to put voice to thought: part 1

[luxover]

He’s in their basement sitting on Neal’s piece of shit couch, one that’s covered in paint and cigarette burns and that’s pretty lumpy and saggy in the middle.

Dave thinks, This has to be the most uncomfortable, unsanitary couch in the history of all couches, ever, and he knows better than to bother Neal when he’s painting, but he usually does it anyways.

On the other side of the room, Neal’s facing a massive canvas, one paintbrush behind his ear and another in his hand, cans of paint littering the floor around him. Neal thinks, Then buy me a fucking new one.

Dave thinks, No thank you, this one is just fine.

David took a class on it, once, so he vaguely knows what happened. Basically, it was just Darwinism at its best: humans had working vocal chords until, one day, they just didn’t need them.

And that’s it.

David’s in the kitchen making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich before he and Neal head outside.

Neal thinks, Hey asshole, make me one?

David thinks, Make it your- fucking-self, but he’s already got four slices of bread out.

Afterwards, they go out and sit on their roof, toasting their four year anniversary of living in the same house. It’s kind of cold out and they can’t see the stars for shit because of all the light pollution.

Fourteen hundred and sixty fucking days later, Neal thinks. Are you still where you want to be?

David looks at him and thinks, No. He would like to see the sky, or the ocean, or maybe do something exciting for once.

Me either, Neal thinks. I’m bored out of my fucking mind. And David didn’t know that, but it makes him feel better to know he’s not alone on this one.

Could’ve used a glass of milk, Neal thinks, and David can see him digging peanut butter out of the roof of his mouth with his tongue.

Fuck you, David thinks, and then, Let’s go get drunk. He knows Neal won’t disagree; it was him and Neal, way back in the beginning, and it’ll be him and Neal, together at the end, whenever that is.

It happens at a bar.

Of course it fucking happens at a bar. He and Neal are shitfaced, really shitfaced, just drinking bad beer and bemoaning the fact that their lives are stagnant and boring, and then he hears it.

What load of poser-ass pussy shit is this? someone thinks, and David brushes it off because it’s coming from behind him and Neal, and there’s tons of people there anyway, and they didn’t do anything to piss anyone off. Not yet, anyways.

Look at those fucking tattoos! the guy crows. And lip rings-ooh, he must be real tough… Faggot.

And then Dave-well, he doesn’t really know why, because people have called him and Neal much, much worse-just snaps, really loses his cool. He turns around, finds the guy who thought that shit, and then just decks him right in the mouth.

It all makes sense to him because, growing up, David didn’t have much of anyone. And then, one day, he had Neal. He told himself that he’d do whatever it took to keep Neal because friends like Neal are a rare, pretty fucking rare, and David might not know much, but he knows better than to try those odds again.

The fight gets out of control. He wakes up on the sticky barroom floor, his head feeling split open and the taste of blood in his mouth. He doesn’t remember anything, but Neal’s kneeling next to him on the floor and Dave can just make out the image of some biker assholes carrying their friend out the door, so Dave thinks everything could really be worse.

“Jesus, what the fuck happened?” Dave asks. “My head is pounding."

Everything in the bar-everything-all just stills.

And then just like that, it explodes to life again. Everyone’s crowding around him, and pushing each other out of the way, and someone thinks, Call an ambulance! Dave wants to think, Hey, whoa, I’m fine, really, but he doesn’t because of the way Neal’s looking at him.

Dave reaches out a hand and wraps his fingers around Neal’s wrist. Neal looks worried, real worried, and he thinks, What the fuck did they do to you?

The ambulance doesn’t take him to a hospital; it takes him to a government compound that’s nothing but rigid angles and high walls, and they sit his ass in a chair that kills his back. People in both suits and lab coats come rushing in and out of the room, but they don’t talk to him or look at him or do anything about the blood that David can feel dripping out of his nose.

Then some woman comes in, some real loopy-looking woman, and she sits across the table from him, her hands folded neatly in front of her.

David, she thinks. David, my name is Paula and I’m here to help you. So why don’t you tell me about yourself?

David thinks, Where the fuck am I?

Paula smiles. No, no, she thinks. Tell me.

So David does because he doesn’t know what else to do and, to honest, he’s kind of scared shitless.

I’m David Cook, he thinks, I’m 27 and a bartender in Tulsa.

Paula cuts him off. David, honey, she thinks. I think you’re beautiful, and you’ve really got something special, so please don’t make me ask again. Tell me about yourself.

And she just keeps thinking that, and David doesn’t get what the fuck is going on, so he thinks again and again, I’m David Cook, I’m 27, I’m a bartender in Tulsa, I swear, I swear it’s the truth.

I’m getting upset, David, Paula thinks.

David throws his hands up in the air, frustrated and angry and afraid. “Well, I don’t know what the fuck you want!” he yells, and then stills immediately.

His fucking throat is on fire. It hurts, more than any of his tattoos ever hurt, more than any of Neal’s titty twisters or his brother’s Indian burns, more than all of that stuff combined.

He grabs his throat and sobs, hunched over on the tabletop.

Paula smiles.

Thank you, David, that was wonderful.

David sits there all alone in the room, and Paula doesn’t come back. He looks around, tries to figure out what’s going on. There’s not much to it, just a table and two chairs and that’s it, and it kind of reminds David of an interrogation room, only there’s no mirror and they-whoever they are-didn’t bother to try to hide the cameras that are in every corner of the room.

David paces; he thinks. There’s not much for him to do and if he’s going to be honest, he’s scared. He doesn’t know who these people are or what they want with him or what the fuck is going on because suddenly he can talk-at least, he thinks he can talk, but he’s not really sure because no one’s ever done it before, not for years and years and years, and David doesn’t know what it would sound like, anyways.

One hour passes, and then two; three or something like that and David stops jumping at every creak, stops watching the door with trained and expectant eyes.  He kicks up his feet on the table. He falls asleep.

When David wakes up, there’s a man sitting across the table and he jumps about six feet in the air.

Fuck! he thinks, and almost tips his chair over backwards taking his feet off the table. A little warning would be nice.

Come on, dawg, the guy thinks. That’s not what they pay me for.

Dave looks at him and thinks, What do they pay you for?

The guy flexes his biceps and David laughs, only that thing happens again, that thing where he could almost have sworn that the noise came from his mouth and not from his head.

He guy punches him in the face and it hurts like a bitch.

Don’t-don’t do that freak shit around me, dawg, the guy says again. He picks Dave off of the floor and starts dragging him to the door, out into the hall, and into another room. Swear to god, if I catch this shit, I’m just going to…the guy mutterthinks, and Dave tries to makes heads or tails of any of it.

He’s thrown onto a bed-a hospital bed, the whole room looks like a fucking hospital room-and then handcuffed to the bed railing.

What the-? Dave thinks, but then the guy is gone and Dave’s just stuck there.

David, some guy thinks as he opens the door. He’s British; Dave doesn’t know any British people. My name is Simon. It’s lovely to finally meet you.

Who the fuck are you people? David thinks.

I am everyone and I am no one, Simon thinks to him. But in this place, to you, I am god.

David snorts and Simon, judging by his face, does not approve.

You will learn rather quickly that I am to be taken seriously, Simon thinks to him. And then, on the table next to the bed, he places a tray that is lined with needles and scissors and knives and gauze. David feels his heart rate pick up, hears it on the monitor he’s attached to.

It’s hours later, Dave thinks, but he’s not really sure because there’s no clock in the room and he didn’t think to ask Simon.

David hurts, he hurts all over, and he’s more scared than he’s ever been in his life. He thinks about it a little bit, about what they want from him and what he’ll have to do before they let him go. He thinks about his mom, and how she probably doesn’t even know he’s gone yet, and about how Andrew has his distortion pedal, still sitting in the back of his car where David forgot it last week. He thinks about Neal and how Neal’s probably mad and worried and doing that thing where he paints his feelings because he won’t be able to have a conversation about shit with anybody because he’s shy and locked up and Dave’s the only one with the key and he’s a freak, locked up.

Then again, maybe Neal’s glad he’s gone, what with the talking and all.

David thinks not; he likes to think better of Neal than that.

You’re making this harder for yourself than necessary.

Fuck you, David thinks. I’m not going to do anything you want me to, so you might as well forget about it and just let me go.

You’re an interesting one, that’s for sure, Simon thinks. Not like the others at all. He looks at David real pointedly and Paula walks around the small room, pulling a small tray of syringes down from the cabinet. The needles are big, real big, and David tries not to think about it.

What others? David thinks, and if it sounds shaky, well. David disagrees.

Don’t you worry yourself with that, Simon tells him. Now, let me hear that pretty little voice of yours.

No, David thinks. Go fuck yourself. He hears Simon sigh.

Fine, then. Paula?

And then Paula’s taking a needle off of the tray, one of the largest needles there, removing the cap and filling up the barrel with something clear. She walks towards him, holding the syringe away from her body, and David struggles to get out, to get away, because there’s no way that thing is going in his body, no fucking way, but all that succeeds in doing is causing the handcuff to bite at his wrist and turn his skin red.

Hold still, Paula thinks. It’s coming one way or another. But then, after all that, Paula doesn’t even have to jab him with it-she sticks the whole thing right into his IV line and presses the plunger down in one swift go.

David waits, and-nothing. Absolutely nothing happens and he doesn’t know what he was worried about. Only, Simon and Paula are still watching him, and they’ve got their clipboards at the ready and David doesn’t know what they want.

And then-and then it’s like his blood is on fire and everything hurts, everything all at once, the most unbearable pain imaginable. David scratches at his skin to get it out, get it out, and he’s red up and down his arms from it, but he can’t stop. There’s the pain, and it hurts, and there’s this noise that he hears, and he doesn’t know what it’s from, never heard anything like it, but it’s horrific and he just wants it to stop, the noise more so than anything else, just make it stop, make it stop, and his throat hurts, feels raw, and he doesn’t know why but there’s that noise and the pain and the noise.

Simon thinks, That wasn’t so hard, was it? and then David doesn’t remember much else.

Paula comes in without Simon after that, but Dave quickly learns that Simon’s still the one in charge.

Simon wants your DNA, David, she thinks, and she smiles at him with teeth that are a little crooked and a lot white.

No, David thinks. I didn’t-you can’t-

Paula raises an eyebrow. You’re such a sweet thing, she thinks. We can. You’re chained to the bed, honey, you’re not going anywhere.

David can’t do anything other than sit there as she shaves his head and his body and collects his hair, as she clips his nails and removes his eyebrows. When she draws his blood, she thinks, Now sit still and this will barely hurt a pinch, but she collapses three veins and David’s entire arm throbs.

Why are you doing this? he asks.

We just want to know everything there is to know about your kind, she thinks.

My kind? David thinks. What is my kind? I’m your kind, I’m no different.

Paula pinches him on the leg and he flinches.

You and I are not the same, she thinks, and looking at the rapidly appearing red mark on his thigh, David can’t help but agree.

She comes in at weird hours, sometimes. It unsettles Dave, to wake up see Paula hovering over him or watching him from the doorway. She doesn’t do anything, and neither does he.

Until:

The cameras are watching you, David, she thinks to him, pointing to the top corners of the room. You’re a star, baby.

Please, Dave thinks, and he’s not above begging. Please just let me go.

No, Paula thinks. But I’ll hold your hand when they’re done with you.

And then suddenly, Paula doesn’t visit him for two days. David would be ecstatic except for how that means he doesn’t get anything to eat or drink for two days, except for how that means he’s alone, rotting away, alone.

The next time she comes in, it’s with a bucket of chicken and they eat together. Dave’s confused, thinks she’s drunk.

Where’s Simon? Dave asks, mostly just for conversation, but partially because he wants to know.

Ugh, Simon, Paula thinks. Simon drives me crazy. We are still arguing, always arguing. You know, my mother told me never to lie?

Okay, Dave thinks. He doesn’t know what else to do.

I lie all the time. I’m a liar and an opportunist, but do you know what you are?

Chained to a bed? Dave suggests.

Paula laughthinks and shakes her head. She waggles a finger in his direction. You’re adorable is what you are, even without all that hair.

Thank you?

You’re welcome, David Cook. And then she gets up to leave and walks to the door. All you can do is the best you can do, you know? she thinks, and then she’s gone.

Simon comes in sometime after that, and the way he looks at him makes David squirm.

David, David, David, Simon thinks. What am I going to do with you? He’s practically whispering it, he’s so quiet, and David wants to tell him to think the fuck up, but he keeps quiet because he knows that Simon likes that, likes to hear David talk.

Instead, David thinks, You could fucking unchain me from this goddamn bed, for starters.

Simon doesn’t respond, just circles the room and checks all the machines David’s hooked up to. He makes these faces, ones that David doesn’t like, and he feels like a fucking moron for being afraid of someone like Simon.

Paula, Simon whisperthinks, … removed… her post. I have decided that … unfit for the job. …care of her replacement and not… won’t you?

David doesn’t say anything, doesn’t think anything, just struggles to hear. Simon leaves the room, lightly tugging on David’s handcuffs with one finger as he leaves. David bites his lip until it bleeds.

David thinks about what the new doctor will be like. He hopes, prays, that whoever it is, they’re better and more attentive than Paula. But then he looks around at the fucking over-sterile piece of shit room that he’s in, and he feels the cold metal around his wrist, and he doesn’t let himself believe that whoever comes next will be any more human.

It’s funny, David thinks, that the more and more abnormal he becomes, the more and more normal he feels compared to everyone else.

The new doctor comes in the next morning. He’s weird right off the bat because he’s small-just a kid, really-and he doesn’t say much of anything, just busies himself with looking at charts and preparing David’s medicine for the day. It’s disconcerting, really, just how young the doctor is; David looks at him and has a hard time seeing him as a professional.

The doctor looks at him and smiles, and maybe he thinks something, because he’s looking right at David and making all these hand gestures, but David can’t hear him because of all the buzzing in his head. The doctor’s smile drops and he turns away, looking at his clipboard, the clock, his shoes. He waves his hand again and David realizes that he is thinking. He is.

I can’t hear you, David thinks, although the boy just keeps moving around, checking the equipment and gesturing with his hands. I can’t hear you! David thinks again, but the boy doesn’t say anything back, just rushes to the machine that’s monitoring David’s heart rate and looks at him with concern, his eyebrows furrowed and his mouth turned down at the corners. “I CAN’T FUCKING HEAR YOU,” David thinks, only this time he yells it, too, and the boy’s head whips around to the door and then back to David rapid fire.

David looks at him for a minute, and the boy’s eyes are big, bigger than David’s ever seen. For a second he thinks that, maybe, the boy might actually care about him and his problem, but then David realizes that he’s a government doctor, and those kinds of doctors only care about one thing and that one thing isn’t him.

“I can’t hear you,” David says, only this time it’s quiet and on the verge of hysteria. “I can’t fucking hear a word you’re thinking.” And the second that’s out of his mouth, David doesn’t know what the fuck to do. He cries, and he’s not ashamed of that, but he can hear his own sobs and he fucking hates that, just wishes they would go away and that everything could go back to normal, like before.

The doctor-the boy-walks over to him, slowly, as if he might scare David away, as if David was even able to run if he wanted to. He places one hand, cold and delicate, on David’s neck as he cries. It amplifies the feeling of the vibrations in David’s throat and David thinks, Just fucking kill me already. Just do it. He doesn’t say it out loud, but it doesn’t really matter; the look on the boy’s face lets David know that he gets it, that he already knows what David’s too tired to say.

Sometime later, once David’s calmed down some and is in the last hazy stages of lucidity that come only right before sleep, the boy flips David’s hand over, palm up. With his pinky finger, he spells out, I-M, and the movement tickles David’s skin. The boy pauses for a second, places their palms flush together, and then finishes, S-O-R-R-Y.

David thinks, Fuck you, and maybe it’s for the best that the doctor can’t hear him. David rolls over onto his side and shuts his eyes, but he doesn’t fall asleep until long after he hears the quiet click of his door shutting.

David has a dream that he’s drinking a beer on Neal’s shitty couch, watching as Neal paints something on a canvas that David can’t see.

It’s hot in here, Neal thinks. Could you open the window?

David says, “What?”

And then Neal says back to him, “It’s hot in here. Could you open the window?” And David can’t believe that Neal can talk, doesn’t even know what to think.

“Finally done,” Neal tells him, and he turns his canvas around. It’s a picture of David, chained to his bed in the hospital with his throat cut open and his eyes rolled back in his head. As David struggles to swallow down a scream, Neal says, “It’s hot in here. Could you open the window?”

David wakes up covered in sweat. It’s still dark outside, but he lies awake staring at the ceiling until morning comes.

The new doctor comes back in the next morning and he looks tired, so tired, and Dave says, “Late night torturing people and holding them captive against their will?”

The doctor shakes his head and writes on his clipboard. When he turns it around, David can see it’s a mini dry-erase board. I’ve been trying to find out why we can’t hear each other anymore.

David says, “I don’t want your fucking help.”

I’m going to give it to you, anyways, the dry-erase board says. I’m David, too, but you can call me Archie.

“Oh, sure,” David says. “And you can call me Jughead and that Simon asshole, well, he just makes a great Reggie.”

My last name. It’s Archuleta.

David says, “Just go away. Or do your tests or whatever the fuck you want, and stop acting like you give a shit.”

Archie writes, I know you don’t think so, but I am trying to help you. It’d be easier if you’d let me. David shakes his wrists and the handcuffs rattle against the metal frame of the bed.

“I’m not exactly able to stop you,” he says.

I’m sorry, Archie writes, for how they treated you. I swear I don’t work like that. I’m not like that.

David says, “You’re all the same to me,” and Archie doesn’t write anything else for the rest of the day.

It’s lonely in there, wherever the fuck David is. Sometimes he wonders how long he’s been gone for, how long Neal and Sixx have been without him and if Neal’s still looking for him. Other times he wonders how much longer he’ll be there for until he dies, or until they kill him, or until something happens. But most of the time-most of the time, David just stares at the ceiling and tries not to think of anything at all.

Archie comes in the next day and stands at the side of David’s bed, biting his lip and looking real worried. He doesn’t say anything and David gets tired of waiting.

“Fucking, what?” David asks.

Almost the weekend, Archie writes. David thinks maybe that means today is Friday. He doesn’t fucking know.

“Yeah, I’ve got big plans,” he says. Archie flinches, but what the fuck does he care? He’s got two days off to himself and David’s stuck in a room by himself.

I need a DNA sample from you, Archie writes, and all David can think about was the last time he heard those words and how fucking badly it hurt.

“No,” David says. “No, I already-they already took fucking-fucking all of my hair and like twenty fucking vials of blood. Use that.”

I can’t, Archie writes. It’s all gone. They’ve done a lot of tests.

“Yeah, and did they figure out anything?” David asks. “No. No they didn’t. And they’re not going to. Don’t come near me and don’t fucking touch me.”

I have to, don’t you get it?

Archie puts his whiteboard down on the foot of David’s bed; David kicks it off, and Archie gives him a look. He reaches into the pocket of his white lab coat and David doesn’t know what it is that he pulls out, but if Archie gets close to him, David’ll kick him or bite him or do whatever he can just to make sure that Archie doesn’t put that shit in his IV, not again, not ever.

But then Archie does this thing where he opens his own mouth real wide, and then motions for David to do the same. Yeah fucking right. David’s mouth has never been closed tighter.

Archie rolls his eyes and backs away. He picks his whiteboard up from off the floor and writes, It’s a cotton swab, you big baby. I need to rub it on the inside of your cheek. David reads and then Archie erases it. DNA, the quick and painless way. Come on, please?

And David opens his mouth because, really, what other option does he have? Cotton swabs are better than that other stuff. Getting out would be better than all of that, but to be honest, David’s kind of accepted that it’s not going to happen.

That night, he watches the sun set through his window and thinks of how he and Neal used to get hammered on their roof and watch the same thing, but somehow, now, it looks a lot different to him.

part 2