Another Day In Hell



Authors Note: Finally got down to writing something! Yeah, college does that to ya. I have, like, 10 different story ideas buzzing around my head, and no time to get them down on paper. And I've been doing the second part of my humor fic as well, but it just sounds sooooo crappy! Even to my own ears. I have no idea where I'm going with this because I am literally making it up as I go along. So even I don't know what's going to happen. Which is why I would reeeeally appreciate it if you could review and give me some ideas. I may add shipping... of some kind... in later chapters. Maybe.



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He was roasting alive.

The sweat that trickled down his forehead plastered his damp hair to his skin. It slickened his burning forehead and just added to his already intense misery.

And as he slowly woke, squinting painfully up through sweat soaked lashes, he also realised he was barely able to breathe.

His lungs burned, and each laboured breath he took just caused fresh pain in his raw and aching throat.

It was Hell.

It was pure torture.

It was....

"The flu" the stern faced nurse informed him coldly, her face a mask of indifference. She roughly pulled out the thermometer from under his tongue and held it to the light, reading it with not so much as a flicker of concern crossing her face. Calling out the reading to a young male nurse across the room, who frantically scribbled in a large black book, she looked down at her feverish patient, regarding him expressionlessly for a moment or two. She retrieved a small pocket light from her pocket and flashed it quickly in both of his eyes, which he tried in vain to keep open behind their leaden eyelids.

"Well," she snapped, walking briskly to the foot of her patients bed. "I suppose you'll have to stay here for a few days, won't you?"

She scowled at his prone form, as if it was a great bother to her, which he had caused deliberately just be malicious.

"Two days and no more" she instructed her assistant, the glower still present on her face. "He should be back to sufficient health well before then. If I find him still taking up space in this infirmary by Friday morning...."

She trailed off, letting her poor assistant guess the implications of her words. The young nurse visibly swallowed down his response, choosing instead to nod nervously and scurry from the room, casting one sympathetic glance in the direction of the patient. The kind of look which said, "Rather you than me, buddy"

The heavily set nurse twisted her mouth into an irritated frown as she regarded the clipboard hanging at the end of his bed. "You have two days, Slate. Then you'll report back to me after evening meal for your medication." She tutted again, realising that he probably couldn't even hear her in his dazed, drugged-up state. Brock forced his head to lift in a vague nod of acknowledgement, his eyes still painfully clamped shut.

'Yeah, like you care anyway, you miserable old bitch' he thought drowsily to himself, supressing the urge to say it out loud. But though the satisfaction of saying such a thing would keep him happy for a while, the consequences would last far longer. The nurse rolled her eyes and, to Brock's satisfaction, finally stalked out of the room. She hated it when these prisoners got ill. They made such a mess in her nice clean infirmary.

Hearing her heavy footsteps gradually get further and further away, he sighed a little to himself and wiped the sweat off his brow. It wasn't very often that he got to see such luxury, and to him, this place was like a palace. Sure, the bedsheets were still rough and course, and a dirty grey in colour, but there were a darn improvement on the jail regulation rags that passed for sheets on his own bed, back in his cell. Feeling the bile suddenly rising in his throat again, he quickly flipped onto his stomach and started to hack and splutter over the side, the disgusting taste of phlegm and antibiotics in his mouth. A few moments of this followed, until he finally rolled back on to his back, exhausted and gasping for breath. He slowly reached out his shaking hand to get the pitcher of water beside the bed, intent on getting the acrid aftertaste out of his mouth. Gulping down the precious water, he couldn't help but wonder if it could get any worse.

Brock had found Hell, right here on Earth. And it's name was Pewter City General Prison.


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"Slate!!!!"

Brock cringed as he heard the prison warden screech his name, his voice bouncing through the bare cells. His inmate, a heavily tattooed guy by the name of Jared who was in for armed robbery, had the decency to give him a vague look of sympathy, before turning his back on him. Brock frowned and turned to look upwards. He was lying on the top bunk in his cell, his hands behind his head and staring blankly at the ceiling. He was glad to have gotten over the 'flu as soon as he did. Things were bad enough without becoming a total invalid at the same time. He sniffed absent-mindedly. Well, maybe not totally over it. But near enough. Bloody hell, he'd been cooped up in that damned infirmary with that pyschotic she-devil that was the head nurse for over 48 hours. There was only so long that you could stare at a ceiling contemplating what shade of grey it was.

His eyes flickered to the cell door as a burly warden marched up the corridor and stopped there, his fat face almost purple and his mouth set into a tight line. He rammed said cell door impatiently with his fist.

"Did you hear me, boy?" he growled, his eyes narrowing. Brock didn't answer, instead choosing to sit up and swing his legs over the side of the bunk. The guard, apparently getting even more infuriated by his silence, had a vein starting to pop out his neck.

"Slate! Answer me when I talk to you!"

"What do you want?" Brock scowled, judging it wiser to talk than to suffer the guards short temper.

The guard grunted incomprehensively, detatching a large bunch of keys and a pair of handcuffs from his belt loop.

"You've got a visitor"


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Misty drew little circles with her fingers on the bench in front of her, nervously biting her lower lip. She quickly glanced in the direction of the window, where the 18 year old form of Ash Ketchum waved timidly back at her, giving her a not entirely self assured thumbs up. Misty quickly lowered her eyes, then raised them to gaze steadily at the door opposite her, behind the thick pane of bullet-proof glass in front of her. As she waited for them to bring him, her thoughts drifted off.

She was brought suddenly back to earth as the far door opened, and a dishevelled looking young man stepped through, flanked by an armed guard on each side. Misty took in her friends appearence, shock registering on her face. His hair was messy and unkept, and his jaw was unshaved. Dark circles were noticable underneath his red rimmed eyes, and he wore the regulation dark blue scrubs, which hung a little looser than usual on his frame. Obviously he wasn't adjusting too well to prison life.

As he noticed the empty booth, his face lit up in recognition at who was sitting on the other side. He sat down in the chair, his guards retreating to stand a few meters away, their eyes still watching him warily. Brock took the phone off of it's cradle, and put it to his ear, a move which Misty copied.

"Misty..."

"Brock. It's been a while"

"Too long"

Misty paused, tilting her head to the side. She managed a small smile.

"How are you?"

"Just peachy. What do you think?" he grunted sarcastically.

"Brock, there's no need to be like that. I just wanted to know whether you're holding up ok in here..." Misty sighed.

"Yeah. I... I know. I'm sorry" he said quietly.

"S'okay. Forget about it. So.... are you ok?" she repeated.

"Yes. No. It's just so hard. I don't belong in here. I... I want to be back out there"

"I know you do. We all miss you. I worry about you a lot"

"You don't need to. I can take care of myself"

"I know that. But look at you. You're a mess"

Brock chuckled dryly at that comment. "Thank you"

"No, really" Misty said seriously. "You look terrible. Are they treating you right in here?"

"As good as someone like me deserves, I suppose" he mumbled, shaking his head regrettably. Misty remained silent, at a loss of what to say.

Brock leaned forward, pressing his palm against the glass. "I'm not meant to be here, Misty. Make them understand. Please"

Misty opened her mouth to reply, then closed it again. "I tried" she whispered eventually, rubbing her head tenderly. She had a killer headache on its way.

"Try again" Brock pleaded, tilting his head to the side. "It's killing me in here. I don't belong here. I never did anything! You know that..."

He paused as he watched Misty bite her lip again, looking everywhere except his eyes. She scratched her head nervously, refusing to make eye contact with him.

"Don't you?" he added quietly, raising his eyebrow. Misty took a deep breath and gave him an innocent look, pretending she didn't know what he meant.

"Don't I what?"

"Believe me" he replied, suspiciously. When Misty failed to reply, staring silently at the floor instead, he widened his eyes, his mouth dropping open. "You mean you.... you actually.... you don't believe me???"

"Brock, I didn't come here today to make small talk" Misty stammered, not taking her eyes from the floor. "I... I just came to tell you that I've got a lot going on at the moment with my work at the gym. I... I'm going to be very busy and I just don't think I'll be able to visit you that often anymore"

"Bullshit!!!" Brock exploded, leaping to his feet and knocking back his chair. "You're just saying that 'cause... because you don't believe me anymore! You think I did it, didn't you? Damn you, Misty, does being friends mean *nothing* to you anymore?!"

Misty dropped the phone and scrambled backwards out of her seat. She watched on in horror as the two guards lurched for him, trying to stop him pounding the glass with his fists. Her face was a mask of shock as she watched them wrestle him to the ground following his rather uncharacteristic outburst. Brock let out a howl of pain as his arm got twisted behind his back, paralysing his ability to struggle from their grasps. He knew that it was futile, he could never get away. But he didn't understand why she had changed her mind so suddenly. First Ash's visits had decreased so much that he didn't even see him any more - now Misty was turning her back on him. He didn't understand. He had to try to make *her* understand.

"Misty!!! Listen to me!" he cried as he was dragged out of the room. "Please, believe me! You've got to believe me! I didn't do it! Please--"

His voice was silenced as the heavy metal door slammed shut behind them, leaving the room in a heavy silence. All the people, prisoners, visitors and guards alike, all stared at Misty like she'd just grown a third head. Misty glared back at them, roughly wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU STARING AT?!?!"

A murmer went up through the room as people deliberately turned their heads away, returning to their conversations. Misty stormed through the door, slamming it behind her and not bothering to wait for her companion. Ash quickly ran to catch up with her.

"Misty--"

"Just get in the car, Ash" she snapped, her voice shaking. "And DON'T talk to me!"

Ash obediantly shut his mouth.


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To be continued.