Behind Blue Eyes. Chapter 1 (Edited. 04.22.2017)
"267, huh?"
A number that seemed to haunt him everywhere he went. Taunting him at every corner. Perhaps that was the men in charge of his imprisonment idea of a joke. How they got their kicks. Everyone got to laugh at the former prisoner of Rockfort Island's last identification number before stripping him of his name, his life, and his dignity.
Real funny.
Blue eyes fell on the guardsmen standing at either side of the pale, red haired man. They were tall, burly men, holding him by his arms tightly, despite the lack of chains; the man they held was no threat.
"I'm sure you'll like it here. Think of it as your new home." The stranger spoke in a harsh tone, his stinky breath floating against his neck. Their prisoner wore nothing but white garments from head to toe; an outfit that clashed loudly against the dark depths of the cells they were standing in, but matched the padded walls of the cell they had opened just for him.
As the guard carried on insults, the red-haired man held in a sigh, clearly ignoring every word. A talent of sorts that he developed over his years of imprisonment. Every guard, every scientist, every being on earth that got their laughter from keeping human beings alive in a cell were lower than trash. Somewhere, the prisoner knew that, but learned years ago to keep such comments to himself; covered in enough scars to know better.
Eventually, when the guard realized that he wasn't listening, he jerked the man forward into his new home, and nodded to his partner before slamming the complex door closed. The lock was hidden behind padded walls, like the rest of his cell; but it was at least bright, with a metal framed bed at the corner of the room and a pot to piss in.
Once the cell door was shut, the voices lingered and echoed in the small room like hammers on a chalk board. Within minutes, he was alone; he felt it all over his body, and even though the men were rude and uncaring, he missed their presence.
Not them. He hated the guards that kept him here, hated the scientists that insisted—but human contact. People. Between every changing facility, he was deprived of contact with anyone but the guards he saw in passing. Occasionally, he had conversation with the men who brought him drugs and food, but even then, they were short lived, and rude. Growling with clenched fists, the red haired man absorbed the surroundings of the new room. Besides being void of character, the room was simple.
He approached the bed slowly, running his hands over the cold metal there. He thought that after so many years they would know better; a metal pole from a bed frame was all he needed to get out.
He'd remove it, wait for the men to come to the door, slide the pole in while he was handing out dinner, use it to wedge the door open, smash the man's brains open with it. Inhaling, a smile crossed his lips at the idea of escaping, if only a passing thought. A scowl quickly replaced it. But if he escaped, what then? Where would he go? There would still be thousands of other subjects left behind, and he had no idea if he could make it out the door without losing himself to the very thing that kept him in confinement.
No... his eyes opened, glowing blue from the redness in his eyes as pools of salty years started to fill the crevices. The truth was that he was weak, and scared of the consequences. He was scared of what the people who controlled him would do, and scared of what was inside him. Even if he had the chance—guns and weapons...they knew he wouldn't run. He wasn't going anywhere.
He couldn't.
With the last thought of the day reminding him that he was a rat stuck in a cage, he collapsed onto the surface of the white bed, staring grimly at the door.
A long time ago, he had a pipe dream, that a beautiful young woman in red would rescue him. Break down the doors of his cell and bust him out of here—her and her brother, but as weeks turned to months, and months turned to years; he gave up those ideas. The same way he gave up the idea that they would let him die.
So long as the Veronica Virus was active and alert in his body, he knew that it would only ever be another jail cell, another test facility, and another endless sleep, waiting until the day he died.
His eyes drifted to the camera hidden in the upper corner of the room, and he rolled over to ignore it. No, his dreams had long since faded away into nothing.
Steve Burnside died twelve years ago along with Rockfort Island; and he knew that dead men did not walk without getting shot.
He would never leave this place. Not alive, anyways.
Authors Note: So, it's been awhile.
This is just one of those stories, that despite being poorly written (and super old), it's something I've always wanted to finish. I removed all 22 chapters (yikes) and I plan to rewrite them all from start to finish. I couldn't stand to actually remove the story and start again, and while I have the original saved, I have a much better (hopefully much better) grasp of where I want to story to go. I changed everything, including continuity, back ground story, and, the biggest change—It's not in first person anymore.
This is my little project. I don't know how many people who read this before would still be interested in reading it, but it's def. More of a project for myself. So, if you enjoy it...yay?
My original author's note was something like wanting to give Steve a fair story, so.. here we go?
See you next chapter.
NINT