Out of Body, Out of Mind

[hisekigan]

Day: 5
Characters: Hisoka soukahisoka, Service hisekigan
Summary: The crackdown begins with a bang, and a psychedelic trip through Hisoka's mind. IS IT CAN BE HUG TIEMZ NAO?
Status: Closed // Incomplete

Comments

[soukahisoka]

In retrospect, cornering himself hadn't been the brightest idea. Whatever pill Service had shoved in his mouth had dissolved instantly on Hisoka's tongue, before Hisoka could spit it out or even bite at the nurse's firm hand; and then Service shoved him back into his hiding place, the refuge made prison.

There was sick terror in Hisoka's stomach. He kicked violently at the door, pushed and shoved at it, but for all that Service was willowy as a wand, the door didn't give. Tears rose in his eyes at the goddamned helplessness of it -- Hisoka was so tired of being helpless, what he wouldn't have given for his fuda or his empathy or a damned gun -- and a strangled shout escaped his throat, short, choked.

His knuckles were beginning to hurt from punching at the door. They were scraped and sore, and still it didn't give. Hisoka should have kept moving, maybe, kept running; breathed more quietly, perhaps, or fled outdoors, held his breath in the ocean, held it forever, ended this farce.

Only a thin line of light penetrated the inky darkness of the supply closet, and Hisoka tried not to think about home, about being locked up in small enclosed spaces and tracking the passage of time by the shadows the bars on his cell threw out.

Instead he thought about his therapy with Joshua and Harley, which, while embarrassing, hadn't been a torture. It had been private, and it had been stupid, but Hisoka hadn't been hurt. He didn't trust that trend to continue at all -- he was sure that any day, someone would show up mangled and mutilated, barely able to breathe last words into the intercom -- and now that the staff had at last dropped their hotelier attitude, their situation would grow correspondingly more serious.

That was why he'd bolted, because if staff were cracking down, and that civil facade were being dropped, Hisoka had been vocal enough that they'd go after him, too, and he was so sick of taking the fall for other people, of taking their lumps.

Of tracking the shadows thrown by light.

Hisoka'd stopped fighting, finally, some twenty minutes later, as whatever had been in that pill rolled through his system. The empty supply closet rattled as he dropped to the floor, pulling up his knees and wrapping his arms around them hard. He pressed his face into his knees, and stayed quiet, hot blood unfurling like a red carpet through his veins. One of his hands passed over the scrapes on the knuckles of the other, caught by the rough, uneven texture in comparison to the rest of the skin of his hand, smooth and thin.

He didn't want to see the light at all.