A BEE IN THE BONNET
by NotTasha
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PART 10: HOPSCOTCH

McKay rested on his back. It had taken nearly everything he had to make it this far. Then, after the tremendous effort it took to turn over in that narrow space, he found no further energy. God, he was so unwell. His head buzzed, his hands felt swollen and heavy. He'd stopped sweating, but was left sticky and miserable. He was so damnably tired, yet could feel his heart hammering in his chest and his mind still buzzed. He couldn't think.

He wanted to stop – he simply wanted to stop working and sleep.

If you let yourself do that, you'll die. No one will find you. You know that, don't you? Who do you think will help you? You got yourself into this mess and you have to be the one to get yourself out. Now, get cracking! Oh, but he felt so sick – so exhausted.

Oh, I don't want to die here. Please, don't let me die here. No one will know… no one would ever find me. They'd just think that one corridor smelled unusually gamey for a while. Maybe they'll shut down this wing until the stench clears. Then they'll find an odd mummy, clothed in polyester, jammed in between the floors when they remodel in the next 100 years, and they'll wonder how the hell that got there.

Stop it! This isn't doing you any good. Think!

But it's so hard… so hard to form any coherent thought. Do it!

And he opened his eyes to blink up at that tiny shaft of light – a pinprick – that looked like the aperture in a pinhole camera.

He'd read about homemade cameras in a book when he was seven, or six or five -- and had set about making one on his own – had constructed it out of materials he'd found around the house – a coffee can, a plastic lid (meticulously painted black), a flap made from thick, dark paper, hinged with heavy tape, a hole punched through a bit of tin and painstakingly smoothed to ensure a sharp image. He'd even made a viewfinder out of a piece of wire, secured to the top of the can. The instructions said it wasn't necessary – but it completed the project.

Carefully, diligently, he'd followed the instructions, loading the film in a dark room, sealing the device so no light could enter. He'd considered that he might want to be a photographer – posing subjects, adjusting lighting, making everything perfect. He'd tried to use his parents as subjects, but they were too busy of course – they had no time for such foolishness, and their animosity toward each other had risen to the point that they'd hardly stand to be in the same room together anymore – let alone pose for a photo. That was his fault of course – somehow it was always his fault.

McKay remembered the professional photographs that the family had attempted. He recalled the car trip to the studio, sitting in the back seat with his sister -- she in a pretty dress that she was constantly plucking at -- he in a stiff suit -- his parents bickering the whole way. Yes, his mother and father were doing this for the benefit of their children, of course, and let them know about it. The photographer would try to cajole them into relaxed poses, to smile, to laugh, to (at least) not grit their teeth… but it always ended up the same – four people with tight, counterfeit smiles, stiffly positioned, and wanting to get the hell out of there. "Now that's a happy family!" the photographer would say, grinning stupidly, hoping that he wouldn't get blamed for the result of his work.

They'd given up on that sham when he was twelve, or ten, or nine. He just couldn't recall exactly when. You should know! You should know everything! You have to know everything!

Why hadn't his parents divorced sooner -- like every other family? Why had it taken them SO LONG to realize that living together was torture… and not only for themselves? They stayed together on account of the children. He'd done everything he could think of to make them 'like' each other – he'd been so 'good' most of the time – to keep things calm and easy.

He'd learned the piano partly to please them – because they both found some enjoyment in listening to classical music. In his childish mind, he had created a fantasy – if he could only play the piano well enough, he might be able to make everyone happy. He'd imagined a scene – a boy playing a piano – a husband and wife, smiling and serene, lovingly watching their progeny, lovingly listening, lovingly loving each other.

But he wasn't good enough…

God, why are you even thinking about that? He snickered softly, wondering how he could be thinking of anything. His mind, that had always been so dutiful to his commands, was off playing hopscotch somewhere. Get working again…Reach your goal – escape!

Aw, what's the point? You're trapped. There's no way out. You're never getting out. What does it matter in any case? You might as well just let yourself sleep. Get it over with. Give up.

But that's not like me…

You gave up on the piano… on being a photographer… what else?

Not this… I won't give up on this.

He could hardly find the strength to open his eyes, to stare up at the tiny pinprick of light that came down on him… pinprick…pinhole camera… that's right. That's what he was thinking about – the coffee-can-camera.

Unable to use his family as subjects, he'd carefully staged little still-lifes and landscapes, trying to get the lighting just right – because there'd be no flash to illuminate the scene. He'd never been creative, and had photographed little more than fruit and coffee cups, and an empty backyard. He could set it all up perfectly.

The photos didn't come out…or at least they were never developed. His parents had seen no point to the silly endeavor when they had a perfectly good Nikon, with three different lenses – never used. The painstakingly-constructed, homemade camera had gone into the trash, along with the exposed film – the family portraits eventually followed.

Stop it! You must concentrate! Get yourself out of here! How? Through that little hole? Come on now… think. What could possibly fit through there? It's little wider than a needle. There has to be a way. Figure it out… it's what you do… you always figure things out. You have to… they count on you… to figure things out.

They need you.

And Rodney stared at the little hole and started thinking.
TBC-
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A/N: There's a hole... there's a hole... there's a hole in the bottom of the floor...