Freefall
o12.
“Go fish,” she smiles warmly, keeping her eyes focused on the numbers before her.
He reaches out to take another card, adds it delicately to his hand. Ryan liked this game much more than the ones that he was used to, the ones that she used to make him play. It didn’t hurt him, and there was no blood or angry red marks marring his pale flesh. He was not used to it, but he welcomed it with arms spread as wide as the world would allow them.
“I’m Ryan,” he whispers, shuffling through, trying to uncover an acceptable card from his hand. The answer was far delayed and out of place, but neither seemed to pay it much notice. She only nods, in a knowing sort of way, awaiting his next question. “Got any three’s?” he asks the girl, wide eyed with anticipation to her response.
Jesse hands him two more cards in answer, and watches as he lays down another set on the grungy tabletop. Her gaze wanders over to the door; Ryan’s follows suit. It unwillingly creaks open in a forced motion, and attendants trickle in, filled to the brim with coffee and laziness. Ryan’s head snaps back to face his new friend, but… she is gone, as are the cards. A young man in white makes his way to the back table, occupied by a single boy, and Ryan gets no time to ponder Jesse’s whereabouts.
“How are you today, Ryan?” he asks politely. If he was looking for a response, he wouldn’t get one, they both knew. “Come on, it’s time to go,” he tells Ryan, cutting the uncomfortable silence short.
And so Ryan and the other patients are led back out of the sort of gathering hall, down the long corridors, and into their rooms: their filthy, cramped, dark pits of hell, to suffer more endless nights of torment. And no one bothered to look back, no one cared to acknowledge their cries of agony, of remorse, of fear. And no one could muster the strength to push past their mental blocks to see the torture chambers that dwelled behind each and every diluted eye of all those who suffered there. To each his own…
He reaches out to take another card, adds it delicately to his hand. Ryan liked this game much more than the ones that he was used to, the ones that she used to make him play. It didn’t hurt him, and there was no blood or angry red marks marring his pale flesh. He was not used to it, but he welcomed it with arms spread as wide as the world would allow them.
“I’m Ryan,” he whispers, shuffling through, trying to uncover an acceptable card from his hand. The answer was far delayed and out of place, but neither seemed to pay it much notice. She only nods, in a knowing sort of way, awaiting his next question. “Got any three’s?” he asks the girl, wide eyed with anticipation to her response.
Jesse hands him two more cards in answer, and watches as he lays down another set on the grungy tabletop. Her gaze wanders over to the door; Ryan’s follows suit. It unwillingly creaks open in a forced motion, and attendants trickle in, filled to the brim with coffee and laziness. Ryan’s head snaps back to face his new friend, but… she is gone, as are the cards. A young man in white makes his way to the back table, occupied by a single boy, and Ryan gets no time to ponder Jesse’s whereabouts.
“How are you today, Ryan?” he asks politely. If he was looking for a response, he wouldn’t get one, they both knew. “Come on, it’s time to go,” he tells Ryan, cutting the uncomfortable silence short.
And so Ryan and the other patients are led back out of the sort of gathering hall, down the long corridors, and into their rooms: their filthy, cramped, dark pits of hell, to suffer more endless nights of torment. And no one bothered to look back, no one cared to acknowledge their cries of agony, of remorse, of fear. And no one could muster the strength to push past their mental blocks to see the torture chambers that dwelled behind each and every diluted eye of all those who suffered there. To each his own…