"test sites keep me up at night
chainlink and meters
I talk to you
it's cold out there
but i'm telling you
I'm lonely too" -Science Vs. Romance
Sixteen feels a gush of air leave his lungs as the crowd of subway passengers press against him. His skin itches and burns at the contact, looking up at the people with too large eyes, lids shadowed by sleepless nights. Thin fingers pick at the fraying edges of his plain white shirt sleeves, nails itching at the bandages thickly covering his dainty wrists.
The young man bites at the inside of his cheek for the umpteenth time that day, licking at the broken wound while letting out a shuddering breath. He feels the money weighing heavily in his pocket, and his other hand is wrapped around a smooth sheet of paper. Sixteen can practically feel the ink from the ball point pen being soaked into his skin, poisoning his mind even more so than it is.
(Because his mind was poisoned from the chemicals and toxins of this bloody city. That's why he's seeing things, feeling things he's never experienced before. He's not crazy, that is a fact he's sure of.)
On the paper is an address of a doctor working pro-bono with people like him. The doctor he had previously been seeing had turned him away due to things such as not having any health insurance, and not enough money. At least his previous doctor has given this man's address. Sixteen hopes that this new doctor will be able to get all these toxins out of his body. He isn't crazy.
The skin up and down his arms itches, and Sixteen rubs his sharp knuckles against the fabric of his worn jumper. He hisses when he feels fresh scabs pulling at healing skin and knows that he'll have to get rid of them when he gets home. He'll have to purge his body of his illness, of these toxins making a home in his body.
('Bloodletting was based on an ancient system of medicine in which blood and other bodily fluid were considered to be "humors" the proper balance of which maintained health. It was the most common medical practice performed by doctors from antiquity up to the late 19th century, a time span of almost 2,000 years.' His brain supplies tiredly, and Sixteen itches even more roughly at his arm while chewing rapidly at the inside of his mouth.)
The subway screeches to a halt and Sixteen bolts through the slowly opening doors. His heart pounds in his chest, feeling filthy for even being down in the dirty underground. He can feel microorganisms festering under his skin, chewing at individual cells until he feels ready to scream. Instead, he swallows down a gust of air and looks down at the paper still tightly crumpled in his hand.
The address is stuck in his mind like glue, but he keeps glancing at the smudged ink over and over again just to make sure. He takes a left and then a right, dodging people who glance at him warily.
Sixteen looks up, matches the numbers on the building and shakily walks to the door. He places the tips of his fingers against the glass door and pushes, large eyes glancing about the cheery waiting room. He's the only one in there, and when he signs the patient waiting list, the dark-haired nurse glances up at him with an eyebrow cocked.
The skinny male sits awkwardly on the too cool waiting room chair. He crosses his bandaged legs and sits Indian style, folding his too thin hands in his lap. Sixteen closes his eyes and lets out a small sigh. He counts down the seconds until he hears the nurse scoot back her chair to call him into the small office.
Sixteen follows the woman down the lowly lit hallway and into a nice looking space. Eyes flicker over the comfortable looking chairs and a Rococo style painting hanging above the doctor's desk. ('also referred to as "Late Baroque", is an 18th-century style which developed as Baroque artists gave up their symmetry and became increasingly ornate, florid, and playful.') She says that the doctor will be in a moment and he was welcome to sit at one of the chairs.
He does so, folding himself awkwardly on the too plush chair, humming to himself lightly. He jumps when the office door is thrown open and a man in his early thirties marches in, adjusting a poorly tied tie with a small grimace.
Sixteen's eyes are large as he studies his doctor, watches the way the older man gives him a small nod and practically throws an overstuffed messenger bag onto the messy desk. Sixteen holds his breath, feeling the scars and scratches from the night previous burning under his bandages; he feels unclean in this doctor's office, like the germs on his skin are oozing off onto the chair. Thin fingers pick at his black sneaker causing an annoying scratching noise to reverberate around the room.
Electric blue eyes snap to meet his own. Sixteen stops his picking finger, staring at his doctor with a blank expression on his gaunt face. The doctor raises an eyebrow; he sits across from the skinny male, folding his hands behind his head and leaning back. "You gonna talk or just stare at me your entire session?"
Sixteen's mouth turns down and he glowers lightly. "I was merely waiting for you to begin doctor." He tears his gaze from the doctor's blue eyes and glares at his lap.
The doctor scoffs softly and moves so that he's sitting with his hands resting on his knees. "How about we start with introductions? I'm Alex Mercer, call me whatever, I don't care."
"Sixteen."
"...'Sixteen'? Is that a nickname or-"
Sixteen glowers and looks up. "It's my name, I've known no other." He blinks owlishly and smiles crookedly. "The angelic alphabet or Enochian alphabet was said to be the language that Adam once used to name all things. The alphabet consists of 24 characters. The language was transcribed in 49 prayers or keys, composed in the Book of Loagaeth." The doctor blinks in confusion, causing Sixteen to slouch in his chair. "My mind won't shut up."
His doctor places the tip of his pen in his mouth while his dark brows furrow in concentration. He makes a small 'hm'-ing noise in the back of his throat before standing to stride to the bookshelf on the other side of the room. Sixteen watches with wide eyes as the man sweeps his fingers over the various books arranged neatly on the mahogany shelves. The doctor's fingers trail over the arrangement till they stop on the plain spine of a moleskine notebook.
Sixteen jumps as the notebook is tossed carelessly in his direction; scarred fingers fumble with catching, but soon he crushes the book close to his skinny chest. The doctor returns to his previous position, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs at the ankles. "Whenever you have a fact, write it down in that notebook." Sixteen glances from his lounging doctor to the notebook crushed to his chest. He chews the inside of his cheek until he's able to rip off skin, the familiar pain exploding through-out his mouth, and the coppery taste of blood rolls over his taste buds.
He takes a breath, "The normal blood pH level is-"
Blue eyes flash, and a frown dips the doctor's mouth. "The. Notebook." A pen is thrust in his direction; Sixteen takes it up, writing quickly in a messy scrawl, words barely legible.
Sixteen glances up, a flush dusting over his narrow face as Dr. Mercer gives a minute nod of his head and a small smile. "Great. Keep that up until next week."
He's back on the subway, surrounded by dirty people who infect him with their illnesses. A woman is listening to her ipod loudly, the song reminding him of a fact about the treble cleft, but there isn't anymore room on or in his notebook to write down anything. The red molskine is covered with illegible scrawl, the words too close together, but the exercise is comforting.
Sixteen licks his lips, wanting to itch at his arms or legs, the week-old scabs healing over cause his skin to feel too tight. He hopes that perhaps Dr. Mercer will give him another notebook.
-0-
Mm I don't know, enjoy some more Alex MercerxSixteen