Epilogue. (R18) -- The Beta Board

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Date Posted: 14:37:12 02/02/04 Mon
Author: Cyanide
Subject: Epilogue. (R18)
In reply to: Cyanide 's message, "Acephaly." on 20:12:12 01/21/04 Wed

My body is a testament to their skills; each breath requires concentration, each beat of my heart is lent a conscious thought. My body is collapsing upon itself, but were I to choose to speak I would be understood.

I do not choose to speak and they have not the means to make me; my indifference now too complete to be assailable. With a scalpel, they trace a line down the back of my bruised hand. A burning sensation follows the path of the blade; a tingling sharpness travels the length of my arm.

They ask me questions as they cut - always the same questions, the same order. They ask them again as they pierce my flesh with hot needles and again while the current flows through my body.

Flexing my shattered fingers, I can feel the bones grinding against each other; it does not seem possible that I should be able to do this. How can my fingers still respond? It is intriguing; I twist my wrist and every injury in my arm flares at the same time. I do not cry out, for, though I experience the resulting sensations, I feel nothing.

Ex nihilo nihil fit. (Nothing comes of nothing.)

They look at me now - not with the eager, hungry looks of the beginning - but with troubled, curious expressions, that reflect their growing unease. They are becoming impatient; they are no longer enjoying their work.

Ce n'est pas une victoire. (It is not a victory.)

Such things are no longer possible. I have defeated them, yes, but I have not won - there is no glory.

They have become desperate; they drag in Karl, and torture him. They hope, perhaps, that I will be moved by another's pain, while still so indifferent to my own. He begs; he screams; he cries.

He tells me he loves me - I believe him.

I do not speak.

They kill him, their faithful servant of five years. He was my watcher - their contact, their overseer. He blended well; Daniel never knew - Daniel didn't know a lot of things. Karl was diligent in the execution of his duties; he performed them well. He made one mistake which led to others; he fell in love with a person who was unable to love him in return.

I think he deserved better than he got; but I do not mourn his death. I do not care.

To them I am an impossibility. They met me before and I appeared no different than any other. I was charming, I was witty, I was inconsequential - deliberately so. I had envisioned the meeting, I had looked forward to it; I had planned everything. I followed the plan, I saw no reason not to.

It was such a stunning performance, I almost convinced myself.

They have become disheartened, now simply going through the motions - they have given up. Their failure should bother me, but it does not. I should fear my lack of reaction, but I do not. It has happened, as I always feared it would. I am living in hell, and I do not think it all that bad.

Etiam ovlivisci quid sis, interdum expedits. (It is sometimes expedient to forget who you are.)

I lost myself to the void. It is not likely I will find a way back. The torturer's cannot draw me out, nor can my soft-spoken questioner, who bares a startling resemblance to Daniel - no coincidence, nothing ever is.

"Quid afis, dulcissime rerum?" (How are you, sweetest of creatures?)

Quid deceat, quid non, obliti. (Lost to all self-respect, all sense of shame.)

What am I now? A shell in which life once existed - all too briefly. Is there a way back? I do not know and no longer think it matters. Nothing matters now - not even that I won.

"That's enough. You can go," she says, entering the room with a man trailing behind her.

The man comes to me, takes his time examining my wounds; he tells her he can do little here, I should go to Medical.

She studies me with that neutral expression of hers and tells him to do what he can; she needs to speak with me first.

He does not argue; he mops up blood, applies salves and bandages, then injects something into my I.V. When he is finished, he leaves us alone.

She has aged. Tiny lines make etchings at the corners of her mouth and, like cracks in fine china, they spread from her eyes. There are a few strands of grey in her dark locks - her hair is shorter than I remember. I do not think she has slept; there are dark circles around her eyes, and I can see them beneath the carefully applied make-up. She is still beautiful - I think she always will be.

It is four years since I saw her last, twelve years since our first meeting. I have never known her. She has always distanced herself, always been an enigma, impossible to read.

No longer.

And that should bother me too.

"You caused some trouble," she states.

She is both amused and annoyed; amused by me, annoyed with herself. She believes she should have more accurately predicted my behavior, anticipated my rebellion.

"Why did you do it?" she asks, her voice soft.

She is trying to draw me out, to engage me; she is wasting her time, I have no reason to answer her questions. I have no desire - nothing.

"Why let Gail steal the money? You gained nothing," she continues.

Why let Gail have it? Why not? I could argue. I have no use for it now. I am no longer their creature, no longer controllable - no longer anything.

"You are smarter than this."

She sounds a touch disappointed; she isn't, but she should be. A dismal performance, I can see the calculation in her eyes.

"Why go through this?" she asks, looking slightly saddened when I do not respond.

In the past, I would have been amused.

Rien. Tout la monde est rien. (Nothing. All the world is nothing.)

She observes me in silence, allows the silence to dominate.

"Where is Michael?"

She asks it suddenly, attempting to catch me off guard.

Sint ut sunt, aut non sint. (Let them be as they are or not at all.) I could say, but do not. I do not see the point; she knows as well as I that there is no way to bring him back.

She stares at me, searching my eyes for answers. I stare back and at length I see it. A dawning comprehension of the truth of things. She blinks.

"This is pointless," she says, more to herself than me.

She is uneasy; she has made an error and knows that now. She has yet to comprehend the nature of it, but she suspects. There is something like fear within her eyes. It is possible we shared the same nightmare.

Du bleibt doch immer, was du bist. (You will always remain what you are.) I almost tell her. For her it will remain a nightmare; she cannot follow me.

"You don't fear death, do you Janet?" she questions, watching me intently for a reaction - any reaction.

I consider.

I have a choice. I can pretend; I can fool her. She is willing - I am capable. If I do this, she will send me to Medical - I will live.

Alternatively, I can allow her entrance; I can let her see. She does not want to - I can force her. If I do this, she will kill me - I will die.

"I never did mind about the little things."

The bullet killed only a ghost.

Acephaly: the state of possessing no head.

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