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Scars |
| She wanted to scream. She wanted to get up, howl with all her might, kick at the door, and throw herself against the walls. She wanted to curse the very name that had her tossed in her little cubic cell to begin with. She wanted to tear at the padded walls, those laughing, faceless cushions, those mildewed pieces of trash soaked through with blood and sweat and tears and vomit and bile, she wanted to rip at them and shred them. With her fingers, hands, teeth, whatever it would take. She wanted to do everything in her power to try and get out of this godforsaken hellhole that she hated so much. She could only do so much in a straightjacket. So Jessye did her best to stand up, screaming all the while, and threw herself as hard as she could at the steel door that kept her locked inside of her padded prison. She hit it with a hard crack, blackness swirled into her eyes for just a second, not even that maybe, and slumped face-first to the floor. Bruises that were already there became irritated, causing even more pain to rip through her systems. She lied there for a few seconds, and then began to cry. It came in huge, wet sobs that were broken by gaps of silence in which she would gulp in as much air as she could to get ready for the next one. She didn’t cry because of the pain usually associated with injured ribs, she cried because she knew they were coming again. The images roared, rattling through her skull, screaming louder than she could ever try without ripping her vocal cords apart. They were of faces, some with little trails of her own blood running out of their mouths, some with little trails of their own blood doing likewise, some doing both, it was so hard to tell because human blood was always the same color. Some stared into nothingness, others wondered at the knife sticking out of their leg, and one in particular marveled at the pieces of glass sticking out of their partner’s face, still alive and moaning in pain, both not yet realizing they’d just survived something that had killed thirty-nine other people. And there was Him. And him. The both of them yelled at her, one scolding her for failing the mission He gave her, the other laughing at the mistakes she had made the entire way. One a Being of holy beauty wrapped in what should’ve been a comforting, soothing light that should’ve eased her pain, the other a black-clad demon (that’s what he had to be, right?), clothes as dark as his eyes, chuckling scornfully because he thought it was just that funny. Those two voices were the most definite of them all, booming above the amalgamation of the many people she had purified, the ones who screamed at her for what she had done to them, men, women, children, even the voice of a newborn that hadn’t spoken his first word yet. She had intended to give them salvation, but all she gave them were scars. The door unbolted and opened, allowing two orderlies to step in, but she did not care. She just wanted to die right then and there for what she did, to stop them from haunting her every waking moment, to stop His Scorn and his jeering. It actually hadn’t taken long for her to forget what she was crying about at all. Before the orderlies had even restrained her, it had slipped her mind completely. But that didn’t stop her from crying. He, he, and they had all just slipped away within seconds, leaving her to her own sobs of complete hysteria and no clue to why things were the way they were. She didn’t feel them undo the restraints for her arms, she didn’t notice that her screaming was now accompanied by a kicking and flailing so mighty that the two had to call in three more to restrain her completely, she didn’t feel an orderly grab each limb and stretch her out to give the one with the syringe enough room. She gasped slightly and paused in her flailing when she felt the needle slip into her arm, but her battle began anew as the liquid sleep bled into her veins and arteries, quickening through her systems, slowly tiring her... The orderlies let go, let her drop to the soft and plushy floor. She tried to get up, she really did. She trembled furiously as she attempted to sit up. She remembered that they had undone her arm straps, and slowly turned over, crawling very slowly towards the open door. The orderlies just stood and watched as she could fight no more, and collapsed prone, onto the floor. She felt them doing up her arm straps again, but she didn’t care. Sleep felt so good. She forgot about the harsh dryness in her throat, ignored her own erratic, though slowly becoming soothingly rhythmic, quiet breathing, and paid no heed to the sounds of violent screaming and cries of lunacy that were getting further and further away with each passing moment. All she wanted was that warmth, the feeling she got whenever she slept nowadays, that cozy hug that she forgot about whenever she flew into another violent rage or another bout of hysterical sobbing or another session of crazed, inane prattling no one else could quite grasp. It was what she imagined hugging God would be like. She felt like that warmth was loving her, and that she was loving it back. She shut her eyes, turned over, and smiled as she drifted into sleep. It was the only good thing she had anymore. No satisfaction from saving people, no acknowledgement of a task well done, no feeling of accomplishment of eluding the so-called ‘heroes’ again, just the comforts of dreamless sleeps. She didn’t dream anymore. Only had nightmares now. Nightmares of a man in black jumping down at her from high, wings of tattered flesh and tooth bursting from his back and shredding all traces of clothing from the waist up. Of her God suddenly shedding what would be considered His skin, only to reveal a statue of stained glass underneath. Of a church crumbling from the inside, not so much the church itself was breaking apart, more like reality was falling apart it its very seams, and the church was the focal point. Of a man in uniform, screaming at her about a crash and how she had killed his daughter with it, and then his fists rushing to give her a painful greeting. And when she was no longer at the height for his fists, he kicked at her with all her might, sending her across the floor into a stone wall. A KPD officer could do so much in an isolation chamber, and what dreadful things he did. Except for that man in black, all of her dreams had revolved around someone she had hurt. She had hurt people by purifying them, and she had hurt God by hurting His people. She scarred them, and they in turn scarred her. One by one, the orderlies left. The last one stayed a while, just to look, maybe to gaze, upon that pretty waifish girl with the green eyes you’d never expect to see hintings of insanity behind. He shook his head, reminded himself what a pity it was to see someone so young in a place and state like that, and locked the door behind himself. Tomorrow, it would begin anew. She would fly into another fit, whether it be explosive rage, hysterical crying, incoherent blubberings, perhaps a combination, perhaps all of them at once. She would remember how much she hated it in the cubic room with padded walls, or how much misery a straightjacket brought, or what she had done to all those poor people at knifepoint, or something else that would just make her totally lose her mind yet again. And then the orderlies would come and give her an injection that would quiet her, something that would remind her that the whole world hadn’t gone to Hell around her, or that she wasn’t actually in Hell itself. Somewhere along the line she would be fed, maybe even taken out of her cell to visit some of the others imprisoned here for their lunacy, or perhaps go as far as injure yet another orderly with whatever she could get her hands on. They fed her themselves because they didn’t trust her with eating utensils anymore. But, for now, she rested upon that perfect cushioned floor, and slept.
Written by Ren Start - 06/25/2002 End - About an hour. Just something I wrote on a whim, after having Nirvana’s Heart-Shaped Box suddenly pop up on my player. I followed that with Wholly Morel Ground from the soundtrack of American McGee’s Alice, and there it went. I shall expand on in later instead of giving it more parts, perhaps write more on her exploits in the asylum... |
The C. Force © 1996-2002 Matt Laskowski --- The R. Force and other assorted crap © 1995-2002 Ren