Residual madness, it`s called. A throbbing swirl at the base of the skull, a violent, apathetic and volatile urge that makes his fingertips twitch as he stares on, forward.(never sideways and never back. He turns fully, not just with his head.) In moments of epiphanies, he thinks it`s the residue of bone bruises and broken limbs suffered from the pure instinct of destruction, hands and knees to the floor, never looking up, waiting. (But never having to wait long)
When he stares in the mirror, he sees it in the eyes, always the eyes. And if they are a window to the soul then his soul is small white islands of white and hazy grey between an abyss with no beginning or end. Expanding. Pulsating. But trough the iris it all seems so steel blue and faded.
Sometimes Isaac catches the shifting glances of others, and he sees them see him. See inside him. Their eyes always widen in fractions, mouths gaping ever so slightly, their expressions just so purely apprehensive he has to look away, biting at his tongues and pushing his claws into his palms by increments, so as to not scream out YOU SEE AND YOU`RE SURPRISED? AS IF THIS ISN`T TO BE EXPECTED? LOOK INTO ME AND PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE TELL ME WHY YOU`RE SURPRISED BY THIS? ISN`T THIS WHAT BROKEN LOOKS LIKE?
But then than molten, rage-full feeling of desolation fades to the base of his skull and leaves him feeling so goddamn empty. So goddamn tired.
But, if he has to be honest here, he forgets that feeling most of the time. It`s too ebbed and too much a part of him to really be noticed constantly. Like how the sound of ticking clocks disappears when you`re not focusing on it. But it comes back in those moments, along with the age-old taste of fresh blood in his mouth when he chews his tongue down.
He`s often confused by things. Supposedly simple ones (as said by the ones who aren`t him). He`s confused by physical affection, nervous from light conversation, the topics reminding of memories of masks with smiles and molten, calculative rage underneath.
He`s confused by the concept of trust.
But he learns and he watches and remembers and analyses and understands things better now, isn`t scared all the time now, learns to rely on people now (others and himself)
It feels like a change for the better, most of the time. Other times (too often) the sounds and the sights and the way his skin feels pulling itself together is just so much, too much and he hyperventilates to an almost faint. (He wishes he wouldn`t heal so fast, sluggish pain is too soothing, helps him concentrate and reminds him that he is in control. He needs to remember that.)
He misses the bruises, the ache of them as he moves. He realizes he`s a domestic animal that`s been set free so suddenly and has no idea how to survive. It`s been too long, he knows, too long and he`d grown too used to, too dependent on the pain to ground him and now he`s flying so high and the throbbing madness in the base of his skull is showing him off the edge, he`s not used to this, so not used to this, he needs it back, needs the sluggish sharp pain and the bone bruises that last for weeks back.
The thought starts out as a question. And over the course of a week crosses his conscious mind quite often and he can`t stop wondering if it`s possible to slow it down. The healing. So that the bruises would have enough time to form before they disappear. So that he could leisurely drag out contours of shapes and lines, so alike to how other people do with clouds, enough time for him to relax into the knot of pain, the sharp feeling of his very fibres screaming do not touch there, it`s bad for you.
And he knows who`d know. (Or at least who he hopes would know)
So he walks through that white-wood transparent-glass door with the two-sided sign that says open and closed. So he sits down in the chairs meant for waiting owners of dogs and cats and birds and hamsters and any other animals that can be considered pets.
The good doctor had heard the bell, and when he comes out through the doorway, such a stark contrast against the light walls, his expression of a mild surprise. But then it softens. (Always softens, Allan is always so calm and neutral it scares Isaac in a kind of tingly-skin way)
"Hello, Isaac, how may I help?"
He`s not too sure how to answer. He`d never really thought what to do at a point so far.
"I just wanted an answer to a question."
"Oh, and what question would that be?"
Isaac inhales. Exhales. Looks down at his sneakers. At the ceiling. Exhales. (And Allan waits, he`s so patient, ever-so understanding)
"Is there some way to slow it down? The, uh, healing, I mean." (he feels like he`s tripped over the words)
Allan`s face changes. He studies Isaac, head to toe, eyes lingering on the curious expression the boy has on his frowning face. He invites Isaac inside, into the larger room with the high windows in the red brick walls. Doesn`t question the question until Isaac leans against the table in the centre of the room, languid and skittish.
(Scott`s not working today. Scott`s not there. That`s why Isaac chose now, he`d known this. He`d known he didn`t want anyone to know about what would be talked of today, either.)
"There is one way, at the least, which I know of. A kind of potion."
"Does it have any side-effects?"
"Isaac, do you really feel it`s necessary?"
And he gets it. Of course he gets it. The veterinarian reads people like books, even if he doesn`t say it aloud, but those who see the gleam in his eye can tell, can feel.
"I feel too free like this. And this residual madness, it feels like, god, it feels like if I don`t get ripped up myself, then it`s going to be someone else-" He inhales deeply. Settles his eyesight. Calms down. " I mean, at first this was great, yes, it was amazing and liberating, but the feeling of new-ness is gone and being cage-less feels more constricting than any shackles I`ve known. I need it. Need it back."
"And you know that for sure? What happens when you get what you want?"
That makes Isaac stop thinking for a moment. He freezes up, makes a kind of "uhm" sound, and Allan just watches him pick up his wits off the floor, one by one by one.
"I think it could be kind of therapeutic. Like a kind of medicine to take, until I can manage to live without it."
"Chain smokers have a better chance of stopping if they cut it all off at a single moment, but you choose to alienate yourself slowly?"
"Yes. I just- I need it. There`s too much stress right now. I`m afraid I need a little more calm to do the calming down and dropping it."
"And if a little more calm doesn`t come?"
"Then, well, I don`t know what, but I hope it does."
"I hope so too."
There`s silence for a while after that. They both immerse in a kind of calm reverie, to each a mind`s world of their own design.
They stand like that for a long while. Somewhere along the line Isaac loses track of this mind`s world he had been contemplating and becomes entranced in non-existent patterns of swirling ash on the walls, the thumping of the residential madness making him sway lightly, without his own notice.
Allan breaks out of his reverie as well, and watches the distant look in Isaac`s eyes. Hears how Isaac`s bones creak with the rocking motion. He looks like he`s in a trance.
Allan calls his name once. No response.
Calls it again, louder, the barest hint of concern in the undertone. Isaac jolts, snaps his head around, all wide eyes and surprise, then focuses back on Allan. Except he doesn`t see him as he stands, but rather a space that is shaped like the other, unreal.
"Isaac, are you still with me?"
Isaac blinks, then nods and murmurs affirmatively.
"Good. Now how about you tell me a little more about this necessary vision of yours?"
Another nod.
"Back- back before my father was killed, he used to hit me."(Allan knows but doesn`t interrupt, that`s not how these things are done)"Which was horrible, in the moments when it happened, but, when they passed, the wounds kind of became a part of me. A sense of stability that was calming on some subconscious level back then but now it has surfaced and, well."
A pause.
"I used to, uh, put pressure on the bruises when I was nervous. It helped me calm down. But now, they don`t stay, and I can`t seem to find any other ways to ground myself."
"So you`ve tried?"
"Yes, I`ve tried so much, so much."
"I see. So you`ve though this through."
"Mostly."
"And how much is mostly?"
"Almost everything, I hope."
"Anything I can help with the parts un-thought through?"
"I think so."
"What exactly?"
"Well, while I`m pretty sure it might help to not heal as fast, but, I think I`ll need some form of supervision none the less. I`m scared I`ll do something to fuck up. I… I just don`t want to end up worse than I already am."
His voice trembles, and breaks on the last sentence. He pulls up his hand to rub at his eyes. They feel sting-ish.
"I`ll help you with that then, all right?"
Isaac just nods.