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writetomyheart2014-03-10 10:35 am
ltgmars.livejournal.com) wrote in writetomyheart2014-03-10 10:35 am
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[Team 3] Untitled
Psychopath drabble with an unspecified protagonist, but I had Nino in mind when I wrote it.
His medication takes effect thirty minutes after he chases it down his throat but two hours too late to make a difference.
They should know better than to try to keep him in. He doesn't need real weapons to do real damage. The wire fence around the compound was enough. The flyer drifting down the street was enough. His shoelaces were enough. He'd have to wash the blood off before he could string them back into his shoes, but he could deal with walking around in loose shoes for a while.
He feels like skipping. How long has it been since he's been out, since he's seen the sun and felt the wind? He brings his hands up to his face and breathes them in, dizzy with the metallic scent of giving the guards what they had coming. Maybe they took him in to keep themselves safe, but weren't they just being selfish? Whose right was it to decide whose happiness was valuable and whose wasn't? He was never one to enjoy being outside for too long, but after lifetimes of being trapped inside, he welcomes his first fresh step out into a new one.
But soon, as it always does -- ah, there it goes -- his excitement wanes. It gives way to reason and logic and empathy, to dulled senses and the cold emptiness that follows the hot adrenaline from doing what he loves best.
He takes deep breaths, one after another, and feels his consciousness just at his fingertips, slipping farther away every time he reaches for it.
And slowly, as his vision blurs into white and he finds himself surrounded by nothing but space on all four sides, he remembers that he is where he is for a reason.
He lowers himself to the cool linoleum floor, onto his back, and stares up at the ceiling.
Go ahead,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mynamelessname~
His medication takes effect thirty minutes after he chases it down his throat but two hours too late to make a difference.
They should know better than to try to keep him in. He doesn't need real weapons to do real damage. The wire fence around the compound was enough. The flyer drifting down the street was enough. His shoelaces were enough. He'd have to wash the blood off before he could string them back into his shoes, but he could deal with walking around in loose shoes for a while.
He feels like skipping. How long has it been since he's been out, since he's seen the sun and felt the wind? He brings his hands up to his face and breathes them in, dizzy with the metallic scent of giving the guards what they had coming. Maybe they took him in to keep themselves safe, but weren't they just being selfish? Whose right was it to decide whose happiness was valuable and whose wasn't? He was never one to enjoy being outside for too long, but after lifetimes of being trapped inside, he welcomes his first fresh step out into a new one.
But soon, as it always does -- ah, there it goes -- his excitement wanes. It gives way to reason and logic and empathy, to dulled senses and the cold emptiness that follows the hot adrenaline from doing what he loves best.
He takes deep breaths, one after another, and feels his consciousness just at his fingertips, slipping farther away every time he reaches for it.
And slowly, as his vision blurs into white and he finds himself surrounded by nothing but space on all four sides, he remembers that he is where he is for a reason.
He lowers himself to the cool linoleum floor, onto his back, and stares up at the ceiling.
Go ahead,
mynamelessname~