(no subject)
verse;;
Mirror|rorriM
Hurts. Hurts a lot, hurts everyday of living, breathing, walking around and fumbling through a routine you haven’t even instilled for yourself. You know who runs my days? My Captain. Do you know whom I go to when my day is over, when all I want to do is fall to pieces, sinew and bone on the floor of my quarters? My Captain. Do you know who I think of every single moment of the day, who when I’m in the throws of ecstasy, (which is rare), or the downward spiral of agony? Do you know whose face flashes before my eyes, the eyes of a doctor, the eyes of a married man, and the eyes of a faithful father against all odds?
My Captain.
It’s hardly upsetting because it’s truthful in every regard. If I were to upset myself with the reality of a situation, at least publicly, I would be more useless than I am already deemed. I almost killed a man today. He was bleeding to death on my operating table; my orders were to keep him bleeding. To ignore the oath of the healer, to let him die an animal, to revel in the mercy trembling in his dying breath. To be fair, he did attempt to take both my own life and my Captain’s life last week. But there was no savage on the table today, only the frightened eyes of a doe, and the confused irises of a soldier in over his head. He held my hand, because he knew he was going to die, and I didn’t have to hear him say it; I knew he didn’t want to die alone.
Didn’t look a thing like me, but in that moment, I was his father, and he was my son. He didn’t curse me, didn’t damn me, most likely the boy was damning himself for the life he had chosen. He muttered something, I believe, though I couldn’t hear him. But I knew he could hear me.
“Son, you listen to me, and you listen real good. I’ll forgive you for what you’ve done, I know it isn’t what you intended to do. I don’t think you understand what you were intending to do, because you don’t understand the way this life you were given works. You don’t understand the cruelties, and you don’t understand what I could, should do to you now. But I won’t. I won’t on the faith that we could have been better people.”
The dermal must have been agony across that tattered chest. He looked like a ruined shirt; ripped apart at the seams, and even in places were there were no seams. There would be scarring, Lord knows there would. But that wasn’t preventable, so I did my best.
And my best, when my Captain found out, was me ordered to his quarters. He broke three of my ribs with a metal rod, and then violated me with it. He kicked me in the side with the broken ribs, then spat on my face. Told me to clean myself up, get myself presentable for a ‘diplomatic’ meeting that night. I did not dare protest, tell him it would be impossible to breathe, let alone converse with possible customers. Simply did as I was told, like the good machine I was.
That ensign I patched up from before thinks he’s being departed back to Terra. Thinks he’s retiring from the service, thinks he’s going to live a more peaceful life. I do not understand why he thinks this. His shuttle will be equipped with three phasers, all set to overload once they have reached safe distance from the ship. The pilot of the craft, along with two other passengers have all made failed attempts on my Captain’s life. They will die. All of them will die.
And all I got out of this was three broken ribs, a horrible bruise and a torn rectum. There is no moral high ground in this life; there never was. There’s only that which survives, and those who do not.
Mirror|rorriM
Hurts. Hurts a lot, hurts everyday of living, breathing, walking around and fumbling through a routine you haven’t even instilled for yourself. You know who runs my days? My Captain. Do you know whom I go to when my day is over, when all I want to do is fall to pieces, sinew and bone on the floor of my quarters? My Captain. Do you know who I think of every single moment of the day, who when I’m in the throws of ecstasy, (which is rare), or the downward spiral of agony? Do you know whose face flashes before my eyes, the eyes of a doctor, the eyes of a married man, and the eyes of a faithful father against all odds?
My Captain.
It’s hardly upsetting because it’s truthful in every regard. If I were to upset myself with the reality of a situation, at least publicly, I would be more useless than I am already deemed. I almost killed a man today. He was bleeding to death on my operating table; my orders were to keep him bleeding. To ignore the oath of the healer, to let him die an animal, to revel in the mercy trembling in his dying breath. To be fair, he did attempt to take both my own life and my Captain’s life last week. But there was no savage on the table today, only the frightened eyes of a doe, and the confused irises of a soldier in over his head. He held my hand, because he knew he was going to die, and I didn’t have to hear him say it; I knew he didn’t want to die alone.
Didn’t look a thing like me, but in that moment, I was his father, and he was my son. He didn’t curse me, didn’t damn me, most likely the boy was damning himself for the life he had chosen. He muttered something, I believe, though I couldn’t hear him. But I knew he could hear me.
“Son, you listen to me, and you listen real good. I’ll forgive you for what you’ve done, I know it isn’t what you intended to do. I don’t think you understand what you were intending to do, because you don’t understand the way this life you were given works. You don’t understand the cruelties, and you don’t understand what I could, should do to you now. But I won’t. I won’t on the faith that we could have been better people.”
The dermal must have been agony across that tattered chest. He looked like a ruined shirt; ripped apart at the seams, and even in places were there were no seams. There would be scarring, Lord knows there would. But that wasn’t preventable, so I did my best.
And my best, when my Captain found out, was me ordered to his quarters. He broke three of my ribs with a metal rod, and then violated me with it. He kicked me in the side with the broken ribs, then spat on my face. Told me to clean myself up, get myself presentable for a ‘diplomatic’ meeting that night. I did not dare protest, tell him it would be impossible to breathe, let alone converse with possible customers. Simply did as I was told, like the good machine I was.
That ensign I patched up from before thinks he’s being departed back to Terra. Thinks he’s retiring from the service, thinks he’s going to live a more peaceful life. I do not understand why he thinks this. His shuttle will be equipped with three phasers, all set to overload once they have reached safe distance from the ship. The pilot of the craft, along with two other passengers have all made failed attempts on my Captain’s life. They will die. All of them will die.
And all I got out of this was three broken ribs, a horrible bruise and a torn rectum. There is no moral high ground in this life; there never was. There’s only that which survives, and those who do not.