Back in the Hole

Chapter Five

It's Time to Wake Up

Ryan felt safe. And warm. It was nice. He wasn't thinking in complete sentences, or even in words. He was merely existing, his thoughts simple pictures and emotions. He seemed to be floating. It was nice here. He was shrouded in perfect blackness, as if in a cocoon. No sound was penetrating, no light, no hands, nothing. Just blackness and peace. He didn't care about anything or anyone, and he had no needs, desires, guilt, fear, pain, or regret. He was just…existing.

He liked it.

Then he started to be aware of other things. The warmth began to lessen, and there was a slight chill. The shroud was lifting, and he began to see little spots of gray. Ryan became uneasy. He fought to retain this comfortable emptiness. He needed it. It was the only way to be safe, away from everything. He couldn't be hurt here. It was simple.

Despite his greatest efforts, the blackness didn't return. It got a little lighter still. The sounds became more insistent. There was a shrill beeping, lots of clattering, and many harsh, anxious voices. He couldn't recognize any of them, but that was okay, because he really didn't want to. They kept getting louder, and they seemed to be closer.

No. Ryan willed himself to back away from the voices, deeper into the blackness, but it didn't work. They were clearer and clearer, until he could almost understand what they were saying. In this near-waking moment, Ryan had a weird flash of memory. He thought of that old TV show, "Twin Peaks," and the dream sequences with the dwarf that spoke backwards. That creepy method of speech had always chilled Ryan, and the voices now trying to reach him were having the same effect.

As Ryan made one last, determined effort to float back away from the reality, physical sensation began to return.

It was as if he was slammed into the real world with an incredible force. He felt himself spinning, falling, landing hard. He ached everywhere, and the light was so bright. It was hurting his eyes, burning into his skull, threatening to fry his brain. Although reality had returned, memory had not. Ryan had no idea where he was, or why, or what had caused the intense pains he now felt throughout every part of his body, but he knew one thing: HE HAD TO GET AWAY.

He didn't know what he was getting away from, except that it wasn't safe outside of the blackness. As long as there were others around, he was in danger. He couldn't just lie here, vulnerable. He had to get up.

While physical sensation returned, Ryan's hearing clarified. Speech slowed down for an instant, got thicker, and then sped up and became normal. The most insistent, closest voice was masculine, and he sounded upset. Danger. "Ryan, it's time to wake up. Come on, kid, wake up. That's it, open your eyes."

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Doctor Jeffries knew that his young patient had been combative when the paramedics had found him but he'd come in unconscious, and he'd been out for far too long, now. There was really no physical reason for the teen to still be in this condition, and it was definitely time that he wake up. Jeffries was afraid of catatonia. Where the Hell was that guy from Psych?

Sighing, Jeffries continued to attempt to wake the kid. It didn't matter if the psych consult was down here yet, or not.

It was time for this kid to wake up.

"Ryan, it's time to wake up. Come on, kid, wake up. That's it, open your eyes."

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Ryan didn't know who was speaking to him, or why, and he didn't really care. He could figure that out later. For now, he had to get away. He began to open his eyes, but not because the voice was telling him to; he needed to see where he was if he was going to be able to formulate an escape plan. In the same moment that his eyes began to open, he struggled to sit, intending on standing and backing away from everyone.

In that instant, Ryan panicked.

His eyes flew open, and he almost vomited from the pain, but he had another, more pressing need: he was tied down. He couldn't stand up. He was strapped down, to a BED, and there were a bunch of strangers in here, and their hands, their HANDS were touching him, all over him, and he couldn't get away, couldn't make them stop, couldn't even reach up with his own hands to brush them away, and he had to get away, had to make them stop, had to make them stop, had to make them

"STOOOOOOPPP!!!!" Ryan howled.

But the hands didn't stop, the voices didn't stop, and he was still tied down. Desperate, unthinking, purely reacting, he began to flail wildly, shrieking in utter terror. This scream was wordless. It was just a deep, primal howl, accompanied by panicked grunts and moans, as the voices became more and more insistent, and there were three of them right at his head, and they wouldn't back off, wouldn't let him up, and he was still tied down, and the hands were all over him. Clenching his eyes shut, Ryan strained with all of his might against the straps binding him to this bed, and he gasped and recoiled when he felt two hands pushing forcefully on his shoulders, pressing him down into the bed. Another pair of hands was tightly grasping his ankles, and someone was pressing on his waist…Oh, God, no, Ryan whimpered inside his head. Suddenly, his tactic for escape changed from a wild bucking and thrashing to a concerted effort to shrink back into the bed as hard as he could, pulling away from all of those hands, but especially those at his waist. He couldn't, he couldn't get away, they were all over him, he was trapped, he was in so much pain, and the voices wouldn't go away.

He started to give in, again. Just like that, he switched from abject, primal terror to a whimpering, cowering, desperate attempt at crawling back away inside of his mind. He knew that the best way to do this was to be still and ignore the physical sensations. He couldn't hide if he was aware of reality. Pain and…hands…would only keep him here. He had to ignore them, and then he could slip away, but he had to do it quick. The longer he stayed here, the less likely it was that he would be able to slip through that crack in his mind and hide.

It was starting to work, he started to slip away, but the hands kept pressing hard, and they were hurting his ribs, and they were touching him, and he kept sliding back away from the entrance to his hiding place, and he was frustrated, as well as scared.

"Ryan!" that insistent, angry man yelled, right in his face. Definitely angry. Pissed off. Not good. "Ryan, stop it RIGHT NOW! You have got to calm down, or you will only hurt yourself more. Do you understand me?"

Calm down, or he'll hurt me more. Is that what he said? Of course that's what he said. What else is going to happen when you don't obey?

Receiving no response, the man leaned in closer to Ryan's face, and practically yelled, "Do you understand me!?"

Gasping, shaking in fear, Ryan instinctively nodded, hoping for a reprieve from the yelling, the pain, and the hands. Instead, the man continued to speak, still so angry.

"Look, kid, I don't know what in the Hell is going on with you, but you've been badly injured, and we're trying to help you. We can't do that if you keep fighting us, so you've gotta let us do our jobs. Okay?"

Still not opening his eyes, Ryan struggled with the two halves of his brain. The practical one, as always, told him to submit, do what he was told, minimize the damage, and hide away. The other part, the angry, scared part, insisted that he couldn't just volunteer for more pain. If he did what they said, he'd be giving them permission to hurt him, and he couldn't stand the thought of being so weak.

Before he had a chance to respond, the hands on his shoulders began to mercifully lift.

"Okay, I think that we have an understanding," said the not-so-angry voice. Now it sounded smug. Smug is bad. Smug means control, power.

Trying one more time to slip away, Ryan dejectedly realized that he was in too much pain. It wasn't going to happen. He was on his own. He couldn't just hide until it was over. That ship has sailed, my friends. Time for another tactic.

Do something. Placate. Promise. Anything. Just try to put it off.

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Shakily, so quietly that the doctor almost missed it, Ryan whispered, "I'm sorry."

The doctor was shocked into silence. Thirty seconds ago, this kid had almost succeeded in pulling himself free of the restraints. They had actually begun to tear. That should be impossible. They were supposed to be able to withstand the force of a PCP crazed lunatic, and this small, slight teen had almost broken free. The restraints on the left hand and the lap belt had begun to tear. The doctor had no idea what was going on with this kid, but it was something that he was fairly certain he would be better off not knowing. Now, mere seconds after pulling like a wild animal, the teen seemed meek and submissive. He was almost…broken. God, it hurt Jeffries' heart to think of what this kid had been through, and he hated that he had been a party to further traumatizing the boy.

Dr. Jeffries leaned in closer, intending to reassure Ryan that he was going to be okay, but he had apparently made the wrong move.

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Ryan had hoped that the smug, angry man would leave him alone, but he had been wrong. Of course he'd been wrong.

Since when did things go right for an Atwood? We're all doomed to suffer. We're paying for the sins of our ancestors, or something.

It's the most logical among pointless explanations.

As the angry/smug man leaned in, Ryan flinched, and then he panicked. It's a bad idea to show fear, because then you give more power. People have more fun if they know you're afraid. If you just don't show the fear, they usually get bored sooner, and they'll leave you alone. Not smart to show fear.

Quickly, Ryan forced himself to still, making his face impassive.

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Dr. Jeffries was startled by the boy's reaction. He had intended to utter some calming, reassuring words (just exactly what those were to be, he had no idea yet, but he was sure that he would have been able to come up with something appropriate), but Ryan had flinched as he leaned near. It took only an instant before the boy's face had suddenly changed into an emptiness that was very eerie. Ryan had suddenly become very still, and his breathing had slowed. To a casual observer, Ryan would look calm and reserved. But Jeffries was no casual observer. He was an ER doc, trained in spotting physical signs of shock, and this kid was definitely not calm. His face gave that impression, but his body betrayed his true emotions. He was sweating profusely, and Jeffries could see that every muscle in Ryan's body was trembling. They were straining, barely held in check.

God.

This kid was beyond terrified.

He did the only kind thing that he could.

He backed up.

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It worked. The man just backed away. Don't know why, but don't really care right now. At least he backed off. He was way too close to me.

Ryan took a slow, quivering breath, and he gasped as his ribs reminded him of their presence. He was starting to wonder how he'd been hurt, and where he was, when the man spoke again.

"Andrew, let him go. He'll be fine," the voice said, and Ryan felt the hands on his feet let him go. He noticed that the voice didn't sound smug anymore, and the anger hadn't returned. If Ryan hadn't known better, he'd have thought that the man sounded concerned, but that didn't make any sense. He had Ryan right where he wanted him; why would he be concerned?

Ryan didn't have the time to wonder about that right now.

The hands were still on his waist, and those…they had to go. Willing himself to risk it, Ryan spoke again.

"Please," he whispered tentatively. "Please untie me."

I'll be good. Ryan thought desperately. He wanted to say more, but he had already risked enough just by speaking at all. It wasn't his everyday method of coping, but this wasn't an everyday situation. It may have happened often, but it still wasn't everyday.

What he wanted to say coursed through his mind, over and over, a silent plea.

I can stand whatever you do to me, just don't tie me down. Oh, God, I can't take being tied down. Please.

Not surprisingly, the hands on Ryan's waist didn't comply. Taking a risk, Ryan looked at the man who had been speaking to him. Silently pleading, he made eye contact.

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Jeffries was surprised to find the kid actually looking at him. It seemed to be accomplished through sheer force of will, and he admired this kid for his unbelievable mental strength. There was obviously a lot going on, and yet this kid had not shattered. He seemed to have broken, but there was still quite a bit of strength left in that boy. Looking into his eyes, he saw what the boy was asking for.

Unfortunately, he could not comply.

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Sighing sadly, Ryan looked down when he realized that his attempt would be pointless. This man wasn't going to let him go.

The wild panic threatened to return, as Ryan's head began to fill with a buzzing. He couldn't concentrate around it, and--within seconds--it threatened to overwhelm him.

The voice was saying something about "your own good," but Ryan didn't like that phrase. It was never followed by anything pleasant, and it was usually terrible. Aside from that, it was really hard to hear anyone now. The buzzing was loud, and he was starting to feel thick and heavy.

The hands on his waist finally released him, but he was still unable to relax, because he was still vulnerable, at their mercy, because he was still tied down. Then a miracle happened!

The hands began to unbuckle his waist strap! Thinking he would be freed, Ryan fought the buzzing, and he started to try to sit up, but more hands grabbed his shoulders again, pushing him back down.

Confused, Ryan looked at the hands on his waist, as they began to lift his shirt.

Nononononononononononononononono, Ryan silently moaned. Not again. Not again. The hands were touching his bare skin now, on his stomach, baring his chest for all to see, and he couldn't take it, couldn't take it, and then they reached for his pants. They began to unbutton his jeans, and he couldn't stand it anymore, and the buzzing was so loud now, and he heard a low keening alongside it, and he realized that that noise was his own, and the buzzing was deafening, and he felt so thick and heavy, and he wanted so desperately to slip off into his mind, but he couldn't do it.

His jeans were unzipped, and hands grabbed his hips and lifted him, as more hands pulled his jeans down to his ankles.

Frantically, Ryan began to pray.

God, please, please, not again. Not this time. I swear that I'll try to be good, I'll do what I can to keep your commandments and help others, but please, don't let it happen to me this time. Please, not this time. Please.

Suddenly, the buzzing stopped, and Ryan was able to hear the voice, right near his ear, speaking frantically, but it seemed soothing. Ryan tried hard to focus, and he noticed that all hands had removed themselves from him. He was still bare, open, exposed, but there were no hands. The waist strap had not been replaced, and there were no hands. Mercifully, no hands.

The voice seemed desperate for Ryan to listen, so he tried.

"Ryan, please, hear me. I swear that you're going to be okay. No one here wants to hurt you. We all want to help you. You've been hurt, Ryan, can you remember that?"

Hurt? I do hurt. How did I get hurt? I can't remember.

Ryan slowly shook his head, glancing sideways at the man who had been speaking to him, afraid to make complete eye contact again. Hoping that he would let Ryan go, or at least explain what was going on.

"Ryan, you're in the hospital. We're just trying to assess your injuries. You've been fighting us so hard, but we only want to help you. Please, Ryan, please let us check you out. I swear to you that no one wants to hurt you. Please, Ryan, just let us examine you, okay? We'll make the hurt less."

Hospital. Suddenly, a lot of things began to make sense. Not everything, but a lot. Logically, Ryan now understood why the hands had begun to remove his clothing, but the thought still made him shiver, and he was aware that his stomach was again threatening to rebel.

I've never liked hospitals. They're too risky. It's so hard to keep up with all the lies, and there are just so many hands, and everyone wants to touch, and they all feel like they have the right. It's the same thing. More strangers insisting that they have the right to touch, and I'm supposed to let them. God, please help me. What do I do?

At exactly the right time, the voice--Ryan figured that he was probably a doctor--spoke again.

"Ryan, I'll make this as quick as possible, and then we'll see about getting those restraints off, okay?"

Glancing quickly at the man's face, Ryan made a decision. Sighing, he closed his eyes and nodded at the doctor, giving his consent.

I should've just done this at the start. I know this is the way. Let them do what they want, and it ends sooner.

The reasons didn't matter. The end result was still the same.

Ryan had given in.

Again.

Author's Note: Thank you, again, for all the kind reviews. You've convinced me that I made the right choice when I decided to crawl out from under my rock, stop lurking, and start writing.

I promise that you will soon get a Cohen POV on the whole cop fiasco. It just wasn't time yet.