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[WM] 74.9 - Philosophy 101
Feb. 5th, 2009 10:02 am"How long has it been since someone touched part of you other than your body?" ~ Laurel Hoodwit
Thirty years.
Thirty years of cold, sterile rooms.
Thirty years of days in laboratories poked and prodded, sliced and burned, pushed to the edge of his sanity, feeling it snap, coming apart in pieces.
Thirty years of nights that stretched long with their silence as he worked to put himself back together, piece by piece, clinging to the thread of vengeance as his hope.
Thirty years where his only pleasures came in his head and his plotting, and finally in the burning touch of a girl who was never innocent, as broken and twisted up as he, who didn't know the meaning of the word "hope" either.
Thirty years of sounds coming and going, of pacing noises next door, now and then, and nothing of any use or solace, no one who could offer anything to him of value or even a reasonable distraction in the way of pleasant conversation or helpful news of the world outside, as useless as the scientists who dragged him to the cold tables to strap him down.
Thirty years of a void, staring into an abyss and watching with a detached curiosity as it stared back, feeling himself sink into it, clinging to the three centuries that came before to hold on to his sense of self, to remember who he was, what he was, and managing to find that hand hold, just, to keep the wit, the humor, the purpose, and then a sound, a breath, the smooth, consoling, lying voice he knew so well, and a softer, broken one he didn't, and everything changed.
Thirty years of waiting, and he waited another month, and he had a name, he had a story, he had a thread of a connection, weaving itself between walls in words and consolation as he offered sympathy and received hope in return in the news of the powers held in the body behind that beautiful voice belonging to the boy with that lovely name, the ideal weapon, the perfect revenge; but somewhere in the plotting something else lodged in the hope and the attachment, and when the boy stepped through the wall and sound became sight and words became touch, something tightened inside of him in a way it hadn't in so long he didn't recognize it, but even without a name for it, part of him knew that nothing would ever be the same again.
Thirty years.
Thirty years of cold, sterile rooms.
Thirty years of days in laboratories poked and prodded, sliced and burned, pushed to the edge of his sanity, feeling it snap, coming apart in pieces.
Thirty years of nights that stretched long with their silence as he worked to put himself back together, piece by piece, clinging to the thread of vengeance as his hope.
Thirty years where his only pleasures came in his head and his plotting, and finally in the burning touch of a girl who was never innocent, as broken and twisted up as he, who didn't know the meaning of the word "hope" either.
Thirty years of sounds coming and going, of pacing noises next door, now and then, and nothing of any use or solace, no one who could offer anything to him of value or even a reasonable distraction in the way of pleasant conversation or helpful news of the world outside, as useless as the scientists who dragged him to the cold tables to strap him down.
Thirty years of a void, staring into an abyss and watching with a detached curiosity as it stared back, feeling himself sink into it, clinging to the three centuries that came before to hold on to his sense of self, to remember who he was, what he was, and managing to find that hand hold, just, to keep the wit, the humor, the purpose, and then a sound, a breath, the smooth, consoling, lying voice he knew so well, and a softer, broken one he didn't, and everything changed.
Thirty years of waiting, and he waited another month, and he had a name, he had a story, he had a thread of a connection, weaving itself between walls in words and consolation as he offered sympathy and received hope in return in the news of the powers held in the body behind that beautiful voice belonging to the boy with that lovely name, the ideal weapon, the perfect revenge; but somewhere in the plotting something else lodged in the hope and the attachment, and when the boy stepped through the wall and sound became sight and words became touch, something tightened inside of him in a way it hadn't in so long he didn't recognize it, but even without a name for it, part of him knew that nothing would ever be the same again.
