Work Text
The walls seems to swallow Simon Cambourne like the bleached white maw of a beast.
The long cafeteria tables lay empty, lingering with faint echoes of conversion and warm bodies pressed against each other. The strong smell of disinfectant — always a prominent feature of the building — set Simon’s lungs on fire as his breath quickened.
His fists clenched the baggy hemmed ends of his white cotton pants, the fabric growing sticky with his sweat as he panted. His shirt sleeves, the length usually a comfort, were roughly shoved up, showing the pale scars that raked his brown skin. His bangs, a ratted mess of dark curls, tickled the back of his neck as he rocked.
In, out. In, out.
On the table before him lay a mess of snapped charcoal sticks, smuggled out in pockets and hidden carefully under mattresses. Some were ground into a dark powdery dust, a dark stain on the otherwise spotless table.
Paper of all sorts, from lined notebook paper to the backs of envelopes and medical forms, lay scattered before him. They had been carefully taped together, and a horrifying scrawled monster was pieced together, bit by bit.
Simon shook, tears streaming down his cheeks. It had taken a great deal of effort to collect himself for one moment of sanity, of lucidness, one moment to draw the monster in his head. Now he reverted back to the animalistic instincts of fear and pain.
He almost didn't hear the footsteps approaching.
“Bloody hell,” a familiar voice cussed. Simon opened one eye, the one the grey of a stormy sky, and peered at the figure that had stopped before him. Through his rough curls, he could make out a freckle my face framed by flame red hair. Jack.
The older boy was leaning over, staring dumbfounded at the art work. His sleeves had been carefully rolled up and cuffed, and his blue eyes were focusing intently on the scribbles before him.
“You're a real nut case,” he said conversationally. “I know the try of us are all here for that bloody experiment, but you're really bonkers.”
Simons sniffles quieted, his rocking stilled. His other eye opened, and weakly he shoved his hair aside.
Jack met his gaze, and recoiled a little at the two different colored eyes. He always had found something unnerving about the piercing way the bright green of his right eye and the murky grey of his left eye contrasted, staring sharply at Jack’s soul.
The red-head shivered slightly.
“Do you recognize it?” Simon asked. His accent came through particularly thick, and Jack had to take a moment to decipher his words. He looked back at the charcoal scrawl.
Then, lying, he shook his head.
“Didn't have red,” Simon muttered, tentatively tracing the edge of the severed boar’s head. “No red for the blood.”
Jack flinched.
“You're batty,” he said, hurriedly taking a step back. “Real off your head.”
“I know,” Simon murmured, lowering his bare feet to the concrete floor.
“Aren't we all?”