Rehab II
Things had been moving, though if they were moving forwards or backwards was something the Russian wasn't sure of. There were alot of things he wasn't sure of however at the moment, his eyes casting glances to the corners of the room, sitting by the wall, embracing himself as he did his best to be inconspicuous. His walls were no longer the colour they had when he had first ventured in here, thin bars of black lining the walls, curling at the top of the walls to form inwards, like shadows taking the role of wildlife and growing towards the sun light. His body was marked with the same stretches of black, the substance clinging to his palms, his shoulders, his chest...
Something was here, it was caging him, holding him here. If he thought hard enough, he could remember what it was, the barest glimpse of the purpose. He was here to purge himself, but he'd done that enough already, at least in his opinion, so why couldn't he leave yet? for some reason this whole thing had become more than a detox.
He could leave, technically, he knew that- he wrote letters to his brother when he could focus, but even when he did, something was over him, and it swarmed his senses like an intangible torrent- he could smell it, taste it, see it and yet, it was invisible, untasteable, untraceable. He'd tried, so hard in this cage, to figure out what it was that he wanted, needed to grasp and understand, but the search did little in bearing fruit.
Books laid barely read, some with pages torn from the spines with something akin to ferocity, just to be left, a pile of discarded pages by their, broken leather-bound bodies. He moved towards his literary massacre for a moment, turning to inspect the pages, his fingers flicking loosely through the pages, some still holding themselves together.
They held writing, their own and his own on their pages, letters to his brother that he couldn't send, letting the pulp-pressed leaf fall softly from his fingers as their usefulness came to light, ignoring them for now, until he could once again hope they would yield some use...
He wiped his eyes, dark rings visible as he sat on the bed, the sheets musky and lived on- something he took as a comfort- looking back to the bowl that still laid on the dresser beside it. He'd been suspicious, very suspicious, to find a bowl of food waiting for him, but after a few days scrutiny, he'd finally succumbed to his hunger. It had taken him a few days to eat it, but the food seemed to be welcomed by his stomach, both the bread and the rice calming his stomach, the water soothing his throat. It was only after eating it however that he noticed something.
His own water didn't taste the same, it was different... Tainted.
It had been an undisputed fact in his mind, that it was not the vents that had made the noise that night, before the food appeared. It had been someone, something... Perhaps a servant to whatever it was that was watching him, or perhaps it was that thing itself. He'd yet to catch it, not being able to reach the vent to investigate, he hadn't even seen it- he just heard it, crawling through the vents, perhaps even chattering a few times... That, or there were more of them amassing above him.
All that he knew was that the water here was tainted, undrinkable, so he wouldn't touch it... who knew, it could even be tainted with the very things he was trying to purge- it would explain why the urge to drink it was almost overpowering. If he drank it, he failed in what he was meant to be doing, and he had promised his brother, and himself, that he was going to do this. Even if his word meant nothing to himself, it meant something to his partner.
He needed something, anything, to take his mind off of his thought processes, turning the television and absently flicking through the channels. He had never been able to watch this thing, not properly, as many times as he'd tried, but trying to watch it was a distraction from the other things whirling round his head, running a hand through his hair and readjusting his boxers.
They'd stopped the heat, thank goodness, the things in the vents, they'd stopped it being so damned hot. It had taken them a week of watching him sweat, but they'd done it. They turned off the heat and brought him food sometimes, when he was deemed worthy, so he wasn't negative against them... he just wondered to what purpose they (and that other thing) were doing keeping him here...
He was thinking too much again, he was meant to be focusing on the Tv.
He got up from the bed, moving towards the television, the sound of breaking glass and the low buzz of electronic death catching him off guard before the action of his arm did, looking down towards the screen where his fist was wrist deep in the contraption, his fist reeling in the feeling of heat, the warmth of the now deceased television and what he was guessing was blood swirling around his fingers.
His cry of surprise was delayed, pulling his fist out of the hollow behind the screen and glancing at it before the sound sprang from his throat. He watched his hand for a few more seconds, watching the cuts criss-cross along his the skin of his fingers and knuckles as they, as minor as the injuries were, started to bleed and sting, his hand turning curiously, as if it was something he didn't quite understand. There didn't seem to be any glass in the cuts, none that he could see at any rate, so that was a small blessing, but he knew he had to clean his hand, and that was where he found himself with a problem.
Where was he going to clean his hand? He was in place dripping with tainted water. Only the things in the vents brought him things he could put into his system.
He put his hand to his mouth, sucking on his knuckle, the largest of the cuts being on the skin covering it- he'd have to lick his wounds for the time being, until more water was bought... Hopefully his realisation before putting his hands in the water would be enough to earn him some sort of reward.
He hoped that was the case at least... However, they wouldn't come unless he was asleep, however much he was now starting to dread the process. Sleep brought back memories, memories he didn't remember and, even worse, some that he did. He had to sleep though, sitting on the bed, his tongue still lapping at his hand like a cat trying to dislodge something from its fur.
There was one thing he disliked about sleeping, and that was how easily it seemed to take him nowadays. True, there were periods when he wouldn't sleep for days, sitting by the wall and watching the bars he'd scrawled on the walls above him, but just sitting on the bed brought a feeling of fatigue, one the Russian couldn't quite escape. He pulled himself from the mattress, moving under the bed as had become a regular sleeping ritual, his eyes growing heavy as made himself comfortable his breathing deepening as he feel to the unwanted trance of dreams.
Something was here, it was caging him, holding him here. If he thought hard enough, he could remember what it was, the barest glimpse of the purpose. He was here to purge himself, but he'd done that enough already, at least in his opinion, so why couldn't he leave yet? for some reason this whole thing had become more than a detox.
He could leave, technically, he knew that- he wrote letters to his brother when he could focus, but even when he did, something was over him, and it swarmed his senses like an intangible torrent- he could smell it, taste it, see it and yet, it was invisible, untasteable, untraceable. He'd tried, so hard in this cage, to figure out what it was that he wanted, needed to grasp and understand, but the search did little in bearing fruit.
Books laid barely read, some with pages torn from the spines with something akin to ferocity, just to be left, a pile of discarded pages by their, broken leather-bound bodies. He moved towards his literary massacre for a moment, turning to inspect the pages, his fingers flicking loosely through the pages, some still holding themselves together.
They held writing, their own and his own on their pages, letters to his brother that he couldn't send, letting the pulp-pressed leaf fall softly from his fingers as their usefulness came to light, ignoring them for now, until he could once again hope they would yield some use...
He wiped his eyes, dark rings visible as he sat on the bed, the sheets musky and lived on- something he took as a comfort- looking back to the bowl that still laid on the dresser beside it. He'd been suspicious, very suspicious, to find a bowl of food waiting for him, but after a few days scrutiny, he'd finally succumbed to his hunger. It had taken him a few days to eat it, but the food seemed to be welcomed by his stomach, both the bread and the rice calming his stomach, the water soothing his throat. It was only after eating it however that he noticed something.
His own water didn't taste the same, it was different... Tainted.
It had been an undisputed fact in his mind, that it was not the vents that had made the noise that night, before the food appeared. It had been someone, something... Perhaps a servant to whatever it was that was watching him, or perhaps it was that thing itself. He'd yet to catch it, not being able to reach the vent to investigate, he hadn't even seen it- he just heard it, crawling through the vents, perhaps even chattering a few times... That, or there were more of them amassing above him.
All that he knew was that the water here was tainted, undrinkable, so he wouldn't touch it... who knew, it could even be tainted with the very things he was trying to purge- it would explain why the urge to drink it was almost overpowering. If he drank it, he failed in what he was meant to be doing, and he had promised his brother, and himself, that he was going to do this. Even if his word meant nothing to himself, it meant something to his partner.
He needed something, anything, to take his mind off of his thought processes, turning the television and absently flicking through the channels. He had never been able to watch this thing, not properly, as many times as he'd tried, but trying to watch it was a distraction from the other things whirling round his head, running a hand through his hair and readjusting his boxers.
They'd stopped the heat, thank goodness, the things in the vents, they'd stopped it being so damned hot. It had taken them a week of watching him sweat, but they'd done it. They turned off the heat and brought him food sometimes, when he was deemed worthy, so he wasn't negative against them... he just wondered to what purpose they (and that other thing) were doing keeping him here...
He was thinking too much again, he was meant to be focusing on the Tv.
He got up from the bed, moving towards the television, the sound of breaking glass and the low buzz of electronic death catching him off guard before the action of his arm did, looking down towards the screen where his fist was wrist deep in the contraption, his fist reeling in the feeling of heat, the warmth of the now deceased television and what he was guessing was blood swirling around his fingers.
His cry of surprise was delayed, pulling his fist out of the hollow behind the screen and glancing at it before the sound sprang from his throat. He watched his hand for a few more seconds, watching the cuts criss-cross along his the skin of his fingers and knuckles as they, as minor as the injuries were, started to bleed and sting, his hand turning curiously, as if it was something he didn't quite understand. There didn't seem to be any glass in the cuts, none that he could see at any rate, so that was a small blessing, but he knew he had to clean his hand, and that was where he found himself with a problem.
Where was he going to clean his hand? He was in place dripping with tainted water. Only the things in the vents brought him things he could put into his system.
He put his hand to his mouth, sucking on his knuckle, the largest of the cuts being on the skin covering it- he'd have to lick his wounds for the time being, until more water was bought... Hopefully his realisation before putting his hands in the water would be enough to earn him some sort of reward.
He hoped that was the case at least... However, they wouldn't come unless he was asleep, however much he was now starting to dread the process. Sleep brought back memories, memories he didn't remember and, even worse, some that he did. He had to sleep though, sitting on the bed, his tongue still lapping at his hand like a cat trying to dislodge something from its fur.
There was one thing he disliked about sleeping, and that was how easily it seemed to take him nowadays. True, there were periods when he wouldn't sleep for days, sitting by the wall and watching the bars he'd scrawled on the walls above him, but just sitting on the bed brought a feeling of fatigue, one the Russian couldn't quite escape. He pulled himself from the mattress, moving under the bed as had become a regular sleeping ritual, his eyes growing heavy as made himself comfortable his breathing deepening as he feel to the unwanted trance of dreams.