblin~