Feb. 12th, 2007

there_is_a_me: (horribly intent)
The first few weeks weren't that bad. Except for the full moons. Those started bad and didn't get any better.

Tests, they said, of him running and him breathing, pissing, eating. Like a physical, the longest and hardest of his life but by God he worked at it. Gave them all the data that they wanted and offered up other things. His blood pressure before he was bit ("We know, Private Witherspoon"), his eyesight, his parent's medical history.

Then they started pushing him. Run faster. Lift more. Identify things by scent when you're blindfolded. Track men through the woods. Track the one man who has a gun.

And they kept taking blood. Kept taking piss. Saliva. Grumbled about being unable to isolate what they wanted.

The first full moon in November he woke up feeling almost as badly as he did in September, with over-sized bandages where he'd been shot several times so that they could keep him down long enough to take blood, piss, and saliva from the wolf.

The second full moon in November he dimly remembered being shot over and over while someone hacked a hunk of flesh out so that they could run more tests.

He hasn't been out of the room in a couple of days. The walls are closing in, getting closer and closer. Someone brings food, and smokes, at regular intervals.

The door opens again, and yet another doctor enters with an orderly. "Good evening, Private Witherspoon. Roll up your sleeve, if you would, and settle into the chair."

He lifts his face, sniffing, "Who's out in the hallway?"

"No need to worry about that, Private. Roll up your sleeve." After a moment he does so, still sniffing. Fear, pleasure, it's a strange mixture. He closes his eyes and turns away. After months of this he's sick of the sight of needles entering his flesh.

He doesn't, obviously, expect the burning agony that sears his arm when they rip out a chunk and put it in a specimen jar. His head snaps around and his teeth pull back as he sees the doctor's silver scalpel going back into a pocket.

"What the fuck?" He starts to stand, to swing his hand over the bleeding hole in his arm. Tranquilizer guns make noises that sound like pif, pif. He hears at least five shots as he hits the ground.

Then things are dark.

April 2002

Feb. 12th, 2007 02:12 pm
there_is_a_me: (Wolf)
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.
there_is_a_me: (Wolf)
"Hour three. All damage has been healed. Fur is growing back. Subject appears to be coming around again. Guard?" Pif, pif "Thank you. Subject is subsiding again. I am now removing the left ear at the base. Subject's blood flow is sluggish."

"Long term effects of wolf's bane added to subject's feeding periods appear to be contributing to the irrationality of subject's reactions."

"Subject no longer responds to the name Private Ronald Witherspoon, however simply Spoon causes minor reaction."

"Subject's muscle mass is denser than normal human in either form. Markedly so in wolf-man form."

"We have made incisions and removed samples of various sizes from subject. A video camera is trained on subject's body to capture the speed of healing. Attempts at using 80 mg intramuscular Haloperidol have proven to successfully keep subject from changing forms, with exception of full moon nights. Subject is expressing lethargy, muscle-stiffness, muscle-cramping, restlessness, tremors. At this time I regret that subject has not spoken in five months, it would be interesting to note if he is experiencing any further symptoms. Continuing on."
there_is_a_me: (Wolf)
"Look at him! That's no way to treat a man."

"Ma'am, Doctor, that's no man. Maybe you missed the whole giant fucking monster thing?"

"Private Ronald Witherspoon, Sergeant Erickson. Inside that cage is Private Ronald Witherspoon. He's a man, despite what we've done to him. He's no good to us as a ravening monster, and quite frankly I feel that Dr. Pretlow got what he deserved."

"Ma'am, nobody deserves to have his liver eaten by a beast he was trying to help."

"Sergeant, I saw his files. That man was nothing but a butcher. We are fucking well going to see if we can recover anything from Private Witherspoon's humanity, and if we can we are going to nurture that until he's as fucking human as I am.

It's a damn sight more than you seem to be."
there_is_a_me: (Wolf)
The changes have been dramatic. Unfortunately they have also been cosmetic. The werewolf's new home is a sprawling expanse of green with a two story house in the middle of it. There is a bedroom, a perfectly normal bedroom with a recreation of the personal effects of one Ronald Witherspoon, on the second floor with a view of all the green. As often as safe, they put him to bed there. On days that he's calm, he sleeps in the room. Dr. Ferguson likes to hope that it does some good.

On good days four armed guards follow him as he staggers an uneven path across the green. Sometimes he tracks rabbits, moving almost too fast for his guards to follow. He can track them with his eyes closed, sometimes he does.

On good nights he's allowed to wander the cairns in the south and west of the small island, and the guards and scientists sit inside the house and wait. They're ready to recapture him if needed.

On bad days he's shot, and shot, and shot again full of drugs until what little sense is in his eyes fades out again and he sits in a corner not even rocking.

On bad nights he's locked in a cage underground with nervous guards ringing around him fingering the triggers on their rifles.

On good days he can be persuaded to eat a bit of vegetables, some cooked meat, to use a fork.

On bad days he eats only raw things.

On very bad days, he eats only what he kills. Dr. Ferguson used to hate the sound of rabbits dying. Now it's just part of the background noise, like a train that comes by once a week and is then gone.

"He's mostly sticking to human form, Dr. Ferguson. No unexpected changes in four days."

There is a calendar on the wall, three days filled in solid with red. Every room in this building has one, every person here has memorized moon rise and moon set.

"Three days until the full moon." Rosana Ferguson doesn't need to look at the wall. She knows the moon better than anyone here but Private Ronald Witherspoon.
there_is_a_me: (Wolf)
Dark
"ate Witherspoon. Private Witherspoon. I need you to listen to me. List"
Dark
"on't think he's going to come ba"
Dark
"ot no choice, if we don't get hi"
Dim
"m you know that Wells"
Sarge
"will hunt us all dow...did he say something?"
Sarge!
"No, it's just a growl."
"It's a word, a word!"

"SARGE!"

there_is_a_me: (horribly intent)
"I want a fucking fag."

"Private...?"

"Spoon. I'm Spoon. I am Spoon, and I want a fucking fag." Six doctors of psychiatry, four doctors of psychology, and Dr. Rosana Ferguson relax and Spoon's hands fly up to cover his nose. The relief and joy that flood the room have him twitchy again, "There's too fucking many people in here. I want a fag."

Days of talking, one or two of them in the room at any given time. Two or three of them at a time walking along the green with him. Taking notes. Recording him. Talking to him.

Talking to him, not at him or about him. They're in a different cottage, somewhere else, where they can talk about him without him being near.

There are gaps. Huge ones. Where he went to school. Who he used to know. "Does the name Helen Stapelton mean anything to you?" "No, should it?" His parents are dim memories, and sometimes he pictures them with fur and fangs. And that's not right, is it Spoon? Not right at all.

There are things crystal clear. Sarge's face. Cooper's. Joe's. Bruce's. Terry's. That fucking cow. Still hysterical. Fuck, poor bastards. Poor, poor bastards.

He smokes more than he used to. He's a fucking chimney of smoke, one burns out and another fag is lit and dragged from.

"Spoon?"

"Yes, Dr. Ferguson?"

"Spoon, we're going to be calling Mrs. Wells. Sergeant Wells' wife? With any luck someone should be here to get you soon."

"Yes, Dr. Ferguson." Poor fucking woman...asked to get her dead husband's cursed squad mate.

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Ron 'Spoon' Witherspoon

March 2013

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