April 2002

Feb. 12th, 2007 02:12 pm
there_is_a_me: (Wolf)
[personal profile] there_is_a_me
This room smells of antiseptics and cleansers. This place is nearly spotless. Grey-green tiles on the floor, darker tiles along the lower half of the wall, white paint above. Air-freshener dispensers mounted every fifteen feet along the walls, the sort that give off a spray every half hour or so by the look of them. There's an anatomical chart of the human body hanging on one wall, just next to the medical exam table. You know. The table with the thick leather straps just where the wrists and feet and head and midsection would be. It's right in front of the caged-off area with the chains hanging from the wall, each chain formed of links a good inch thick or more.

He’s crouched in the cage, no longer pacing. Too many times pacing makes the dispensers go off. Sometimes he forgets. He forgets lots of things. He stares at the anatomical charts, the one bought from some company, the ones made by months of painstaking vivisection. He knows the inside of his body better than his mind.

Her name is Helen. his thoughts go, Helen. Helen is alive. his fingers walk a pattern across his knees, nicotine fits kept to just the ends of his fingers. No more. No more. Can’t pace. Cooper is dead. Joe is dead. Sarge is dead. Ryan is dead. Megan is dead, the bitch. Spoon is dead. No, that’s me. Isn’t it? Terry is dead. His face when he saw that fucking cow, that was a blast. Bruce is dead.

The rattle of the chains drives him crazy, but not as bad as the ticking of the clock. Tick tock tick fucking tock. Months ago he decided he’d never own another ticking clock if he ever gets out of here. Weeks ago he realized that he’s never getting out.

The door swings open, he can’t help but jerk back against the wall. Silver sends screaming agony across his bare back. They’re trying to see how much silver he can take, for how long.

“It’s the dark of the moon. According to legends, he should be at his weakest now. I truly think that we need to remove the silver, at least for a few nights.” The voice of the other one, the one that sometimes doesn’t slice deeper than he has to, is clear.

Pretlow snorts, “I think not. We’re going to continue the experiment until it is clear that we have to stop it.” He walks toward the werewolf in the cell, and when the other one can’t see him anymore Pretlow grins. White teeth, pink flesh, and Ronald Witherspoon sees the threat that isn’t hidden at all.

Not in the slightest. There isn’t any thought there, no consideration, no decision. Just one man lunging to his feet and snapping a jaw which elongates as his eyes go golden and the screams are sweet to his ears as the running food floods the room with terror. Pretlow stumbles, and on his face is promise that he will get revenge for the loss of pride. The wolf doesn’t understand that, the wolf doesn’t care.

Guards in facemasks run in, firing even as they come, giving the doctors the chance to get loose and safe.

Then the air fresheners on the walls go off.

Good night, Spoon.
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Ron 'Spoon' Witherspoon

March 2013

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