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Squick warning #2. This is some pretty serious ouch.
x-x
Malcolm woke to the general call, still sitting beside his bunk. He stood, feeling unsteady but better. Whatever they'd given him, it must have passed through his system. Still, he felt edgy and brittle, all jagged edges and sharp points.
He noticed that Trip wasn't in his cell, but that was normal - the start times of their work shifts didn't usually coincide. He made himself ready for the day, each task seeming to take longer than normal. He looked down at his hands and realised that they were shaking. He clenched them into two tight fists, and that was better.
Okay, maybe the drug hadn't entirely finished with him.
A guard came with the rest of the crew, and Malcolm joined them as they headed for the mess.
Malcolm felt someone brush his shoulder as he went by one passageway, and he turned his head. Hemsej, it was Hemsej there, smiling that smug...the bloody bastard...and before he even realised what he was doing, Malcolm had turned and started pummelling the man. Hearing shouts and whistles, he felt himself being pulled away.
He saw a prisoner that he didn't recognise on the floor, bleeding, appearing somewhat stunned. Confused, he felt a touch to his neck, a pinch, and he collapsed.
x-x
Malcolm was curled up on his side in bed, facing the wall. He was unsure of how much time had passed, but he knew that...no, actually, he had no idea.
He could tell that he'd been drugged again, but he found that he didn't particularly care. After a moment, he noticed that blood was oozing through the bandages around his injured hand. He lifted his hand and ground it against the wall, but he felt nothing, so he gave up.
He sat slowly, using his uninjured hand for leverage as he turned to face Trip's cell.
Trip obviously noticed the movement, because he stood and came to the wall. Placing one palm flat against its surface, he asked, "What's wrong?"
Malcolm nodded, then shook his head. Nothing was wrong, and everything, and he wasn't at all sure, except that he needed to do something. This couldn't go on.
"Something's wrong, Malcolm. They say you beat up some guy. Maybe the drugs, or..."
Malcolm frowned and stared down at his frayed sleeve again. Time, time. It was time, and he didn't have much time.
Malcolm struggled to take off his shirt with one good hand. Finally removing it, he bit the hem and pulled with his good hand. After a moment, the shirt tore. Again and again he repeated the process until the fabric lay in strips before him.
He could hear Trip asking what he was doing, but he ignored it, turning his back to the man and shielding his work with his body. He wasn't sure he could go through with this if he saw Trip, saw what this was doing to him, so Malcolm kept his eyes to his task.
He began tying the strips together - thank God for boyscouts and long-ago knot tying competitions with friends, because even with one semi-useless hand, he could still get this done.
Malcolm sat back and evaluated his work. It should be about long enough.
He stood on the bunk, wobbling a bit. Trembling, he felt unsteady both inside and out. Once he got his balance he looked above him, squinting against the brightness of the overhead lights. The pipes were there just as he'd remembered them. He swung the fabric rope up over one pipe.
He heard pounding and shouting from the cell beside him.
He had to use both hands, wincing as he tried totie the knots, but he got it done.
The noise from next door got louder but he ignored it, focused instead on what he was about to do. He had to do this very carefully for it to work.
Malcolm slid the noose over his head and settled it around his neck. Glancing up at Trip, he gave an apologetic smile as his friend fell silent. The man looked stunned.
Malcolm held his breath, said a soft prayer, and stepped off the bed.
x-x