will graham (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
scaleshavefallen) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
all_inclusive2013-08-08 05:01 pm
scaleshavefallen) wrote in all_inclusive2013-08-08 05:01 pm
Entry tags:
my mind's not right.
The guards snicker behind me. It's a nervous titter, because these men have seen the worst offenders, but they have not seen the likes of me before, and now they are scared. I want to turn to confront them, provoke them, with my newfound sense of confidence, but they both wear tasers at their hips and while I am braver now, I am also not stupid.
They know what a catch they have in me. They think the other inmates here are going to chew me up and spit me back out, and they can't wait to see it. They don't realize that this is the last thing the others here should do. They don't realize that I have been pushed to the brink, shoved into darkness, had my very sense of self corrupted, but even the darkness was afraid of what I knew.
Nothing any of these criminals has to say to me would mean anything. They can't break me. They think they want to get into my head, screw with the new guy? Shout their lewd jabs, try to pry open my healed wounds? They're welcome to try. They might not like what they see.
I should be in a panic, but I am calm, and that scares the guards just as much as the crimes they know I'm accused of. I should be dragged, kicking and screaming, to what will possibly be the home for the rest of my life, natural or otherwise (there is dissent over whether you should execute the mentally ill, which seems to be my only hope at dying a natural death rather than a state sponsored one). Instead, I go peacefully. I have made one attempt at escape and while it led to some particularly useful revelations, it also led me right back here, to the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane.
The guards, despite their fascination to see what happens, are more than eager to see me into my cell and wipe their hands of me. I follow orders -- step into the cell, back up to the bars, no sudden moves. I am docile, tamed, cowed. I am what they want me to be, because that way, they will leave me alone.
I try not to shudder when I hear the ominous sound of industrial locks clicking shut behind me. I try not to feel anything; I am numb and triumphant both, and cannot spare a thought for this. Behind my back, the guards undo the chains at my wrists and ankles, freeing me from one set of bondage right into another.
"Your suite, Agent Graham," says one of the guards, and I don't even need to see his face to know that there is a mocking sneer plastered across it. He is probably the oldest child in his family, grew up poor, bullied others to get his way, and had it reinforced by some rather undistinguished military service. If I had to guess. But what do I know; as far as everyone is concerned, I'm a murderer. I'm insane. I'm a toy, to be played with and destroyed and discarded.
I turn to face front, half a mind to correct the inaccurate title he's given me, but for some reason, the scene has changed. Instead of damp brick and two overgrown oafs, I see a nondescript hotel room. A double bed with an ugly floral patterned duvet, peeling wallpaper, a painting of a windmill. I turn in quick circles, taking it in, and now the panic rises and bubbles in my chest.
I was cured, I had thought. They pumped me full of steroids and antibiotics. I have a clean bill of health. I haven't had a hallucination since they woke me up, and besides, this scene has no meaning to me. There's no reason for it. It doesn't fit the pattern.
Haltingly, I take a step forward, reach out with one hand, and run my fingers across the bedspread, the cheap wooden bedframe, the grimy nightstand. Everything feels real, but I know it can't be. Testing the limits of my freedom, I step towards the door, place my hand on the doorknob, twist and pull. The door swings open easily and my feet are carrying me, on automatic pilot, out the hallway. It's a slightly more lavish hallway than the room I just left, but something feels wrong, sterile, otherworldly.
I don't know where I am or how I got here or if this is even real. I wonder if I'm sick again, and then realize that I don't care. Not right now. Not after everything else. I turn back to the door I just stepped through, but the handle won't turn, and I have no key. Whatever is happening to me, it appears that I must go forward, not back. I can't help it. I swipe a hand across my brow, sweat slicking my skin; my lips pull back in a parody of a smile, and I laugh. It sounds haunted and sick to my ears, and I suppose I am, after all.
[ hover for an ooc note regarding will's clothing which is a mild spoiler for 1x13.]
They know what a catch they have in me. They think the other inmates here are going to chew me up and spit me back out, and they can't wait to see it. They don't realize that this is the last thing the others here should do. They don't realize that I have been pushed to the brink, shoved into darkness, had my very sense of self corrupted, but even the darkness was afraid of what I knew.
Nothing any of these criminals has to say to me would mean anything. They can't break me. They think they want to get into my head, screw with the new guy? Shout their lewd jabs, try to pry open my healed wounds? They're welcome to try. They might not like what they see.
I should be in a panic, but I am calm, and that scares the guards just as much as the crimes they know I'm accused of. I should be dragged, kicking and screaming, to what will possibly be the home for the rest of my life, natural or otherwise (there is dissent over whether you should execute the mentally ill, which seems to be my only hope at dying a natural death rather than a state sponsored one). Instead, I go peacefully. I have made one attempt at escape and while it led to some particularly useful revelations, it also led me right back here, to the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane.
The guards, despite their fascination to see what happens, are more than eager to see me into my cell and wipe their hands of me. I follow orders -- step into the cell, back up to the bars, no sudden moves. I am docile, tamed, cowed. I am what they want me to be, because that way, they will leave me alone.
I try not to shudder when I hear the ominous sound of industrial locks clicking shut behind me. I try not to feel anything; I am numb and triumphant both, and cannot spare a thought for this. Behind my back, the guards undo the chains at my wrists and ankles, freeing me from one set of bondage right into another.
"Your suite, Agent Graham," says one of the guards, and I don't even need to see his face to know that there is a mocking sneer plastered across it. He is probably the oldest child in his family, grew up poor, bullied others to get his way, and had it reinforced by some rather undistinguished military service. If I had to guess. But what do I know; as far as everyone is concerned, I'm a murderer. I'm insane. I'm a toy, to be played with and destroyed and discarded.
I turn to face front, half a mind to correct the inaccurate title he's given me, but for some reason, the scene has changed. Instead of damp brick and two overgrown oafs, I see a nondescript hotel room. A double bed with an ugly floral patterned duvet, peeling wallpaper, a painting of a windmill. I turn in quick circles, taking it in, and now the panic rises and bubbles in my chest.
I was cured, I had thought. They pumped me full of steroids and antibiotics. I have a clean bill of health. I haven't had a hallucination since they woke me up, and besides, this scene has no meaning to me. There's no reason for it. It doesn't fit the pattern.
Haltingly, I take a step forward, reach out with one hand, and run my fingers across the bedspread, the cheap wooden bedframe, the grimy nightstand. Everything feels real, but I know it can't be. Testing the limits of my freedom, I step towards the door, place my hand on the doorknob, twist and pull. The door swings open easily and my feet are carrying me, on automatic pilot, out the hallway. It's a slightly more lavish hallway than the room I just left, but something feels wrong, sterile, otherworldly.
I don't know where I am or how I got here or if this is even real. I wonder if I'm sick again, and then realize that I don't care. Not right now. Not after everything else. I turn back to the door I just stepped through, but the handle won't turn, and I have no key. Whatever is happening to me, it appears that I must go forward, not back. I can't help it. I swipe a hand across my brow, sweat slicking my skin; my lips pull back in a parody of a smile, and I laugh. It sounds haunted and sick to my ears, and I suppose I am, after all.
[ hover for an ooc note regarding will's clothing which is a mild spoiler for 1x13.]