fic: Chase this Light
Title: Chase this Light
Fandom: Life
Characters: Charlie, mentions of other main characters
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1000 ish
Summary: Snippets in prison, only vaguely connected in an extended (double) metaphor sort of way, and maybe not even finished yet, and thus cross-posted no where.
Notes and Disclaimer: The title is from Jimmy, the intense love affair with light is all from the show.
The first bone that broke was a shock, a sudden flash behind the eyes and an overpowering sense of utter agony. It was his arm, twisted up and behind like he might have done once to a perp, a restraining technique. He couldn’t move as they pummeled his chest and his face, and fading out, he began to think it was his mother, waking him for school.
Come on, Charlie, wake up.
She was there, behind his eyelids and in his mind. The only place she could reach him now. The only place his father would let her reach him. He smiled as they hit him, smiled as he felt ribs break, too, and his nose. He was smiling when the darkness finally took him.
***
The first days in jail, the blur of bars and cold steel, he spent in a state of shock and anger, a red haze over everything until it all fell away from him and there was nothing left but a steady hum in the back of his mind and a light dying in his eyes. He saw other criminals, men he might as well have put away, men he might as well now be, for anyone looking in. The handcuffs went on, and the verdict came with them.
This is what you are now. This is all you’re ever going to know again.
When they called lights out at night, he couldn’t even tell the difference.
***
The courtroom had been a circus. He’d been convicted by everyone before the judge had even called the court to order. But it wasn’t even the jury that really made much of a difference to him. He could have done some jail time, he could have done anything as long as he had his family and friends.
But Jennifer hadn’t been able to meet his eyes and the looks from his father had been condemning.
You did this. You killed your friends. You killed a child.
Protests had all died so quickly in the back of his throat, and his lips had been left for little but grimaces. In those days, smiles were beyond him, beyond everyone.
They all stopped mattering eventually. They wouldn’t reach him except for divorce papers and incriminations, so he stopped letting them reach him at all. More bones broke, more bruises formed, but it barely pinged his radar. He fought back, broke a few bones of his own, and spent most of his time in solitary. When the book cart came by, he chose Zen because the words flowed in a hypnotic rhythm, and when he thought at all, he used Zen like a whitewash.
He cleaned out Jennifer’s face, and Bobby’s face, and his father’s. Nothing would touch him, not anymore.
His mother’s death reached him and he wasn’t surprised. He thought, his father did this, and he did this. His life did this. He cleaned out her face, too, and let her fade away to black.
***
He got along pretty well with the medical staff. The nurses, the doctors, they all knew him, recognized him when he came in. Their hands were quick and efficient, but gentle. He never talked back to them, never taunted them or lunged for them. Common decency goes a long way, even for a convicted murder.
He got along less well with the guards, because his moral compass went to jail with him, but it turned out that not all compasses did. Their hands were quick and efficient, too, but gentle was out of the picture. At least they understood loyalty. He couldn’t say the same for the people he’d known on the outside.
He didn’t get along with the other inmates at all. Cop or criminal was apparently entirely in the eye of the beholder. Their hands were meant to bruise and break, to hurt. It didn’t take long for his hands to mean the same.
Constance came and touched him, and it had been so long it took a while, years, to figure it out. The inmates touched him with rage, the guards with authority, the doctors with impersonality. Constance touched his hand and it was compassion and faith, it was doors opening that had rusted shut for years, and he had to squint his eyes against the trickle of light that came pouring in.
***
Ted, when he came into the cell, was so nervous Charlie thought he was going to either have a heart attack or a panic attack or just plain piss his pants. He took odds in his head as he stuck out his hand to shake.
You can do this. You remember decency, even if it doesn’t remember you.
Ted smiled, and it was chagrined. Ted laughed, and it was forced. But Ted still smelled a little like the outside, a little like sunshine. Not everything there had been swallowed up and shelved away. Charlie liked that about Ted.
***
The courtroom, this time, was quiet. No media circus, just a shuffling of papers and a few pitying looks. No one came, not his dead mother, or his deadbeat father. Not his ex-partner or his ex-wife. They handed him musty clothes and a tarnished wedding ring, a watch long since run out of time. Constance brought him a suit, and sunglasses when he asked. Changing from orange to gray, he caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror, and he saw scars and shadows, twelve years of darkness tattooed onto his soul.
You can beat this. You can take it all back.
He slipped on the sunglasses, and straightened his tie, and walked out the gates. The light, when it hit his face on the outside, was blinding.
Fandom: Life
Characters: Charlie, mentions of other main characters
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1000 ish
Summary: Snippets in prison, only vaguely connected in an extended (double) metaphor sort of way, and maybe not even finished yet, and thus cross-posted no where.
Notes and Disclaimer: The title is from Jimmy, the intense love affair with light is all from the show.
The first bone that broke was a shock, a sudden flash behind the eyes and an overpowering sense of utter agony. It was his arm, twisted up and behind like he might have done once to a perp, a restraining technique. He couldn’t move as they pummeled his chest and his face, and fading out, he began to think it was his mother, waking him for school.
Come on, Charlie, wake up.
She was there, behind his eyelids and in his mind. The only place she could reach him now. The only place his father would let her reach him. He smiled as they hit him, smiled as he felt ribs break, too, and his nose. He was smiling when the darkness finally took him.
***
The first days in jail, the blur of bars and cold steel, he spent in a state of shock and anger, a red haze over everything until it all fell away from him and there was nothing left but a steady hum in the back of his mind and a light dying in his eyes. He saw other criminals, men he might as well have put away, men he might as well now be, for anyone looking in. The handcuffs went on, and the verdict came with them.
This is what you are now. This is all you’re ever going to know again.
When they called lights out at night, he couldn’t even tell the difference.
***
The courtroom had been a circus. He’d been convicted by everyone before the judge had even called the court to order. But it wasn’t even the jury that really made much of a difference to him. He could have done some jail time, he could have done anything as long as he had his family and friends.
But Jennifer hadn’t been able to meet his eyes and the looks from his father had been condemning.
You did this. You killed your friends. You killed a child.
Protests had all died so quickly in the back of his throat, and his lips had been left for little but grimaces. In those days, smiles were beyond him, beyond everyone.
They all stopped mattering eventually. They wouldn’t reach him except for divorce papers and incriminations, so he stopped letting them reach him at all. More bones broke, more bruises formed, but it barely pinged his radar. He fought back, broke a few bones of his own, and spent most of his time in solitary. When the book cart came by, he chose Zen because the words flowed in a hypnotic rhythm, and when he thought at all, he used Zen like a whitewash.
He cleaned out Jennifer’s face, and Bobby’s face, and his father’s. Nothing would touch him, not anymore.
His mother’s death reached him and he wasn’t surprised. He thought, his father did this, and he did this. His life did this. He cleaned out her face, too, and let her fade away to black.
***
He got along pretty well with the medical staff. The nurses, the doctors, they all knew him, recognized him when he came in. Their hands were quick and efficient, but gentle. He never talked back to them, never taunted them or lunged for them. Common decency goes a long way, even for a convicted murder.
He got along less well with the guards, because his moral compass went to jail with him, but it turned out that not all compasses did. Their hands were quick and efficient, too, but gentle was out of the picture. At least they understood loyalty. He couldn’t say the same for the people he’d known on the outside.
He didn’t get along with the other inmates at all. Cop or criminal was apparently entirely in the eye of the beholder. Their hands were meant to bruise and break, to hurt. It didn’t take long for his hands to mean the same.
Constance came and touched him, and it had been so long it took a while, years, to figure it out. The inmates touched him with rage, the guards with authority, the doctors with impersonality. Constance touched his hand and it was compassion and faith, it was doors opening that had rusted shut for years, and he had to squint his eyes against the trickle of light that came pouring in.
***
Ted, when he came into the cell, was so nervous Charlie thought he was going to either have a heart attack or a panic attack or just plain piss his pants. He took odds in his head as he stuck out his hand to shake.
You can do this. You remember decency, even if it doesn’t remember you.
Ted smiled, and it was chagrined. Ted laughed, and it was forced. But Ted still smelled a little like the outside, a little like sunshine. Not everything there had been swallowed up and shelved away. Charlie liked that about Ted.
***
The courtroom, this time, was quiet. No media circus, just a shuffling of papers and a few pitying looks. No one came, not his dead mother, or his deadbeat father. Not his ex-partner or his ex-wife. They handed him musty clothes and a tarnished wedding ring, a watch long since run out of time. Constance brought him a suit, and sunglasses when he asked. Changing from orange to gray, he caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror, and he saw scars and shadows, twelve years of darkness tattooed onto his soul.
You can beat this. You can take it all back.
He slipped on the sunglasses, and straightened his tie, and walked out the gates. The light, when it hit his face on the outside, was blinding.