a/n: Practicing first person POV. Based loosely off of Season 2 and the official Red Wheelbarrow book. Not sure if this is perfectly in-character, but it was a lot of fun to write.
Feedback is always appreciated!
# #
I don't remember much about waking up besides training myself to breathe consistently.
It was kinda like blacking out at the cape, only if the bottom of the cape were made of hands and feet and ready to kick the shit out of you for expressing such blatant suicidal tendencies.
Feels like I've been doped up. Possibly to prevent me from going into shock. It's stronger than the last time I ended up in this situation
Higher dosage on account of my tolerance? I don't know.
I can't think very well, past the nagging paranoia.
Ray's gone. There were two guys when I woke up the first time, but the second one hasn't left and keeps looking at me, or the clock, or the open door where the other guys are.
Not sure what he expects me to do. I wonder what he'd rather be doing than sitting here, stuck with me.
The television is playing some show but I can't see what's happening or make out any words, beyond the occasional canned laughter. The walls seem too bright but I'm afraid to close my eyes.
# #
Eventually it's decided I'm well enough to walk. Someone drags me out of bed and down the hall into the compound.
We don't go back to my cell. Either this is going to be a one-way trip, or something worse.
I don't exactly register where he's taking me until the door opens and he pushes me into the new, smaller cell.
Contact with the floor, and the world opens up; harsh technicolor subduing into pain and the muddied gray-blue-black of this current reality.
I don't remember falling.
I hear the door shut behind me and realize I'm alone, still injured. Manage to crawl to the adjacent wall. I don't know how long this takes.
Curl up on the floor and begin shivering. Awareness only accentuates this newfound sense of hopelessness. Without a pulse, I'm little more than a corpse.
Try to compose myself without much success. It's cold and every little noise that is not mine petrifies me. Besides this, there is silence.
I'm unable to retreat back into my technicolor hell. The terror or pain in combination should be overwhelming by now but this somehow grounds me.
Don't want to make any noise. They might come back and kill me. Well, no. Ray needs someone to fix his website problem. So I'm probably not going to die, yet.
Shit. I think I'm my own last hope. Definitely not waiting around for HIM to offer any advice. I have no idea where HE is and it's not making me feel better in the slightest.
The shadow casts across my body and reminds me that I am never alone. Heart pounds violently despite the trauma.
The damage must've been worse than I was willing to comprehend. No matter how many times I try to tell myself I might survive another beating, it's laughable.
He doesn't disparage me, doesn't crack a joke about what dumbass situation we've gotten ourselves into this time, doesn't reaffirm his victory. He just stands there.
A fleeting desire temporarily betrays all others―with my back to the wall and channeling every iota of concentration left, I manage to stand.
Not sure how, but refusing to question this, staggering forward on battered limbs. Stumble because I know I'm not going far but it doesn't matter. Let myself be swept up into my {own} father's embrace, because I am pitifully fragile.
I guess a belated thank you is in order; it's nice enough to be held.
But I can't do any of this, and with the weight of that realization I start to tremble again.
There's nowhere to run, no moves left. This is a stalemate beyond anyone's control. The only way out is through; or death, which seems more than a little merciful.
Mr. Robot is crouching down next to me. Past the cloying scent of my own blood and sweat, there is the familiar smell of cigarettes; long nights in a cramped room, away from the rest of the world, he was always happy to see me.
It's getting difficult to breathe. A punctured lung? Shit. I think I would have noticed by now, should stop thinking about it.
"Elliot."
You tricked me, open my mouth to say it but all that escapes is a dry, desperate sob.
He just sits and watches without passing any judgement. I don't even have the strength to cry, but I can't vocalize much beyond distress. Try again:
Where are we?
"Ray's goons came for us, as you may have gathered. You put up one hell of a fight and landed yourself in solitary confinement. I did as much as I could to protect you, but you wouldn't listen."
Shit. What if they come back and kill us―
"They'll kill YOU, not us."
I'm alone down here.
"No one will care if you go AWOL for a while. Darlene can get on just fine with Angela's help."
He doesn't sound happy about it. That should make me feel better, but it really doesn't.
No one will miss me because I'm fucking crazy.
"Well, Darlene MIGHT miss you. I can't say I'm all that happy being stuck in here, but I think you've had enough excitement for one day..."
Close my eyes, letting him muse. How long was I out? Doesn't feel like I've lost time, not in the 'usual' sense―there's definitely the sensation of time passed, but it's more like I've repressed it. I guess that's understandable.
Someone dragged me out of my cell and beat the ever-living shit out of me. I know why, I just don't want to think about it right now, because it'll give HIM the satisfaction, and if I try to think any harder I'm probably gonna pass out again.
"What about your new friends? Leon, and Carla, you talk about her a lot, so whatever happened to Angela, huh?"
Is this fun?
He scowls at me. "Why would you even ask me something so asinine?"
How does it feel, every time I fuck myself over trying to stop you from sabotaging me? Is that what you wanted me to say?
"This isn't about what I want, kiddo. This is about us, surviving. Keep your voice down."
An emotional relapse, but it's beyond my control.
No, no, I am not going to let you win. I can't let you win again.
A hand that is not my own slips under my head and gently ruffles my hair; flinch, start to vibrate with emotion despite my injuries, oh no, don't you dare, don't FUCKING touch m―
"Jesus Christ, kid. I'm not that desperate to kill you."
The exasperation in his voice is like a catalyst, of sorts. I'm too tired for anger, but the irony of this situation is fucking hilarious. Just wheeze-chuckle until it hurts too much to breathe and I have to stop, light-headed.
"It should go without saying, but I only did what I did to make sure you were paying attention." He sighs. "It'd be nice if you showed me some appreciation once in a while, but I'll take what I can get."
Try to make believe it would be enough to hurl myself at Mr. Robot and start beating the shit out of him, but we both know what that would actually entail, and I don't need any more brain damage.
Accidentally snort. It turns into a fit of wheezy rasping. Fuck, this hurts.
"I told you, son. Nobody's won anything."
He's cradling me against his chest, stroking back my hair, careful to avoid the bruises. I don't know how much of this is real. Does it matter, anymore?
Easier to pretend in the half-dark basement―cell―that this is someone else's hand. If I close my eyes, it's practically true.
I can't pass out, though. I will put myself together eventually, enough to rectify my mistake. Then... I don't know what will happen. It should be terrifying, but I don't have the energy to feel much, other than relief.
Krista would lose her shit if I told her any of that, but I don't blame her. A lot of people would think the same thing.
I'll try and talk when my head stops spinning. Maybe I can get some answers out of HIM. We're relying on each other, after all.