AN: So I've been watching a lot of The Green Mile lately and I realized I was most interested in the character of Percy Wetmore. I got thinking about a lot of the things they put him through and a lot of the things he put them through and how, even though he could be such an ass, he was just as human as the rest of them. In addition to that, I also read an unfinished fanfiction about this scenario, but it was never completed, and I thought it would be interesting to experience it from Percy's perspective.
For those uncomfortable with the topic, I would like to note that this story deals with the subject of rape.
I'd like to give some credit to my beta reader, civilwarrose; she's been an amazing help throughout this process!
Human|Prologue
Percy was trembling.
He hadn't been able to stop that recently. He'd take a seat and heave a few deep breaths, but it would only calm him for a few moments. After that, he would stick his fingers out for a look and they'd shake like reeds in a windstorm. He'd grip the edge of the desk so tightly that he at least couldn't see the trembling, but he could feel it. It vibrated through his body, rattled his bones, and made him feel weak and empty. He hadn't felt much else since the bad death of Eduard Delacroix.
If he had known the whole thing was gonna go to hell in a handbasket, all because of a little sponge, he never would've even considered leaving it dry. He could still feel the acrid stench lingering in his nostrils. Even if he hadn't been threatened towards putting in his transfer request by that oaf and his leash-holder, he would've had to anyway. There was no way he could stick around.
He had known that watching a man die shouldn't have been a pretty sight. No one had to tell him that, and his morbid curiosity would've overruled it anyhow. But Paul had said it best: he fucked up. He had fucked up big time. It was true, no one had explicitly told Percy that the sponge should be wet, nor had they explained what would happen if it weren't. He could still feel Paul hovering over his shoulder as they rehearsed the process. Each time he stuck the sponge deep in the then-empty brine bucket, his curiosity was piqued. It was supposed to be wet. Did that mean that it was actually necessary, or that it was just how it was done? Percy wasn't an idiot; he knew it would be bad, at least for Del, and his bitterness after their previous encounters had destroyed any reservations he'd had. Either way, the job would get done.
But never in a thousand years had he imagined it would be that horrific. As soon as Del had let out his first strangled cry, he felt a void settle in the pit of his stomach. It was harder to hate Del when he couldn't see his face or hear that damned half-English of his. Instead, he could just as easily imagine any man in that chair, including himself. His mind kept flickering back to the previous day when Paul and Brutal threw him in Ol' Sparky. He'd been terrified then that there were gonna strap him in and flip the switch, and now he could think of nothing else. He had barely suppressed a whimper when the thrashing body had erupted in flames and he wasn't even able to close his eyes as Paul spun him round and held him still to watch. The bile rose in his throat as he pictured the fire rolling in the charred hollows of the black hood.
He knew he shoulda soaked it. He was gonna have nightmares about that night for years. Even when he was wide awake he couldn't stop seeing the Cajun's writhing body spouting bright blue flames. He held his hands up again; still, they shook.