//------------------------------//
// Neurotoxin 
// Story: Few 
// by Birdring 
//------------------------------//


Goodbyes are getting old




Cold, empty walls. Long, empty corridors that were so narrow and dark they closed in, sucking the air from the lungs and the sanity from the minds. Dim yellow lights that cast ugly shadows on the walls. Anything.




Next time you can go ahead and go




Echoing footsteps against hard floors. Heavy metal doors, slamming loudly into the void, swung open like the groans of a dying creature. The occasional screams and curses that echoed through the walls, muffled and tormented, furious and bitter. They were ignored.




I'm tired of begging you to kill me




The first to visit were random professional heroes and detectives who pressed for answers, medical staff who cleaned his wounds with cold, cruel hands, and psychiatrists who dug needles into his arms and brain.



The same questions asked. Location. Name. Number. Plan. He didn't give anything. He simply looked at them until his resolve broke and they looked away, asked the same question,



"What are you?"




Gracious God, you're amazing




Good question. He had no idea. A ghost. An empty vase. A demon.



Maybe he was dead. Maybe he was never alive to begin with. None of it ever felt real anyway. Everything felt numb and empty, like looking at memories that weren't even his.




According to you I'm a lucky 






"He's unstable, irrational. 24/7 surveillance was ordered. Attempts to get him to cooperate were nil. He won't talk.  He has severe damage in his mind, advanced stage of  failure, extensive  trauma. He doesn't seem to be in pain. We don't know how he survived this long."



Maybe not. Is he alive or is it all a dream? Was any of this real? He doesn't know... it doesn't seem real.




So why did you lie to me?




The brain is still active. Maybe these last ten years were made up in those few moments in your brain. Perhaps they are that vision, just false events playing like a movie inside a dying brain.



Perhaps he is already dead. Maybe this is hell.




Why do I cry myself to sleep?




They drug him and strip him daily to throw him in a cold bath, cruelly hose him down, scrub his scars . Manic and flustered, even if they hurt him. Then they close the door and leave him in the dark.



He sits in the dark for hours, staring into space. There is no sense of time in this place. No concept of day or night, life or death, just darkness. Shadows that grab him, devour him, consume him. They whisper in his ears and cry when he falls asleep.




Gracious God, I'm replaceable




"Why would you do that? Become that?" 


He never meant anything to the normal man. He was never anything but something to discard, to take and throw away, to chew and spit out.



He doesn't mean anything



You said I'm crazy and incurable



He wonders if this is all really happening or if he's just imagining it all, like some kind of nightmare.



He usually doesn't react, remains lifeless and vacant. They call him a freak, inhuman, monster, demon.



He doesn't feel anymore. He doesn't feel anything. He hasn't for a while.




I think you were right




They always ask the same questions. Why you did? He doesn't know, he doesn't tell them, but he honestly doesn't. He's not even sure if they're still alive.



Why is he a villain? What are the villain's goals, his goals? Why did he kill this person, commit that crime? It's always “whathe did” or “what's wrong with him”, not what happened to him?



Nobody cares what happens