Needles are pokers; hot and burning with flame right in her brain, right in her brain, right inside her...
River can barely breathe in this void, the examination room, full of torture and pain and no desks, no lessons. Not what it appeared, not the advertised product - fallacious, misconstrued. Mice in the trail, mice in the cage, mice in the...
Everything surrounds her; she smells her thoughts, tastes them on her tongue, in the air, sees them parade across her vision like they own her, like they are all she is, like she doesn't eatbreathetalkweepdance, like she's alone, like she's...
There is nothing else left for her but this, this synchronous disparity. The pieces are there and they have edges so sharp and defined (different tones head on neck and the straight-edged pieces are the border), but she just can't get them to fit.
Time is an endless loop. There is only The Before; the unreachable past, and This; the blinding pain and white tonal shrieks melting into colour and (two by two, hands of blue...)
She screams in silent orchestrations, clawing at nothing and writing, always writing; feverish fallen letters and hidden meanings. Simon always liked codes. Thrilled by the challenge, liked the breaking, the decryption, holding keys and translations and power.
Simon moved through worlds of knowledge, bound irrevocably to each by his thought, his deed; the motion of the save, the restoration. Simon was thread quickly moving through rips and tears to mend the tattered.
He could fix anything. He could fix this, fix her, find her and take her away from this, the feeling and helplessness and the knowing, always knowing that...
Simon had to be the one. Codes are only for secrets, and she and Simon built a universe of secrets once; made boundaries of quantum physics and chemical compounds their playground, built theories and games and complex ciphers in a world that was only their own. He would devour her words, read their telltale arrhythmia and find her clues, find her.
Everything gets lost sometimes; money changes hands and restores the pieces she tries to jigsaw, bring back to the board. Some missing and dented and distanced, but retaining their original structure. Outlined in black, no ground beneath her, no ground...
Explanations were empty. Nothingness hidden by words, by pompous instructions trying to develop, change, explore what wasn't theirs to take. No protection either; they took her hands and made them disappear, melting into the air; the escape she didn't want, couldn't control, couldn't stop.
They took her hands and made her bound, made her struggle, made her dust and dirt. Shadows of herself. Layered grays on black, lost, always lost and never River, not when there was shooting blue streams of heat; the electricity of pain and paralysis.
Her name felt unfamiliar. Who was River Tam, really? She was pieces scattered through the void. This snippet - here - told stories of a five year old and her older brother. This one - there, by his ear - was the thrilling trills of music and feet lifted in perfect melodious exploration. They never understood why she would look to the right and burst into smiles; couldn't grasp the sensation that let her remember the dance in her muscles, feel them bend and stretch in the perfect stillness and make the terror move to the centre-right, just out of focus enough for her to fly. Her memories of the dance were just more examples of athletic success to them; took the music and the beauty and made it only bone-structured anatomy; muscles and sinews and her ability to perform. Just another synapse to burn out.
River was lost in herself; in the strong swell of impulse and sensation, the fleeting moments of agony-laced-whimsy, where nothing could be forgotten. Everything existed, everything just was, and there was no separation from this, from herself. The fragments swallowed her, swallowed her whole into the depths and all that was left was hot pokers and needles and pain and all the other mice in the cage.
They're hurting us.
Please post a comment on this story.
Author: velvetandlace [email]
Details: Standalone | PG | gen | 3k | 04/09/05
Summary: The pieces are there, but they just don't seem to *fit*.
Notes: Pre-Series, during River's containment.
Approx. 700 words
[top of page]
|Home/QuickSearch + Random + Upload + Search + FAQ + Contact|