Metal at his back, cold through a gown. When he's asked to raise his arms, he crosses them over his face -- against a light that's too bright; eyes that are too many. They lie instruments across his skin and take notes directly on his body. It's an exacting science, but they are considerate enough to pursue it for just fifty minute stretches every day -- at least in his case. He has no trouble being still when he's alone, but it's different -- it's all he can do to keep the jitters out of his legs -- when he's under observation, on or at the table (surrounded by researchers, by family friends). Expectation, all the time. The hand touching his knee tells him he's forgotten to follow instructions again. He'd slam his foot into the woman's abdomen if this weren't for his own good. The more he cooperates now, the less he'll have to cooperate in the future: Only this reminder checks his impulse to run.
Should I acquire fresh clothing for you?
A once-familiar question, delivered in a voice just shy of his own. Elan almost believes he's imagined himself speaking. And then he remembers: It's now. He's lying on the floor in Four's room. They've tried to kill him. He can't doze off; he has things to do.
Elan uncovers his face, turns to prop himself up on one arm -- slow, deliberate. Too caught up in his own mind to pay much attention to Four when they were face-to-face, let alone after he'd initially sized Four up and started taunting him, Elan's able to look -- really look -- again, now that he's become too worn out to tear himself away from what he sees: A tension so intolerable to Four he's made himself as small as possible; so overwhelming even then that any attempt to ignore it could only hasten its breaking point. There'd been a shift when the poison had started going through Elan's system. A call to action. One inert solicitation to assist after another. Expectation, all the time. Once fashioned, a tool is a tool until its (over/mis)use renders it otherwise -- and then...
Elan realizes what he's done only after he's moved to kneel in front of his copy -- a mirror image of their positions from before. In contrast to the incident in Four's bedroom at Asticassia, there is no performance. The opportunity for one passed the instant Elan had reached out to touch Four's hand without guile earlier. It's not that he has the grace to admit to himself that he doesn't understand what's happening or what he wants -- what he's trying to get -- out of this moment. He's simply become too tired for any mental contortions to frame the situation just so for his own sake. There's no avoiding the absurdity of it now. Everything -- everyone -- activates Elan's paranoia, except this person.
He gazes at the red-white glow in Four's hands, steadies himself by keeping his palms flat on the floor. He's not sure if he's arrived at an answer to his own question -- what's wrong? -- that makes sense of Four's behavior. There's no hope of explaining, discussing things now. (And why would there have been? Elan's relentless strategizing is superhuman when it works as a coping method and outright deranged when it doesn't.) Still, he feels compelled to say -- ]
You've done enough.
[ -- as if it'll make a difference. One small, well-timed push, delivered when Elan has no idea the other's at his mercy. ]
no subject
Metal at his back, cold through a gown. When he's asked to raise his arms, he crosses them over his face -- against a light that's too bright; eyes that are too many. They lie instruments across his skin and take notes directly on his body. It's an exacting science, but they are considerate enough to pursue it for just fifty minute stretches every day -- at least in his case. He has no trouble being still when he's alone, but it's different -- it's all he can do to keep the jitters out of his legs -- when he's under observation, on or at the table (surrounded by researchers, by family friends). Expectation, all the time. The hand touching his knee tells him he's forgotten to follow instructions again. He'd slam his foot into the woman's abdomen if this weren't for his own good. The more he cooperates now, the less he'll have to cooperate in the future: Only this reminder checks his impulse to run.
Should I acquire fresh clothing for you?
A once-familiar question, delivered in a voice just shy of his own. Elan almost believes he's imagined himself speaking. And then he remembers: It's now. He's lying on the floor in Four's room. They've tried to kill him. He can't doze off; he has things to do.
Elan uncovers his face, turns to prop himself up on one arm -- slow, deliberate. Too caught up in his own mind to pay much attention to Four when they were face-to-face, let alone after he'd initially sized Four up and started taunting him, Elan's able to look -- really look -- again, now that he's become too worn out to tear himself away from what he sees: A tension so intolerable to Four he's made himself as small as possible; so overwhelming even then that any attempt to ignore it could only hasten its breaking point. There'd been a shift when the poison had started going through Elan's system. A call to action. One inert solicitation to assist after another. Expectation, all the time. Once fashioned, a tool is a tool until its (over/mis)use renders it otherwise -- and then...
Elan realizes what he's done only after he's moved to kneel in front of his copy -- a mirror image of their positions from before. In contrast to the incident in Four's bedroom at Asticassia, there is no performance. The opportunity for one passed the instant Elan had reached out to touch Four's hand without guile earlier. It's not that he has the grace to admit to himself that he doesn't understand what's happening or what he wants -- what he's trying to get -- out of this moment. He's simply become too tired for any mental contortions to frame the situation just so for his own sake. There's no avoiding the absurdity of it now. Everything -- everyone -- activates Elan's paranoia, except this person.
He gazes at the red-white glow in Four's hands, steadies himself by keeping his palms flat on the floor. He's not sure if he's arrived at an answer to his own question -- what's wrong? -- that makes sense of Four's behavior. There's no hope of explaining, discussing things now. (And why would there have been? Elan's relentless strategizing is superhuman when it works as a coping method and outright deranged when it doesn't.) Still, he feels compelled to say -- ]
You've done enough.
[ -- as if it'll make a difference. One small, well-timed push, delivered when Elan has no idea the other's at his mercy. ]