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 Posted: Wed Feb 03, 2016 2:17 pm
Day One
Everything aches, from his throbbing head to the tips of his toes. Most notably, his bad leg, which is in a terribly cramped and bent position, Cerussite lying on his side on the floor. It's cold and rough against his cheek, the concrete scraping, and he's relatively certain that he has a bruise somewhere around his left eye. He's tried pushing himself up a few times, but with his hands bound behind his back, he's had a lot of difficulty in just maneuvering himself at all. His damned leg isn't helping at all; it feels like pins and needles are sticking into every part of his thigh every time he shifts.
So he lays there, cold and shivering, and tries not to think about what's going to happen to him or why he's here.
He knows, at the very least, that it's because he's a part of the Negaverse. But beyond that, Cerussite sees no reason why he should be taken. He's just a lowly Lieutenant; a simple grunt that's still learning the ropes. There's nothing at all that he should be worth, nothing at all that he should be good for to the White Moon. He doesn't know any of the inner workings, isn't involved in the intimate details of the higher ups, barely even knows any of the Negaverse except for Cinnabar.
(Is this about Cinnabar? What about that general from the other knight, Labyrinthite? Is this about either of them? He doesn't think so, because he's not worth being captured for either of their sake, and he hardly even knows Labyrinthite beyond being terrified of him, and Cinnabar - Cinnabar wouldn't have let him get kidnapped.
Would she?)
He wants water. His throat is so very dry, and every time he swallows, it feels as though he's trying to swallow sawdust. Cerussite spends the better part of twenty minutes trying to work up enough energy to get himself vertical and maybe take some of the pain off of his leg, though this seems impossible. His leg is already throbbing with a dull ache, his thigh on fire, and then, finally, finally he mages to get himself upright. He stretches out his limbs in front of him, shifting his aching shoulders, and leans back against the wall, breathing heavily.
It's not the best solution, but it's a better one than before. The pressure is at least taken off of his bad leg, and now he can try and flex his toes towards himself, the way he did when he was in therapy for all those months, just to get his nerves working properly again. Cerussite still remembers the exercises, the sound of the therapist's voice in his ear, gentle and calm as they guided him through each one.
He hadn't even been sure he'd be able to walk again.
Can he walk away from this? Will he be able to live? He doesn't even know, isn't sure whether or not he'll come out of this alive, and the very thought of it makes him cold, makes his veins feel as though ice is running through him, chilling him through to the bone.
No. No, he has to live, because he has to go home. He has to go home to Hitch, because they're going to be married, soon, and he has to go home and make sure that Hitch is okay and that he's not worrying about where he is, or what's happened to him. He's already been taken once, and the memories of this are still stark and fresh in Cerussite's mind; and he knows, in Hitch's mind too.
He has to get home. He can't stay here, they can't keep him here. The thought of Hitch sitting there waiting for him, wondering for him, only for the night to keep passing with no sign of him, makes a shiver of fear run up and down Cerussite's spine, and he finds he's having trouble breathing.
But - but he has to stay calm. He can't let this get the better of him. He has to remember what he's been taught, what Cinnabar has shown him of being in the Negaverse. The entire reason he joined in the first place, the whole reason for his being:
To become stronger. To protect Hitch, to protect Fritz. To protect the world that he's been given, however small it may be. Cerussite has not had much in his life that he has been proud of, or that he can call his own, but he has this. He has Fritz - and he has Hitch; his beautiful, incredible, wonderful Logan Hitchcock, who gave him everything and expected nothing in return, who is waiting for him to come home, who is the only thing that Cerussite really needs in this lifetime.
He can do this. He can survive this. He's been through worse -
- or has he?
His accident will never leave him. He knows this, thinks of it every single day, remembers the feel of the the fire against his skin, the smell of burning flesh and gasoline, the screams of tires and the shriek of a siren as the ambulance came nearer. He remembers the agonizing pain in both his body and his mind; the desperate need to get rid of it all, to simply sink into oblivion because it hurt too much to even breathe.
Because of the girl. He remembers, too well, the girl. He can't forget the girl, no matter what he does, no matter how hard he tries, because her name is still there and still imprinted so much into his mind that it's almost painful just to recall. He can see her face, can remember almost every word of the newspaper article that was written about her - and him, by extension.
Local teen runs stoplight, causes accident.
Motorcycle accident leaves one in intensive care, one injured for life.
Cerussite leans against the wall and keeps his eyes close, his heart beating rapidly in his chest as his eyes begin to sting at the corners. He draws in a shuddering, shaking breath that rattles in his chest and then lets it ease out again, biting back a sob.
It's not worse, but it's not better, either.
[ WORD COUNT: 1043 ]
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Posted: Wed Feb 03, 2016 9:16 pm
Day Three
He can't remember ever being this thirsty.
It doesn't start in his throat. Instead, it starts deep within his stomach, a physical ache that wells up into his chest, stifling his breath and making rasping, gasping sounds come out instead of the norm. It pushes its way further, through his throat then, which aches and throbs like he's swallowed tar, sticky and thick and rubbing him raw, each swallow painful and dry. His mouth lacks moisture, and he licks cracked lips, trying to make it less difficult to even breathe, let alone speak.
Sometimes they bring him water, like the one with the blonde hair. But sometimes, Cerussite is sure, they forget about the small detail of feeding and watering the prisoners. He hasn't had food since the first day, when he was given crackers, and now he's almost sure he can still taste them, thick and sawdust dry in his mouth, making the thirst strengthen and burn, until it overtakes him, until it's all he can think about.
His eyes are consistently damp. Cerussite has always been the emotional one, has always been the one that tears up at the smallest of things, at the most mundane of activities. He remembers Fritz teasing him good naturedly about getting upset over a commercial about oil spills, remembers the boys in his primary school being less good natured, laughing and mocking him for being too girlish.
They stopped after primary school. Then came the ignoring. Then came the invisibility, as though he didn't even exist, as though he didn't even belong to the earth. And when the accident happened, when he ruined not just one life, but two, he remembers the avoidance; the way that people sidestepped him, the way that his own parents couldn't even look at him, as though the shame was too great for them to bear.
Our son hurt somebody.
Fritz had been there. Fritz had tried, as much as he could, but even he kept his distance. Even his own twin brother, whom he'd idolized practically since birth, had not known what to do with him, how to handle him: this fragile, emotional, depressing boy who has such terrible, wracking anxiety he can hardly walk down the street without panicking.
Cerussite is used to being forgotten. Avoided. Ignored. He is used to the tears that are constantly gathering on his lashes, used to the redness that burns in his eyes, used to looking in the mirror and seeing the swelling around them that's a telltale indicator that he's been crying.
And he's also gotten used to work roughened hands gently smoothing away the tears, a low, laughing voice in his ear telling him that everything's going to be all right.
If he closes his eyes he can see it, almost feel it. Hitch's hand on his face, a thumb under his eye to brush away any stray drops. Another hand on his shoulder, maybe, gripping tightly, or maybe cradling his cheek to keep his face tilted up. Warm lips pressing against his own, words of affection and adoration murmured into kisses meant to soothe and reassure, so that the syllables are breathed into his own mouth for him to taste.
Sometimes there are arms around him, secure and steady at his waist, pulling him back against a solid chest. Hitch is shorter than him, but he's stockier, more filled, and he - Tolliver - fits perfectly within the circle of his arms, nestled back against him. His own slender build (too skinny, as Hitch would say) filling in the gaps so that the two of them are tangled together in a sleepy bundle.
Sometimes he wakes up, screaming into the night, tangled in nightmares instead of Hitch's arms. Sometimes he grapples for Hitch's hand and feels it instantly, fingers curling into his own, a mouth at his ear whispering rapid words of love and safety, calming him down through gentleness and firmness alike.
Cerussite remembers thinking how he could have gone so long without this sort of safety net in his life. How he could have though that everything would ever have to stay the same, that nothing would ever change; that he'd be lost and alone his entire life? He doesn't need to answer, however; he knows the reason. He knows the shame that had welled up inside of his heart, thick and cloying, so that he spent most of his childhood and teenage years believing that there was something wrong with him.
You don't like girls.
You don't like women.
It's unnatural.
And besides - who would ever even want to be with someone like him? This inexperienced, pathetic, emotional young man who caused an accident and wrecked someone else's life has always been alone, and that's all that he has ever expected. There are too many pieces of him to pick up; too many jagged edges that cut and jab.
At least, that's what he's always thought.
But Hitch.
Logan Hitchcock, proving the world wrong.
Logan Hitchcock, proving that all of his beliefs aren't a mess, aren't shameful; that what they can have is okay, and not just okay, but real and wonderful and beautiful in a way that feels almost overwhelming on some days because a part of him still can't believe that someone like Hitch even exists in a world so sad and difficult.
Cerussite can't remember what it's like to sleep alone again. To wake up and not have someone at his side - to not have Logan at his side, because even when Hitch leaves for work before he gets up, he always makes sure to wake him and say goodbye with a gentle kiss.
Sleeping alone has almost become impossible, except.
Except.
When Cerussite opens his eyes, there are no arms around him. There are no tender affections breathed into his ear, no hand taking his own and pressing them palm to palm so that the silly silver snake ring on his left hand is visible and bright, reminding him of all they have and all they will have.
There is no one else here but himself, and his own thoughts, and this unending, painful thirst.
[ WORDCOUNT: 1030 ]
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Posted: Thu Feb 04, 2016 2:35 pm
Day Five
Someone has given him water now, at least semi-regularly, every few hours. It helps to alleviate the burning in his throat, the ache in his chest, though he still finds it difficult to breathe. This has less to do with the fact that he is constantly thirsty and more to do with the fact that he can't seem to stop panicking over everything. Cerussite remembers, dimly upon waking one morning in the cold cell, the little bottle stuffed in the back of his cupboard at home, the one that had been given to him by one of the doctors after his accident.
"For anxiety,' she had said, scrawling out a prescription on a small pad and ripping it off. It'll help you calm down if you start to panic again."
He remembered staring down at the prescription in his hand and wondering about it; if this was going to be his life from now on, if he was going to have to rely on medication to get him through each day. And it is, for a while. He takes two pills for pain every morning and every night, and will consistently for the rest of his life, so long as his leg remains the way it is. At the very least, his regular dosages have been lowered as time has passed, so that now it's more as needed than an every day thing.
Except his leg does hurt, every day.
He hasn't had any of those in four days. The pain is growing in his thigh especially, where the twisted, warped skin feels stretched too tightly across the muscles and bones beneath. With every movement, every shift of his body, Cerussite feels the terrible tugging sensation, a slow and steady burn, as though he's rubbing it against a rug and leaving behind nothing but an awful, throbbing ache.
It's not an entirely unfamiliar sensation. He remembers not taking his medication for the first several days after his release from the hospital, purposefully letting himself feel what he had done in a physical reminder. He didn't want to forget, couldn't forget that everything, all of it, was his own fault.
This, though. This.
This is not his fault. He has been taken against his own will, for reasons yet unknown. Cerussite has not done anything wrong, contrary to the beliefs of those that have taken him, and those that he's run across, on the wrong side of the war he's learned about. He shouldn't be here, and for the first time - for the first time, Cerussite can let the reminder that he is innocent breathe through his veins.
It both helps and doesn't help, because a voice in his head keeps repeating, over and over again - you did this.
You're not one of us.
Eurydike, the senshi, the one who he'd run into more than once now. Eurydike, with his scornful snarls and his angry words that burn like brands into Cerussite, that scorch and flay with each syllable. It almost feels personal, somehow, between them, and Cerussite can feel the hatred in his eyes each time his face is turned towards him.
But Cerussite has also not forgotten the time when he'd been saved, not as a lieutenant, but as Tolliver St. James. The time when, he'd been gathered up into Eurydike's arms, carried back home, because he'd been hurt, because he'd been out on his own when he shouldn't have been. There had been kindness there, once upon a time.
It wasn't there anymore. All that remained were the dregs of a lost connection and a terrible, furious loathing.
Cerussite sits now, on the floor of the cell, and it's cold. The chill of the air seeps into his arms and legs, numbing them as he leans against the wall, the bruise around his eye having surpassed dark purple now and fading into some garish, unpleasant yellowish color. His gaze is half-lidded, his dry lips parted as each breath ebbs out of him in a ragged sound; yet at least his breathing is steady enough that it isn't a problem.
(Yet.)
He wonders how much longer they will keep him here. If he will be able to get out alive, if he will be able to do anything at all after this. He wonders if Hitch is waiting for him - and then immediately finds a moment of perverse, desperate humor, a choking, sobbing laugh escaping him, tears in the corners of his eyes, because of course Hitch is waiting for him. Of course Hitch is probably out of his mind with worry and fear and panic about where he is. There's no question about it, no question at all,
And there shouldn't be.
He wants to go home. He wants to go back to Hitch, to their little, shabby apartment with it's mattress on the floor and with a couch that sags a little in the middle and with it's lack of both television and internet. He wants to curl up on the bed, pull the blankets over himself, and listen to the sound of Hitch in the kitchen, an apron tied over his jeans and teeshirt, with the smell of bacon or some other delicious concoction wafting out to greet them. He wants to be woken up with a soft kiss to his temple, gentle words in his ear, a familiar, low voice saying Morning, baby and filling his senses until there's nothing else at all inside of his head. He wants to wake up and know exactly where he is and feel wonderfully, beautifully comfortable and safe.
None of that will happen, not now, and he doesn't know when he'll be able to hear it again. All that he has right now is a cold, dark cell that chills his veins, a dry, scratchy throat, and a throbbing, aching leg that makes him feel like he's burning all over again.
Cerussite closes his eyes, and maybe, just maybe, the pain will go away if he can sleep.
(It doesn't.)
[ WORDCOUNT: 1012 ]
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