Title: Moment of Clarity
Author: Angela
Rating: R
Spoilers: None
Summary: He's been given a lead role in a cage in exchange for a walk on part in a war.
Disclaimer: So I vent my inner rage, confusion, and frustration through characters that aren't mine, what of it? No one told me it had to make sense, either.
Moment of Clarity
He closed his eyes, then opened them. Closed, then opened again. Either way, he was buried in an infinite void, swallowed by the gaping mouth of darkness. He was locked inside a man-made hell and locked inside the heap of flesh and bone that the gods had molded, close to catalepsy or psychosis. Every last bit of Darien Fawkes was spiraling down the drain, leaving nothing but a shell with a vacant stare, struggling to know the difference between reality and delusion.
The time when he could easily tell the difference had not been long ago. Had he been so close to the edge, or were They just that good?
They. Everyone referred to "They" or "Them" sometimes. People had no idea those mysterious entities actually existed. They wanted nothing to do with the masses. They saved their collective efforts for the poor bastards who looked more ordinary than anyone else. Ordinary was always as peculiar as it appeared not to be.
Darien squirmed, feeling the fabric of the straight jacket against his bare flesh. It was rough and uncomfortable. So were the thin hospital pants he wore. All the sensations he received now were so hostile. He could no longer dream of pleasure.
He'd been alone for so long. He ached for someone, anyone. Just to feel the absolute comfort of another human being's skin, just one more touch wasn't too much to ask for, was it?
He used to dream of the velvety white skin of a delicate woman, one that smelled of some kind of scented lotion. She had fine hairs on her arms, strands of thick, straight hair cascading down the milky smoothness of her back. She felt like silk.
He used to dream of the worn hands of an ancient man, the brittle fingers entwined with his own. He felt as if the man's hands would crumble into dust if he grasped them too tightly. The man had a day's worth of stubble on his face, and his skin was scarred with memories of the past. Strands of gray, almost translucent hair framed his withered face.
But the dreams were gone, they had abandoned him. Had he forgotten how to feel, or had he forgotten how to sleep? Could a man forget how to process external stimulation? Could nerve endings gradually become numb?
None of what he had dreamed was erotic. The longing he felt was more primal than lust, deeper than anything he could recall feeling ever before in his life. He wanted to know if he could still feel comfort. He had to know.
Comfort. What was comfort? A warm summer's breeze through his hair, the sting of a winter's chill on his face. The scent of exhaust fumes out on the street, the scent of the hot dog stands that reminded him of childhood. The sunshine and the beach.
God, how all of them on the outside took it for granted. They couldn't appreciate what was outside their office doors and waiting for them inside their homes. They couldn't because they had never been deprived of it, not like this.
Every moment was so precious, and he wanted to make them all realize it. Wanted to rip out their throats, spray their blood on those sidewalks he would never walk upon again, saturate the sands of those beaches he would never see with it and laugh...
Fucking doctors in their fucking uniforms, with their tests and chemicals. What were they trying to do? What were they trying to prove? He could not deny what a burden his conscience was becoming, and how weary he was becoming of carrying it. The violent thoughts were becoming more and more frequent as the rage of a caged animal fermented within his being. He had mourned his freedom, he had paced, and now he wanted vengeance for the dignity he had been stripped of.
They had taken him from his apartment, it had happened so quickly he had had no time to react. He had been sleeping, as most people had been that early Saturday morning, and then there was a gloved hand on his mouth and the sharp sting of a needle in his arm. He had awakened in this room, the sterile small of that gloved hand still lingered in his nostrils. No light, no sound. Nothing but the cushioned floor beneath him, the clothes on his body, and the breath in his lungs. He had yelled for a while, aiming his profanities and pleas in all directions because he knew not where the door was and didn't think it would make much of a difference if he did. No one was listening.
They kept him in the dark. The lights were off, and he did not know when they would be turned on. Sometimes three or four times a day, the glass sun would shed its light on Darien's small world, the people in the crisp white uniforms would take him. Sometimes darkness reigned for a day or two. Darien couldn't keep track of the time anymore, maybe because he didn't see the point in keeping track of what he couldn't control.
No matter how often this occasion occurred, the light always stung his eyes. The intensity varied. Sometimes it only made his eyes water. Other times, he was blind for a few moments. Then the pain in his head would throb in time with his heartbeat. The headache was perpetual, but the light made it explode into violent and sharp agony.
He didn't resent the pain. It was the only indicator that he was still alive. He resented the darkness because it was drenched in the stench of fear and helplessness.
After the various tortures, all in the name of Science, he would be allowed to eat and use the washroom facilities. How very generous of them. Most lab rats didn't get let out of their cages unless it was for another needle or another maze.
There were no mirrors, but he could just imagine how pathetic his appearance was. He was not allowed to shave or cut his hair. After the first month, he began eating half of what he normally would have. Now, three months later, he barely consumed more than two spoonfuls of the cardboard they tried to use as food. He was not allowed to feed himself. A dark-skinned, middle-aged man with thick glasses spoon-fed him like he was a damn two-year-old.
He had tried to resist. He had tried to fight and escape, but They were generous with sedatives. He didn't feel like exerting the wasted effort anymore.
It had been a day, he supposed, since his last encounter with the light, with the doctors and their machines and simulations. Their white uniforms, their white lights, their white walls.
White. There was so much white, everything and everyone was bathed in it. A place so depraved shouldn't look so pure.
It was too quite, or perhaps it was too loud. He could detect the air moving through the ducts and vents. Gas molecules slamming into each other every now and then, they had to make some sort of noise, didn't they?
It was too loud.
But he could hear nothing on the outside, on the other side of the door. No footsteps, no rustling. Nothing.
Too quiet.
Fuck, he was losing it. That was a clearer sign than any, admitting the truth to himself. He thought that he didn't want it any longer. Permanent madness seemed right around the corner before, because of the immunity he had developed to the counteragent. Now that the gland wasn't an issue, he was finally going to snap. Irony was a bitch.
It was such a lonely journey. Each path was specialized for the person traveling it, each crucible was perfected so it would cause the sufferer as much pain as possible before they forgot what pain was, or perhaps they came to enjoy it.
He waited for the ground to give but still thought of the luminous presence of safety, the warmth of certainty.
It wasn't over, not yet. There was a space between, a torrid swamp with endless murky depths. He was trapped there, in a purgatory not meant for a petty criminal like himself. He couldn't see where he was going, and he felt things he couldn't identify. He was teetering on the brink but gravity couldn't seem to make up its mind. Yes, there was always something in the middle, and it was always worse than the two extremes. Half-alive meant death could be just as close as life.
Darien shifted onto his back, his head titled to the right, remembering that the dormant light bulb could burst into life at any time. The floor was made of the same padded material as the walls, and he sank into it. He imagined himself being consumed by it. It was less firm than the Agency's room. My room, Darien thought. This wasn't his room. Did they think he was stupid enough not to notice the difference?
He decided to allow himself to follow an earlier train of thought. Those sidewalks and those beaches, decorated with gore, bright with human vitality, were beautiful inside his mind.
His bland surroundings needed a paint job. Red on white would be so nice. Little spatters here, massive splatters there. Like arts and crafts in grade school.
The overhead light clicked on abruptly, and he closed his eyes so tightly that he saw stars, blue-yellow against a black abyss.
He was still fantasizing as they dragged him out of the room, off of the soft, warm padding onto the malignant frigid steel floor of the facility.
The stars were still burning behind his eyes, and the scene was still blue-yellow against black. He wanted red on white, like sin on perfect innocence. He wanted blood on his new walls, and he wanted flesh in his hands. Once the warm liquid covered his walls, he wouldn't have to be alone. The stains would keep him company. He would be able to feel their presence in the dark and admire them in the brief glimpses of light. It would be so nice to have company once again, and a change in the environment.
As they deposited him on a stretcher, Darien felt the ground cave in, he felt himself falling as gravity pulled him down, and he laughed as he felt a brand new freedom wash over him like a warm salt water wave.
~The End~
Author: Angela
Rating: R
Spoilers: None
Summary: He's been given a lead role in a cage in exchange for a walk on part in a war.
Disclaimer: So I vent my inner rage, confusion, and frustration through characters that aren't mine, what of it? No one told me it had to make sense, either.
Moment of Clarity
He closed his eyes, then opened them. Closed, then opened again. Either way, he was buried in an infinite void, swallowed by the gaping mouth of darkness. He was locked inside a man-made hell and locked inside the heap of flesh and bone that the gods had molded, close to catalepsy or psychosis. Every last bit of Darien Fawkes was spiraling down the drain, leaving nothing but a shell with a vacant stare, struggling to know the difference between reality and delusion.
The time when he could easily tell the difference had not been long ago. Had he been so close to the edge, or were They just that good?
They. Everyone referred to "They" or "Them" sometimes. People had no idea those mysterious entities actually existed. They wanted nothing to do with the masses. They saved their collective efforts for the poor bastards who looked more ordinary than anyone else. Ordinary was always as peculiar as it appeared not to be.
Darien squirmed, feeling the fabric of the straight jacket against his bare flesh. It was rough and uncomfortable. So were the thin hospital pants he wore. All the sensations he received now were so hostile. He could no longer dream of pleasure.
He'd been alone for so long. He ached for someone, anyone. Just to feel the absolute comfort of another human being's skin, just one more touch wasn't too much to ask for, was it?
He used to dream of the velvety white skin of a delicate woman, one that smelled of some kind of scented lotion. She had fine hairs on her arms, strands of thick, straight hair cascading down the milky smoothness of her back. She felt like silk.
He used to dream of the worn hands of an ancient man, the brittle fingers entwined with his own. He felt as if the man's hands would crumble into dust if he grasped them too tightly. The man had a day's worth of stubble on his face, and his skin was scarred with memories of the past. Strands of gray, almost translucent hair framed his withered face.
But the dreams were gone, they had abandoned him. Had he forgotten how to feel, or had he forgotten how to sleep? Could a man forget how to process external stimulation? Could nerve endings gradually become numb?
None of what he had dreamed was erotic. The longing he felt was more primal than lust, deeper than anything he could recall feeling ever before in his life. He wanted to know if he could still feel comfort. He had to know.
Comfort. What was comfort? A warm summer's breeze through his hair, the sting of a winter's chill on his face. The scent of exhaust fumes out on the street, the scent of the hot dog stands that reminded him of childhood. The sunshine and the beach.
God, how all of them on the outside took it for granted. They couldn't appreciate what was outside their office doors and waiting for them inside their homes. They couldn't because they had never been deprived of it, not like this.
Every moment was so precious, and he wanted to make them all realize it. Wanted to rip out their throats, spray their blood on those sidewalks he would never walk upon again, saturate the sands of those beaches he would never see with it and laugh...
Fucking doctors in their fucking uniforms, with their tests and chemicals. What were they trying to do? What were they trying to prove? He could not deny what a burden his conscience was becoming, and how weary he was becoming of carrying it. The violent thoughts were becoming more and more frequent as the rage of a caged animal fermented within his being. He had mourned his freedom, he had paced, and now he wanted vengeance for the dignity he had been stripped of.
They had taken him from his apartment, it had happened so quickly he had had no time to react. He had been sleeping, as most people had been that early Saturday morning, and then there was a gloved hand on his mouth and the sharp sting of a needle in his arm. He had awakened in this room, the sterile small of that gloved hand still lingered in his nostrils. No light, no sound. Nothing but the cushioned floor beneath him, the clothes on his body, and the breath in his lungs. He had yelled for a while, aiming his profanities and pleas in all directions because he knew not where the door was and didn't think it would make much of a difference if he did. No one was listening.
They kept him in the dark. The lights were off, and he did not know when they would be turned on. Sometimes three or four times a day, the glass sun would shed its light on Darien's small world, the people in the crisp white uniforms would take him. Sometimes darkness reigned for a day or two. Darien couldn't keep track of the time anymore, maybe because he didn't see the point in keeping track of what he couldn't control.
No matter how often this occasion occurred, the light always stung his eyes. The intensity varied. Sometimes it only made his eyes water. Other times, he was blind for a few moments. Then the pain in his head would throb in time with his heartbeat. The headache was perpetual, but the light made it explode into violent and sharp agony.
He didn't resent the pain. It was the only indicator that he was still alive. He resented the darkness because it was drenched in the stench of fear and helplessness.
After the various tortures, all in the name of Science, he would be allowed to eat and use the washroom facilities. How very generous of them. Most lab rats didn't get let out of their cages unless it was for another needle or another maze.
There were no mirrors, but he could just imagine how pathetic his appearance was. He was not allowed to shave or cut his hair. After the first month, he began eating half of what he normally would have. Now, three months later, he barely consumed more than two spoonfuls of the cardboard they tried to use as food. He was not allowed to feed himself. A dark-skinned, middle-aged man with thick glasses spoon-fed him like he was a damn two-year-old.
He had tried to resist. He had tried to fight and escape, but They were generous with sedatives. He didn't feel like exerting the wasted effort anymore.
It had been a day, he supposed, since his last encounter with the light, with the doctors and their machines and simulations. Their white uniforms, their white lights, their white walls.
White. There was so much white, everything and everyone was bathed in it. A place so depraved shouldn't look so pure.
It was too quite, or perhaps it was too loud. He could detect the air moving through the ducts and vents. Gas molecules slamming into each other every now and then, they had to make some sort of noise, didn't they?
It was too loud.
But he could hear nothing on the outside, on the other side of the door. No footsteps, no rustling. Nothing.
Too quiet.
Fuck, he was losing it. That was a clearer sign than any, admitting the truth to himself. He thought that he didn't want it any longer. Permanent madness seemed right around the corner before, because of the immunity he had developed to the counteragent. Now that the gland wasn't an issue, he was finally going to snap. Irony was a bitch.
It was such a lonely journey. Each path was specialized for the person traveling it, each crucible was perfected so it would cause the sufferer as much pain as possible before they forgot what pain was, or perhaps they came to enjoy it.
He waited for the ground to give but still thought of the luminous presence of safety, the warmth of certainty.
It wasn't over, not yet. There was a space between, a torrid swamp with endless murky depths. He was trapped there, in a purgatory not meant for a petty criminal like himself. He couldn't see where he was going, and he felt things he couldn't identify. He was teetering on the brink but gravity couldn't seem to make up its mind. Yes, there was always something in the middle, and it was always worse than the two extremes. Half-alive meant death could be just as close as life.
Darien shifted onto his back, his head titled to the right, remembering that the dormant light bulb could burst into life at any time. The floor was made of the same padded material as the walls, and he sank into it. He imagined himself being consumed by it. It was less firm than the Agency's room. My room, Darien thought. This wasn't his room. Did they think he was stupid enough not to notice the difference?
He decided to allow himself to follow an earlier train of thought. Those sidewalks and those beaches, decorated with gore, bright with human vitality, were beautiful inside his mind.
His bland surroundings needed a paint job. Red on white would be so nice. Little spatters here, massive splatters there. Like arts and crafts in grade school.
The overhead light clicked on abruptly, and he closed his eyes so tightly that he saw stars, blue-yellow against a black abyss.
He was still fantasizing as they dragged him out of the room, off of the soft, warm padding onto the malignant frigid steel floor of the facility.
The stars were still burning behind his eyes, and the scene was still blue-yellow against black. He wanted red on white, like sin on perfect innocence. He wanted blood on his new walls, and he wanted flesh in his hands. Once the warm liquid covered his walls, he wouldn't have to be alone. The stains would keep him company. He would be able to feel their presence in the dark and admire them in the brief glimpses of light. It would be so nice to have company once again, and a change in the environment.
As they deposited him on a stretcher, Darien felt the ground cave in, he felt himself falling as gravity pulled him down, and he laughed as he felt a brand new freedom wash over him like a warm salt water wave.
~The End~