Nuvole Bianche prologue
Title: Nuvole Bianche
Chapter: prologue [1/?]
Rating: r
Characters: super junior+m, shinee
Pairing: eunhae
Genre: au, angst, drama, horror, tragedy
Warnings: abuse, blood, gore, violence, eventual sexual situations
Disclaimer: I don't own them.
Claimer: My plot, my ideas; touch them and die.
Summary: Life is not perfect. It is not good, nor is it kind. Life is rough, tough, painful. Life hurts. Living hurts. And sometimes you can live you entire life for one thing, one tiny thing, something that makes everything so much better, only to have it ripped away from you. Sometimes to live you simply have to survive.
Author's Note: Title is taken from Ludovico Einaudi's "Nuvole Bianche", which is Italian for "white clouds".
I don't expect you to understand why I chose this title.
Not until the end, maybe.
"Why are you doing this?" the boy asked quietly, pulling at the straps that tied him to the table. The skin at his wrists was already starting to burn from the friction, a dull, throbbing pain that spread until he could feel the ache in his very bones. He stopped a few moments later, wrists burning in agony, and glanced toward the man in the white coat.
The face, though wrinkled with age and lined with shadows, was familiar, but when he tried to place it to a name from his memory, all he drew was a blank, one accompanied by a flash white hot pain that originated at the base of his skull.
The doctor smiled, almost-but-not-quite kindly. It didn’t reach his eyes. And though the expression was somewhat hidden by both the shadows and the obscene angle at which it was being viewed, the boy could hear the smile in his words. It was that smile that shrieked volumes without even speaking. You know why.
Something in his chest tightened then.
He did know. Oh, yes, he knew, but he didn’t want to remember. "I didn’t see the men start the fire," he said immediately, head shaking as if that would support his words.
Across the room, the doctor merely watched, nodding in absent agreement, fingers toying absently with one of the many knives scattered across the surface of the countertop. "Of course you didn’t. But we can’t take a chance, can we?"
Hesitantly, the boy shook his head.
"So you know what we have to do." That omnipotent smile was back, but the sight of the kindly expression on that face was more than the boy could bear.
His stomach twisted uneasily, as if giving a warning, before his body spasmed. Muscles clenched and held, molars grinding, valiantly attempting to withstand the violent urge to be sick. He swallowed hard against the rising bile, struggling to breathe through his nose, to calm down. He bite down on his lip until the copper tang of blood filled his mouth. The taste and pain centered him.
There was no reason for him to feel this distressed, he reasoned, not when he’d done nothing wrong. The doctor only took the kids who were too sick to work, the ones who caused trouble, the children who missed their family too greatly, like Ryeowook had.
He just needed to keep his head. The doctor would soon see that he was a good boy, that there was no reason for him to be here, and then let him go. And, upon his return to the bunks, he would have a funny story to recount to whomever was listening.
"I-I want my fishy," he breathed quietly, almost desperately, eyes flickering between the toy that he knew would calm him and the doctor’s upheld knife. "It’s mine and I want it." He doctor glanced at the toy in question, a thin smile curling at his lips as he reached for it. "Don’t you touch it!" the boy shrieked, losing his precious control over his fear as he thrashed against the table. He yanked at the restraints once more, throwing all of his weight into the actions when he felt one of the restrains give ever so slightly. He refused to stop, continuing to work at tearing the leather restraints, even when then skin around his wrists, chafed and damaged, began to ooze blood.
"Don’t struggle; it’s worthless to struggle," the doctor murmured, donning a surgical mask, eyes shining with twisted delight.
"But..." But what? He was innocent, why was this happening? "I don’t want to die!" he cried, tears cascading down his cheeks, thin tracks of pale skin glistening where the tears had fallen, their progress etched into the caked layers of dirt, grime, and dust.. "I didn’t see anyone start the fire; the fire was a bad accident! The men didn’t start it."
The doctor tilted his head ever so slightly, as if actually thinking about the request, and took a step closer then, the blade of the knife he’d been handling flashing in one of the bands of sunlight streaming in through the window. For the briefest of seconds, it looked as if the doctor would, in a moment of sudden compassion, free the boy. Instead, the blade found purchase in the tender underside of the right wrist, slicing along the skin clear down to his elbow.
The pain didn’t register at first, perhaps because, like any unknowing child was, he was so enthralled by the beads of blood that began to well up along the edge fo the cut. When the pain did begin to register through the shock that had numbed his mind, the boy began to shriek incoherencies, his voice a high wail that echoed and rebounded in the small room.
A second cut was made on the other arm, parallel to the first, and the shrieking increased until the sound abruptly died. On the table, the boy writhed in agony, screaming in silence, the breath caught in his lungs as blood poured from his arms.
The doctor watched with what could only be described as glee, an almost manic expression consuming his features. He reached out again, pulling two metal rods and a small hammer towards them.
"Please don’t hurt me with those," he cried, catching sight of the rods. He knew what they were, had heard rumors and legends of the things the doctor did to the bad kids. But he wasn’t a bad kid, this was all getting out of hand and panic was beginning to settle in. "Please don’t, please!" His body writhed against the table, tugging, twisting, pulling at the straps holding him down. One was so close, centimeters from ripping, but his wrists her so bad, and they were so heavy now, as if the blood pouring from the cuts were weighing them down.
Unamused, the doctor set the rods aside and reached out again, fingers scrabbling uselessly for a brief moment before returning with a second knife, the blade long and serraded. "Hold still," he demanded, brows furrowed. "You have to hold still for this experiment to work, child."
But being an experiment was almost as bad as the punishment the bad children got, and he wasn’t bad!
He may play pranks on his bunkmates occasionally, and sometimes even scare one of the few teenagers that worked on the upper floors, but he wasn’t bad! On days when the children were told they would be skipping lunch, he was one of the few who would hide their breakfast away, to share later when the younger children were beginning to tire. He told stories at night when they should be getting ready for bed, to sleep the meager hours they had off their shift, stories of glorious sunshine and beautiful princesses and shining knights who rode white steeds and went to slay fire-breathing dragons.
So childish, yes, a bully, occasionally, but bad when he tried to hard to be good?
He was still trying to wrap his brain around that knowledge -- am I good? am I bad? I’m an experiment? what have I done? -- when something sharp pokedcutsliced into his abdomen, and in that next instant everything jumped into sharp focus.
A scream cut through the air, and it didn’t register at first that it was his voice he was hearing. he struggled against the bonds holding him down, instinct urging him to cover the wound, hide the blood, the mess, to be okay and hold together until one of his freinds fetched the doctor -- but it was the doctor that had done this, and he was watching now, a cruel, satisfied smile adorning his lips, and in that instant, the boy had never hated anyone so fiercely as he hated that so-called doctor.
The restraint had ripped free during his frantic clawing and flailing and he reached for the knife that pinned him to the table, fingers curling and tugging uselessly at the handle. Blood welled up from the wound, staining his already dirty shirt a murky crimson. A whimper tore from his throat as he gripped the handle and pulled. Pain lanced through his belly and he froze, body contorting as another wave of agony waved over him, sensing dulling by another degree as the shock and bloodloss began to take their toll.
There was so much blood.
It stained his shirt and sleeves, the skin of his arms and hands and fingers and here-there-everywhere and now the hem of his pants as well, so much blood that leaked onto the table, dripping out of sight.
His heart hammered away in his chest, almost as if it wanted to tear free, the sound intensifying, creating a rush in his ears until it was the only thing he could hear. Then, rising above that, came an eerie silence, one laced with a sense of brutal understanding.
He was dying.
He was dying, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
But the worst thing....
Hyukjae would never know.
He glanced at the doctor, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. There was still so much he wanted to say, things he wanted to do, people he needed to see. So very many promises he’d never be able to keep.
Just as a wave of darkness washed over his eyes, something crashed against the door. A blood-curtling scream pierced the air.
"Donghae!"