Disclaimer: I don't own the Teen Titans. If I did, it wouldn't be cancelled!
Author's Note: I couldn't think of what to write about, and then I thought about just using a word to inspire me. At first it was "surrealism" and then I randomly came up with "quod" which I rather liked. So I blended the two together, and here it is. It's a little weird but hopefully you can follow it. Please enjoy, and please review!
Quod, n.: a prison. From the word "quad," short for "quadrangle," meaning square; i.e. a perfectly square prison.
Four walls, four images, moving, like videos on a permanent loop.
Each just as important.
Each just as riveting.
But he can only focus on one at a time.
Wall one: he is cutting celery. It is freshly washed. He strips it one stalk at a time. Sets the lone stalk on the cutting board. Cuts. Pristine, precise cuts. Even cuts, even though each piece is wider or thinner than the piece before. None of them look the same, even though he tries to make them that way. He keeps stripping the celery. Keeps setting it on the cutting board, one stalk a time. Keeps cutting. But no piece is similar. No piece is the same as any other. And when he gets to the celery heart, the wall immediately returns to the beginning image of him washing the celery. And then the wall continues showing the images he's already seen.
Wall two: he is cutting his hair. The scissors gleam. Silver blades. Green handled. Awkward in his fingers, his ungloved fingers, because the scissors wouldn't fit his hands otherwise. He looks in the mirror. Scrunches up his eyes in concentration. Moves his arm experimentally. Tries to guide his hand to the tuft of hair he's holding up. Tries to cut it. But the first few cuts are rough and awkward. He tries, but he can't cut it as short as he wants it. He can't cut it. And when that realization dawns on his face, the wall immediately returns to the beginning image of him taking off his gloves. And then the wall continues showing the images he's already seen.
Wall three: he is cutting off her arm. They are underwater and he is a swordfish. A swordfish shouldn't be sharp enough to cut through bone. But it does. In slow motion. She screams a silent scream. Frightened bubbles without voice fill the water. He cuts. One clean movement. And her arm swims away from her body. The red stains the blue stains his green. She begins to sink, slowly. Eyes open, unaccusing. Almost pleased. And when she reaches the bottom of the lake, the wall immediately returns to an image of her, cast in stone, a plaque with dying flowers at her feet. And then the wall continues showing the images he's already seen.
Wall four: he is cutting out a heart from lime construction paper. The scissors are gone. He uses one clawlike finger to cut. The paper is flimsy. The heart is flimsy, bends too easily. It tears once or twice. But he cuts it out anyway. There are no words on it. No initials. No poems. It is imperfect. And it is for everyone. When he finishes cutting it out and holds it in one gloved hand and one ungloved, the wall immediately returns to an image of him drawing the heart with a charcoal pencil, using his ungloved left hand.
Four walls.
Four images.
Four selves.
One Beast Boy, standing in the center.
"Beast Boy. Dinner," Raven calls through his closed door.
The images flicker on his retinas as his walls slowly fade back to their plain green.
It's all in his head.
And maybe that's why Raven says his brain is empty.
"Coming," he replies, staples on a grin, and yanks the door open.