Rorschach is "Mike Caulfield" (whisper_no) wrote in musingslogs, @ 2011-06-04 01:18:00 |
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Entry tags: | rorschach |
Who: Mike Caulfield AKA Rorschach
What: Life without a face
Where: Jail
When: The month of May
Warnings: Rory in a box. So very sad.
Every day was the same as the day before, and identical to the day after. It came to pass that Rorschach started to wonder why he defined a day by the cycle between sunrise and sunset. He could easily call a day the time that transpired between meetings with his lawyer, or lunches, or appointments with psychiatrists. Every meeting was a tick in an open box, a checkmark on a sheet of paper. His life had been stripped bare and forced onto a grid with arbitrary rules and guidelines. Rorschach, his black and white face, had become black and white numbers. He no longer even had a face. It was just a hollowed out shell, carved into his skull.
He didn't even recognize the reflection that stared at him in the mirror. Its surface was grimy, in desperate need of a clean, but that wasn't why the man in the mirror was such a mystery to him. His face was overtaken with thick, black facial hair that dusted his cheekbones, spread over his jaw, and extended well down his neck. Hair that was desperately in need of a cut dangled against his neck. Once, it had itched and tickled. Now, it was simply there.
That was what his entire existence had collapsed into, he realized. Simply being there. He watched other arrestees come and go, escorted to and from cells in succession. There were the drunken buffoons, the prostitutes, the supposed murderers, the public peace violators, and so on. More than he could count, more than he cared to remember, they all marched past him at some point. His eyes, hard and distant, followed each with a singular interest that faded the moment they had left his sight. Once upon a time, he had stopped people like this. Now, he was herded amongst them, forced to wallow in their filth as if it were his own.
Every psychiatrist he met with seemed to have a different opinion. Conveniently, those chosen by the prosecution thought him lucid while those chosen by his attorney thought him incompetent. But their degrees were always off, leaving every single one scratching their head while trying to put their thoughts about him into words. His lawyer was growing antsy. At first, he asked for a defense. Guilty, not guilty by reason of insanity, what did he want to do? When Rorschach didn't answer, the man began to put something together on his own. But their meetings were being taken over by other meetings, meetings with people that asked him questions like "Where were you born?" and "Is Mike Caulfield your real name?" He stopped speaking to them after the first day.
As time passed, Rorschach spent more and more time alone. Between meetings, the guards would leave his region of the cell block, plunging him into isolation. No visitors, no one to speak to. It made his throat feel dry and closed at all times, as if his body were abandoning the notion of speech and humanity altogether. When mail came, he was always overlooked, until one day. Delphic Legal Services wanted him to call, provided a number and an address. They were interested in his case. Without thinking, without caring, he stuffed the letter under his cot and ignored it. He had learned about spam on the internet, and imagined that spam existed outside of its well. A week later, he got another letter on the same letterhead, this one much less formal. It simply read CALL in massive letters, no greeting or closing.
He was standing on the edge of a mountain, blindfolded and deafened. There was no way to look, no way to sense what would happen to him on the way down. Isolated, his identity deprived of him - whenever they asked after it, he had to stay silent, could never say that he was Rorschach - and so the rest of him was disappearing. And yet these Delphic lawyers were strangely adamant on commanding his attention. Perhaps he could leave it for another day, or see if another letter came. Or maybe he could call under the strong suspicion that this wouldn't be an idle stranger.
Whatever his decision, he didn't make it quickly. After all, he had all the time in the world on his mountaintop.