The dust gets everywhere. It plasters itself to any exposed skin, gets in his eyes, under his nails. It cakes itself in the crook of his elbow and his eyelids. It coats his scalp and the back of his throat in a seemingly endless onslaught of yellow particles.
His feet hurt, the walking, endless walking, gives him blisters that seem to pop into dust and rubs raw patches into his skin. But he keeps going. He has to. There is no going back, no turning around, just forwards into the perpetually incoming gusts of dust and dirt.
He is alone most of the time, and even if someone was here there would be nothing to talk about. Just him and the dust. He had once thought that the rubbing against his skin and the grit in his eyes would drive him mad but now he does not agree. He was already mad then, or perhaps he is mad now and he just didn't notice. It happens, he supposes. People losing their minds and not knowing it.
He remembers the man next to him, who lost his mind, screaming at all hours of the day and night. If he had been the talking sort he probably would have told him to shut his mouth, but his own mouth was usually occupied. Mostly cloth. Sometimes wood if he was very unlucky. He guesses that biting the guard was what led to it, but people were punished for all sorts of reasons, there are other reasons why, but he lends them no thought. It would do him no good to remember it now.
The sun beats down overhead, scorching the path, and heating the still air to choking temperatures. It was like a constant battle, trying to decide if he should breathe or burn. The unforgiving sun wold burn any exposed skin, leaving him with little choice them to cover himself in Lawsons coat and cover his mouth with a scarf. Breathing was hard but hes had worse. He always reminds himself that he's had worse
He knows that hes had so much worse, he remembers the firm hand gripping his, turning his milky coloured wrist up towards the disgustingly yellowed lightbulb. The smell of burning flesh as the hot brand was pressed into his wrist, so he'd never be free. Anyone who saw him would know where he'd come from. Would assume he was one of them. Later, much later, when he was gone, he held his wrist in the fire until the skin was blackened and peeled away. If he was the talking type, Charlie suspects he would have screamed.
He doesn't really mind being alone too much. He was plenty used to it. After he killed one of his cellmates they never gave him another one. It was the others' fault, of course. If he didn't want to be killed then he shouldn't have stabbed him with the piece of glass. Charlie very nearly died them, but he was thinking enough to hide the piece of glass amongst the rags of his sleeping corner. They punish him, of course, and later, when Charlie watches them dispose of the body, if he'd been the talking type, he suspects he would have cried. He didn't want to be killing anyone, but Lawson, he thinks, was right. It gets a little easier after you've done it once.
Keeping himself entertained on the dusty path was easier when there was something to look at. On occasion, dead trees sat up on the side of the well beaten path. He thinks of himself as something akin to those trees. The dust and the heat had slowly killed them, taking all of their beauty with it. He rather suspects he is something of the same. It has been a long time since he saw a mirror, since he saw his reflection, but he assumes he does not look how he used to. He is more tan now, for spending so much time outside, in the sun. He never used to tan, he would just burn and then go back to milk spilled in the bathtub white. He knows he has plenty of scars and marks on his body, his hair is no longer styled like it used to be. Any gel that may have once held his careful waves into place had long since been sweated out. He is grateful for that, even tangled and greasy, even when he is covered in sweat and dust, he is still a vaguely prideful man.
He can still feel the hands in his hair at times, the ones that pulled and tugged firmly, and then harder. The ones that pulled large clumps of his curls from his scalp, until he was bleeding. The ache that persisted for months after wards as his hair very slowly grew back. The urge to pick at the forming scabs, the iron grasp on his wrist, clipping his nails down so much they bled so he wouldn't do that. Half curled on his side, mouth stuffed with so much cloth that it takes effort not to choke on it, Charlie supposes, that if he were the talking sort, then he would be sobbing.
He stops. There is a tree, a big one, that is hollowed out. He does not remember much about traveling with Lawson, but the man liked for them to stay out of towns, especially with the Compound hunting police men down. The tree faces away from the path, and the sky has begun to darken so he sits in the crevice and drags his legs to his chest and tries to stave of his thirst. He is thirsty. He's been thirsty since he left.
He is lucky compared to the others. They water him regularly. Feed him too. It's more fun to feed and water him then the others he knows this. His jaw is kept occupied so he will not bite anyone again. They remove whatever it is and laugh and he cries because it hurts more to have his mouth closed then wedged open. They hold his mouth open and watch his silent tears streak his face. Sometimes his nose runs. They think its funny. But there is water in his mouth and down his throat. He feels like he should be grateful but the pressing of wood into his jaw prevents him from really feeling much of anything.
Sleep does not come to him with ease, no matter how tired he is. He thinks about Lawson a lot this time of the day. It is at this point that he reaches into one of the pockets of Lawson's coat and removes two coat epulets. They both belonged on the coat, but they also marked him as a police officer, which is something he could well and truly do without. Police men are marked by the compound, who will do anything to acquire them. And if you end up in a compound, then god may well have abandoned you. On nights like this in the cells, if Charlie were the talkative sort, he might have cried.
The cells were damp, but hot. Like sitting in a sauna at times. He is lucky, in the long run, that he is naked. It is cooler, probably, there is no sun in the cells and that is probably the only thing he misses, if is slightly less apathy then usual could be taken as that. He recalls the smell of burning flesh as the compound, the branch he was kept in burnt. He'd already taken care of the guards, he had Lawsons' coat and poorly fitting boots. He watches the flames lick the wall and hears the screams of those not quite dead. If he was the talkative type, he may of rejoiced at the destruction of what he hated so much. The last thing he thinks before he falls to sleep is how good its going to be to sleep in his bed at Blake's place again. He does not know how far away Ballarat is from here but it must be close. He's been walking for months.
His return to Ballarat is something rather anticlimactic. He walks past the sign into the city. Ballarat has been replaced with Hell. He'd always rather seen then as peas in a pod anyway. The streets are empty and the few things that remain are coated in dust. It is a walk to Blake's house that despite being shorter, is somehow longer than the walk to get here. Blake's car is where it always has been. There is a fortress around the house. He knocks and Blake emerges with a gun. He is speaking but Charlie cannot hear it.
He reaches up, and removes his scarf and glasses. Blake looks at him with wide eyes, discards the gun, pulling him into a hug that Charlie pulls away from, unable to handle the touching. The bruises and the burns are to fresh in his memory, although, as Blake leads him into the house, he strongly suspects that if he were the talkative type, he may be crying in joy. His jaw is not stuffed with cloth and wooden marbles any more but it may as well be.
/there will be a second part, featuring Blake and Charlie. Leave a review if you liked it 3