A cold, angry chill twisted its way up his spine, which forced a hot agony to pulsate through his nerves. His body has become cruel, letting him feel, but not allowing him to be the master of his own movement. His limbs are in a constant battle, thrashing out at times, and seizing uncontrollably at others. The bed restraints prevent him from falling to the floor, but they do nothing to stay his nightmares. Nothing ever brings release, so he lay in bed, motionless, and tries to let time and the spasms pass. Many long nights are spent this way, and the only way to escape pain and reality is to let his mind drift, and wait for the dawn.
No one knows what it's like to be the bad man
To be the sad man
She would smile wistfully, even as her eyes were stained with tears that had yet to fall. And he would caress her face, and twist the yellow corn silk of her hair around his fingers. And he would kiss her lightly, and blow softly on her neck. Then, he would turn and be gone from view.
She never saw that his eyes were also full of tears.
Behind blue eyes
Day came with exaggerated slowness, and brought with it the blur of the mundane. One day running into the next, only broken up during the night when his nightmares would return. The faces of the orderlies and nurses fade into one, their voices, meaningless. Encouragement, frustration, pity, it all falls on deaf ears. They did try to help him, though everyone believed him to be no more than lobotomized. He even saw a psychiatrist daily. But to explain would be impossible, even if they believed he could. Yet, still they went through the motions. They even gave him a mechanical paintbrush, wired to his head so it could read the electric responses of his eyes. He merely had to look at a color swatch placed above a collection of paint tubes, and the mechanics of the paintbrush would fill itself with the hue of his interest. The path of the brush would then glide over the canvas, guided by his gaze. No one was surprised when the experiment failed; a vegetable wasn't supposed to think, to feel. The proof of this was in his paintings. Nothing but thick, blue strokes that would follow the same loops and circles until the brush finally broke through the saturated canvas. The doctor continued the therapy nonetheless, suggesting that the varying speed in which the strokes were made gave an opening into the functioning psyche of their patient; a quick burst of movement at times showed anger perhaps, or slow, languid strokes that promised anguish. But even the doctor believed his patient was only an empty, spent shell, and hated him for being only half alive.
If they only knew.
No one knows what it's like to be hated
To be faded
But at the rarest of times, a splash of yellow appears in the mix of the muddled vast blue, hidden within the unintelligible landscapes as if it were a color to be ashamed of. Or protected. And so he paints, fast and slow, methodical or frenzied. But his paintings are all the same. His paintings are meaningless to the outside world.
To telling only lies
But to him, they are all that is left.
But my dreams they aren't as empty
As my conscious seems to be
Her laughter, golden on the cool breeze was refreshing. It soothed him, made him whole. And then her hair would glint in the sunlight, making her sparkle. In these moments, his hands were washed clean. He had no one to answer to but the light she put in his soul, and he was as pure as she. But he could never completely give in to her. To do so would to be off guard. To be off guard would be to fail her. To fail her was death. So he let his hands be soiled. He became unclean, impure. And despite his unworthiness, he loved her, hating himself all the while, hating how his darkness was so necessary to keep her light, hating how she understood, and loved him anyway, hating how he needed her to do just that.
Hating that now her love only lived in his head.
I have hours only lonely
My love is vengeance that's never free
And the years go by…
No one knows what it's like to feel these feelings
The doctor pored over these paintings, unable to find empathy because of his absolute fascination and bewilderment. He is sure he should feel as though his heart were breaking, but is only able to muster a clinical obsession that makes emotional detachment to the patient inevitable. This patient who was at one time a God in his own right, a Superman, a Hero – a friend - whose power at one time was so immense, it protected his mind from buckling under such horrific losses. The worst fate for the kind of man he was. To be locked into place, have no control, live a life that is lifeless. The doctor doesn't notice his patient, studying him as he studies the painting. The doctor doesn't know that the patient isn't as lifeless as he seems. Though he is unable to scream in rage, his eyes are still free to fill with tears.
The doctor doesn't see those tears fall.
Like I do
She used to look into his eyes with such yearning. Even then he was caged, and she longed to free him. But she knew the price of his freedom would be his end. He knew nothing but fighting and war. She knew he was a living martyr, and that for him to stop fighting would mean that he had given up. She knew that for him, giving up was equal to losing faith in her. She knew that for him, fighting for peace was as close to having peace he could ever understand.
And I blame you
The doctor puts one painting down to study another. He has forgotten his patient, who has become accustomed to being ignored. He's no stranger to being unnoticed, even before his injuries, and prefers it. His ability to make sound faded long ago. He never spoke often before anyway, even when he was able, and his speech was so impaired afterwards that no one believed his sounds were words. Yet he might have kept his voice longer had he wished, relearned speech, if he had felt he had something to say. But there was nothing he could say. So he took up the paintbrush. The paintings, ironically, did become a window into his mind, and aren't the cryptic, senseless markings of a man insane. Such a simple clue, and not even the most trained psychiatrist able to interpret it. He doesn't know why he continues to paint, but every time the electrical paintbrush is plugged into his erratic neural impulses, he can't help but seek out the blue pigment. He imagines he is using a form of communication beyond words. So that she will see he is living inside this husk. He is positive she would understand the vast blue canvases. He knows because she understood the canvas of his eyes when she was alive. But she is gone. And he can do nothing, say nothing. So he sits in his chair, and watches the doctor study paintings he will never understand.
No one bites back as hard on their anger
And so he lives without living. Whatever the cost, however long, he knows he will regain himself in time. His nightmares are full of her loss, but his daydreams are saturated with bloodlust. Vengeance for her death, vengeance for time spent frozen in stillness, making him unable to let his rage fly free against those who betrayed him. A simple mission, compromised as they often are. But this time, she was there. She wasn't supposed to be there. How did she get there? And as always, they all made it out. Except this time, there were casualties. His wretched, disobedient body… and her. They told him it was suicide, but he tried to go to her, anyway. Tried.. he had almost made it. Almost. Not to save her, it was already too late for that, but to go with her. It was too late for even that. Vicious fate claimed her and left him half alive. They should have left him there to die. But they didn't. And so now he sits in his chair, watching as one of his betrayers dissects his paintings.
None of my pain can show through
This man who was once his friend, once his partner, this man who once believed he could bring a ruined patient back to life. But there is nothing left to show, nothing except his broken, useless body. And as he expected, over time, never giving any response, never giving any change, the doctor, everyone, gave up a lost cause. But in truth, an image behind his eyes burns in the soft glow of yellow hair. And echoing in his head, bitter, sharp words that remind him that his heart is as paralyzed as his body play over and over, over and over, over and over.
Discover
LIMP
Say it.
Discover
LIMP
Say it.
Discover
LIMP
Say it.
Discover
LIMP
Say it.
Year after year, he lives as a ghost. No one sees him, no one listens. No one even believes he is even capable of thought.
No one knows what it's like to be mistreated
Year after year, he wills his muscles to move in the dead of night. He tastes pain and swallows failure after failure, and uses it to feed his hot hatred.
To be defeated
And even though he can't forgive those who saved him but not her, he knows that when he finally joins her, she can heal him, make him whole. He knows she will feel pity, for the time stolen from them, for the life he hasn't lived, for the others. But her sympathy will outweigh her pity, and she will love him. She will understand how cruel life has been for him. She will understand his pain. She will make him forgive – them, and himself. And she will hate for him.
Behind blue eyes
So he waits.
No one knows how to say that they're sorry
And he watches as the others live their lives.
And don't worry
Those who have pushed his existence to the corners of their minds, and do their best to forget him. Those who, when forced to face him, act as though they still believe he is conscious, and still care.
I'm not telling lies
Those whom he had called friend.
No one knows what it's like to be the bad man
To be the sad man
Behind blue eyes.