Drabble for Museteasers Prompt #1880
museteasers prompt here
It's always a strange thing when you discover something important about a character you've had for more than ten years. I only really "found out" about this guy's past while thinking about the prompt. ^^; Better late than never, I suppose.
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Stitches criss-crossed over his torso and his back. His skin was a deathly white, but not as white as his hair. He seldom felt anything, whether hot or cold, pain or comfort. He did, however, feel something like regret every time he touched the gold ring on a chain around his neck. He touched it every night, before he lost consciousness, and every morning, right after his eyes opened. Touching it reminded him of a soft feminine face, of smooth chestnut hair through his fingers, of quiet laughter. He would feel something stinging around his eyes, though they weren't human eyes anymore, and he no longer shed tears.
When he'd first woken up as a dead man he felt nothing. No sudden shock at being alive, no urgency to find out what happened after he died. He'd lain there, unmoving, listening to himself breathe. He wore nothing, save for the chain with the gold ring. He'd twirled it in his fingers, slipped it on and off, and watched the harsh lights of the lab reflect off it for what seemed like hours before the surgeon came in and injected something into his arm, then he'd simply switched off. Next thing he knew he was being suited up as detailed infodumps of his first mission were being loaded into his brain. He'd groped under the mesh of his suit for the chain; it was still there. He felt something like relief then, only he didn't fully remember what relief was. Maybe the realization that somehow his heart was still beating, and his lungs still had breath in them, in spite of what he'd been through.
While passing through the lab he came upon a diagnostic of a heart. It beat in time with his own, and gave off a sickening green light. He caught a passing technician by the arm and pointed.
"Having trouble with your synthesizer?" said the technician, reaching over and applying pressure near his collarbone.
"Is that mine?" he said. His voice sounded quite clear; he had a vague idea that it should sound hoarse with disuse.
"Yeah, it is," said the technician. "You want to see your other organs? They're in the next room."
"No." He stared at his heart. He felt neither fascination nor revulsion at the sight of it.
It's always a strange thing when you discover something important about a character you've had for more than ten years. I only really "found out" about this guy's past while thinking about the prompt. ^^; Better late than never, I suppose.
---
Stitches criss-crossed over his torso and his back. His skin was a deathly white, but not as white as his hair. He seldom felt anything, whether hot or cold, pain or comfort. He did, however, feel something like regret every time he touched the gold ring on a chain around his neck. He touched it every night, before he lost consciousness, and every morning, right after his eyes opened. Touching it reminded him of a soft feminine face, of smooth chestnut hair through his fingers, of quiet laughter. He would feel something stinging around his eyes, though they weren't human eyes anymore, and he no longer shed tears.
When he'd first woken up as a dead man he felt nothing. No sudden shock at being alive, no urgency to find out what happened after he died. He'd lain there, unmoving, listening to himself breathe. He wore nothing, save for the chain with the gold ring. He'd twirled it in his fingers, slipped it on and off, and watched the harsh lights of the lab reflect off it for what seemed like hours before the surgeon came in and injected something into his arm, then he'd simply switched off. Next thing he knew he was being suited up as detailed infodumps of his first mission were being loaded into his brain. He'd groped under the mesh of his suit for the chain; it was still there. He felt something like relief then, only he didn't fully remember what relief was. Maybe the realization that somehow his heart was still beating, and his lungs still had breath in them, in spite of what he'd been through.
While passing through the lab he came upon a diagnostic of a heart. It beat in time with his own, and gave off a sickening green light. He caught a passing technician by the arm and pointed.
"Having trouble with your synthesizer?" said the technician, reaching over and applying pressure near his collarbone.
"Is that mine?" he said. His voice sounded quite clear; he had a vague idea that it should sound hoarse with disuse.
"Yeah, it is," said the technician. "You want to see your other organs? They're in the next room."
"No." He stared at his heart. He felt neither fascination nor revulsion at the sight of it.