Falling Through the Cracks
by Aimme,
with touches by My Note Book
Summary: His mask was flawless. His walls were perfectly structured. Protection and cautionary containment at its finest. Even a perfect pretend held fractures, though, and no matter how strong his glue, under the right circumstances, glue cracked and had to be gutted and filled in again.
Author's Note: Whew. Writing has been a pain in the...brain recently. Care to know how this chapter was written? The entire end part...I finished not even two hours ago. Yeah. Fun. Part of the reason this evening is late, again. If the quality is poor in places, my deepest apologies. It was not, necessarily, that this chapter was hard to write as opposed to simply running out of time. I had intended to get a lot of writing done this weekend...nope, I had other things going on all weekend long.
Anyway, we hear from someone different in this chapter, and the writing is in present tense. How different is that? Yeah, it wanted to be that way...well, the character wanted to be that way, and so I had to keep the consistency.
BlackKeys96, first off, thank you. And you are welcome! Whether Cody is having doubts or not, or what exactly is going through his head, we shall see. It does seem likely that he is, doesn't it? And I am glad you felt we got Zack's character spot on, with the information about his actions over the divorce. Thanks! And once more, the flashback—thank you again. Intensity was something I was aiming for. I am glad you could feel it. As for the look on Zack's face—eventually, we shall see. One chapter at a time, I suppose. It may not be in this story, but definitely one an upcoming one, if not. I don't plan on going anywhere soon! I don't know when Moseby will hear the voicemail, sometime after his other phone calls, I'm sure. And I wanted to apologise about last week—you said you were afraid I wouldn't update. Sorry about that. I didn't get home until late, and then I had some...family issues...that had to be dealt with. Family meeting, pow-wow, kind of thing. Once that was all straightened out, I came as quickly as I could to update. I pushed it last week, didn't I? I was a few minutes before midnight, it seemed... and again I am tonight.
Also, our anonymous reviewer (you should know who you are), we wanted to thank you for reviewing! Your review was appreciated, and I was so overjoyed to receive it! And I think it is neat that you see Zack similarly.
On to the chapter, since that is what you have all come here for...
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Chapter Ten - Everybody Fooled
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"Without the mask, where will you hide?
Can't find yourself lost in your lie" -Evanescence
It had already been a bad day. Like always. For you see, every day around here was bad. Horrible. Stomach empt—Never mind. Sub-par employment, snotty people, and boring hours. That is what I mean. This job isn't what it used to be.
However, to get to where I am heading with this, I must start at the beginning. And the beginning would be paper sorting.
You heard me.
Paper sorting.
Excited yet? No? Bear with me.
I was sorting through files, making sure everyone (mostly, students and staff) were up to date on their shots, such as the tetanus shot, or that my records were current with explanations, etc. Of course my files were accurate, everyone was up to date—I make sure every day. I pride myself in assuring all of my bases are covered. Less issues that way.
However, this is boring enough work, right? Add on top of that, during a well-deserved break, I look up from my book on psychology and the way it pertains -has an affect on- the body, and I see those two boys walk through the door, and more specifically, I see him. I was mad.
I have my sneaking suspicions about that boy. The older one, right? Yeah, right.
For you see, I watch him. And I know something isn't right with him. Oh, don't get me wrong. He does well at hiding. Very well. But I know something haunts him. I catch glimpses of it, after all others have turned away. I am the only one who notices these things, because I am the only one actually looking. I do not know what it is, I never know, but I know something is there. Something dark and dangerous and lasting, something that weighs on him and darkens those laughing eyes, breaks those proud shoulders, and lets his whole bright countenance fall.
He has the look of someone deeply unsettled, deeply bothered. He has the look of someone haunted.
And my suspicions were confirmed when they walked through that door and I saw him. I saw the blood on his T-shirt, the drained look leaving his face pale, the terror eating at the younger one. Oh, yes, I knew.
His song and dance routine seems to be perfected, and no one gives even a thought to the life he parades to them as maybe being something else or something more than what they have taken it for granted as. He is a masked hider, and he plays everyone well, like the violins they let themselves be for his talented fingers.
Except for me. He does not have me played, but what do I matter in his scheme of thinking? For him, I do not exist as someone who could slip past his defences. For him, I hold little to no significance. And he is correct.
He does not think I saw, but I did. He is unaware someone knows, but I do.
I see things that nobody else sees. Things that I have to look for. Things that would scare other people to see. I see these things because I know what I am looking for, and I was watching when no one else was—that is when his mask shakes, the tiniest bit, his defences tremble, and what he hides peeks through: these slip ups are because he needs to breathe, and when he breathes, his guard falls for a moment so he can catch another breath.
You must be observing, and when everyone else turns away, you can catch it. What is it? I do not know.
I do know it is something deep, something dark. Something that has latched onto his soul, dug into his heart -a heart, I suspected, which was tattered and worn and broken- and eats away at him. It is obvious to my eyes…but I observe when no one else does.
My eyes have seen past the filtering mask, into the vague murk and mire of him. It is not clear—far from it. It is much like a fog inside of him, but there it is. He is not the clear-cut definition they have for who he is; he is not the picture they see and accept for his face. It is not his. It is a mask.
I know, because I identify it.
Why am I the only one who does this—the one who observes him like this until it is clear that the idea they have of him is not fitting and that he is a confused and confusing bog inside? I do not know why.
I know he has friends, friends who care about him -how deeply, I cannot say, for their knowledge of him is slim at best- but something holds him back. This mask of his. This mask of determination to keep everyone else out of what haunts him at night, what breaks him down and plagues him to where he hides by day and tosses, awake, unable to sleep, by night.
There are two schools of thought: one, that there are far too many words one could use to describe it; two, that there are not any -or enough- words to describe it.
I disagree with both—or, rather, I prefer a gentle blend of both. While there could be an insane amount of verbiage used to describe it -or hundreds of words to expand and expand upon a meaning- or there could be a speechlessness making all of our words useless or inadequate, there is a simple way of putting this. There are words to describe it, and for some -for me- there are minute ways which will suffice.
He is good.
These three words sum up my observances of him. His charade is tailored to perfection, it is true. And he is exceedingly efficient at what he does.
I do not doubt he has had a lot of time to be sure of what he does. Knows how to hide it all behind his mask, a mask so well-known everyone believes it to be the real him, his one true face. Ha! What a hoot, eh? They do not see when that "face" cracks, because in reality it is a mask. And it cannot always hold up under the pressures he faces. What pressures? Ah! See, only he could tell one that. I wish anyone luck in getting it out of him. He has had a lot of practice, and he will not unveil himself so easily, so utterly.
Aye, but for all of his walls and mask -the layers designed to keep people far enough back that he still feels protected- his cope is not perfect. Oh, but it is exceptional.
Exceptional in how well-built and structured it is, but it is far from being suitable. It is the kind of exceptionally proficient which is scary good for people who know what they are looking for. He is so adept, his mask so well kept, that no one else knows it is even there. Except for those who are observing from a distance when all others have turned away.
And so, when I looked up and saw him, saw the blood pandering to the suspicions which are mine, I was mad. And with good reason.
Now, after forcefully manhandling his terror-stricken brother from the room -his brother is a little wretch when he gets worry in mind- and locking the door lest he try to come back in (I would put nothing past any of these young ones these days), I release an aggravated sigh as I march back over to the eldest's unconscious form. What the devil manner of ill-conceived, senseless rot has he done to himself?
He is stirring as I approach; eyes blink blearily, a frown furrows his brows, and his disjointed connection with reality is obvious.
Aye, the wretch that he is, he has landed in over his head this time, has he not?
He shifts as I kneel beside him. "You best move slowly, now," I say, gripping his shoulder gently.
He blinks and looks up, confusion marking his face, his bleary eyes do not appear entirely focused on specific objects, his attention sporadic.
"Up, slowly now, that is."
He nods after a moment and his gaze drops away as he shifts, getting his hands and knees under himself and sitting up.
"Now to your feet." '…if you can manage,' I tack on silently.
I help him to his feet, where he sways for only a brief second before I can feel his muscles steel, a resolve of his will embodying itself in his body. 'He is a wilful child,' I note, but he does not have his bearings yet and so I do not let go of him. I keep an arm around his shoulders and a grip on his left arm as I help him out of the reception area and into the patient's room.
He remains silent, but my long years of expertise -clinical and jaded though it is- senses his disorientation—his mind must surely be in a hazy state as it still fights off the unconsciousness that had stolen over him what was only a minute and 25.6 seconds ago.
I lead him to the infirmary bed, helping him to settle before I grab his arm to see what this is all about. As soon as he thinks I am not looking, I see, out of the corner of my eyes, that he casts a glance around the room with a wary look, but I catch in his eyes a brief look for something more. For his brother, whom I know he is looking around for as well, I am sure. His cursory, cautious scope of the room ends with him letting out a small sigh.
I focus back on the cut. I poke around it and he winces, fisting his hand. I prod around the area, exploring the damage, but my eyes catch on other pale, white marks which are revealed to my scrutiny and a frown mars my face.
My suspicions are confirmed.
He is a two-faced liar, and everybody is his fool.
"I know the truth now
I know who you are ...
It never was and never will be ...
And somehow you've got everybody fooled" -Evanescence
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*Zack's POV*
Behind your filtering mask, there is more,
The vague murk and mire of your very core,
Deep in your soul, with windows shuttered to the world,
Your eyes look out, but never let back in,
And all of your truth is a shadow of your lies,
It swallows you up deep inside,
Behind your defences, you hide out but never let in,
And you play all like violins,
You have everybody fooled again
I wake slowly, but I do not open my eyes. My head, which feels horrible and slightly dizzy (alright, really dizzy), pounds with a drawn blank. Where am I? What has happened? What have I gotten myself into this time? I have so many questions without answers.
Then I remember. I remember everything as it comes flooding back to me.
The conversation I overheard, the closet, the euphoria and danger of the pain, being caught, bloody and undone and marred with my truths and lies—memories flood back into my pounding head, increasing the ache gathered within my skull and within my gouged heart. I recall being dragged to the infirmary by a very angry little brother, telling Cody lies until they were over my head, feeling sick and fainting—oh.
That explains why I am on the floor. For surely the hard surface beneath me, with the roughness scratching my cheek ('That would be the carpet,' my brain mutters abstractedly), is the floor.
I fainted after we got to this-this-this place. This place they claim will help you. I have never thought so.
'Want to try getting up, mister I've-got-it-all-together?' that stupid Voice mocks sweetly, condescension enthused in every honeyed word.
I might as well try to get up, I reason, so I blink my eyes lazily, but blurry shapes swirl around for a moment as they adjust. Yeah, I am right. There is a carpeted floor beneath my face. How lovely.
I frown. As I open my bleary eyes, I feel someone beside me. Cody? I want to ask, but the name dies before it can make it out of my lips as I hear the person speak.
"You best move slowly, now."
Nurse Moustache.
She grabs my shoulder and I try not to panic beneath the grip.
Why isn't Cody here, though? Why isn't he the one who is here helping me get back up, picking me back up when I fall instead of this-this-this inhuman being?
I know why, though. I should not question, but I do. I don't like the knowledge, but I have it. I don't like what it is, but it is.
He acts like he cares when he really doesn't, not really. And he acted earlier like he did, and then he left me here all alone.
I should have known—I did know. So why did I harbour the slightest bit of hope that he would have stayed here with me? He wanted nothing more than to get the farthest away from me as was possible, all the time.
He never comes around unless I have something he wants.
Like comfort after his break-up with Bailey. Like when he needs a soundboard for all of his rants about how unreasonable Bailey is. Like having someone to go to for him to unload on all of his tirades about the destruction of the environment, how much he hates his job, about how the ship does not have a suitable lights-off-at-certain-hours program or the school a suitable biology lab.
Like having someone to gloat to about his better grades, his brighter future, and his higher intellect.
Spastic.
"Up, slowly now, that is," the nurse's voice interrupts my thoughts, bringing me partially back to reality, to the here and now.
'What is this?' My confusion whispers in my mind.
She is being nicer to me than normal, nicer than I have ever seen her be to anyone…ever. She is helping me up, instead of what I expect—to be told to get up all by myself and then being left there completely, to do as commanded.
'Wait there, you blight. She's just doing her job, that is all. Clinical obligation, and all that professional stuff. She doesn't care about you. Duh. Nobody does. Especially Cody." I hate that Voice, but somehow it is always right.
I nod, the slightest bit, and focus my attention instead on putting my hands and knees underneath me to lever myself into a sitting position.
"Now to your feet," Nurse Moustache instructs, and helps me rise to my feet, where a rush of vertigo flies into my head. Tough. It cannot control me.
I take charge of myself again, forcing my body to obey my command. Forcing myself to work through the dizziness and pass it by.
Forcing myself to ignore the ache that pangs again, like the problematic little wimp it is, inside of me.
Nurse Moustache keeps a grip around my shoulders and on my arm, directing me into the next room. I focus on my feet and on walking, ignoring the bile in my throat and the fear that would consume me again.
I hate this place.
My head pounds in time with my heart, feeling as though it might hammer its way out of my skull. Good thing I have a thick head, huh?
Cloudy mind would darken if I let it, but I have to fight the vertigo and the panic attack. I have to. I have to fight to regain my senses, my internal balance…my mask.
Nurse Moustache leads me to the infirmary bed, with its stupid starched sheets and stupid hard mattress.
Too bad I already mentioned I hate this place.
I settle and she grabs my arm, her attention zeroing in on the cut I had inflicted upon myself. I look away, casting my eyes around the room.
There are evil looking instruments and more of my demons waiting to haunt me. I swallow.
Where is Cody?
The last vestige of my hope that maybe he was there, simply hovering out of sight while Nurse Moustache did her job, is crushed.
It is an empty room over her shoulder.
Empty, yet full with all the fears that are determined to bleed me dry…that is, if I don't do it to myself first.
'Like you would, coward.'
I sigh.
The nurse pokes at the wound, tender flesh and sensitive nerves. I cannot hide a wince.
I notice that her eyes narrow for a moment as she examines my arm, and I have just enough time to begin to panic over the look before she releases me and turns away. She walks across the room to retrieve antiseptic and cotton swabs from their shelves.
Restless energy is gathering in the pit of my stomach as I force away every ounce of panic that I possibly can.
'Why should you? It is not like you don't have anything to panic over. You are alone -however fittingly- and broken -that's your own wretched fault, you idiot- and all of your demons shall never forsake you…they are the only ones who do not and who will not. Fantastic, eh?'
I ignore the way my heart is smote by the words, for my haunting Voice is right. Always, always right. I cannot escape it.
Nurse Moustache returns, pulling up a stool and sitting in front of me. She dabs antiseptic onto the cotton swab and grabs my arm.
This time, I nearly flinch back when she does, but I manage to hide it. What does it matter? I have nothing to fear from her.
'Tell yourself that all you want, weakling.'
'Stop it. She doesn't know anything. She'll patch up my arm and I can leave, and that will be it. I can survive in here that long.'
She begins to wipe the wound, and I try to breathe in. Then…
"You're a clever boy, Mr. Martin," Nurse Moustache's shrewd tone accentuates her words powerfully. Her meaning is clear.
I swallow hard as my eyes widen. My heart rate explodes.
She knows.
What is that look in your eyes?
I see there is something else
What is the truth behind your lies?
I see that who you are is not yourself
What is your life if all of it is a charade?
A plastic, empty bottle, a dime a dozen,
Tell me, can you control the mess you've made?
You're losing all sanity, reason, substance within
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Author's Note: Uh...filler chapter? No. It wasn't intended to be. But the plans for the next chapter had to be in a completely separate chapter all by itself, and when I post next week I will explain why. This chapter was fun to write, though. I liked getting into Nurse Hatchet's head. She was a lot of fun to write. She is a jaded woman, prickly and all, but beneath that, her heart still beats somewhere. She just doesn't pay attention to it.
If I messed up on the tenses in any places, I am really sorry. I tried hard to assure I did not, but I ran out of editing time...especially on Zack's part (which was all written this evening, like within the last hour to hour and a half).
By the way, in Nurse Hatchet's scene, did anyone catch my "knock off" hail to the Sprouse twins? It's an "expression" I have heard them use in interviews, but I may be the only one who would catch it...
Also, owlhero, I wanted to thank you for giving me one of the lines in Zack's part. I think you can find which one. It is in the third paragraph of his part and it is something you said in the review you left on the first chapter.
I am not sure I have any questions this time... What did you think? What did you like? Any suggestions, thoughts, constructive criticism? I would love to hear any thoughts you feel worth sharing!
Vocabulary:
verbiage - (1) excess of words: an excess of words that add little or nothing to the meaning
cope - You will not find this in your dictionary the way I have used it. I have taken the verb, cope, and used it as a noun. I...nounified it? [Cope - (v) handle something successfully: to deal successfully with a difficult problem or situation]
enthused - past and past participle of enthuse—enthuse - (2) say with enthusiasm: to express enthusiasm about something or say something enthusiastically
spastic - (2) offensive term: an offensive term meaning lacking physical coordination or the ability to perform competently (dated)
gouged - part and past participle of gouge—gouge - (1) carve out hole: to cut or scoop a hole or groove in something, usually using a sharp tool
blight - (1) destructive force: something that spoils or damages things severely
Thanks for stopping by for this installment! I will get hard to work on the next chapter...let's all hope I manage better this week and have my ducks in a row more next Wednesday evening.