untitled for now - 01/?
Prompt(s): Prompt #300 - Decay at tamingthemuse
He swam.
That is what the doctors ordered and that is what he did.
He swam and tried his very best to like it.
Though if he were really honest with himself, and he always was in this area, the sensation of being surrounded by so much water was abhorrend to him. "Water brings life," his mother had said once, "and water ends all life. Water can only be one of the two." No middle ground, that he knew with the point blank certainty of a child raised in the dunes.
Still, he swam.
The doctors had ordered it and that is what he did. After all, there was still a tiny shred of hope inside his dead heart that just could not stop to dream of getting well again. Healing, what a ridiculous thought. The doctors had also told him that he was far too damaged to repair, that some things not even the best surgeon can fix with implants and cloned tissues.
For the last three years, eight months and twenty-seven days he had had the glorious fortune to learn how to live with the damage. He got used to the never-ending metronome that walked with him wherever he went, each breath taken both blessing and rightly deswerved punishment. If he felt a bit of phantom pain in his arms or legs it was nothing more than a minor annoyance to be ignored at his convenience.
His suit, this masterpiece of engineering in the form of mobile life support, he actually liked. It reminded him of better times. He could remember an innnocent boy, who wrapped himself in darkness and played at being Dayslayer for just another day, please, mom, please.
And so he swam.
Because couldn't not do it. That would be like giving up and he was far too stubborn to be made to kneel before his own... fragility. The doctors said the activity would help his lung capacity and the chemicals they put into the water are supposed to help with his scars. So far there was no betterment, but he remained hopeful.
No. That was the wrong word.
He felt no hope. He felt absolutely certain that one day he would no longer be dependent on a machine to breath for him. Everything else would have been unacceptable.
He swam and swam and swam.
He swam until the droid hovering above him told him to get out of the water. He swam until it tightened its grip on the breathing tube that connected droid to man and forced him to stop else he'd rip off his oxygen mask.
"What?" he said and for a short moment he was shocked to hear his voice so weak.
"You have got mail, sir," the droid replied.
He was treading water, weighing the idea of going a few moments without sweet air to the knowledge that his medical watchbeast would be very vexed with him. If said droid were capable of such finer emotions, that it.
"Well, what are you waiting for? Put the transmission through."
"I cannot do this, sir."
"And why is that so?" Oh, how he wished to wear his suit at the moment. His words would have thundered from every wall of the room, a deep rumble that promised a swift and painful end. Instead he had to listen to a light hiss, barely audible at all.
"It is a flimsi message, sir."
That was new. He'd never got a hard copy letter before.
This entry was originally posted at http://delilahdraken.dreamwidth.org/598199.html.
He swam.
That is what the doctors ordered and that is what he did.
He swam and tried his very best to like it.
Though if he were really honest with himself, and he always was in this area, the sensation of being surrounded by so much water was abhorrend to him. "Water brings life," his mother had said once, "and water ends all life. Water can only be one of the two." No middle ground, that he knew with the point blank certainty of a child raised in the dunes.
Still, he swam.
The doctors had ordered it and that is what he did. After all, there was still a tiny shred of hope inside his dead heart that just could not stop to dream of getting well again. Healing, what a ridiculous thought. The doctors had also told him that he was far too damaged to repair, that some things not even the best surgeon can fix with implants and cloned tissues.
For the last three years, eight months and twenty-seven days he had had the glorious fortune to learn how to live with the damage. He got used to the never-ending metronome that walked with him wherever he went, each breath taken both blessing and rightly deswerved punishment. If he felt a bit of phantom pain in his arms or legs it was nothing more than a minor annoyance to be ignored at his convenience.
His suit, this masterpiece of engineering in the form of mobile life support, he actually liked. It reminded him of better times. He could remember an innnocent boy, who wrapped himself in darkness and played at being Dayslayer for just another day, please, mom, please.
And so he swam.
Because couldn't not do it. That would be like giving up and he was far too stubborn to be made to kneel before his own... fragility. The doctors said the activity would help his lung capacity and the chemicals they put into the water are supposed to help with his scars. So far there was no betterment, but he remained hopeful.
No. That was the wrong word.
He felt no hope. He felt absolutely certain that one day he would no longer be dependent on a machine to breath for him. Everything else would have been unacceptable.
He swam and swam and swam.
He swam until the droid hovering above him told him to get out of the water. He swam until it tightened its grip on the breathing tube that connected droid to man and forced him to stop else he'd rip off his oxygen mask.
"What?" he said and for a short moment he was shocked to hear his voice so weak.
"You have got mail, sir," the droid replied.
He was treading water, weighing the idea of going a few moments without sweet air to the knowledge that his medical watchbeast would be very vexed with him. If said droid were capable of such finer emotions, that it.
"Well, what are you waiting for? Put the transmission through."
"I cannot do this, sir."
"And why is that so?" Oh, how he wished to wear his suit at the moment. His words would have thundered from every wall of the room, a deep rumble that promised a swift and painful end. Instead he had to listen to a light hiss, barely audible at all.
"It is a flimsi message, sir."
That was new. He'd never got a hard copy letter before.
This entry was originally posted at http://delilahdraken.dreamwidth.org/598199.html.