Hal Yorke (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
incaptivity) wrote2012-04-04 01:22 am
incaptivity) wrote2012-04-04 01:22 am
what's coming through is alive; what's holding up is a mirror
When he opens his eyes to the green tiled arrival room, the first clear thought to enter his mind is: I'm free.
It's instinct. He'd been strapped to that chair for weeks, with Tom and Alex standing guard over his recovery—watching his every move, ignoring his curses and pleas, forcing him to watch Top Gear—it had been positively inhumane, in his opinion, or at least in his opinion for the first fortnight, until his head began to clear for any appreciable length of time, until the burning under his skin subsided long enough for him to acknowledge what they were doing as kindness. But knowing that doesn't stop him from rushing the door, pressing his fingers to the crack to try to pry it open, and slamming his palm against it when that fails.
What stops him is the set of dominoes on the table. Smooth, white, clean, and perfectly aligned in their box, just as he'd left them, with a note affixed to the top in Leo's handwriting, not where he'd left it. He reaches out, runs a thumb across the old ink, lets it rest against the cool plastic, and nods once. Twice.
Taking one domino in hand, he steps back and takes in his surroundings—the atrocious tile, DON'T PANIC scratched into the wall. By the time he finishes the pamphlet he's flipping the domino between his fingers rapidly, and if his hand is shaking, if his eyes take on that slight sheen of dread, surely that can be excused by the fact that he's just been unceremoniously ripped from everything he knows.
Or the fact that he's on his own. He's on his own for five seconds, and already he would have slipped if he could.
He's not ready to do this alone.
It's instinct. He'd been strapped to that chair for weeks, with Tom and Alex standing guard over his recovery—watching his every move, ignoring his curses and pleas, forcing him to watch Top Gear—it had been positively inhumane, in his opinion, or at least in his opinion for the first fortnight, until his head began to clear for any appreciable length of time, until the burning under his skin subsided long enough for him to acknowledge what they were doing as kindness. But knowing that doesn't stop him from rushing the door, pressing his fingers to the crack to try to pry it open, and slamming his palm against it when that fails.
What stops him is the set of dominoes on the table. Smooth, white, clean, and perfectly aligned in their box, just as he'd left them, with a note affixed to the top in Leo's handwriting, not where he'd left it. He reaches out, runs a thumb across the old ink, lets it rest against the cool plastic, and nods once. Twice.
Taking one domino in hand, he steps back and takes in his surroundings—the atrocious tile, DON'T PANIC scratched into the wall. By the time he finishes the pamphlet he's flipping the domino between his fingers rapidly, and if his hand is shaking, if his eyes take on that slight sheen of dread, surely that can be excused by the fact that he's just been unceremoniously ripped from everything he knows.
Or the fact that he's on his own. He's on his own for five seconds, and already he would have slipped if he could.
He's not ready to do this alone.