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x_project2006-01-30 01:09 pm
nute.livejournal.com) wrote in x_project2006-01-30 01:09 pm
Entry tags:
More minificcage
Since I'm still bitten with the second-person narrative bug, a little triptych. Two from XP-canon, one... not exactly.
**
Wake up.
Even after more than thirty years out of the Corps, your first instinct is to hit the three S's in under five minutes: Shit, Shower, Shave. First the sergeants yelled at you to get it done, then you were the sergeant yelling at the recruits, then you moved beyond the Corps into something different altogether.
You didn't have to yell then. They did what they were told, or they were punished, or they died. You were making good soldiers. They were trained well, got by on four hours sleep a night if they were allowed the luxury during their training. None of them saw that you pushed yourself right along with them.
Times change. You've changed. You're slower when you wake up in the morning, of course. Good for a man of your age, but pathetic compared to what you used to be. Now it's get out of bed, cough for ten minutes, and go about your routine here on this godforsaken island. Cold up here. Not as cold as guilt, though. Nothing grips your heart in that icy chill like regret.
What'll kill you first, you wonder? The physical ailments or those black stains on your soul? Ain't a damn thing you can do about either. Wouldn't change what you've done.
So you do what you can, Marine. You drive on. Semper Fi.
Wake up, Colin MacInnis. Your soldiers are waiting.
**
Lunchtime.
You used to hate it. Watching everyone come out of their classrooms and head straight for the cafeteria, or the vending machines, or their lockers with their brown bags full of processed food and chemical-laced sodas. Scarfing down the carbohydrates and sugars that wouldn't do their bodies an ounce of good. There's a reason they call it "junk" food, you know.
You ate between five and seven times a day. Never any more than the bare minimum your body needs - it's for fuel, not for luxury. Because your body was perfect, you knew this. All-state cross-country runner last year. Captain of the diving team. Your friends in the art class wanted you to model for them, and you always just smiled.
Then the world fell on you. Or that's what it felt like. One morning things just got heavy. You couldn't breathe, you could barely walk. You tried to move, and while your muscles obeyed, your bones protested.
Twenty-seven separate fractures, they said. Pins holding your femur together. A plate in each hip. Reconstructive surgery on your knees. A plaster cast to keep those shattered ribs immobile. You'll be lucky to walk again, they said.
Then came the hunger. It was hospital food, you knew it was horrible, but you didn't care. You ate, and ate. And you felt better. You knew you'd prove them wrong, though. You'd walk again. You'd run. You'd be back in that gym burning yourself out until you were perfect again.
Six months later, you were moved to the 'special' unit, because the regular gurney couldn't hold you. Seven hundred pounds, they said. Freak of nature, they said.
Mutant, they said.
So you walked again. Your own hideous body now able to withstand the strain, your curse became your blessing. You couldn't stand it, you tried to throw yourself into traffic. But when the truck hit you and you didn't even budge - you knew you were something different. You could be something special. He told you that, too. Your family didn't understand you any more, but he did. He'd show you a new world where you would be perfect, because you can make the world perfect. That perfect Brotherhood.
It's lunchtime, Fred Dukes.
Eat up.
**
Bedtime.
Of course you don't want to. At least that's what they expect you to say. At your age you're supposed to want to be running around with your friends nonstop, avoiding your bed like it's filled with shrieking eels.
Just in case, you check to make sure there are no eels.
Your roommate and best friend is asleep almost the moment his head hits the pillow. Sometimes you can see what he's dreaming, but you never tease him about it. When he sleeps, he's always happy.
You always make sure he's asleep first, before you get up and crack the door a little, letting that small sliver of light in. Then it's into bed, the blanket tight around you.
When you reach that state where you think you might be asleep but you're not totally sure, you can hear things. Sometimes it's your Mama's voice, remembering when she'd sing to you as you fell asleep, shining with her own light. She doesn't do that now, you're getting too old for lullabies.
But sometimes when you're almost asleep, you hear other voices. Other lullabies, voices that you don't know. You think you can remember the tunnels, but you're not even sure what they are.
You pull your blanket around you, wishing that all the memories make sense when you wake up. And as your eyes close, you smile knowing that the light means everything's going to be all right.
Sleep well, Miles Blaire.
Sleep well.
**
Wake up.
Even after more than thirty years out of the Corps, your first instinct is to hit the three S's in under five minutes: Shit, Shower, Shave. First the sergeants yelled at you to get it done, then you were the sergeant yelling at the recruits, then you moved beyond the Corps into something different altogether.
You didn't have to yell then. They did what they were told, or they were punished, or they died. You were making good soldiers. They were trained well, got by on four hours sleep a night if they were allowed the luxury during their training. None of them saw that you pushed yourself right along with them.
Times change. You've changed. You're slower when you wake up in the morning, of course. Good for a man of your age, but pathetic compared to what you used to be. Now it's get out of bed, cough for ten minutes, and go about your routine here on this godforsaken island. Cold up here. Not as cold as guilt, though. Nothing grips your heart in that icy chill like regret.
What'll kill you first, you wonder? The physical ailments or those black stains on your soul? Ain't a damn thing you can do about either. Wouldn't change what you've done.
So you do what you can, Marine. You drive on. Semper Fi.
Wake up, Colin MacInnis. Your soldiers are waiting.
**
Lunchtime.
You used to hate it. Watching everyone come out of their classrooms and head straight for the cafeteria, or the vending machines, or their lockers with their brown bags full of processed food and chemical-laced sodas. Scarfing down the carbohydrates and sugars that wouldn't do their bodies an ounce of good. There's a reason they call it "junk" food, you know.
You ate between five and seven times a day. Never any more than the bare minimum your body needs - it's for fuel, not for luxury. Because your body was perfect, you knew this. All-state cross-country runner last year. Captain of the diving team. Your friends in the art class wanted you to model for them, and you always just smiled.
Then the world fell on you. Or that's what it felt like. One morning things just got heavy. You couldn't breathe, you could barely walk. You tried to move, and while your muscles obeyed, your bones protested.
Twenty-seven separate fractures, they said. Pins holding your femur together. A plate in each hip. Reconstructive surgery on your knees. A plaster cast to keep those shattered ribs immobile. You'll be lucky to walk again, they said.
Then came the hunger. It was hospital food, you knew it was horrible, but you didn't care. You ate, and ate. And you felt better. You knew you'd prove them wrong, though. You'd walk again. You'd run. You'd be back in that gym burning yourself out until you were perfect again.
Six months later, you were moved to the 'special' unit, because the regular gurney couldn't hold you. Seven hundred pounds, they said. Freak of nature, they said.
Mutant, they said.
So you walked again. Your own hideous body now able to withstand the strain, your curse became your blessing. You couldn't stand it, you tried to throw yourself into traffic. But when the truck hit you and you didn't even budge - you knew you were something different. You could be something special. He told you that, too. Your family didn't understand you any more, but he did. He'd show you a new world where you would be perfect, because you can make the world perfect. That perfect Brotherhood.
It's lunchtime, Fred Dukes.
Eat up.
**
Bedtime.
Of course you don't want to. At least that's what they expect you to say. At your age you're supposed to want to be running around with your friends nonstop, avoiding your bed like it's filled with shrieking eels.
Just in case, you check to make sure there are no eels.
Your roommate and best friend is asleep almost the moment his head hits the pillow. Sometimes you can see what he's dreaming, but you never tease him about it. When he sleeps, he's always happy.
You always make sure he's asleep first, before you get up and crack the door a little, letting that small sliver of light in. Then it's into bed, the blanket tight around you.
When you reach that state where you think you might be asleep but you're not totally sure, you can hear things. Sometimes it's your Mama's voice, remembering when she'd sing to you as you fell asleep, shining with her own light. She doesn't do that now, you're getting too old for lullabies.
But sometimes when you're almost asleep, you hear other voices. Other lullabies, voices that you don't know. You think you can remember the tunnels, but you're not even sure what they are.
You pull your blanket around you, wishing that all the memories make sense when you wake up. And as your eyes close, you smile knowing that the light means everything's going to be all right.
Sleep well, Miles Blaire.
Sleep well.
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