Stasis - Michael
Title: Stasis
Author: Aspen Snow
Character: Michael
Rating: PG-13
Summary: In the past and the present, Michael watches two people die.
stasis, noun : a slowing of the current of circulating blood
His fingers shake in the absence of movement; they dig into the flesh of his palm with the want to act.
They put him in handcuffs and it's all he can do not to scream and rage and beg and plead for them take them off just this once.
A shiver of need races down his spine, he trembles at its ferocity.
*
"I'm fine sweetie," she said, a palm pressed against her forehead, a hand braced against the counter.
He could feel the hot air from the oven on his face; he smelled cookies in the air. They were on the floor now, twelve of them, he counted.
"Just a little dizzy," she said, when he continued to stand there.
Her fingers were cold when they pressed against his cheek.
*
He doesn't realize he is crying until he tastes the salt on his lips.
It's a bitter taste that he can't bring himself to swallow.
He holds that small bit of moisture on his tongue, lets it mix with his saliva, and spits it out when he needs to breathe.
He keeps his mouth closed after that.
*
"And they lived happily ever after," she said, closing the book, "Now, time for you to go to bed."
"Are you going to live happily ever after too Mom? Like the princess in the book?" he asked.
"Of course, now come on, bed time Mister."
"When?" he asked, "When are you going to live happily ever after?"
She kissed his forehead, "Soon," she whispered.
He fell asleep with her fingers brushing through his hair.
*
The sound of feet shuffling and chains moving and people whispering is so loud that he can't see anything.
He hears a key turning in a lock once, twice.
More chains.
Solid footsteps.
A door closing.
When he hears wood creaking his fingers violently jerk across the palm of his hand, drawing blood that pools in the creases of his skin.
He can see everything now.
*
The phone made her sad. She cried every time she answered it.
So he hid it one day when she was at work. Stashed it at the bottom of his toy box, where she couldn't hear it ring.
When she came home that night she made spaghetti with meatballs and hummed while she stirred the sauce.
She found the phone the next day when she was cleaning his room.
The next time she answered the phone she didn't cry and when she hung up she went into the bathroom and turned on the shower.
He doesn't hear her cry anymore.
*
He watches them strap him in, wonders if he is counting down.
Wonders how he is filling up the last minutes of his life.
The guilt crashes over him in waves- steals his breath.
Everything is heavy, of a sudden, and he thinks, even without the handcuffs he wouldn't be able to move.
*
No one ever laughs in the hospital.
It's always cold and when he walks his footsteps echo down the long white hallways.
It scares him.
"Do people really live here Mom?" he asks.
She looks sad for a moment before she answers. "No honey, people don't live here."
He wonders, then, why people have to be here.
Why she has to be here.
*
On opposite sides of the glass they both sit in chairs- restrained and powerless.
The parallel scares him.
When they pull the switch and the lights flicker he braces himself for the jolt of somehting hot and hard and unnatural.
He is surprised when he feels nothing, forgets that he was never meant to.
When he sees smoke and smells the razor sharp edge of something burnt he hates himself for letting it end like this.
"I had a plan," he says.
*
He counted every time the machine next to her bed beeped. He got all the way to 4,652 one day before it stopped.
He repeated the number in his head over and over again so he wouldn't forget it while he watied for the machine to start again.
He didn't hear the nurses when they came in, he was saying the number out loud now, he could feel it trying to slip away.
"Four six five two, four six five two, four six five two..."
Author: Aspen Snow
Character: Michael
Rating: PG-13
Summary: In the past and the present, Michael watches two people die.
stasis, noun : a slowing of the current of circulating blood
His fingers shake in the absence of movement; they dig into the flesh of his palm with the want to act.
They put him in handcuffs and it's all he can do not to scream and rage and beg and plead for them take them off just this once.
A shiver of need races down his spine, he trembles at its ferocity.
*
"I'm fine sweetie," she said, a palm pressed against her forehead, a hand braced against the counter.
He could feel the hot air from the oven on his face; he smelled cookies in the air. They were on the floor now, twelve of them, he counted.
"Just a little dizzy," she said, when he continued to stand there.
Her fingers were cold when they pressed against his cheek.
*
He doesn't realize he is crying until he tastes the salt on his lips.
It's a bitter taste that he can't bring himself to swallow.
He holds that small bit of moisture on his tongue, lets it mix with his saliva, and spits it out when he needs to breathe.
He keeps his mouth closed after that.
*
"And they lived happily ever after," she said, closing the book, "Now, time for you to go to bed."
"Are you going to live happily ever after too Mom? Like the princess in the book?" he asked.
"Of course, now come on, bed time Mister."
"When?" he asked, "When are you going to live happily ever after?"
She kissed his forehead, "Soon," she whispered.
He fell asleep with her fingers brushing through his hair.
*
The sound of feet shuffling and chains moving and people whispering is so loud that he can't see anything.
He hears a key turning in a lock once, twice.
More chains.
Solid footsteps.
A door closing.
When he hears wood creaking his fingers violently jerk across the palm of his hand, drawing blood that pools in the creases of his skin.
He can see everything now.
*
The phone made her sad. She cried every time she answered it.
So he hid it one day when she was at work. Stashed it at the bottom of his toy box, where she couldn't hear it ring.
When she came home that night she made spaghetti with meatballs and hummed while she stirred the sauce.
She found the phone the next day when she was cleaning his room.
The next time she answered the phone she didn't cry and when she hung up she went into the bathroom and turned on the shower.
He doesn't hear her cry anymore.
*
He watches them strap him in, wonders if he is counting down.
Wonders how he is filling up the last minutes of his life.
The guilt crashes over him in waves- steals his breath.
Everything is heavy, of a sudden, and he thinks, even without the handcuffs he wouldn't be able to move.
*
No one ever laughs in the hospital.
It's always cold and when he walks his footsteps echo down the long white hallways.
It scares him.
"Do people really live here Mom?" he asks.
She looks sad for a moment before she answers. "No honey, people don't live here."
He wonders, then, why people have to be here.
Why she has to be here.
*
On opposite sides of the glass they both sit in chairs- restrained and powerless.
The parallel scares him.
When they pull the switch and the lights flicker he braces himself for the jolt of somehting hot and hard and unnatural.
He is surprised when he feels nothing, forgets that he was never meant to.
When he sees smoke and smells the razor sharp edge of something burnt he hates himself for letting it end like this.
"I had a plan," he says.
*
He counted every time the machine next to her bed beeped. He got all the way to 4,652 one day before it stopped.
He repeated the number in his head over and over again so he wouldn't forget it while he watied for the machine to start again.
He didn't hear the nurses when they came in, he was saying the number out loud now, he could feel it trying to slip away.
"Four six five two, four six five two, four six five two..."