Not Fanfic - 1
1.
He pushed through the crowd in quiet desperation, trying not to hurt anyone, trying not to be noticed, squirming, sliding, and pressing around the faceless people, praying that his forward momentum wasn’t drawing attention to his utter lack of conformity.
Excuse me.
Pardon.
Sorry.
He muttered his apologies as he bumped and stumbled along, while his mind spoke the constant mantra of pleasepleasepleaseplease…
Sweat ran down his sides and he could smell his fear-stink every time his overcoat billowed open. He slowed his pace, breathing deeply through his nose. How much time did he have? Laughter sounded between his ears and he choked on it, eyes bulging. Time! Oh, please, don’t laugh now. He needed time.
A large beefy man stepped out from a doorway and he walked into him, slamming both of them into the doorframe. “Christ!” The man stiff armed him back, face red. “Wassa matter, ya crazy fuck!”
“S-sorry! I … sorry!” He rushed past, ducking his head down between his shoulders. I blew it! Blew it! Biting back a giggle, he rubbed his hands across his face. He had the sudden urge to look around and bit down on the inside of his cheek. No, no, mustn’t look around. That would be bad. Staring at the sidewalk, he moved with the flow of foot traffic. I’m not here … not here … pleasepleaseplease.
He walked right into them.
They staggered together, a mass of flying arms and jerking knees. He fought them off wildly, but he forgot about the mace; that took the wind out of his sails, oh, yes it did. He crumpled to the sidewalk, gagging and clawing at his face. With muttered curses and threats, they heaved him toward the waiting ambulance. He wriggled away furiously. Flailing out, his hands struck a shoulder, an arm, a woman, standing there, eyes wide.
“Help me,” he pleaded.
There was something in her eyes, horror and sympathy, of course, but some other message. He couldn’t see! If only he could see! She steadied him and he leaned into her hands. “Hold on.” Her voice! Had he heard that voice somewhere, anywhere?
“Please!” He hated the nakedness of his plea, hated his weakness, hated himself.
“Hold on.” It was a command, and it sobered him. He released her and stood straight. When the men in white grabbed him again, he let them take him and muscle him onto the cart. They pulled the straps so tight that he gasped. He heard her voice again, speaking to them sternly, but he couldn’t follow her words. The straps loosened and a palm rested on his forehead.
“Hold on,” he echoed.
The palm stroked his skin as it lifted. Message received.
They tortured him for a week, even though he broke within hours. As always, he told them the truth, told them everything. Still, they gave him soft persuasion full of empty promises, the cold, antiseptic sting of needles, drugged somnolence, the inability to protect himself from the madman in the next bed, and finally, blessed solitude followed by something new, electric shock. He thought that they might drug his food but realized that they would have no need for such subtlety.
He tried telling them what they wanted to hear. They frowned and gave him different pills so that he couldn’t trust his own senses. He raved and cried and begged; they told him to trust them.
“How are you feeling today, Roy? Did you sleep well?” The voice was pleasant. The doctor was a very friendly fellow.
He twitched, the pleasant voice dragging across his skin with little hooks. “Yeah, sure.”
“Roy, I want to talk to you today about these little walkabouts that you take. Could you share with me how you are getting out of the hospital?” The doctor was comfortable looking, like a professor of English or maybe philosophy, wearing an old sweater, a close cropped beard and hair just a bit too long.
“Sure, Doc. I keep tellin’ ya.” He swiped his nose, the meds made his nose run, and twitched again. “I’ll be walking or sitting, once I was eating dinner, and then, poof, I’m somewhere else.”
The doctor was writing on his pad. “Roy, I thought that we had a good relationship. I thought that you trusted me.”
“It’s like I told ya last time, Doc. I don’t have any control over it; I just get squeezed out of here and pop into there. Like a watermelon seed.” He squeezed his fingers together. “Ppfftt.”
The doctor leaned forward. “Is someone taking you out of the hospital, Roy? Is there someone with keys who is opening the doors?”
He grinned wryly. “Doc, I sure would like to know the answer to that question.”
He came to, and realized that he’d lost himself for a bit. Some days had passed. He remembered his hands on someone’s throat and wondered idly if he’d killed that someone. It was night and dark. Light from the hallway shone through the little window in his door. He was strapped to his bed.
He had to piss and he decided to piss all over himself - a minor revenge, but all he had. The orderly would slap him but that was part of the revenge. Their souls died one slap at a time.
The smell of his piss filled his head, caustic and medicinal. He imagined his poor liver and kidneys trying to rid his body of the pills, the endless pills. Their poison flowed through his veins, a gentle susurration, as gentle as the straps that held him corpselike to the bed.
But what was that? That noise? A buzz, like electricity or the ghost sound of utter silence. But this place was never silent. Hell is such a very noisy place. No, this was not-noise. His body trembled with it. Something was coming! This was it. The light from the hall dimmed and his skin tingled.
The buzz, the not-noise, blasted to a deafening pitch. His muscles clenched, waiting, straining forward. It was coming. His breath caught in his throat and his eyes bulged, unseeing.
Ppfftt.