He had no idea how long he would have to endure the operation. It wasn't bad enough that day and night died here, time itself had to slow impossibly once the knife cut into him. He cried out.
A few more slices, and the knife turned into a massive class ring, the kind that ogre wore in his past life. The anguished cries escaping his lips echoed off the walls into his ears. His throat began to burn.
Images, unfocused at first, began to swim on the insides of his eyelids. He arched against the restraints, the massive arm carrying him from his room, feeling the leather burn a stripe into his bare stomach as he shook back and forth. His fingers clawed against the table, trying to find something to grip - the doorjam! But the blood -- or was it just a cold, agonized sweat? -- wouldn't let his grip hold.
He looked down into the face of the only man on earth he'd ever consider family. The glasses were askew and blood poured from his nose. He tried to call out his name, but could only stare in horror at the body convulsing horribly on the floor as blood and tissue exploded from somewhere in his chest. The eyes rolled back and blood poured out where tears would. The jaw slackened, and a mouthful of blood fell onto his shirt. The ears, too, became crimson fonts.
He heard the shells whistling above him, felt the ground shake as they landed... little did he know it was his own panicked shivers that were registering. The pnumonia attacked his strained chords visciously - he coughed and choked as stars flew before his eyes. Leather straps flew open and he bolted upright. Someone drummed out a marching beat on his back and he gathered from all the shouting that there was a bucket to catch whatever he had to give. He gave all.
As the phlegm began to break up and relocated to the bucket, there was a sickening twist on his knee. The surgeon was plowing ahead, despite the fact that his patient was barely breathing and was supported by four sets of hands. He felt his throat tighten, and his mouth was unusually wet; it was the only warning he had before his stomach emptied its contents through his teeth and both nostrils. There was an agonized moan.
He felt rough concrete brush his face, and he landed like a soggy rag somewhere he thought for a moment he could be safe. He could taste the salt of the ocean and felt the hands pulling him back down to the table. As the restraints were tightened across his body once again, he felt her hands close tightly over the one of his that she could reach. He squeezed, drawing strength from her.
The quavering image he revisited whenever she spoke appeared before him. For the first time, she came into focus. But her uniform turned black, the hair grew long, and she stood there with roses in her hands, a haunting stare holdinig his eyes. She came forward to him, leaving the flowers behind. As she drew closer, she began a mournful ballet, pulling him along, but immediately pushing him away again. He watched as she spun away from him, not realizing the fact that he was falling. He landed in a bed in a white room filled with demons and wraiths hovering above him. He screamed again.
Someone tapped his shoulder. He turned to stare into the empty eye sockets of a skeleton. It was dressed in a black uniform with silver trimmings, and it grinned menacingly at him. He felt something being pressed into his hands, and he tore his eyes from the skeleton to examine the object. It was a mirror. He raised it to his face, but the bare alabaster of that uniformed skeleton stared back from its surface. He screamed, throwing the mirror through all the spectres gathered at his bed to crash against the wall.
A white cat with human hands for paws lay down next to him, holding his hand.
"Let me go!" he didn't have the strength to scream anymore. "Let me go! Stop! Please, please! Just stop!"
The cat's grip tightened. It stared at him, and he heard words in his head: If you feel you need to go, having an image will keep you grounded.
He stopped shaking and met the cat's gaze, breathing heavily, trying to check the short cries of pain that were escaping him. Everything around its eyes melted into the darkness of his bandages. He stared into the icy blues, not daring to blink, even as tears blurred the details. Slowly it took the familiar shape of the young woman in her white uniform, standing far from him.
"Well, that's a wrap, boys. Nurses, get him cleaned up."
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One Day We'll Run Away (I Promise)
the beds be soft steel counters, the walls are damp cement. the nurses all will hold your hand if you leave without consent. here, we don't exaggerate, don't put things in your head. truth be told: boys come in hurt,
and boys leave here dead.
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thun_der_kat
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Donate to me your unwanted tokens and tickets! biggrin
