Wow. Thanks a lot for the flattering response! I feel so humbled, and happy, so I decided to post the next chapter. Things are getting a bit awkward, at least that's what I think. Poor Gordon, he's suffering quite a lot…
Just to clarify things: this is not the first fanfic I ever wrote - just the first Thunderbirds one. I've written a lot of crappy digimon fics and a couple not-so crappy LotR ones (which means I can look at them without flinching).
I hope I made it at least somehow realistic. I tend to get carried away.
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Numb
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by kaeera
Chapter Two: The Prison
When nobody is talking to me, I drift in silence. The darkness has enveloped me like a cloud and I feel almost content. As long as I don't have to remember, I'm fine. I just ignore their voices, then I don't have to feel anything. The numbness is still there, but I don't care. Nothing is really important anymore.
But they won't let me.
They talk to me, touch my arm; try to get me to look at them. Why can't they understand? I can't respond, can't talk to you. I don't care. Just leave me in peace, okay? Let me stare at my spot on the wall and drift. I like drifting.
The noise of the machine stops, and I know that we're there. Home. The word has a foul taste to it.
Alan will never see his home again.
They're coming back again and I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the images to disappear. Slowly, they crawl back into the depths of my mind and I sigh relieved. They can stay there forever for all I care. As long as I don't have to see them.
I want to cry but I can't.
"Come on, Gordon," somebody lifts me up until I'm standing. For the first time, I look at the other person.
It's Virgil. The Virgil who reminds me of the little boy in the corner. Or did the boy remind me of Virgil? Either way, it doesn't matter. I see his face, but at the same time, I see the blood, the dirt, the darkness. Things I don't want to see.
I look away.
"…Gordon…" he sounds so helpless and I know that it's my fault. "Please talk to me…you're making me worried."
Another voice floats through the air. I see a blonde head and blue orbs – Alan – and close my eyes. I don't want to see him. Memories of the rescue wash over me and I feel sick.
He touches my arm, but I flinch away. No! Don't touch me! The last person who touched me died in my arms…
What are they saying? They're talking about me, leading me out of Thunderbird Two, but their voices just drift past me. I don't want to concentrate. I don't want to listen. I just want to curl up in a dark corner and never come out again.
The others are there, waiting. My father is there, looking worried. When he sees me, he immediately engulfs me in a bear hug, but I don't respond. I don't want to be comforted; I don't deserve it. He lets go and says something, but my mind is far away. They are standing around me and I can sense their frustration, but…but it's not important.
Finally, someone takes my hand and leads me away.
I feel like a little kid again.
They brought me here after someone examined me and treated my wounds properly. I must have fallen asleep during the process, because I woke up here, all alone - something I'm glad for. It gives me time to think about everything. The darkness is still there, the numbness…I can't seem to focus, and every time I lose my concentration, I can hear the whispering…
I'm starting to realize that something is not right here. I shouldn't be feeling so detached. Maybe it's some form of shock. If yes, then it's a particular shock I've never experienced before.
I look at my hands. They are clean now, but still full of scratches and the fingernails are broken. My vision flashes and I see my hands tearing at the stones lying on Alan's body. A shiver runs through my body.
No. I don't want to remember.
The room around me is so cold. And dark. Reflecting what I'm feeling inside.
Their whispers, their voices - Alan's above all, telling me his story which won him the contest. An innocent story full of laughter and giggles, and I can understand why he won. In a world full of cruelty, it's nice to read a story with a happy end. Because real life is not like that.
/ So tell me," the fairy glowed a little brighter. "What is your deepest heart's desire?"
The little dog looked at her with mournful eyes. "It's a silly wish."
"No wishes are silly unless you think so. Now tell me. I'm not going to laugh, I promise."
There was a moment of silence. And then, a bark, almost as soft as the wind: "A family."/
The words run through my head like a mantra. Alan whispers and his voice is so close, I can almost imagine his body…feel his flesh in my hands, his blood on my skin…
But when I open my eyes, I'm alone again and my hands are empty. Alan is gone. The children are gone.
And I'm alone.
They want me to eat.
I stare at the full plate in front of me and a nauseous feeling rises in my stomach. I'm not hungry and the thought of food makes me sick. But they plead to me, ask me to, going as far as to try to force the food down my throat. I refuse and shake my head.
Their worried voices drift around me. Like yesterday, I can hear snatches of the conversation.
"…he has to eat, he didn't eat anything yesterday either…" Scott, always the mother-hen.
"But he obviously doesn't want to." Virgil, always rationally.
"Gordon? Come on, take a bite!" Alan, as always, trying to take the bull head on.
I don't even shake my head, hoping that they will leave me be if I ignore them long enough. Especially Alan. I can't look at him right now; he reminds me so much of the lost life in the debris.
I just want to be alone. Don't you realize this? You can't help me. Only I can hear the voices. Only I can hear the whispers.
/"You're just a dog," the man said and walked away. "Animals don't feel anything." The dog whined and didn't know what to do. Even though he was an animal, at this very moment, he felt as if his heart would break/
I can't get the words out of my head.
In my life, I have seen many dead people. Some of them horribly distorted; some of them haunt my dreams even now – but I dealt with it. I cried, I had nightmares, I swam, I ran – whatever I did, there was a way to live with it.
Why is it so difficult this time? Why do I keep seeing them?
I went in there, but I came too late. I couldn't protect them. They died.
…failed…
Did I fail? When I came, they were already dead.
The others tell me that it wasn't my fault. Wasn't it? Could I have done something?
Why do I still feel guilty?
Why can't you stop talking to me? It's not going to be fine. Nothing is fine! Stop lying to me. Please! Nothing will change, even when I start talking. They are still dead – I'm not God, I can't say the magic word and they'll be alive again!
…leave me…
My family…they are so worried about me. One of them even mentioned getting professional help – apparently, there's a name for my kind of behaviour. Something-traumatic or another. Whatever. Do what you want. I don't care.
Father is against it. The risks are too high. Security, as always, is the deciding factor. Great. Security won't bring those kids back to life, either.
Besides, he argues, it's not even a day yet. Give him time, I heard him say, family might be all he needs.
Tschah. They don't know anything. They think it's easier for me when I talk about it. But they don't understand. They don't know that it's different from other times. In all my life, I've never felt such numbness, such devastating blackness and loss. It paralyzes every fibre of my being, freezes me in place and makes me unable to communicate.
Sometimes, I want to reach out, but there's a wall.
So I drift. It's odd; it's almost as if I'm watching myself from above. I can see my feet – they're walking – but I don't feel it. I can watch myself wander around the house, sit somewhere and stare, but, well, it's as if I'm outside my body.
It's the weirdest feeling I ever encountered.
And wherever I go, I'm always followed by their voices. It's like a nightmare; childish voices, distorted almost beyond recognition. I know that it's only in my mind, but that makes it even scarier. Am I mad? Because those voices can't be real, so I must be imagining them, and people who hear voices are usually stir crazy.
I try to ignore them, but they're always there. Whispering, taunting, pleading, and above all of them, Alan – telling his story for the umpteenth time.
/"Why is it that I, just because I'm an animal," thought the little dog sadly, "I'm not allowed to have feelings? Am I not as good as the others?" He laid his head on his paws and whined softly. Thick tears rolled down his furry cheeks. Just as he was about to cry himself to sleep, a little light appeared above him, shining gently.
"Hello," a voice chirped. "You look as if you might need some help." /
I wander away from the house, somewhere where I can find peace and solace. Their concerned gazes and whispers were starting to annoy me, so I fled.
The beach is the perfect place to be alone with my thoughts. Longingly, I stare at the waves. The sun is setting – already? Another day passed and I didn't even notice. It's as if I'm walking through a dream; time and place are not important. The sunlight glitters on the waves, panting bright patterns on the water that dissolve immediately. A soft wind tussles through my hair.
The whispers come closer.
And then something changes.
It starts with a tingling feeling all over my body. Deep inside, I've been waiting for this too happen, knowing that this numbness is too good to be true.
I'm not floating anymore; I can feel myself returning to my body. I flex my arms, stare at my hands. Are those really my hands? Full of cuts and bruises?
For the first time since the rescue I start to take in how I look. My clothes are messy, my hair unkempt and my whole body covered in bruises.
It's similar to waking up; I become more aware of my surroundings, like the singing of the birds and the hoarse cries of the gulls. The tingling creeps through my limbs, reaches my fingers and toes. I can almost feel the soot and the dirt of the rescue on me and I take a deep breath, trying to get the stench of death out of my nose.
But it doesn't leave. The noise in my ears becomes louder and it evolves from the sounds of the birds into words…words out of a childish mouth…
"When I'm big and strong, I want to fly a Thunderbird as well…"
The first tear trickles down my face, but I don't wipe it away. It's like a release, as the last bit of numbness leaves my body.
It feels like a slap in the face, hot and burning. The numbness, the drifting, it's all gone. All of sudden, reality slams back into me with such a smacking force that I forget to breathe.
I sink down on the sand and hug my knees, like I used to do when I was younger. I don't know what happened to me, but now the pain is there, raw and hot like a knife of burning steel. I curl up in a ball, but the pain doesn't go away.
I'm crying for you, Alan, and for those others kids. I'm crying because I couldn't help you, because I saw you die, because you'll never get the chance to fly a Thunderbird.
I'm crying because I loved your story.
I'm not drifting any longer. I can feel the time, ticking away, with every fibre of my body.
The sun sinks lower and lower, until finally darkness settles over the island, matching the darkness in my heart. Another day has ended.
I'm cold.
I wish I could have known him better. He sounded like a nice kid, and he was very brave.
Slowly, I start to walk back to the house. It's late and the others will be worried. Now, that I'm more in tune with my surroundings, I realize what I have been doing to them. I don't understand it, really. I kind of withdrew in my shell. I didn't want to deal with the pain…oh gosh, it still hurts, why does it hurt so much?
I've had physical wounds, but even after my hydrofoil accident, I never felt this bad. It's a pain that tears at your soul, and there are no medications against those.
What was wrong with me? I don't know. Even now, I don't feel compelled to talk. The pain, the despair, it's too intense to describe. I was just drifting, like…like an astronaut in space. Is that why John likes being an astronaut? Because nothing else matters when you're drifting outside of time and space?
"Gordon?" Suddenly, Scott appears in front of me, but I didn't even notice him. I gaze up, startled, and stay silent.
My eldest brother smiles shakily; he's unsure, doesn't know how I'm going to react. "Are you okay?"
I should say something – I know he's worried because I'm not talking – but I'm too tired. Speaking takes effort, energy I don't have. There's nothing to say, anything. Words are just empty when they are used to describe feelings. So I only nod, briskly.
"You should come back now," he says softly. "It's getting late."
Come back. To the house, my home, my family, my room - my sanctuary. I try to smile, but I fear I'm not making a good enough result – Scott doesn't even seem to notice. Instead, he starts walking back via the beach, looking over his shoulder to check if I'm following.
"Still not talking, eh?" he already knows the answer, but he tries anyway. That's Scott for you; never give up, despite how bad the odds. "You know, you can't keep that up forever. It's not good, and we're worried about you."
His eyes – blue as well – seem to stare right through me. "We miss you, Gordon; and we want to help you, but you keep shoving us away. Please, don't do that."
Scott and pleading? That's a new one. I feel bad at the despair in his voice, but I can't talk – it's like my lips are sealed shut. And so we walk the rest of the way in silence.
/"Who are you?" the little dog asked in wonder and stared at the light.
"Me?" A giggle flew through the room. "Can't you see that, silly? I'm a fairy!" /
Dinner is a subdued affair. I'm eating, but I'm not really hungry. But I couldn't stand the fretful look on Grandma's face, so I took a couple of bites. Amazingly what it takes to make my family happy. As soon as they saw me eating, they started smiling. Gee. Normally they complain because I eat too much.
Earlier in the day, I never listened to their conversations, but now I find myself understanding what they say. They are talking – what else – about me.
"Look at him, Dad, we have to do something." Virgil argues, casting a worried glance at me. "That's not like Gordon. He never, ever behaved like that."
"That's true!" Alan adds, nodding empathically. "Usually, Scott and Virgil are the brooding ones, but never Gordon! When something bothers him, he swims his laps in the pool – but he hasn't even gone near the water since he got home!"
"I know." Father's face is taunt with worry. "I already asked Brains to research the phenomena; he says it's a traumatic disorder that can occur after a shocking and emotionally painful event. He's going to look for different methods of healing."
Alan turns to look at me. "Why aren't you talking to us, Gordon?" he asks, his eyes wide and blue. "You could at least nod and shake your head, try to communicate in some way! It's like a living corpse is sitting…"
"Alan!" Dad cuts in sharply.
I would have laughed if the situation wasn't that pitiful. Of course, that's so typical Alan. Open mouth, insert foot.
Once again, I try to say something, anything…but nothing happens. I'm really beginning to worry now. Before I didn't want to talk; but now, I want to, but I can't!
Oh well. Might as well follow Alan's advice. Communicate non-verbally, eh? Slowly, I stretch out my hand and touch Alan's elbow.
Immediately, his head darts around and he looks at me. "Gordon?" he asks, incredulously, with a touch of hope in his voice.
I would like to answer, to crack a joke, but I seem to be mute – so I settle for smiling at him and shaking my head. I hope he understands what I mean – I'm okay, and he doesn't need to worry. At least for now. I don't want them to worry; I need to deal with my own demons first.
The smile that lightens Alan's face is definitely worth it. Suddenly, he's beaming, and I'm reminded of the little kid he once was, so excitable, so cheerful and full of spirit. I'm glad that he hasn't lost those attributes; he can be a pain in the ass – I'm the first one to admit that – and sometimes he's just downright annoying, but he's still my little brother. And for that, I love him.
The heavy weight that was settling over the table seems to lift somewhat and I return happily to my dinner. I can even taste the food.
It's late.
The stars have come out, glittering in the dark blue night sky, so endless.
My family is sleeping, but I snuck out of my room. Nightmares wouldn't let me come to rest, the ghosts of the rescue haunting me every time I close my eyes. After a glance at my watch – two in the morning – I got up and, almost out of habit, grabbed my swimming trunks.
Now I'm standing in front of the pool, dressed in my Speedos, wondering what the hell I'm doing here. The water seems to be calling to me, luring me. Swimming has always been my refuge, my rescue.
Slowly, I glide into the water and welcome the cold, wet feeling on my skin. I need this. I start the first lap with breast stroke, and then I change to crawl. It's soothing and soon I find myself in the same trance that made me swim hundreds of laps for practise when I was in the Olympic team. While the body is working, my mind can float free and I feel totally at peace.
Stroke. Breathe. Stroke. Stroke. Breathe. Stroke. Stroke. Breathe…
The rhythm is calming. It's strange; all of sudden, I can think about what happens. I remember the rescue, I remember the little kids and it hurts.
I'm sorry. I wish I could have saved you. You deserved a better life, you deserved to be happy, but instead, you had to die…
I'm sorry, Alan, I listened to your story and yet I couldn't do anything to spare you the pain.
In my mind, they are talking to me. What did Alan say? Maybe he became an angel…I'm not a religious person, not at all. But somehow the idea that he might be somewhere else, with all the other kids, in some eternal, happy place, makes it a little bit easier.
Gosh. So much destruction. So much blood.
Suddenly, I feel something well up in my throat. I stop at the side of the pool. Waters splashes on the ground as I lean on the side and hide my head in my hands.
…failed…
God, I'm so sorry, I didn't want you to die, I tried to save you, but I was too late, there was no chance left when I reached you…
…hello, little girl…
It was an earthquake, a frigging earthquake! Taking so many lives, so much destruction, and I in-between…
…when a fairy laughs it sounds like a bell…
Something wet is running down my cheek. I touch them gingerly. Tears? Am I crying? I didn't notice. But yes, I am crying, the sobs wracking my body. Gosh, I couldn't save them, and now their ghosts are haunting me.
I don't know how long I've been in the water and crying, but it seems endless. The water splashes softly against my skin, the only reminder that I'm still alive. I can't move, I'm caught in my memories, torn between seeing the images of the past and facing reality. I don't know what to do, I don't know what to feel…I thought I was okay, but obviously I aren't. The pain, the despair, the darkness, it all comes out, and I cry, cry and sob until my eyes are red and swollen.
Suddenly someone lays his hand on my shoulder and I'm caught totally unaware. I flinch away, for the touch brings back unpleasant memories and stare at the intruder. It's in the middle of the night – everybody should be sleeping.
But there he is, kneeling on the floor and looking at me with concern in his eyes. His hand on my shoulder is a warm and comforting presence on my cold body, the only link to reality that stops me from going stir crazy.
I open my mouth, but once again, no sound comes out.
He doesn't seem to mind. Instead, he pulls me closer and out of the water as if I wasn't a full grown man myself. I don't struggle; somehow, it feels good to be pulled up like this. As if a hand was guiding me.
"Didn't I tell you that it's no good to keep everything bottled up?" his deep voice rumbles and then he hugs me. I can't help it; I hug him back, trying to disappear in the huge arms like I used to do when I was little.
Amazing what kind of comforting influence my father has on me. Suddenly, I feel safe and warm. But to my horror, the tears start to surface again. I try to hold them back; I don't want to cry, it's pathetic, and besides, I need to deal with it on my own, like I always do…
"Cry if you have to," Dad whispers, as if he has read my thoughts. "Sometimes even the strongest of us have to break down. It's okay; you're not the first one and you certainly won't be the last."
Those words, gently spoken and full of caring, are like a release. I let everything go and drown myself in my sorrow, aware of the strong arms around me, keeping me safe.
/ "A fairy?" the dog asked in wonder. "But I thought fairies don't exist!"
"That's what everybody believes," she sang, her eyes sparkling. "But we are as real as you. The thing is, most people can't see us."
He tilted his head and frowned. "Why not?"
"Only the pure of heart can see magic." /
Once again, I don't know how long I've been crying. When I finally draw back, exhausted and ashamed, he just smiles at me. "Feeling better?"
I nod, still not trusting my voice to speak. There's a flicker of…something in his eyes, and I fear that I disappointed him again. Stupid me! Why am I not speaking? So I concentrate, commanding my tongue to obey my orders.
"…T-t…" I manage to stutter and feel utterly appalled at the fact that I can't even pronounce one word properly. "T-t-hank-k-s…"
"Now, that's better. You had me worried there – it's not like you to withdraw." He ruffles my hair.
"S-sorry…" It's hard to talk, but I manage. I realize that I'm getting cold. Even though we're on a tropical island, it can be quite chilly at night, and I've been in the water for hours.
Dad sees me shivering and pulls me up. "Come on, let's get you inside and warm."
There's no room for any argument as he pulls me into the living room, hands me a big towel and tells me to dry myself. Then he disappears in the kitchen and starts working – on what, I haven't got the slightest clue.
But I don't care. There's a warm, fuzzy feeling in my chest and I intend to keep it there. So I sink back on the couch and rub my freezing fingers and toes until they're finally warm again.
It doesn't take long and he comes back, holding two steaming mugs and a plate with…cookies?
I frown. Does he expect that everything better just because of some comfort food? That may have worked when I scraped a knee as a kid, but now…? They're dead, and even the best cookies in the world won't change that fact.
He sees my wary gaze and smiles. "I thought we might as well be comfortable," he explains and presses one of the mugs in my fingers. "Because you're going to tell me everything."
Oh. Now I understand. Tell him? About Alan? About the ghosts that are haunting me?
I've never spoken about my problems. I'm not like that; I find my escape in humour, in tricks and pranks. But my humour has died and left an empty shell behind. This time, my usual retreat doesn't work, for there is nothing humorous in this situation at all. I'm lost, I didn't know what to do, and that was why I was drifting.
Tell him? Remember all what happened, even the cruellest details? No. I don't want to do that. Their images are haunting me as it is, I don't want to add to that.
"Gordon." It's an order, plain and simple.
I stare at my hands, seeing the blood on them – Alan's blood, my blood – and close my eyes. "D-d-difficult…" I manage, my voice strangled.
His hand is on my shoulder again. "But you have to talk about it, son. It's destroying you from the inside, don't you see?"
I see it. I know it. But that doesn't make it any easier.
"His n-name…was…Alan…" I begin and remember his sad little face. "And he…loved writing…told me his story…"
To be continued.