Memento Mori || {{Mihai&Francis

[Mihai C. Eliade]

Mirror on the wall

Frame the picture

Reflect this kiss to wish us all

Goodnight

There was a sharp pain in his forehead, and a ragged, choking sound came from his crushed throat. He knew perfectly well what that sensation meant, and he was sure his operating team would find out soon enough. Still, the already-faded feeling in his head was nothing compared to the agony he felt everywhere else. Every nerve ending was on fire, every centimeter of his body screaming—he could barely breathe as he was suffocated in all the pain.

Dimly, over the roaring in his ears as his thoughts rebounded in his mind, thinking of nothing but ithurtssomuch, he heard a curse from the director. "The line's dead," the man said, irritation coloring his tone. There was a bang that sounded like something hitting the table, then, "Mutant." Clearly directed at him. They would not even dignify him by calling his name. "Mutant, is he dead?"

Mihai wanted to respond, but nothing came out of his mouth. After a few attempts at speaking, fearing the consequences if he took too long, he nodded instead even though the motion sent jolts of pain down his throat. The sooner they knew their efforts were fruitless, the sooner they could just let him go.

Another curse was heard from the director, but then, finally, the blessed words: "Fine. Sedate him."

He barely felt the prick of the needle entering his arm, but he could've cried in relief as all knowledge of the world faded away.

☙

He awoke to a throbbing behind his eyes. He sat bolt-upright on the bed, a quiet cry of pain escaping him. At least his throat was functional again, but the same couldn't be said for his eyes. They always took a longer time to heal—the regeneration of a new body part was particularly difficult. He raised his hand to press against the pained area in an attempt to calm it, but the pressure didn't help much. Under his fingers, he felt the brush of bandages, some parts of which were stiff and flakey. No doubt from his blood.

He would be in the infirmary wing by now, he thought. He didn't know for sure, but that was usually where they brought him after every session, and he couldn't fathom why that day would be any different. At any rate, it smelt like the infirmary, like antiseptic and drugs, and underneath that, the faint stench of sickness. Reaching out, he could brush the fabric of the curtains they put up for privacy. He was where he was supposed to be, at least. That meant there must be some painkillers around.

"Hello?" he rasped out. His throat wasn't as healed as he'd thought.

Silence was the only thing that met his inquiry. He hesitated. Usually a doctor or a nurse would be on duty, to monitor him, at least, if not to care for him. His throat was already feeling the exertion, but making an effort, he called out again. "Is anyone there?"

Again, there was no answer. He bit his lip and his fingers tightened around the blanket that covered him, but the debate was short-lived. Regenerating his eyes was like having needles inserted into the front of his head, and he would risk whatever punishment the overseers would want to dole out to steal a bottle of painkillers or a shot of morphine.

He reached out again and fumbled for the opening of the privacy curtains, his motions driven by an urgency that made his movements clumsy. Finally, his fingers grasped the partition and he pulled the curtains open, sliding off the bed onto the floor. Putting weight on his legs almost made him collapse as his knees gave out, but he managed to grasp the edge of the bed in time to avoid a full-out collision with the ground.

Breathing through clenched teeth and biting back the nausea, he rose to his feet again, hand feeling along the bed until it met the wall. He couldn't see, but if he felt his way along, he would eventually run into the medicine cabinet. Feeling desperate, weak by the tremble in his limbs, he staggered forward with his hands out, feeling for obstacles. He was glad that no one else was there—what a humiliating sight this would be.

But he did make it, eventually. After a few haphazard collisions and a some breaks to sit down when the exertion finally made his legs and lungs burn and his head throb, he finally hit the counter of the medicine cabinet. He hissed as the corner dug sharply into the flesh under his ribs, but he edged forwards, feeling for the glass cabinets. If he remembered correctly, there was a bottle of potent painkillers in the middle cabinet, on the second shelf to the top.

Feeling his way to the cabinet in question, he began to fumble with the handles with shaking fingers. He was so close—all he needed to do was to find the bottle and get back to his bed, and hopefully everyone would be none the wiser. Just as he twisted the handle and the glass swung outward, the sound of the infirmary door opening left him frozen in place.

His thoughts came to a halt before they started racing again. He was caught. It wouldn't be the first time he'd been caught trying to steal medicine, but that time he'd thought he'd gotten off easy, that the government was at least understanding of his pain. It was only later that he realized that wasn't the case, when they prolonged his operation long after their target had given them the information they wanted, solely for the purpose of showing him what defiance would mean. It was futile, it would incur nothing but pain.

The punishment hadn't dissuaded him from sneaking drugs again, especially when the agony was at its peak, but the prospect of undergoing the same experience made his throat go dry. Falteringly, he moved back from the cabinet. He had no options here, no choices he could make. He could only hope that whomever found him would be merciful. "I—I'm sorry," he stammered, voice still weak. "I didn't mean—I didn't..." He trailed off. What excuse could he offer? Not even seeing the blood and healing bones the last time had incurred his overseers' sympathy—even the most valid excuse would be unacceptable when made by someone like him.

Finally, he pursed his lips, not offering anything else. There was nothing he could say, so he may as well not embarrass himself further. He stood as still as he could manage, fists clenched tight, and awaited the reaction of his observer.

Word Count: 1109

Notes: Bluuuh

by worldie on iof

[Deleted]

"There is love in your body, but you can't hold it in"

If there was anything Francis hated in the world, it was pain. Physical, emotional, a hellish mix of both -- it didn't matter what cursed shape it took, pain was still pain. But surely the worst form of it was watching someone else writhe in their hurt, trying their best to endure the searing wounds, bleeding to death, with clenched fists. The screams were terrible, wretched noise scraping along a hoarse throat. They were nightmare inducing, ringing in his ears like they were still happening right there in front of him. Horrid echoes, haunting him in all his superficial glory and disgusting supervision of the despicable act.

He took steady steps down the white corridors, approaching the infirmary wing. The halls were quiet, but a subtle thrumming noise was audible if he chose to listen. The pure white was blinding, isolating, and Francis felt unwillingly vulnerable. His black coat was a stark contrast against the walls, leaving him to be easily spotted by anyone from either end of the hall.

It was completely his choice to be here. He had heard about the most recent tests occuring on the government's personal, prized possession. A split decision, really, but Francis was an expert at making believable excuses for his perhaps questionable actions. Practice over the course of his life had certainly helped with that. It didn't take much to gain access to observe how the process was going -- one of the many benefits of being the attorney general. For the time being, he would be personally checking the recooperation of the health of Mihai Eliade.

He would like to lie and say it wasn't actually personal to him, but it was. Francis made a promise all those years ago; yet, he had not fulfilled it yet. It was debatable whether or not his appearance would make things worse for Mihai, but Francis had always been selfish like this.

He opened the door, expecting to find Mihai lying on the uncomfortable hospital bed. Instead, he found him frozen in the act of attempting to open the medicine cabinet.

Before Francis could say anything, words were blurted out, "I—I'm sorry. I didn't mean—I didn't..." They were scared of impending punishment, heart-wrenchingly so, and Francis felt pity well up inside him. It was a natural reaction, and nothing else felt appropiate at this moment; sympathy was hardly a strong enough word.

Mihai felt silent, choosing to not make excuses, awaiting his reaction. It was then he noticed the bandages around the other's eyes -- they were wrapped professionally, with curt and uncaring hands, he was sure. Bound tightly to ensure the prevention of anymore bleeding, he observed with muted anger. He hadn't been aware of what exactly had been being specifically done to Mihai, but it was painfully obvious now. He didn't care much for anything related with eye torture; no torture in general, really, but especially involving eyes. They were truly windows to the soul -- a glimpse into who they really were. It was one of the very first physical attributes Francis was drawn to, and there were so many shades and colors and varying degrees of beauty. He remembered Mihai having such lovely eyes, and guilt easily overtook the growing anger and swelling sadness.

Slowly, Francis let the door close behind him, a muffled sound. Glancing at the place of the bed and then the location of the cabinet, it was impressive Mihai had been able to find it in his state; particularly without hurting himself by tripping over something. Even the slightest mistake as to remembering where it was could have caused even more pain. All for the greater purpose of achieving the pain killers, was it...?  

"It is fine," he finally spoke, low and although calm, paranoid of a doctor or nurse walking in on the scene. Tentatively, Francis approached the other and reached out to take his arm and guide him back to the only place that could be considered safety in this room. Very carefully so he wouldn't startle him, he gently touched his shoulder to offer a small gesture of physical comfort since he was stripped of his eyesight. Any sudden movements would just make it worse, that much was obvious. "Let me help you back to your bed. You should not be up, not in this condition."

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[Mihai C. Eliade]

Mirror on the wall

Frame the picture

Reflect this kiss to wish us all

Goodnight

Deprived of sight, he could only rely on his hearing to convey to him information about his surroundings. It was a shame, really, because he'd never been much of a good listener. It was something he might find funny later on, but at that particular moment, he was hardly in any position for humor. Instead, he was uncertain, afraid even, wary that one small movement would send him toppling to the ground and upon contact with its tiles, he would shatter into pieces. Perhaps that was even preferable. But he knew, rationally, that he would not shatter on the floor, would not become shards on the earth, would simply make a fool of himself and become even a more pitiable sight than he already was. So he held still, even though he felt that he should be retreating. His hand brushed against the counter and his fingers curled around the edge, hoping for even the smallest bit of support.

He strained his ears, listening for any movement from the other person, but he could barely hear over the ringing of the dead silence and the stabbing pain behind his eyes. But soon enough, there was a quiet click, a too-distinctive sound of the door being shut, and half-panicked, he took a step backwards on instinct. Had the unseen visitor left? Had they gone to fetch a guard? Or had they closed the door so that they could do as they saw fit without disturbance? He wasn't sure which option he would rather have, couldn't predict what the outcome might be either. He still had no idea who the newcomer was, and the unknowing furthered his vulnerability—he couldn't even attempt to start divining his options and that was what unsettled him the most. Even though his body was never quite his anymore, he could always rely on his mind, to calculate and to regain some control as false and as temporary as it might be, but that ability had suddenly been stripped from him as well. He felt utterly helpless.

The sound of footsteps that followed was evidence enough that the other hadn't left. The noise was a quiet one, but the soft squeak of rubber on tiles couldn't be mistaken. Mihai shifted another foot backwards. He was on an edge. His body was tensing, his free hand clenched into a fist where sweat gathered at the creases. His instincts called for him to back off, to go further, but he couldn't see and if he couldn't see then he couldn't get away. So he moved half a step backwards, but then no further. He remained rooted to the ground, body language all that of a frightened child even though he tried to smooth out its edges. He hated showing vulnerability—faked fear and false reverence was one thing, but it was entirely another to be pained, blinded, unable to even divine the intentions of the other, and to show it.

He held still, almost able the feel the other's approach, painfully aware of the closing distance. He lowered his head, and his fingers dug deeper into the surface of the counter. Part of him wished that the newcomer would just get it over with. Do whatever they wanted then put him out of the misery of the nauseating pain. But the first words spoken they spoke disconcerted him. The voice was masculine—soft, but masculine still—and it was vaguely reminiscent like a half-remembered dream, though he couldn't place it at all. Yet, something gnawed at him, sent a chill up his spine that didn't match the reassurance the other had expressed.

'Fine?' He could barely remember the last time he'd been told one of his mistakes was 'fine.' Atrocious maybe, even shameful and a disgrace, but fine? That was forgiveness, and he never was forgiven without groveling for it. So why fine? His head throbbed and he didn't want to think, but suspicions arose anyway. Did the newcomer want something of him? A tradeoff? Or just empty words to bring him relief before the first strike landed?

He moved back no further, in spite of the wariness that now rose to the forefront and the instinct that called for him to flee as he felt the air between them narrow to just a breadth. What would the other do? He waited with his mouth dry, his head turned and bowed away, heart barely beating as though the silence could camouflage him. He expected a blow to connect—as slap to the face or a shove that would send him into glass cabinets—but when contact came it was on his shoulder. A small intake of breath and he flinched, the reaction automatic though he'd been expecting the touch. He braced himself, expecting a fist to be raised, but none came. The hand on his shoulder was gentle, unexpectedly so, and Mihai couldn't any make any sense of it. There would be no one in City Hall, sympathetic as they might be, who would bother with any gesture of kindness, especially not after discovering him in such a situation.

The next words, equally gentle as the touch on his shoulder, did him no favors. Why would someone—a human no less—who had discovered his thievery extend his help? Why, instead of spitting it out to the staff, instead of seeking punishment, take the opposite route? It couldn't be, not unless he had an ulterior motive, and Mihai did not allow himself the luxury of belief, of trust. It was better not to get one's hopes up, for the higher it went, the more pieces it became when touched upon the ground again. Even so, he was torn between refusing this person's help and allowing himself to be escorted back to the bed. He was still wary and prideful as he always was because he didn't need anyone's damn pity, but he was tired. So tired and hurting and he didn't know how much longer he could maintain his semi-confident posture before his knees buckled. He was too tired to play part in the debate between suspicion and pride, and the temptation of rest.

Wordlessly, he nodded. His shoulders drooped from their defensive, raised position, a gesture of apparent surrender. It was easier to allow himself to be lead, to shut off his mind for awhile even as the warning of retribution rang dimly in its depths. He just wished he could fall asleep, without suspicions and worries and pain. Everything else could wait—wait until he could see, until his body didn't crack at the joints, until cobwebs didn't thread their way through limb and thought. He said anyway, in a rasp, "You shouldn't waste your concern on me," a stock line that he had repeated over a dozen times. Was it appropriate to say right now? He didn't know. He'd said it for the sake of all the manners he'd been taught, for the sake of being a good slave, for the sake of self-preservation. Was it even worth it? Seven words that he could barely speak, with pain in his skull caused by none other than the type who was trying so carefully to lead him back to bed. He didn't know.

Word Count: 1197

Notes: --

by worldie on iof

[Deleted]

"It pours from your eyes and spills from your skin"

God, he was so broken.

But what else could be expected form this? It was glaringly obvious that Mihai was being used by scientists to discover his potential, of how far they could push him before he tumbled into the abyss, never to be recovered again. He wasn't some toy to be handled in a careless manner, Mihai was human too -- no matter what anyone else might think. He had as much humanity as Francis had, and more than people who called themselves "human" did. He wanted to ball his hands into fists, but resisted the urge upon remembering that his hand was still gingerly on Mihai's shoulder, afraid he would break the frail body even more.

There was so much wrong in their world, but Francis had vowed to fix it. And damn straight was he going to keep his promise; or he would die trying.

"My concern is never wasted, especially not on you." Francis said, unable to look at Mihai. The guilt he was suffering from was immense; what had he done, all those years ago? He had always imagined it in that damn romanticized fashion of his; escorting Reynold to Hell, moving on with his life in peace, being able to purchase Mihai permanently to give him an eternal reprieve. None of it was what he had thought it would be. Of course it wasn't. He was an idealist more often than a realist, and this time it had really fucked him over. He had always thought that, in the grand scheme of things, looking at the big picture -- it would all work out. He would be rid of the bastard who called himself his father, be free to do as he pleased, and would ultimately bring this slavery to an end. Of course it hadn't gone as he had planned it to; nothing ever would when he was constantly romanticizing it.

And, finally, after all these years, Francis had realized: using Mihai to end Reynold's life had not been worth it -- nor would it ever be.

It was, in the very least, partially Francis's fault for how Mihai had ended up this way -- here, with this mindset, having used him as young as he was as nothing more than a weapon. His promise didn't mean a single thing unless he could genuinely uphold it. He was a fool. I am not a liar, he berated himself, I will keep my promise.

"This way," he murmured quietly, moving slowly to give him his space. It was something that he and every other person deserved, a natural right they all had, and it had been violated too many times now. It seemed at this point, salvation would never be attained for these "mutants" -- being perpetually tortured without any amelioration or rest was not something Francis would allow. These people deserved a utopia, a place of solace, happiness, and freedom more than anyone else. This Hell on Earth had gone on for long enough.

electric has gangnam style