Leetle Ficlet.....
Found this after digging through my old writing folder. It's surprisingly good, actually. In my head, I think, it was connected to this (http://frickin-cheng.livejournal.com/31217.html#cutid1) story I wrote, which I think I came up with after watching Mononoke. It's short and worksafe.
He doesn’t know what his name is. He doesn’t know where he is, or who he is, really. The only thing he does know is that he is not this, this state of being is wrong, that there is something fundamentally askew with his situation, his very existence. He looks down on the pale, pale skin of his chest, and his fingers stroke at the deep incisions, fresh scars that mar his chest, and he knows that the ribs underneath are cut along the straight, straight lines. Somehow this doesn’t seem to matter. It’s just his ribs, just dead bone, right?
The stroking hand on his chest pauses, and wiggles just a little. It’s odd, there’s scar, ropy, pink scar then there’s a…stitch? As if, somehow, the healing process skipped that point, just that inch of skin still in stasis. With an idle sort of curiosity, he presses a finger against that stitch and slowly works his finger past the cold edges of his flesh.
Suddenly, the fear floods in, the fear that was held at bay, the fear he had been trying to ignore. Because he couldn’t ignore this, couldn’t ignore the fact that he has his finger an inch inside of his torso, and there’s no blood, where there should be, no pain where there should be agony, just cold, searing, searing cold, where there should be warmth, life. He yanks the finger out, tremors radiating from his core as he rocks back and forth. He should be gasping, but he isn’t, his lungs won’t respond because he doesn’t breathe. Not anymore.
He’s about to open his mouth, to scream, to shriek, when someone walks in. A young man, no older than 25, hair rumpled, his shirt buttons off by one. Quick as lightning, his hand claps over his mouth, cutting off the scream.
“Sorry.” He murmurs, fingers moving in odd, precise forms, “But this meeting cannot go badly.” But the other doesn’t care, because some kind of dreamy emptiness has filled him, and he doesn’t really care.
The young man hissed when he sees the torn stitches.
“Can’t believe I missed a spot.” He mutters, “Not matter, maybe I can say I have it there for contrast.” Putting a hand under the other’s elbow, he gently helps him up, and leads him into the other room. The other follows docilely, squinting at the bright lights.
“Gentlemen.” The young man’s voice quavers just a touch, and he clears his voice, before continuing on, standing up a little straighter. “Gentlemen. I have bridged that gap that has so long eluded us. I have,” He paused for dramatic effect, looking anxiously at the faces in the crowd, “I have bridged the gap between life and death.”
He doesn’t know what his name is. He doesn’t know where he is, or who he is, really. The only thing he does know is that he is not this, this state of being is wrong, that there is something fundamentally askew with his situation, his very existence. He looks down on the pale, pale skin of his chest, and his fingers stroke at the deep incisions, fresh scars that mar his chest, and he knows that the ribs underneath are cut along the straight, straight lines. Somehow this doesn’t seem to matter. It’s just his ribs, just dead bone, right?
The stroking hand on his chest pauses, and wiggles just a little. It’s odd, there’s scar, ropy, pink scar then there’s a…stitch? As if, somehow, the healing process skipped that point, just that inch of skin still in stasis. With an idle sort of curiosity, he presses a finger against that stitch and slowly works his finger past the cold edges of his flesh.
Suddenly, the fear floods in, the fear that was held at bay, the fear he had been trying to ignore. Because he couldn’t ignore this, couldn’t ignore the fact that he has his finger an inch inside of his torso, and there’s no blood, where there should be, no pain where there should be agony, just cold, searing, searing cold, where there should be warmth, life. He yanks the finger out, tremors radiating from his core as he rocks back and forth. He should be gasping, but he isn’t, his lungs won’t respond because he doesn’t breathe. Not anymore.
He’s about to open his mouth, to scream, to shriek, when someone walks in. A young man, no older than 25, hair rumpled, his shirt buttons off by one. Quick as lightning, his hand claps over his mouth, cutting off the scream.
“Sorry.” He murmurs, fingers moving in odd, precise forms, “But this meeting cannot go badly.” But the other doesn’t care, because some kind of dreamy emptiness has filled him, and he doesn’t really care.
The young man hissed when he sees the torn stitches.
“Can’t believe I missed a spot.” He mutters, “Not matter, maybe I can say I have it there for contrast.” Putting a hand under the other’s elbow, he gently helps him up, and leads him into the other room. The other follows docilely, squinting at the bright lights.
“Gentlemen.” The young man’s voice quavers just a touch, and he clears his voice, before continuing on, standing up a little straighter. “Gentlemen. I have bridged that gap that has so long eluded us. I have,” He paused for dramatic effect, looking anxiously at the faces in the crowd, “I have bridged the gap between life and death.”