A/N: When everyone else is asleep, except for you and your best friend online happens to be a functioning male off on his own excursions...your JTHM rpgs you participate in aren't doing anything, and you can't think of anything to draw at the moment....you start to get wild ideas. Ideas something to the effect of continuing a long forgotten favorite and obvious hit. I have no idea what I'm doing. Guess who this new golden boy is.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Stop asking.
Jonathon was starting to think his decision to recover dignity over the truth had been hasty. He thought this especially being handcuffed and hauled off to a mental institution after a less than glowing psychiatric exam. He had no idea what was going on anymore, they'd drugged him so very intensely. The sallow teenagers swallowed, he was starting to get cotton mouth from the chemicals being shoved through his veins. Or else it felt like that. Why did the hallway have to be so very long? It was like a dry yellowing vein in itself...he remembered a video clip he'd seen long ago of a smoker's lungs...he was inside a smoker's lungs...it was so very black, he figured the nicotine addict was dying and passing their death onto him. He wanted to be held. He wanted to be beaten, he wanted the noise in his head to quit. The squelch of flesh from both the rape experience and the killing experience was grotesque and livid in his mind. But somehow covered in his enemies blood, well he couldn't help but feel a little bit better before covering himself in vomit from an allergy to the medication and passing out. Such is life.
Jonathon woke up forgetting what life was. For a blissful day or so in his white room forgetting anything before it and not expecting anything beyond it. He rejoiced in being so drugged, that no thought could slice his thick looming haze. The teenager couldn't have even if he wanted to. He couldn't remember who his parents were...he didn't know that they were dead and had been ashes for years, both shot during a break in when he was very small. He forgot his paternal grandfather Lloyd who was near his grave with worry, who'd raised Johnny. The old man knew he'd screwed up, but couldn't place where. Jonathon always had been quiet shy though opinionated if you got to talking to him, but far from violent. The teenager in question was in his mental shell...most of it was a self-imposed shield coupled with the medication to induce apathy. He would've loved it could he have felt. The boy had lusted for silence in his head, so he didn't have to talk himself. Now he had it. Even the trial was easily forgotten where his grandfather sobbed when he was taken away and locked in the looney bin for good. It was obvious to everyone with eyes Jonathon could never function. He'd never wanted to function, had been born a broken cog that just wanted a perfect nothing.
Sitting, knees to his chin in the corner of the child to teenager's section of the hospital, those pale brown eyes glowered out in perfect harmony with his void. Yes Johnny was a murderer apparently, with muddy delusions but he was far from dangerous. Besides the staff hardly cared if they were to lose one or two patients to this Jonathon boy's outburst. On the other side of the room however, would be the end of that, this static version of sanity. He was a burly boy, made thick and was the cliched murderous type with his stringy black hair crafty blue eyes and deep perverted sounding voice. He was about the same age as Jonathon, fifteen and had indeed been committed for his rage problems after getting his dear granny and mother hospitalized. Of course no one knew that before he was big enough to fight them they'd beaten him with belts, starved him and made him sleep outside; turning him mean in the same fashion as a bulldog. He too was considered progressively unresponsive, difficult to talk to, all that. Who cared? The boy was just glad to be out of school. It appeared though, that he'd be making a new friend soon as he plunked himself down beside Jonathon. "What the fuck's with you?" he asked tone highly amused as he was by most things, his voice both baritone and grating to Jonathon's fragile silence.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Stop asking.
Jonathon was starting to think his decision to recover dignity over the truth had been hasty. He thought this especially being handcuffed and hauled off to a mental institution after a less than glowing psychiatric exam. He had no idea what was going on anymore, they'd drugged him so very intensely. The sallow teenagers swallowed, he was starting to get cotton mouth from the chemicals being shoved through his veins. Or else it felt like that. Why did the hallway have to be so very long? It was like a dry yellowing vein in itself...he remembered a video clip he'd seen long ago of a smoker's lungs...he was inside a smoker's lungs...it was so very black, he figured the nicotine addict was dying and passing their death onto him. He wanted to be held. He wanted to be beaten, he wanted the noise in his head to quit. The squelch of flesh from both the rape experience and the killing experience was grotesque and livid in his mind. But somehow covered in his enemies blood, well he couldn't help but feel a little bit better before covering himself in vomit from an allergy to the medication and passing out. Such is life.
Jonathon woke up forgetting what life was. For a blissful day or so in his white room forgetting anything before it and not expecting anything beyond it. He rejoiced in being so drugged, that no thought could slice his thick looming haze. The teenager couldn't have even if he wanted to. He couldn't remember who his parents were...he didn't know that they were dead and had been ashes for years, both shot during a break in when he was very small. He forgot his paternal grandfather Lloyd who was near his grave with worry, who'd raised Johnny. The old man knew he'd screwed up, but couldn't place where. Jonathon always had been quiet shy though opinionated if you got to talking to him, but far from violent. The teenager in question was in his mental shell...most of it was a self-imposed shield coupled with the medication to induce apathy. He would've loved it could he have felt. The boy had lusted for silence in his head, so he didn't have to talk himself. Now he had it. Even the trial was easily forgotten where his grandfather sobbed when he was taken away and locked in the looney bin for good. It was obvious to everyone with eyes Jonathon could never function. He'd never wanted to function, had been born a broken cog that just wanted a perfect nothing.
Sitting, knees to his chin in the corner of the child to teenager's section of the hospital, those pale brown eyes glowered out in perfect harmony with his void. Yes Johnny was a murderer apparently, with muddy delusions but he was far from dangerous. Besides the staff hardly cared if they were to lose one or two patients to this Jonathon boy's outburst. On the other side of the room however, would be the end of that, this static version of sanity. He was a burly boy, made thick and was the cliched murderous type with his stringy black hair crafty blue eyes and deep perverted sounding voice. He was about the same age as Jonathon, fifteen and had indeed been committed for his rage problems after getting his dear granny and mother hospitalized. Of course no one knew that before he was big enough to fight them they'd beaten him with belts, starved him and made him sleep outside; turning him mean in the same fashion as a bulldog. He too was considered progressively unresponsive, difficult to talk to, all that. Who cared? The boy was just glad to be out of school. It appeared though, that he'd be making a new friend soon as he plunked himself down beside Jonathon. "What the fuck's with you?" he asked tone highly amused as he was by most things, his voice both baritone and grating to Jonathon's fragile silence.