Liam Roberts is an (author) wrote in rooms, @ 2015-03-20 12:46:00 |
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Entry tags: | !wonderland, *narrative, liam roberts |
Liam: Wonderland
Who: Liam
What: A twist of direction
Where: Rutledge Asylum | Wonderland
When: Recent
Warnings/Rating: Some darkness and gore.
What had been comfortable and almost pleasant at first had turned into something much less wonderful as time ticked by. Window-less rooms made it impossible to track the passage of time, one day blending into the next, marked only by meals and medication, the latter of which he tried to refuse, fought to refuse, but found its way into his system one way or another. It took too much energy to fight, and eventually he simply sagged and accepted it. It wasn't quite resignation, but a conservation of strength that seemed to be waning.
Luckily, the staff seemed fascinated by him, by the wings that spouted from his back like feathered fountains. They poked and prodded at them, came at him with scalpels and needles (all in the name of science, of discovery!). They were bare of feathers in places, irritated flesh left in their wake, pristine white stained with his own blood which they failed to wash him of when they were done. But somehow, he withstood it all. He thought of home, of the apartment that he called his own, and he thought of Seven, rough-cheeked with stubble and a smile that was equal parts warm and dangerous in the same breath. He held onto those things, those few shining bits that he could remember, and that's what carried him through.
One night, though, things changed. The atmosphere in the asylum had shifted to something of panic and fear, voices in the corridor of the doctors and other staff rushing this way and that. Doors clicked unlocked and they were ushered out in their nightclothes, bare feet on the dirty floors, led away, away, away. The scent of blood was heavy in the air, metallic and tangy on the tongue, and that's what drew him away. He was not one who could move with stealth, conspicuous as he was, but he was fast, fast enough that they could not catch him as he followed the scent, the fear that hung in the air.
He stopped suddenly in the doorway of the common area, feet slipping in sticky wetness, struck still and silent by the sight in front of him. Three patients, their genders indistinguishable with the gore, hung from the ceiling with ropes around their necks. Tongues bulged from purpling faces, their abdomens slashed open, viscera spilling out, brown and red and stinking. There was blood everywhere, so much so that it appeared that a child had been finger painting, and most of the staff continued to recoil in horror at what had happened.
But not him.
He didn't recoil, he didn't step away. Blue eyes had lost some of their shine, flat and slate blue, and his wings shuddered with tension as he stepped forward, into the gore that covered the floor. A slash of his hand, wind whipping through the air momentarily, and the three bodies fell with wet thuds to the floor. There was nothing timid about him then, this man with the wings and the flat blue eyes. He stood tall, almost regal, an aura of strength surrounding him as he knelt. Pajama pants were soaked through at the knees, but he paid that no mind as his wings stretched out, spreading out to their full span, white feathers shed upon the floor where they had been damaged recently.
And then, the room went still.
No one breathed and no one moved, the very air stilling as the winged man unwound what had been done. Fingers moved in a spiral, spinning back the damage that had been done, undoing what had been wronged. Blood still stained the room, and the mess was hardly cleaned, but where three corpses had lay were now three breathing patients, skin stained with blood.
Movement came back in a rush, breaths released and air moving once more, and with the return of normalcy came the return of the man with the wings. His eyes cleared and his hands shook, and he stood with alarm as he realised the number of eyes upon him.
Dimly, he could hear prayers being said, could see fingers caressing crosses that hung at the necks of several of the staff, and over it all, the sound of blood pounding in his ears. Some of the staff started towards him, halted only by a strong flap of his wings, and then he was off.
Panic filled him from bottom to top, and where doors once remained locked to him, they opened now, almost as though demanding that he leave. And leave he did. Feet did not stop until they were through the door, into the hotel, and then through another door. He moved on autopilot, hands wringing together, and it wasn't until he found a dark place to hide that he even began to think.
What had he done?
What had he done?
There was a gap in things. A gap between then and now, but it was easy enough to piece together what had happened. What he had done.
Who he had brought back.
Somehow, it was more terrifying than taking, than killing, than ending. An end was natural, an end came to everyone. But to be brought back, to have what was taken returned? That wasn't right, wasn't right, wasn't natural.
He wasn't natural.
Fingers pushed back through his hair, shaking like a leaf, and he tried to breath, tried to bring some calm back so that he could think, so that he could figure out what to do next.
The journal.
He fumbled, he prayed that it was charged, and then the screen was lit up, bright white and unforgiving.
He breathed. And he wrote.