Abduction 13: "Stand."
Day 17: 2:04 PM - Belal's Quarters; The Box]
[NOTE: This thread picks up from HERE ( Abduction Arc) and HERE ( Rescue Mission).]
Hunger and thirst tear at him, but they seem like distant things.
So close . . . He'd been so close . . .
The scabbed-over cuts on his neck hurt, chafed by the collar and irritated by sweat. They are reminders of his newest failure, but also reminders to try again. And again. And again.
"Get back up and try again, boy!"
That was what his father had always said every time Conrad had stumbled or faltered. "Conrart, get back up and try again."
I'm trying. I'm trying.
His joints scream. His muscles ache and burn.
I'm trying, Chichiue.
But it's hard to stand while the ground is moving.
He does not sleep this time . . . At least, he doesn't think he sleeps. It's hard for him to tell. As the hours pass strange dreams and fantasies flit through his mind, each more removed from reality than the previous one. In one, he is back on Earth attempting to return a pair of women's red shoes to a store, but he can't find the place. In another, he is laying naked on a hotplate on the center of the dining room table in the Great Hall, staring up at the ceiling while his family sits at table around him. Occasionally, one of them reaches over, slices off a part of his body, and places it on their plate while conversation swirls around them. He remembers wanting to join in on the conversation, but Hahaue had already eaten his tongue. It is an odd dream and it takes a long while before he realizes that the 'cuts' being made by the serving cutlery are really just cramps and spasms in his muscles and the heat and shortness of breath are really the box and he is not in fact being slowly roasted and eaten alive. Somehow, knowing the truth is little comfort.
In all honesty, there is no comfort to be had. Time does not pass and Conrad has no way of knowing when or if the human will come for him again. Why has he been put back in? The human had promised--promised . . .
. . . And Conrad is more the fool for believing him.
A failure and now a fool atop everything else. A small whimper escapes him, immediately followed by several more. He can't stop them though, and he knows it; he has tried a dozen times before. The whimpers . . . the mewling . . . the quiet muttering as he attempts to reason with illusions . . . He can no more stop them than he can control the vicious turns of his imagination. He is at least aware when he whimpers, but the soft murmurs of 'Julia' and 'Yuuri' and 'Yozak' and even of 'Belal' escape his notice. Perception has gone the same way as time and reality: it simply is not there.
There is nothing. A gossamer haze hangs heavily over his mind, blinding him and dulling his senses as effectively as the darkness, discomfort, and thin, rank air.
This time, however, as his straining ears listen beyond the sound of his own soft mews, the brunet thinks he hears something. Though his left arm is entirely numb and still trapped, he has limited mobility with his right hand and so he raises trembling fingers to cover his mouth and muffle the noises.
. . . Again.
He can hear it again.
A voice.
It could be the human, or it could be a guard, but it doesn't matter. He can't . . . He has to get out. NOW.
Conrad bangs the heel of his hand right hand hard on the wall in front of him and slams his head back, sending a wave of new pain through his skull.
"Please!" His voice sounds dry, thin, and rusty. Small and needle-like. "Please! Belal! I didn't do anything!" A dry sob shakes him, scratching his throat painfully and forcing more volume from him as he slammed his hand against the wood again and again. "Belal! I didn't do anything! PLEASE! You can't punish me if I didn't do anything!"
There is a long moment of silence and Conrad is still. Nothing.
Silence.
Silence.
Silence . . .
Conrad drops his head in the tight confines of his prison and then abruptly slams the back of his head against the wall with such force that bright lights dance in front of his eyes. Pain blossoms throughout his skull, centering in his lower jaw for an instant before sliding like tepid water down his spine. He giggles, unable to recognize the razor edge of hysteria in the sound. Then he quietly laughs outright.
No one is coming.
No one is coming.
He can't stop laughing, nearly choking as his body trembles and the darkness swallows the sound. No one . . .
"No one ever comes."
[NOTE: This thread picks up from HERE ( Abduction Arc) and HERE ( Rescue Mission).]
Hunger and thirst tear at him, but they seem like distant things.
So close . . . He'd been so close . . .
The scabbed-over cuts on his neck hurt, chafed by the collar and irritated by sweat. They are reminders of his newest failure, but also reminders to try again. And again. And again.
"Get back up and try again, boy!"
That was what his father had always said every time Conrad had stumbled or faltered. "Conrart, get back up and try again."
I'm trying. I'm trying.
His joints scream. His muscles ache and burn.
I'm trying, Chichiue.
But it's hard to stand while the ground is moving.
He does not sleep this time . . . At least, he doesn't think he sleeps. It's hard for him to tell. As the hours pass strange dreams and fantasies flit through his mind, each more removed from reality than the previous one. In one, he is back on Earth attempting to return a pair of women's red shoes to a store, but he can't find the place. In another, he is laying naked on a hotplate on the center of the dining room table in the Great Hall, staring up at the ceiling while his family sits at table around him. Occasionally, one of them reaches over, slices off a part of his body, and places it on their plate while conversation swirls around them. He remembers wanting to join in on the conversation, but Hahaue had already eaten his tongue. It is an odd dream and it takes a long while before he realizes that the 'cuts' being made by the serving cutlery are really just cramps and spasms in his muscles and the heat and shortness of breath are really the box and he is not in fact being slowly roasted and eaten alive. Somehow, knowing the truth is little comfort.
In all honesty, there is no comfort to be had. Time does not pass and Conrad has no way of knowing when or if the human will come for him again. Why has he been put back in? The human had promised--promised . . .
. . . And Conrad is more the fool for believing him.
A failure and now a fool atop everything else. A small whimper escapes him, immediately followed by several more. He can't stop them though, and he knows it; he has tried a dozen times before. The whimpers . . . the mewling . . . the quiet muttering as he attempts to reason with illusions . . . He can no more stop them than he can control the vicious turns of his imagination. He is at least aware when he whimpers, but the soft murmurs of 'Julia' and 'Yuuri' and 'Yozak' and even of 'Belal' escape his notice. Perception has gone the same way as time and reality: it simply is not there.
There is nothing. A gossamer haze hangs heavily over his mind, blinding him and dulling his senses as effectively as the darkness, discomfort, and thin, rank air.
This time, however, as his straining ears listen beyond the sound of his own soft mews, the brunet thinks he hears something. Though his left arm is entirely numb and still trapped, he has limited mobility with his right hand and so he raises trembling fingers to cover his mouth and muffle the noises.
. . . Again.
He can hear it again.
A voice.
It could be the human, or it could be a guard, but it doesn't matter. He can't . . . He has to get out. NOW.
Conrad bangs the heel of his hand right hand hard on the wall in front of him and slams his head back, sending a wave of new pain through his skull.
"Please!" His voice sounds dry, thin, and rusty. Small and needle-like. "Please! Belal! I didn't do anything!" A dry sob shakes him, scratching his throat painfully and forcing more volume from him as he slammed his hand against the wood again and again. "Belal! I didn't do anything! PLEASE! You can't punish me if I didn't do anything!"
There is a long moment of silence and Conrad is still. Nothing.
Silence.
Silence.
Silence . . .
Conrad drops his head in the tight confines of his prison and then abruptly slams the back of his head against the wall with such force that bright lights dance in front of his eyes. Pain blossoms throughout his skull, centering in his lower jaw for an instant before sliding like tepid water down his spine. He giggles, unable to recognize the razor edge of hysteria in the sound. Then he quietly laughs outright.
No one is coming.
No one is coming.
He can't stop laughing, nearly choking as his body trembles and the darkness swallows the sound. No one . . .
"No one ever comes."