Title: All The King's Horses
Author: unwinding fantasy (formerly Aqua Phoenix1)
Disclaimer: I obviously don't own 24 or any such related material. Not even the DVD's.
Rating: T (rated for dark themes)
Warning: Violence, (canon) drug use, (non-canon) character death.
Author's Note: This contains no spoilers from any seasons with the exception of reference to the final episode of S1. In other news I'm disappointed that this story shares a title with twenty others. And here I was, getting all excited about penning something creative.
.:.
He hated the sandbox. Grains of gritty speckled-ness crawling into the crevices of his small body, invading his worn sneakers, pockets, nostrils, eliciting that awful moment of breathlessness before a sneeze. They expected him to carve roads for his trucks or play catch-me-if-you-can with the other kids or build forts for the little green soldiers he'd been assigned, but he wasn't like that. Snips and snails and puppy dogs' tails he was not. Rather, monotonous waves upon the farthest seashore and broken toys and a deepening spring twilight summed him up as well as mere imagery can.
Above all, he was no dreamer. Men didn't construct wishful fancies in their minds where they can play with lions in green, green meadows and test the horizon's boundaries. Men were stoic, unyielding, all-knowing and they most certainly didn't cry. Indeed, shedding tears was a carnal sin amongst Men and as such, in his short lifetime fantasy had been beaten from him and now resided in some prison he'd thrown away the key to. It wasn't important. Father always knew best.
He despised needles. Pain on a shiny little stick. Stinging, sucking, spitting venom, leaving him with a quietly aching arm whose muscles screamed protests if flexed. It's better this way, Mother said. Imagine the mess you'd make if you got sick. Whatever inane whispered reassurances or squeezed hands she bestowed on him, the hurt was always there when his flesh was pierced.
Whenever trouble's ugly sticky clouds began churning on the horizon, he always ran the three blocks from his dusty house to a park where he'd spin himself sick on the wizzy-dizz. His smooth child's hands would come away rust-stained, blemished by steel bars he'd grip as he ran circles, sometimes stumbling in his haste to make the thing whirl quicker. When he spun, his customary messy mop of hair flew wildly round his face instead of falling into his eyes and the sorrow, frustration or anger mixing into a nasty potion in his heart would be conquered by a nauseating rush of dizziness. He liked that.
For a time, everything remained as unalterable as Earth's circuit around its glowing star. Even when you're discontent with how you're acting the badly scripted play of your life, sometimes when things change you plead with Fate to rewrite your destiny.
No wonder he lost so many men: he hadn't practised enough when he was younger, he surmised wryly. Maybe if he'd twisted enough plastic commandos it would be easier to comprehend abandoning real ones, his brothers. Wishful thinking, perhaps, something to attribute blame to, but essentially he was still responsible. At times, he would curse God for not handing him a serpent to impugn.
Considering Father had occupied such a monstrous presence throughout the years, how surprising that the first rule he broke was the one regarding tears. Because while sobs dry as burning desert sands sufficed for Father, anything less than salty wetness would tarnish the memory of someone he loved, downplay the graveness of his mistakes and shortcomings. After all, it was his fault. Was it ever not?
The apartment wasn't upturned once she'd died; the rooms he'd uselessly wander lacked personality. Photographs, souvenirs, family heirlooms, birthday presents… the gracious abyss of his haven spurned all of these. The place where he befriended the furnishings was too spartan to be thrown into disarray at the loss and it instead remained empty as an overcast sky. Only recollections of wishes come true danced in that apartment, his private tribute to the dead and to his own decaying soul.
The first time he didn't flinch from the needle's kiss, he knew he'd fallen away. The ground had crumbled beneath uncaring feet and he hadn't yet grown wings. Too old for playgrounds now, this was a strangely different variety of dizziness, one that felt like flowers fading at the end of spring. It was no less nauseating, but it didn't stop his hair from plastering itself to his forehead.
Ironic how the clouds cry for him now, huge water clots turning the ground treacherously wet, making the possibility that he may slip and fall just that more likely. A smile tugged at his lips as he stood on the fringes of emptiness, the sky's breath making dirty blonde hair thrash defiantly round his head as he scanned the cityscape below. Usually he loved standing in the rain, letting it wash blood and dirt away along with Cain's mark. The grime would go, the crimson liquid would swirl interesting patterns in puddles, but the rain could never erase the sins he'd committed, the brothers he'd left behind, the family he couldn't protect. There was no solace for him anymore, not when he'd blackened himself so.
He blankly considered the gun in his hand, sleek charcoal form mirroring his emotions of long ago. Truthfully, there was nothing to be felt anymore, which was partially why he raised Death to his temple, wondering whether anything would spill out once his finger tightened against the trigger. It was with deliberate slowness that he dropped his weapon, its clatter drowned out by incessant drumming of raindrops. Too many friends had died by the bullet; he didn't deserve to share in such a noble demise. Instead, he clambered over the railing fencing the rooftop in. And even though he couldn't fly, he jumped.
Mother always told him not to make a mess. He supposed that was his final failure.