Post by Eurydice on May 27, 2007 20:41:06 GMT -5
((Written for creative writing class, fall '05, based on an RPG played... summer '04, I think. Ryan and Dave co-GM'd. It was sci-fi and, purely by chance, sharing a lot of similarities with Firefly: female greasemonky, dumb guy in charge of guns, crazy girl, doctor who was close with the crazygirl, &c. This was kind of a prequel to that game))
Johanna Pari, age twenty-nine, is lying on a cot and going slowly out of her mind.
She isn’t really sure of more than that, because seventeen minutes ago, the bad men with no faces gave her something to make her sleepy. It’s making a mess of her thinking. Johanna Pari is five foot six, a hundred and thirty-five pounds, B-negative blood, green eyes, yellow hair, and ten years ago, they locked her up here.
It’s probably safer.
She can feel it, settling into her blood, flooding her brain. She tries to keep breathing evenly, tries to keep herself from frightening herself more. If she starts hyperventilating and sobbing again, the bad men with no faces will come back, and she doesn’t want that. She doesn’t know what it’s called, the something that they gave her. She breathes. Every time, they say she won’t feel a thing, and every time, she knows that they’re lying. She might be going slowly out of her mind, but she can still tell the difference between feeling a thing and won’t feel a thing.
She breathes. She can tell the difference, as easily as she could tell if she were getting a headache or getting drunk or going slowly out of her mind.
Johanna sighs, blinks, and stares at the ceiling, tries to count the cracks in the tiles. It’s hard, because there aren’t any cracks, and the ceiling isn’t made of tiles. She’d rather like to sit up and check the walls, see if there are any tiles to be found there, but there are big, heavy straps across her chest and arms and legs that they put there before they gave her something to make her sleepy eighteen minutes ago, when she was done eating and all for tonight. She doesn’t mind them, though. They’re like thin, scratchy arms, holding her in a quiet, cold embrace. They’re almost comforting, and after all, she doesn’t mind them. Not too much.
Inside her head, there’s a voice stirring. The voice is, she thinks, shaped like a big black kitty, and it’s telling her to be careful now, because there’s someone important coming to do something and she should remember to something someone before somewhen. She listens politely and nods every now and then, to show that she is paying attention. She isn’t quite sure if the kitty is real or not, but it’s probably a good idea to listen, just in case. Better safe than sorry. You never know. Kitties, even the made-up ones, are smart.
The something that the bad men with no faces gave her hits her full force now, like their thick fists in well-worn leather gloves hitting her in the side; her whole body moans with awkward, cramped discomfort, and she squirms, in her mind, only she doesn’t in real life because of the heavy straps across her chest and arms and legs that they put there nineteen minutes ago. There’s bad bits creeping through her blood, and they’re going to make her dream. Not sleep. The bad men, the stupids, they said it was going to make her sleep, but oh, they knew better. They knew how it would make her dream.
Lids sliding half-shut, her eyes fall slowly backwards and she looks in her brain now, because she can’t help but look. There are dreamings and tastings and rememberings and forgettings there that she watches, video feeds from a dozen eras of her life all bleeding together into a confused, unbroken reel of events, like when she was six and for the first time she saw a planet from the vacuum of space, a perfect marble of blue and white against a light-spattered black curtain; or when she was ten and met Ben (always Ben; her Ben) for the first time, and he showed her a cave behind his house, the cave with faint, white shapes like fossils all over the walls; or when she was fifteen and broke the high school boys’ track record and then decided, on a whim, not to stay on the team after all, because it really wasn’t all that interesting, and there were plenty of other things for her to try.
Or the time when she was twelve and the school called home for the first time, and Dad was white-faced and scared-looking, and Mummy was angry and shouting.
Or that time when she was eighteen and over at Ben’s house with a group of friends. It was right before graduation, or maybe right after graduation, and they were together and laughing and smiling. Ben was tickling her. She was with a group of friends and there was music and food and they were smiling and laughing, and then everything was blank, and then everything wasn’t blank and everyone wasn’t laughing and they were stretched out on the floor, and she didn’t see them lie down.
Ben is at her feet, and there’s a little bit of blood falling out of his right nostril, and his eyes aren’t closed. And he doesn’t look hurt or sad or scared, or shocked or peaceful. He’s just there, staring up with unfocused, half-crossed eyes.
She remembers. It was eleven years ago, but she remembers in bright colors and yellow-white lights and hard, thin, black lines. The bad bits creeping through her blood are very careful to make her do that.
She remembers when she called the hospital, getting out the words she needed, and everything whirling around her.
It’s as if she is watching the reel in fast forward, and some of the lying down people are starting to stand up, squinty and stumbly, wobbling like newly-hatched ducklings, but Ben’s still at her feet and looking up and not at her.
She wonders how much time she lost. She remembers everything was blank and then everyone was stretched out and the panic and the rush, but she doesn’t know how much time she lost. She tries to flip back through the reel of rememberings, tries to see the face of her dull brown wrist watch, the time-display of the clock that she knows is on the wall next to the video screen, but all she sees is fuzzy confusion and white noise, as if someone is telling her very urgently to lookawaylookaway. Johanna shudders and bites her lip. The something that the bad men gave her to make her dream isn’t doing a very good job, she thinks.
And there are more than dreamings and tastings and rememberings and forgettings that she sees whenever they give her the bad bits that creep through her blood. She could always see things, of course, during the blank times, see things that didn’t make sense. She’s been able to since she was little, but now, with the bad bits creeping through her blood, they come at her a million times faster.
Again she hears the voice shaped like a big black kitty, and it looks like a black metal plate floating through the vacuum of space. There’s a ship there in the vacuum of space, too, and it’s big and smooth and there are people running around in it, doing important job things. There’s a captain who has a deep voice, and a doctor with dark, clever eyes, and a tall, thin woman working on the engine, and a lazy young genius at a computer. She’d like to meet them, she thinks, if she’s not just making them up again because of the make-you-sleepy something that the bad men with no faces gave her.
Ben’s mom and dad, she remembers. Lucy and Tobias Barker, 42 Adams Crossing. Bradbury City. Ganymede. They were nice. They let her come over whenever she liked, whenever Mummy was angry and shouting and Dad was too scared to stop her, calm her down. They were so, so nice, Ben’s parents were. Johanna wishes she could have seen them after it happened to Ben, wishes she could have explained, or at least tried. She wishes she could make it better.
She wishes.
She wonders if she’s ever done it to anyone else.
She remembers the other blank times, of course. Johanna remembers many, many times (eleven years ago, twenty years ago, two years ago, more years ago) when she’s by herself, or maybe with other people, or maybe both or neither, and everything’s alright, and then it’s blank and she sees the things (lost things, stolen things, forgotten thins, secret things; something decrepit, crumbling, something fresh and young, something not hers but on loan to her, something the brilliant color of cobalt) and then it’s over, and something’s very wrong around her. And because something’s very wrong around her, she has to hurry and try to fix it, because she has to, because it’s her fault, and she doesn’t have any time to worry about what she’s seen in the blank time until later when she’s forgotten, only now, with big heavy straps across her chest and arms and legs, with bad bits creeping through her blood, she remembers. And she has all the time in the world, now.
The doctor was taking Ben out of the room in Ben’s house, and in the fast-forward whirling of the reel, she heard him say
She wonders if she’s ever done it to anyone else, in one of those blanks.
There’s a clinking in the walls; maybe it’s the mouse that only she can see and talk to. He’s a nasty little mouse, all dirty and dark-eyed and matted fur, but she knows that he means well, poor thing. She hopes the voice like the big black kitty doesn’t frighten it away. That would be sad, because they are her only friends, and it’d be nice if they’d just get along. Maybe the mouse is grown up now, because it’s a very loud clinking, louder than usual. Maybe the mouse and the voice like the big black kitty will be friends. Maybe the mouse will eat the kitty. Stranger things have happened, Johanna thinks, and besides, she thinks the mouse is a little crazy.
Johanna hears voices in the hall outside her door.
The lights are out, and she doesn’t know these voices and something explodes.
She blinks, and she is back at Ben’s house. He’s staring up at her again, a little bit of blood falling out of his right nostril, and now he’s not blank, and his eyes aren’t half-crossed; he’s looking so horribly hurt and disappointed, and he’s asking her why she did it, and Johanna is sure that somehow she’s screwed up again, and it’s her fault, only now she can’t fix it, she’s going slowly out of her mind and she has big heavy straps across her chest and arms and legs and she can’t do anything, and she tries to turn away, but the voice like the big black kitty is telling her that she can’t turn away, not now, because the someone is coming and the somewhen is now and she shouldn’t be afraid.
She is crying, although she doesn’t know why, and she closes her eyes and starts to sing. Maybe if she sings loud enough, the explosion won’t get to her. She knows lots of good songs, and the kitty and the mouse and the black metal plate and Ben harmonize on the chorus.
Someone kicks the door in; Johanna stifles a shriek and bolts upright, only the big heavy straps across her chest and arms and legs that the bad men put there twenty minutes ago stop her. There’s dust settling, and a man in a dark, shiny helmet walks in. He takes off the dark, shiny helmet. It’s a doctor with dark, clever eyes.
She doesn’t know whether to be relieved or still more terrified.
“Johanna Pari?” he asks, hesitantly.
She hasn’t talked (except to say nononononodon’thurtmeplease) in a long time. She doesn’t quite know what she’s supposed to say.
“Are you real?”
The doctor with dark, clever eyes looks as if he’s just been hit by thick fists in well-worn leather gloves, but he nods. “I am.”
“Are you here to make the voices go away?”
Johanna Pari, age twenty-nine, is lying on a cot and going slowly out of her mind.
She isn’t really sure of more than that, because seventeen minutes ago, the bad men with no faces gave her something to make her sleepy. It’s making a mess of her thinking. Johanna Pari is five foot six, a hundred and thirty-five pounds, B-negative blood, green eyes, yellow hair, and ten years ago, they locked her up here.
It’s probably safer.
She can feel it, settling into her blood, flooding her brain. She tries to keep breathing evenly, tries to keep herself from frightening herself more. If she starts hyperventilating and sobbing again, the bad men with no faces will come back, and she doesn’t want that. She doesn’t know what it’s called, the something that they gave her. She breathes. Every time, they say she won’t feel a thing, and every time, she knows that they’re lying. She might be going slowly out of her mind, but she can still tell the difference between feeling a thing and won’t feel a thing.
She breathes. She can tell the difference, as easily as she could tell if she were getting a headache or getting drunk or going slowly out of her mind.
Johanna sighs, blinks, and stares at the ceiling, tries to count the cracks in the tiles. It’s hard, because there aren’t any cracks, and the ceiling isn’t made of tiles. She’d rather like to sit up and check the walls, see if there are any tiles to be found there, but there are big, heavy straps across her chest and arms and legs that they put there before they gave her something to make her sleepy eighteen minutes ago, when she was done eating and all for tonight. She doesn’t mind them, though. They’re like thin, scratchy arms, holding her in a quiet, cold embrace. They’re almost comforting, and after all, she doesn’t mind them. Not too much.
Inside her head, there’s a voice stirring. The voice is, she thinks, shaped like a big black kitty, and it’s telling her to be careful now, because there’s someone important coming to do something and she should remember to something someone before somewhen. She listens politely and nods every now and then, to show that she is paying attention. She isn’t quite sure if the kitty is real or not, but it’s probably a good idea to listen, just in case. Better safe than sorry. You never know. Kitties, even the made-up ones, are smart.
The something that the bad men with no faces gave her hits her full force now, like their thick fists in well-worn leather gloves hitting her in the side; her whole body moans with awkward, cramped discomfort, and she squirms, in her mind, only she doesn’t in real life because of the heavy straps across her chest and arms and legs that they put there nineteen minutes ago. There’s bad bits creeping through her blood, and they’re going to make her dream. Not sleep. The bad men, the stupids, they said it was going to make her sleep, but oh, they knew better. They knew how it would make her dream.
Lids sliding half-shut, her eyes fall slowly backwards and she looks in her brain now, because she can’t help but look. There are dreamings and tastings and rememberings and forgettings there that she watches, video feeds from a dozen eras of her life all bleeding together into a confused, unbroken reel of events, like when she was six and for the first time she saw a planet from the vacuum of space, a perfect marble of blue and white against a light-spattered black curtain; or when she was ten and met Ben (always Ben; her Ben) for the first time, and he showed her a cave behind his house, the cave with faint, white shapes like fossils all over the walls; or when she was fifteen and broke the high school boys’ track record and then decided, on a whim, not to stay on the team after all, because it really wasn’t all that interesting, and there were plenty of other things for her to try.
Or the time when she was twelve and the school called home for the first time, and Dad was white-faced and scared-looking, and Mummy was angry and shouting.
Or that time when she was eighteen and over at Ben’s house with a group of friends. It was right before graduation, or maybe right after graduation, and they were together and laughing and smiling. Ben was tickling her. She was with a group of friends and there was music and food and they were smiling and laughing, and then everything was blank, and then everything wasn’t blank and everyone wasn’t laughing and they were stretched out on the floor, and she didn’t see them lie down.
Ben is at her feet, and there’s a little bit of blood falling out of his right nostril, and his eyes aren’t closed. And he doesn’t look hurt or sad or scared, or shocked or peaceful. He’s just there, staring up with unfocused, half-crossed eyes.
She remembers. It was eleven years ago, but she remembers in bright colors and yellow-white lights and hard, thin, black lines. The bad bits creeping through her blood are very careful to make her do that.
She remembers when she called the hospital, getting out the words she needed, and everything whirling around her.
It’s as if she is watching the reel in fast forward, and some of the lying down people are starting to stand up, squinty and stumbly, wobbling like newly-hatched ducklings, but Ben’s still at her feet and looking up and not at her.
She wonders how much time she lost. She remembers everything was blank and then everyone was stretched out and the panic and the rush, but she doesn’t know how much time she lost. She tries to flip back through the reel of rememberings, tries to see the face of her dull brown wrist watch, the time-display of the clock that she knows is on the wall next to the video screen, but all she sees is fuzzy confusion and white noise, as if someone is telling her very urgently to lookawaylookaway. Johanna shudders and bites her lip. The something that the bad men gave her to make her dream isn’t doing a very good job, she thinks.
And there are more than dreamings and tastings and rememberings and forgettings that she sees whenever they give her the bad bits that creep through her blood. She could always see things, of course, during the blank times, see things that didn’t make sense. She’s been able to since she was little, but now, with the bad bits creeping through her blood, they come at her a million times faster.
Again she hears the voice shaped like a big black kitty, and it looks like a black metal plate floating through the vacuum of space. There’s a ship there in the vacuum of space, too, and it’s big and smooth and there are people running around in it, doing important job things. There’s a captain who has a deep voice, and a doctor with dark, clever eyes, and a tall, thin woman working on the engine, and a lazy young genius at a computer. She’d like to meet them, she thinks, if she’s not just making them up again because of the make-you-sleepy something that the bad men with no faces gave her.
Ben’s mom and dad, she remembers. Lucy and Tobias Barker, 42 Adams Crossing. Bradbury City. Ganymede. They were nice. They let her come over whenever she liked, whenever Mummy was angry and shouting and Dad was too scared to stop her, calm her down. They were so, so nice, Ben’s parents were. Johanna wishes she could have seen them after it happened to Ben, wishes she could have explained, or at least tried. She wishes she could make it better.
She wishes.
She wonders if she’s ever done it to anyone else.
She remembers the other blank times, of course. Johanna remembers many, many times (eleven years ago, twenty years ago, two years ago, more years ago) when she’s by herself, or maybe with other people, or maybe both or neither, and everything’s alright, and then it’s blank and she sees the things (lost things, stolen things, forgotten thins, secret things; something decrepit, crumbling, something fresh and young, something not hers but on loan to her, something the brilliant color of cobalt) and then it’s over, and something’s very wrong around her. And because something’s very wrong around her, she has to hurry and try to fix it, because she has to, because it’s her fault, and she doesn’t have any time to worry about what she’s seen in the blank time until later when she’s forgotten, only now, with big heavy straps across her chest and arms and legs, with bad bits creeping through her blood, she remembers. And she has all the time in the world, now.
The doctor was taking Ben out of the room in Ben’s house, and in the fast-forward whirling of the reel, she heard him say
She wonders if she’s ever done it to anyone else, in one of those blanks.
There’s a clinking in the walls; maybe it’s the mouse that only she can see and talk to. He’s a nasty little mouse, all dirty and dark-eyed and matted fur, but she knows that he means well, poor thing. She hopes the voice like the big black kitty doesn’t frighten it away. That would be sad, because they are her only friends, and it’d be nice if they’d just get along. Maybe the mouse is grown up now, because it’s a very loud clinking, louder than usual. Maybe the mouse and the voice like the big black kitty will be friends. Maybe the mouse will eat the kitty. Stranger things have happened, Johanna thinks, and besides, she thinks the mouse is a little crazy.
Johanna hears voices in the hall outside her door.
The lights are out, and she doesn’t know these voices and something explodes.
She blinks, and she is back at Ben’s house. He’s staring up at her again, a little bit of blood falling out of his right nostril, and now he’s not blank, and his eyes aren’t half-crossed; he’s looking so horribly hurt and disappointed, and he’s asking her why she did it, and Johanna is sure that somehow she’s screwed up again, and it’s her fault, only now she can’t fix it, she’s going slowly out of her mind and she has big heavy straps across her chest and arms and legs and she can’t do anything, and she tries to turn away, but the voice like the big black kitty is telling her that she can’t turn away, not now, because the someone is coming and the somewhen is now and she shouldn’t be afraid.
She is crying, although she doesn’t know why, and she closes her eyes and starts to sing. Maybe if she sings loud enough, the explosion won’t get to her. She knows lots of good songs, and the kitty and the mouse and the black metal plate and Ben harmonize on the chorus.
Someone kicks the door in; Johanna stifles a shriek and bolts upright, only the big heavy straps across her chest and arms and legs that the bad men put there twenty minutes ago stop her. There’s dust settling, and a man in a dark, shiny helmet walks in. He takes off the dark, shiny helmet. It’s a doctor with dark, clever eyes.
She doesn’t know whether to be relieved or still more terrified.
“Johanna Pari?” he asks, hesitantly.
She hasn’t talked (except to say nononononodon’thurtmeplease) in a long time. She doesn’t quite know what she’s supposed to say.
“Are you real?”
The doctor with dark, clever eyes looks as if he’s just been hit by thick fists in well-worn leather gloves, but he nods. “I am.”
“Are you here to make the voices go away?”