Day 52: Lunch

[purpletaint]

[from here]It was a race. A fight against patience and a Song's call. Still, the sedation's dredges churned through him. Two close at hand had a potent effect--much like the night that they were left in that town, and the morning after. Rubedo had came then. Came for them like something out of place, and wasn't that so ironic afterwards--when

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[scarefaux]

He may not have had a brain, but the Scarecrow could tell by the tone of his response that Scar wasn't feeling much better, despite the fact that his vision had returned. He wasn't too hurt about it- the lion had been through a harsh ordeal, what with having been through the Sleep Studies and finding himself stricken blind without warning and all.

Remembering how horrible his own experience had been, the Scarecrow found himself surprised that Scar would ask about it at all- maybe it was just his own that left him sour. The Scarecrow couldn't blame him; after all, he'd been the same way until Sangamon convinced him to talk about it. Some people had techniques and skills to help defeat the Wizard Landel- as for the Scarecrow, he was among those who could simply offer what they had learned as aid for the cause, and even that was questionable when coming from a man without a good brain.

"That's right," he answered, his fork and knife settling into his hands as he paused. "It was five or six nights ago now- it seems so much longer than that sometimes. They opened up my head, right here." He pointed to the spot on his head, the hair there still shorter than the rest. "Thank goodness my roommate came looking for me- I was in a terrible state, and would have never made it back without him."

[longlivetehking]

"How terribly lucky for you," Scar commented bitterly, the glare worsening. He had hoped changing the subject from him to someone else would've made him feel better, but it just so happened to be the contrary. After all, no one had bothered to come for him, and the former lion had never been able to deal well with those more fortunate than he was. Even if - realistically speaking - no one could have known with that useless lump of a roommate being asleep for the whole time.

And there was only one other person who could've known, but he'd rather die than having von Karma come to his rescue.

His own head still throbbed painfully, though the pain had began to lessen a bit. He released a sigh, once more making an attempt to move the conversation (and his train of thought) away from his own experience.

"So they messed with your head?" he asked, not looking up from his glare to the meal. It was a miracle the food hadn't caught fire by now.

[scarefaux]

"Cut into it," the Scarecrow said, doing just that to his taco, attempting to saw it in half with his fork and knife. He found he wasn't very successful, the contents spilling all over his plate from the open ends. "Then stitched up the hole like a piece of cloth, but not before putting in a clever little thing. The whole thing was undeniably fascinating..."

He paused, his smile fading. Though it had been days since his Sleep Study, he couldn't help but feel that tingling in his back as he thought about being strapped to the table, unable to move, the stiff frame of his body working against him as he struggled against the restraints; there was the doctor's cold tone, his senses fading, the screen- much like the one on which he'd seen himself in The Wizard of Oz- and the dreaded rattling. The memory of that night was scarred into him.

"... and at the same time, very frightening," the Scarecrow finished quietly. All that had occurred before he learned he could die- he couldn't begin to imagine how different his perspective would have been if he'd had that fact on his human brain.

[longlivetehking]

"...I see," Scar responded a bit uncertainly before growing silent himself. The experience was scarily similar to his own, making his attempt to steer the subject away from said experience quite the failure. He'd much rather forget about the whole thing, pretend it had never existed, that no one had cut open his head and had done something to his brain, that he hadn't-- that he hadn't...

They had messed up everything! His grip on the eating utensil tightened, stabbing a stray piece of food lying on his plate as a pathetic attempt to release some of his anger. They did this to him!

"It is all their fault," he said in a low, angry whisper. The comment was audible enough to be heard by his lunch companion, but it was hardly directed at anyone.