The vacant expression on his face was shadows of a front he held.
He knew when he hit the hard concrete floor of the small, dark claustrophobic room that he was feeling the strain of countless failures. He had made plans and fall back plans but in one cruel excruciating accident, a wound he would not soon forget and a tiny shred of melted cloth, his plans were torn away from him leaving him helpless and trapped. He had put everything into this. His blood, sweat, tears and things he would never get back on the line for his brothers life and now he was paying for that risk. Disappointment didn't touch what he was feeling. Restless he twitched and moved sitting, standing, pacing and finally sitting again as desperate thoughts and blueprint raged through his mind. In a second of wide-eyed madness he thought he might lose something even more crucial to the escape, his sanity. Then a glorious idea dawned on him and he let his reason slip. He allowed the reckless ambition take hold, he let the most foolish ideas of how to ultimately bring his brother salvation control him. Then he waited. He heard his brother call him and then Sucre was yelling his name too. Dull thumping on walls registered but still he remained unmoving.
The searing spikes of pain that throbbed in his bloodied hands continued relentlessly. He could feel the warm red liquid beginning to dry on them. Then he heard her coming, he knew they would bring her first, she was his bond to morality and he also knew now was the time when his resolve would be tested. Because in a moment of kindness, in a moment of guilt, in a moment of love what little chance to escape that he had left might be lost. His precarious fight to remain sane while appear as his insides truly were, racked with uncertainty and desperation. He heard the door open but remained motionless hunched over his bleeding knuckles.
"Michael" he heard her say as she bobbed down next to him, quietly placing her medical bag down.
"Ok, you're going to feel my fingers on your wrist" she said softly as she reached out to check his pulse. As she spoke to him he felt like his stomach was being twisted in a vice and something other than hopeless determination well up in his heart. It wasn't an exact emotion yet it made him feel like a child the way she was speaking to him, like a mother tries to soothe a child that has lost a pet, or hurt itself. The way he felt the day after his parents died. The way he felt when he cried for them and for himself. She lifted his head.
"Come on, I'm gonna check your eyes" she whispered. Light poured into his gaze but he didn't blink, absorbed in trying to maintain a vacant expression. However, when she checked his knuckles he couldn't hold it any longer the stinging pain breaking him.
"I'm gonna take a look at that hand" she said gently pulling his hand toward her, he closed his eyes and rested his head on her knee. He wanted it to be finished; he didn't want to endure the suffering any more. He wanted someone to tell him that it was over. Then he could feel her hand on his shoulder, in truth she was resisting the urge to reach out and hold him, she knew he was in great pain and she wished she could relive him of it.
"You're gonna be ok" she said tenderly, the only comfort she could allow him; with him it was always a struggle to contain her feelings especially when he was injured. After a few minuets the hand on his shoulder reached back to her bag and she began pulling out some bandages but she didn't move him and he stayed, leaning on her, taking comfort from her company. The sadness was slowly ebbing away now as he managed to begin to control his emotions and thoughts again. She wrapped his hand up after cleaning it with disinfectant.
"Michael, I'm going to go get some people to help and we're going to take you to the psyche ward for a little while. I just want you to relax till I come back ok?" She asked knowing he wouldn't answer, more than simple concern for his physical well-being in her voice. She put her hands under his head and laid him down on the ground. She watched him for a moment, as he stared straight past her into space. His eyes that always seemed so warm and tempting were now cold and empty. She brushed his face blushing, yet hoping he would respond but he didn't even blink.
"You're gonna be ok" She whispered again soothingly, praying that it was the truth. Then she grabbed her bag and stood, turning to the door.
"Let me out" She called just loud enough for the guard to hear then she was gone.
Soon enough the door opened again and Pope stepped in staring down at him traces of regret in his expression. A guard helped him get to his feet and with Sara's help they stared to make their way towards the prison's asylum.
"Michael!" A muffled shout full of concern came from the door at the end of the hallway behind them as they turned the corner.
"It's ok Lincoln, he'll be fine" Pope was left to explain and try to calm Michael's brother down.
He sat on a bench staring at the floor, listening to the noises around him and Sara's soft instruction on what to do if something happened with him. He had almost completely regained his composure now, though to the outside world he was in the same state he was in when he left solitary. The only thing that was playing on his mind now was the impact that this supposed break in sanity would have on Sara. She was having a hard enough time trusting him already and now to her, he suddenly had psychotic tendencies as well. He was raised to his feet by one of the asylum helpers; his apparently emotionless gaze now slightly melancholic. He was turned and walked towards the door leading into the 'wack shack', Sara standing next to it watching him. He was turned a little to face her as the helper unlocked the door. He longed to meet her gaze and hold it, to show her he was fine. He wanted to whisper her name so she knew. But he knew he couldn't.
"Watch your step" He helper warned him as he turned Michael away from her to face the long white hallway that lay before him. It was time to get serious again, there was nothing he could do about Sara now and there was work to be done, he straightened up a little. There was always work to be done.