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LJ Idol, Week 2 - The Missing Stair
The winter wind howls, pummels me with invisible fists. It cuts through my hoodie, knocks my own wind right out of me, but I don't mind. Up here on the roof, it's peaceful--or what passes for that these days. I risk my neck every time I come here--the jump from the nearest tree's almost too far. One day I'll probably miss, but I won't mind that, either.
Not like I've got a lot to live for anyway.
I remember the first time I made the leap. How I held my breath and waited for the shock--that skull-splitting, white-hot pain. Almost hoped for it, really. It's fucked up, isn't it, wanting 'em to hurt me so bad I can't breathe? Thing is, you can't think either, when you're hurting like that. But the shock--they call it "Therapeutic Correction"--never came, even though they had to know I was up here that night. They track us through our neuro chips, so they have to know I've been here most every night since, too. That I've been talking to her.
"Is that you, sugar?" Her voice drifts up from below, slow and sweet like the syrup Eric's ma used to--
Dangerous thoughts, Number Seven. Another voice, icier than any wind.
All of us on Ward Zero hear the voices, heard 'em months before we came to the Home. They're part of the Program, meant to guide us. Get our thoughts back on track when they veer off too far. The first time I heard 'em, I thought I'd gone crazy. After a while I knew I had, but by then it didn't matter. It was just one more thing I didn't think about, like the names the other kids called me at school. The store clerks' withering looks when I picked up my ma's bottles. How I knew that's all I was to her--an extra ration, a way to get more booze.
One more thing I've learned to work around, that's all the voices are.
The shocks're supposed to be like that, too. None of the other Ward Zero guys need 'em anymore--not even Number Eight and Number Nine, who got here after I did. They do what they're told, automatic-like. None of 'em seem to wonder why we're here, what the Program's really about. They stick together, eat and sleep and train, don't break the rules. All of 'em avoid the shocks, all except me. I'm the only one who's ever tried to run, and the "correction" I got for that near killed me. Made me miss a week of training, too.
"Sug?" she calls, real soft, from her balcony on Women's Ward. "Help a lady up?"
"Yeah." I stretch out on my belly, dangle one arm over the edge and brace myself with the other. She climbs up quick, but I stay where I am. Lie there looking down into the darkness, think about how far I could fall. How easy it'd be. The voice doesn't do a thing to stop me, but she does. She grasps my arm tight, pulls me back from the brink. Does she know what I was thinking? If so, she shows no sign.
I straighten up and turn to face her, have to look up a little to meet her eyes. She's never told me how old she is, never even told me her name. But I figure her for at least Eleventh Year, maybe even of age. She's got at least an inch on me, even though I'm tall for fourteen. Towered over all the other boys in my class, back when I still went to school. When Eric was still--
Number Seven. Control your mind, before it controls you.
I shake my head, try to clear it.
"Hard day?" She brushes my hair out of my eyes, studies me. "You look done in."
My knees turn to rubber. I grit my teeth against despair, wrap my arms around myself and hold on tight. Strong. I'm strong, always have been, and Eric wouldn't want me dead. He wouldn't. I wait for the voice to tell me otherwise, but it's silent for now.
"I've been--" My words catch in my throat, and I swallow. "I'm okay."
We both know it's a lie. She feels the sadness in me, same as I feel it in her. The ache inside that won't ever go away. I see it in her dark eyes, the way her smiles never quite reach 'em. Hear it in the country lilt of her voice, the heavy note that weighs it down.
She gets it, the way the Program guys never will.
They're nice enough, I guess, but most of 'em are happy to be here. Why wouldn't they be? They come from shitty families like mine, and other than the "corrections," life here's pretty cushy. The kitchen staff makes our favorite foods, and we've got all the games and vids and music we could ever want. The other wards're all locked down, but not Ward Zero. We're free to roam the grounds, to do whatever we feel like when we're not training. Who knows? Maybe I'd be happy here, too, if my best friend hadn't died the day I moved in.
Your best friend betrayed you, the voice reminds me, like I'm ever gonna forget. He turned you over to us.
"Not much for talkin' tonight, are you?" she asks.
Tears prick my eyes at the kindness in her voice, but I'm not gonna cry--not in front of her or anyone else. I shake my head, turn away. There's a stone structure nearby, about a foot taller than me, with an overhang that blocks some of the wind. Set into one side's a door--probably leads to the stairs, but it's always locked. I sit down, my back against it. Rest my cheek against its cool metal surface. Even in this weather, it's a comfort. She sits, too, and I let my hair fall over my face, wait 'til I can trust myself to speak.
"Been thinking a lot, is all." My voice's thick, and I clear my throat. "Y'know, about why I'm here."
"You goin' philosophical on me?" She laughs, and it's like music. "Or you mean how you wound up in the Home?"
Kinda both. Why am I alive when Eric's dead? If he turned me in, why'd he die trying to stop them from--
That's enough, Number Seven.
"How'd you end up in the Home?" I ask, to occupy my mind with something else. On Ward Zero, we're special. They hand-picked us for the Program, even if some of us weren't exactly willing. The other Residents, though... there's a reason they've got 'em all on lockdown. A reason this place's called the Home for the Intractably Insane. "You don't seem like a nutter."
She snorts. "Well, you don't seem like a killer. What're you, a hunnert-twenty pounds sopping wet?"
A what? I blink at her, shocked silent.
Her eyes go wide, and the color drains from her face. "Bless your little heart." She puts a hand to her own heart, and her full lips part like she's gonna say more. But she doesn't, not right away. She leans in close, smooths my hair back from my face. Puts a cool hand on my forehead like a ma'd do--any ma besides mine. "You... you really don't know, do you?"
My stomach lurches, and I gulp in cold air to settle it. "Know what?"
She sighs. Plays with a strand of her long black hair, twists it around one slim finger.
They're the killers, not me--the men in the black cloaks. I want to tell her, but I'm trembling too hard to get the words out. "Men" doesn't feel like the right thing to call 'em, either, those faceless figures in black. The boneless, graceful way they moved, and how their bodies flickered--
The shock comes before I can speak, swift and fucking brutal. Rips through my brain like lightning, rattles my teeth in their sockets. My breath stops, and my heart beats out of time. Crashes around inside my ribcage like a tiny, broken bird. I clap my hands to my head, bite my tongue so I won't cry out. Never let 'em hear me scream. Mouth tastes like metal, world goes gray--
"Hey," I croak. Fight to stay conscious. "You called me a killer. Why?"
"Oh, honey." Her voice's so sad. "What'd you think they were training you for?"
Not like I've got a lot to live for anyway.
I remember the first time I made the leap. How I held my breath and waited for the shock--that skull-splitting, white-hot pain. Almost hoped for it, really. It's fucked up, isn't it, wanting 'em to hurt me so bad I can't breathe? Thing is, you can't think either, when you're hurting like that. But the shock--they call it "Therapeutic Correction"--never came, even though they had to know I was up here that night. They track us through our neuro chips, so they have to know I've been here most every night since, too. That I've been talking to her.
"Is that you, sugar?" Her voice drifts up from below, slow and sweet like the syrup Eric's ma used to--
Dangerous thoughts, Number Seven. Another voice, icier than any wind.
All of us on Ward Zero hear the voices, heard 'em months before we came to the Home. They're part of the Program, meant to guide us. Get our thoughts back on track when they veer off too far. The first time I heard 'em, I thought I'd gone crazy. After a while I knew I had, but by then it didn't matter. It was just one more thing I didn't think about, like the names the other kids called me at school. The store clerks' withering looks when I picked up my ma's bottles. How I knew that's all I was to her--an extra ration, a way to get more booze.
One more thing I've learned to work around, that's all the voices are.
The shocks're supposed to be like that, too. None of the other Ward Zero guys need 'em anymore--not even Number Eight and Number Nine, who got here after I did. They do what they're told, automatic-like. None of 'em seem to wonder why we're here, what the Program's really about. They stick together, eat and sleep and train, don't break the rules. All of 'em avoid the shocks, all except me. I'm the only one who's ever tried to run, and the "correction" I got for that near killed me. Made me miss a week of training, too.
"Sug?" she calls, real soft, from her balcony on Women's Ward. "Help a lady up?"
"Yeah." I stretch out on my belly, dangle one arm over the edge and brace myself with the other. She climbs up quick, but I stay where I am. Lie there looking down into the darkness, think about how far I could fall. How easy it'd be. The voice doesn't do a thing to stop me, but she does. She grasps my arm tight, pulls me back from the brink. Does she know what I was thinking? If so, she shows no sign.
I straighten up and turn to face her, have to look up a little to meet her eyes. She's never told me how old she is, never even told me her name. But I figure her for at least Eleventh Year, maybe even of age. She's got at least an inch on me, even though I'm tall for fourteen. Towered over all the other boys in my class, back when I still went to school. When Eric was still--
Number Seven. Control your mind, before it controls you.
I shake my head, try to clear it.
"Hard day?" She brushes my hair out of my eyes, studies me. "You look done in."
My knees turn to rubber. I grit my teeth against despair, wrap my arms around myself and hold on tight. Strong. I'm strong, always have been, and Eric wouldn't want me dead. He wouldn't. I wait for the voice to tell me otherwise, but it's silent for now.
"I've been--" My words catch in my throat, and I swallow. "I'm okay."
We both know it's a lie. She feels the sadness in me, same as I feel it in her. The ache inside that won't ever go away. I see it in her dark eyes, the way her smiles never quite reach 'em. Hear it in the country lilt of her voice, the heavy note that weighs it down.
She gets it, the way the Program guys never will.
They're nice enough, I guess, but most of 'em are happy to be here. Why wouldn't they be? They come from shitty families like mine, and other than the "corrections," life here's pretty cushy. The kitchen staff makes our favorite foods, and we've got all the games and vids and music we could ever want. The other wards're all locked down, but not Ward Zero. We're free to roam the grounds, to do whatever we feel like when we're not training. Who knows? Maybe I'd be happy here, too, if my best friend hadn't died the day I moved in.
Your best friend betrayed you, the voice reminds me, like I'm ever gonna forget. He turned you over to us.
"Not much for talkin' tonight, are you?" she asks.
Tears prick my eyes at the kindness in her voice, but I'm not gonna cry--not in front of her or anyone else. I shake my head, turn away. There's a stone structure nearby, about a foot taller than me, with an overhang that blocks some of the wind. Set into one side's a door--probably leads to the stairs, but it's always locked. I sit down, my back against it. Rest my cheek against its cool metal surface. Even in this weather, it's a comfort. She sits, too, and I let my hair fall over my face, wait 'til I can trust myself to speak.
"Been thinking a lot, is all." My voice's thick, and I clear my throat. "Y'know, about why I'm here."
"You goin' philosophical on me?" She laughs, and it's like music. "Or you mean how you wound up in the Home?"
Kinda both. Why am I alive when Eric's dead? If he turned me in, why'd he die trying to stop them from--
That's enough, Number Seven.
"How'd you end up in the Home?" I ask, to occupy my mind with something else. On Ward Zero, we're special. They hand-picked us for the Program, even if some of us weren't exactly willing. The other Residents, though... there's a reason they've got 'em all on lockdown. A reason this place's called the Home for the Intractably Insane. "You don't seem like a nutter."
She snorts. "Well, you don't seem like a killer. What're you, a hunnert-twenty pounds sopping wet?"
A what? I blink at her, shocked silent.
Her eyes go wide, and the color drains from her face. "Bless your little heart." She puts a hand to her own heart, and her full lips part like she's gonna say more. But she doesn't, not right away. She leans in close, smooths my hair back from my face. Puts a cool hand on my forehead like a ma'd do--any ma besides mine. "You... you really don't know, do you?"
My stomach lurches, and I gulp in cold air to settle it. "Know what?"
She sighs. Plays with a strand of her long black hair, twists it around one slim finger.
They're the killers, not me--the men in the black cloaks. I want to tell her, but I'm trembling too hard to get the words out. "Men" doesn't feel like the right thing to call 'em, either, those faceless figures in black. The boneless, graceful way they moved, and how their bodies flickered--
The shock comes before I can speak, swift and fucking brutal. Rips through my brain like lightning, rattles my teeth in their sockets. My breath stops, and my heart beats out of time. Crashes around inside my ribcage like a tiny, broken bird. I clap my hands to my head, bite my tongue so I won't cry out. Never let 'em hear me scream. Mouth tastes like metal, world goes gray--
"Hey," I croak. Fight to stay conscious. "You called me a killer. Why?"
"Oh, honey." Her voice's so sad. "What'd you think they were training you for?"
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And the end... what a hopeless, horrible bite.
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The Home comes from the same universe as my "novel" (aka "that thing I've been writing and rewriting poorly since season 8 of Idol ended"), and the narrator in this piece is in the novel, sort of. As is his dead best friend, sort of.
I have done a lot of worldbuilding and a lot of character development and I know a lot of the plot, but gahhhh, it is hard to write a novel and I suck at doing things in order, and, and... XD
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I still love how his voice here is a mixture of what his voice used to be and what it will be, once he's out from the Home. I also love the start of the pain-thing.
And I am very much a fan of making that line of dialogue the last line. I'm glad that somehow you managed to get this pieced together the way it should have been, because this ending just works for me.
You already know I would read a novel staring this character. =p I kinda love him. I can't help it.
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Thank you for not killing me while I agonized over how to move three fucking paragraphs around to make a goddamn ending. I have no idea why that was so hard, but you know about me and endings. And Devin and having things in any kind of order. Although besides that, I have to say that Sasha (Sashin? Number Seven?) is a hell of a lot more cooperative to write than Devin.
I will write that novel someday. I'm still trying to figure out how or if any of this backstory I seem suddenly able to write figures in. XD
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Dan
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And yes, I do feel like that, sometimes. Especially with certain characters of mine. There's what they tell me, and then there's what I let them tell the reader. How about you?
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...um, in the best way possible?
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