This is my first A Clockwork Orange fanfic and also my first fanfic in quite a while, so forgive me if it's not that good. I've fallen in love with the book and the movie and all the little analytical details Kubrick put into his visual directing, and I can't help but love our Humble Psychopathic Narrator - HUGE props to Anthony Burgess, Stanley Kubrick and Malcolm McDowell for not only bringing this character to life accurately, but making him so likeable whilst doing so.
This was inspired by the line in the book that said, "But I cracked my back and my wrists and my nogas …". Presumably, when he said he broke his back, it wasn't a spinal injury, as in the book he is later shown to be able to physically function just as he did before he was 'cured'. But I can't help but think, what if Alex did sustain some permanent side effects from his suicide attempt? What would happen to him now?
I do not own the masterpiece that is A Clockwork Orange or any of its characters. They are the sole property of the late, great Anthony Burgess and Stanley Kubrick. I'm not trying to outdo them, I am merely writing this for fun. Please, enjoy.
The Ninth was still blasting away like bezoomny to my left, and it was inflicting that horrible pain and sickness that shouldn't be there all over my plott, O my brothers. It was like a million britvas were like slicing into me and cutting into all my main cables and my keeshkas were like cleaving in on themselves, and all I could do was to creech very gromky to turn it off, turn it off, and that made me feel even worse because I had creeched the same slovos during the grahzny vonny Ludovico Technique. Then I stopped like banging my gulliver on the floor and I viddied the windows just above me.
Suddenly, I viddied what I had to do, and what I had wanted to do, and that was to do myself in; to snuff it, to blast off for ever out of this wicked cruel world. One moment of pain perhaps, and then sleep. For ever, and ever and ever.
I got up and staggered over to the window, that being very hard, me being in so much pain, and I climbed up onto the sill and managed to open the window. It was a long drop, but long enough to kill a veck? Only one way to find out, as the starry vecks say. I crouched on the malenky ledge outside the window, and it was so cold up there, O my brothers, it being November and all that cal, and I closed my glazzies, bowed my gulliver and felt the cold wind through my voloss and on my litso, and I suddenly felt very poogly of what like waited for me after death, so I couldn't help but creech one last, long creech as I jumped.
I jumped, O my brothers, and I fell hard, but I did not snuff it, oh no. If I had snuffed it I would not be here to have told you what I have told. Turns out that long drop wasn't long enough to kill a veck, but it did do something else that has stayed with me since then. I came back to jeenzy, you see, after a long black, black gap of what might have been a million years. My glazzies were at first all cally with sleepglue, but after a minoota I could viddy that I was in a hospital and that most of my plott was like bound up in white and I couldn't move nor feel, O my brothers, and also standing over me were a nurse and a doctor veck and the nurse was hastily buttoning her uniform over her groodies. They were like inspecting my plott and all these bezoomny machines around me, and I could viddy that I was like hooked up to these machines by wires, and that unpleasantly reminded me of the horrible Ludovico Technique. My gulliver and my jaw was covered in like plaster, so I could not govoreet well as my rot was all stiff. I found this out when I tried to ask them what was happening but it came out like er er er and all that cal.
So when these lewdies were finished, they ittied off and left Your Poor Suffering Humble Narrator all on his oddy knocky. I was getting some feeling back in my plott now, O my brothers, and it was just a malenky pain in my gulliver and in my torso - but I still couldn't feel anything in my nogas, and I was just that malenky bit confused as to why, but I put that down to them being in a lot of bandage and plaster and all that cal. Eventually I got some spatchka, and when I dreamed, I dreamed of beating up a whole lot of real starry chellovecks, like the ones who like tolchocked me at the Biblio, and I felt real horrorshow, no pain or sickness. But in the middle of all this ultraviolence I found that my nogas would not hold me up anymore. I didn't feel like all paralysed with pain in sickness like the dream I had in the Ludovico centre, as I could still move my rookers, but I could no longer stand, O my brothers, and that frightened me just a malenky bit, but I like shook that off, as I whipped out my cut throat britva and started like slicing into all these starry vecks' nogas instead, all red red krovvy flowing, and it was real beautiful.
The next day was tiring, O my brothers. When I woke up I felt a malenky bit better, not so much pain, but I still could not feel anything in my nogas. This nurse ptitsa came to me after I had my breakfast of eggiwegs and toast, all smiley and real horrorshow, and I would've taken to her right away if I had not taken to traitorous Dr. Branom the same way. She like straightened the bedsheets and I govoreeted to her:
"How long have I been in here?"
"A week or so," she said.
"And what's happened? What have these bezoomny vecks been doing to my plott?"
When I govoreeted that last bit, she like stared at me like she was confused, and I realised that she probably didn't understand nadsat talk, so I said:
"What have these crazy men been doing with my body?"
"Oh," she said, "you've sustained several bruises and severe concussion and you've lost a lot of blood. The bruises and the concussion are mostly healed now, and you've had a blood transfusion, so that's pretty much all fixed. You've also broken all four limbs and a few ribs." I did not kopat all of this, brothers, and I felt it necessary to next ask this devotchka:
"Why can't I feel anything in my legs?"
Then she like looked a bit poogly, and I still didn't kopat why, O my brothers, when she suddenly averted her glazzies and bit her goobers. I wasn't liking this one malenky bit, and I govoreeted:
"Come on, spit it out. I know you're hiding something from me."
She looked at me again, and I was surprised to viddy like tears in her glazzies, and when she govoreeted, it was very quiet, like a whisper: "The reason you can't feel anything in your legs is because ... you broke your spine, damaging the spinal cord. They had to sever it completely ... you would've only suffered more otherwise. You've been left ... paraplegic."
So, what do you think? Good? Bad? Ugly? Leave me a review and let me know if I should continue or not.
In the meantime, viddy well.