Erm yeah… welcome to 2.000+ words of … something? You don't have to review, this was just something living in my head for the past few days and I had to write it. And it's GEN, so if you find any 'other' things in here... there are none.
I own nothing. NOTHING! And I'm sorry for any grammar/spelling mistakes you are SOOOO gonna find!
Enjoy…
His right hand was sliding on a wall; supporting his weight and keeping himself balanced... seeking direction that was at least somewhat straight. His legs felt like rubber left in the sun for too long… no texture and not even a little bit solid. Wobbly like he was just a baby learning how to walk and not succeeding very well.
But at least a baby has a diaper to cushion its fall… but he… he has a thin blue dotted pajama on that will do nothing at all if he'd fall.
He did have a brief talk with himself a few seconds ago that maybe it would've been better if he'd crawl, rather than walk, but he decided that… no.
-:-
The wall was cool under his hot, sweaty palm; hard under his fingertips when he dug his blunt nails in whenever his legs tried to give up on him and the voices in his head started talking louderlouderlouder interrupting his chant of brotherbrotherbrother.
The slide was easy on the oily paint; the color yellowish-white like someone had pissed it on the wall and left it there to dry, which it never will, because the hallway was cold as a witch's tit. And how did he know how cold a witch's tit is? He didn't wanna know. Seriously? A witch's tit! Who had ever touched a witch's tit?
He shook his head and made another slow step forward with his left foot, placing it down on the linoleum floor. He saw the floor sparkle; the fluorescent lights up on the ceiling were casting a soft whitish light on the floor, making it glister like there was glass scattered all over it or like someone spilled water all over. But it wasn't wet under his bare feet so it wasn't water.
The walls surrounding him were a strange color of piss and it was making his stomach turn and twist, trying to push out the oatmeal its been living off of for days, weeks, months… he couldn't be sure, he hadn't seen a clock in… yeah.
But the oatmeal started to come to him out of seemingly nowhere, just appearing before his eyes whenever he opened them, ever since he puked out the rice and gravy he used to get. He kinda wished for the rice and gravy to come back one day, but he had no such luck. The oatmeal just kept on coming and he had to eat it, had to keep up his strength.
He burped and wrapped his hands across his stomach, swallowing down the freaking oat grains that had travelled up his throat and into his mouth.
He will not puke.
He will not puke.
He puked… the oatmeal as disgusting coming out of his mouth as it was going in and it splashed hot all over his feet and the linoleum floor like it was nothing. He groaned, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stepped over the mess he made.
He needed to keep moving.
-:-
Every stumbling step he made echoed...
... brother ...
down the long hallway.
There were doors all along the wall but he never touched their handles that were shining so obscenely to him, inviting him to touch them, to push them down and see what they were hiding. But he never did that, never opened the doors and looked into any of the rooms that were hidden behind them, because he knew that the right door will scream at him...
... brother ...
He just needed to get to them. Needed to get to the right door on his shaky legs, with his trembling hands pushing at the walls and the voices in his head screaming: willnotfindhim.
But he won't let his body fuck with him, he won't let himself go down, because every step he made had a purpose behind it... had a goal, had a destination, hope, dreams, love, need…
... brother ...
-:-
The hallway was windowless, no natural light getting in… no day, no night, no sun, no moon. Nothing, but some lights half broken that cast shadows on the walls looking like fingers that were trying to grab him, toss him against the wall and make him bleed.
Step ... brother.
Step ... brother.
Step ... brother.
Stepstepstep ... brotherbrotherbrother.
He tried to pick up speed, tried to run, but his legs were too weak, the glowing floor too bright, the darkness at the end of the hallway too dark, the voices in his head screaming at him weakweakweak too loud, making him place his hands over his ears and push… trying to shut them up, block them, push them away, out of his head, but they were too strong, too loud. He whimpered and leaned on the wall with his forearms.
The wall was cold on his skin, making him shiver, making him shift position; putting his hands on the wall, letting his head fall down between his shoulders to look at his bare feet; toes splattered with the oatmeal he puked earlier.
He breathed. He could taste the indigested grains between his teeth when he clenched his jaw and he spat them out, missing his toes by a hair.
-:-
He pushed himself away and started walking towards the darkness that rested there at the end where the dim fluorescent lights hadn't spread their fingers yet and probably never will, because there was probably no one here to fix them.
The voices in his head whispered: darknessdarknessdarkness and he panicked because the voices never whispered before, always screamed and yelled and left him nearly deaf. Whispering was new.
He didn't like it. It crept him out.
He told the voices to shut the hell up and ordered his legs to freakin' move and find his brother.
-:-
His palms were sweaty, his hair plastered to his head by grease and sweat and vomit and his own saliva... maybe even some blood, but he couldn't be sure. Maybe there was even some oatmeal mixed in there too, maybe even some rice and gravy but he won't rise up his hand and check.
He kept himself busy with chewing on the brotherbrotherbrother that was sitting on the tip of his tongue, the word never coming out though, because he was afraid he'd mutilate it. With the sounds that had been coming out of his mouth lately, he wasn't even sure if he'd be able to talk normally ever again.
He'd tried to say 'help' many times, but all that came out of his dried throat was a croak of a word that made no sense whatsoever.
He won't even try to say 'brother'... the word didn't deserve to be cut into pieces like that.
-:-
He was cold; the pajama raspy on his skin, almost see through, itching between his thighs and armpits.
The skin on his wrists and ankles was bruised, chafed raw almost to the bone, leaving smears of red, hot blood on the wall behind him like a path for someone to follow.
He didn't care. Let them find him. He'll fight until someone will end up dead on the floor. Him or them, didn't matter.
Let them come.
-:-
Brother.
The word like liquid fire in his veins, jump starting his heart whenever it almost gave in to the voices scratching on the inside of his head that: youwillneverfindhim.
Every step he made was starting to hurt now; he knew he was getting a rash the size of a grapefruit on his back from the fabric of his t-shirt. It was itching, but he couldn't scratch, his muscles too weak to allow his arms to stretch that far. He bit his lip and made a few more shuffling steps, dragging his feet across the floor, biting his lip when the skin on the inside of his thighs and armpits was getting scratched raw by the movement.
But the pain was soothed by...
... brother ...
He wavered and tilted to his left, losing balance so fast it made the hallway look like it was rolling around and around making him feel like he was stuck in a rolling tube. He collided with the wall with his side; his ribs hitting the wall fast and ruthless, making pain shoot up and down his spine.
He groaned and closed his eyes, trying to make the hallway stop, just stop already and look less like he was stuck in the sixties and high as a kite. Maybe he was high as a kite.
He laughed out loud and the laugh came back to him.
The psychedelic look the hallway had; bright colors mixing into one another, blurry images of doors and walls and darkness, lines curving when they shouldn't… it was just like looking through a kaleidoscope and it was making his stomach roll and twist again.
He will not puke.
-:-
He opened his eyes slowly, adjusting them to the light again and wiped them with his hand; got rid of the crust of dried tears and sleep.
He took a deep breath and pushed himself away from the wall, the momentum making him zig-zag like a ball in a flipper machine all over the hallway. He bounced off of the wall, doors, steps growing faster brotherbrotherbrother and boulder, surer.
He was getting closer and closer to the darkness at the end of the hallway, the shadows there darker, longer, sharper… and then he stopped.
Suddenly, like he hit the breaks and cemented his feet to the floor. He couldn't move… tried to, but couldn't. Legs not obeying a single request he sent them.
The brown wooden door on his right screamed at him brother so loudly he had to put his hands over his ears again and bend down to relieve some pressure in his head. He couldn't stop tears from coming into his eyes though. The scream was too loud, too much like someone pushed an ice pick right into his brain.
He cussed and stood up when the pain in his head stopped as suddenly as it came and he breathed out, his hand already on the door handle pushing it down.
-:-
When he managed to push the door handle down he laughed out loud again; a laugh that turned into a sob that turned into a growl of anger and frustration.
He needed his brother. Needed to find him and get him the hell out of this damned place.
He had no idea what the damned place even was, where it was, had no idea what had happened, had no memories of anything really.
Just…
… brother…
And after that, he and his brother will take it from there.
-:-
The door didn't make a sound when he opened them, they seemed… dead.
Because there are doors, deep down he knows there are doors, somewhere, at some place, that he knows creak when he opens them and what he finds behind them is always…
… brother.
But this door... was dead. Made no sound. Maybe it was the wrong door, and his brother wasn't behind it. But he felt... felt… right.
-:-
A man was lying on a bed, wrists bound, legs too. Unnaturally still, his face turned up to the ceiling like it was the most interesting thing he had ever seen.
A small lamp was turned on, sitting on a nightstand by the man's head, putting the room in a dim light, almost... brownish.
The room was white... too white with its walls white, lamp white, bed white, men dressed in white. All white like snow.
But it had no windows, no closets, nothing else but a bed, a man, lamp and a nightstand.
He made one step into the room, then two, and then stopped, because the room had shadows in the corners. Shadows that were a bit foggy at the edges.
But he won't stop now. Not this close to finally get what he came for. Not this close to his goal.
He made a step closer... he'd recognize that body anywhere. Had patched it up, held it down, held it up and slept next to it so many times.
Another step... he'd recognize that face anywhere. A face that could always make a million expressions in one minute and they were never the same.
Another step... he'd recognize the texture of that skin anywhere. He touched it so many times to put a stitch there, set a broken bone there.
Another step... he'd recognize those eyes anywhere. Those eyes that always spoke so much without having to blink or look away.
Brother.
-:-
He put his hands on his brother's forearm, feeling muscles there lose tension, feeling the arm relax under his touch, fingers loosening the fist. It was probably reflex... years of touches like these... muscles remembering them.
He wanted to say 'hey' to those eyes that were staring up at him, scared and opened so wide he was afraid they'll fall out. But he couldn't say anything, because saying something would make him fall to pieces.
He smiled instead and forced his numb fingers to start working on the restraints holding his brother down.
"Who are you?"
The slurred, whispered words made him lose the smile, made his fingers stop working on the buckle, made the voices in his head snicker at him toldyouso, made his breath stop part way out of his lungs, made his eyes water and his knees give out.
He fell down, his forehead touching his brother's sternum, feeling the man's heart beating too fast against his skin. His eyes started to prickle with tears, the voices in his head were snickering, his heart started picking up speed to match his brother's and he closed his eyes against the bright whiteness of his brother's t-shirt that was poking him in his eyes.
He breathed out one single, lonely word: "Sammy." and almost chocked on it, while grabbing fistfuls of his brother's t-shirt wetting his brother's chest with his blood.
He didn't know if that was the answer to the question or if it was his own name, but it was the only word that made any kinda sense in his head.
That and brother.
The End.