psyches: (circle to circle.)
[personal profile] psyches posting in [community profile] evolutionary
Title: "what the eyes can't see..."
Warnings: Death and all its associations.
Word Count: 593
Characters: Nigel
Notes: This was a play on colors. Not sure how well I succeeded.

Summary: From black, shines white. From white, bleeds red.

They find the remains of his mangled flesh in the crevices of the elevator shaft. How he came to be was a mystery wanting to be buried, yet his parents were notified of the truth.


He must have slept forever, according to the nurses. Four years, never waking; only the basic of vitals recognized. There had been talk of severing the remaining connections to life, and its prospect touched grimly on his remaining family. No one wanted this. No child could ever die properly.

But he does not die. His mind churns, patterns arising from what once was nothing. At the start of the second month of the fourth year, he opens his eyes. The faint light becomes blinding white for unused retinas, and the child-now-man is enveloped in pain.

When they find him, his fingers have already worked through the surface, blood flowing like tears.

Red replaces white.

Soon to be black.


They recover what remained of his eyes and wrap the damaged area tightly as to prevent further damage. His vision would be restored in time, much like many things. Much like peace of mind. They only need to ease the transition to the waking world and so kept visitors and extremities to a bare minimum.

Memories of sleep can be harsh.

But his memory is perfect, none lost to the time wasted. This affects him more than what the outside could offer. What anyone could offer. And what should be restored degrades utterly, leaving ink and shadow.

A finger brushes against his bangs in the dark, and a name is uttered in sweet remembrance. It is not his own.

The child-turned-man cries, gasping against memories untouched yet broken.


It is unbearable to hear the falsetto of that doctor. Unbearable still, to hear the echo of one long thought murdered. Though he could rage and claw to destroy the source like the first day, he bears the burden as best as he can. The flow of pain is stifled, blocked by a wall.

For hate composes one side of a blade carved against the soul, and he takes pains to avoid even the simplest of rejections. While others might hurry to tear at what hurt them, he instead paints the elements over, blurring them in the comforting stagnation of black. Red lost its fervor when mixed with an absence. Blue loosened its hold when taken in shadow.

Colors lacked their power when dead, and he could protect what was most precious.

(most dangerous)

A color that stays, therefore, is most in danger to be blotted out.

In the overlapped tones, there rises a tinge paler than any white, and he raises his own. It rings clearer like neither expected from a recently comatose patient. Nothing is heard aside from the blood rushing past his ears. Nothing is heard, and yet they react. One moves closer, pricking with thorns. The other presses red to red.

Nothing is heard but a tightening. Nothing is seen in the dark.


He is soon well enough to have a roommate, or the hospital has reached its high peak in the year for patient capacity--even the nurses remain unsure. In either case, they bring in another man-child, one who is older and wiser for all the wrong reasons. Who speaks and acts kindly. Nigel never sees him, nor will he ever.

They spend three days in each other's company. The first and last word from the younger came unexpectedly on the last hour of the final day, the inflection rising like music.

"You should be red."