He talks in circles instead of straight lines. Most of his words come out rushed or crushed together, with or without his Southern drawl. He can't stop them from spilling out of his mouth either, he tried once and the voice got louder. It told him things that weren't true - that couldn't possibly be true - so he drowns the voice out with his own. Doesn't matter what he says or sings. Just as long as he could hear his own voice, he couldn't hear the other one.

They dragged him through hallways that twisted and turned. Murdock was sure half the turns weren't even slightly necessary; but who was he to argue? He still had to hold out both his hands, palms down, to see which one made the letter 'L' when he's told to turn left or right.

They stopped him in front of a metal door and as one man opened it, a second man took off his handcuffs, and a third kept a gun trained on the back of his head. He was flung into the room and after two stumbling steps he almost did a face plant on the concrete floor. Murdock staggered up just as the door clanged shut, taking with it all the light. If he hadn't known his eyes were still open, he would have thought that he had closed them somewhere along the way.

He can't say for sure that his emotions are his own. He remembers how he used to react in situations. He remembers Christmas mornings when he woke up the house at four, running around the house and banging pots and pans together to make sure everyone was up. He remembers curling up between his mom and grandma on Sunday nights, watching old movies and eating junk food. He remembers long summer nights, lazily lying hidden in the tall grass watching the ink black sky and knowing that one day he would go up there.

He groped in the darkness, following the floor until he hit the wall. Cold, smooth concrete. He followed it all around, found the bathroom (a weird urinal/sink combination) and the bed (a squishy rubber-like square laid on the ground). He used the sink to rinse off the blood that dribbled down his face with his handkerchief, which they had somehow left on him. He couldn't see his bruises but he was pretty sure he was black and purple all over. His ribs were at least bruised, possibly cracked. He might have a concussion with the way the world swayed but he couldn't be sure. With nothing better to do, Murdock practically fell down on his bed and stared into the dark.

He remembers feeling. But it's not the same anymore. It all feels muted, like touching a knife with velvet gloves. He gets the general shape and weight, knows that it's sharp, useful, and potentially deadly. But he can't feel the cool touch of the metal nor could he grab the handle quite rightly. He remembers that emotions used to fill his entire being, full and bold. But now they are razor sharp, as if he needs them to release all at once or not at all. All the happy, sad, angry thrown out as a violent punch. He doesn't mind too much; he knows it could be worse.

He wasn't sure how long he was in there before they came back for him. During the hours that he had been able to keep track of, he had noticed that the room was sound proof. Then he had fallen asleep and when he woke up, there was no way for him to know if thirty minutes had passed or nine hours. He was awake for what he assumed was a day; he drank water from the tap, and did a few extremely light exercises in the ten by ten cell, and then he started into the dark. His ribs hurt if he moved too fast or bent over but his muscles were sore and he had nothing better to do.

Then he fell asleep again and went through that same routine. Then over and over and over and, somewhere along the line he couldn't tell if it was yesterday or tomorrow. By then the pain had dulled to a minor annoyance. Then the scratching started up, skittering on the cold cement floor and scrapes across the walls. He kept trying to convince himself that it wasn't real, because the door never opened and he knew that nothing else was in there but him. Except the scratching continued.

He zones out a lot. He's not sure where he goes, but sometimes hours pass that way. He interacts with the outside world, he tells jokes and talks back and is generally the same pain in the ass he always is. But it's like he's a step away from it all. He's riding in the back seat and another Murdock has taken the wheel. Sometimes, he's not sure which Murdock is the right one.

The scratching turned into growls and Murdock was sure that whatever was in the dark had rabies and probably wanted to maul him. He had squished himself into the corner of his bed a few hours ago and had no intentions of moving any time soon. His butt was numb, his ribs were starting to protest his crouched form, and every muscle felt like they were on fire, but at least with this position, the monster could only attack him from above and in front of him.

Sometimes he thinks he's already dead. When he was seven he and his best friend, Tommy, went up to the ridge, which was a huge pile of loose gravel and huge chucks of rocks. All of it had been left over from construction workers who had been working on the reservoir. Very steep. Very dangerous. And absolutely perfect for two kids who were bored out of their freaking skulls in the middle of the sweltering Texan summer.

They had planned it for weeks, stashing away snacks and a few bucks, and making sure that their parents knew that they were sleeping over at each other's house so that they could camp the night and come back the next morning. When they had gotten there, Tommy jumped off his bike and ran to the edge. Peering down the boy gasped in awe. Murdock just as quickly followed Tommy but somehow – he'd always been somewhat accident prone – somehow he tripped and pitched forward enough to send him scrambling over the edge. Then there was frantic screaming and Tommy was pulling his arms and Murdock was digging his feet into the dirt trying to find anything to push up on.

He's pretty sure he's dead. The car accident when he was sixteen. That little misunderstanding at that one bar when he was twenty. His brush with pneumonia when he had that side trip to Alaska. His first time in a helicopter – hell, his last time in a helicopter. He probably died a million times over.