Existentialism on the Murder Scene
He comes every day that he can. Even if it's just for a minute, he will come.
They don't quite get why he would board a plane on the other side of the country and fly in, and rush for the last ten seconds he can make it in time for. They try to understand why he does it, even if they don't know, and don't dare to question. Out of pity, maybe? Whatever it was, they would extend the hours just for him.
On occasion he'll bring two younger men with him, who no matter how many times they've been to the massive, vacant looking building, come across nervous and scared to death. The two bond close by the drastically larger man, so close that if he stops for a moment, they collide into each other, and into him.
The other men, and women who are sensible enough to not gush over the attractiveness of the trio of professional wrestlers, greet them and guide the familiar way through the cold sterile halls. They brief the leader of the set on the newest situation and changes, while the women stick behind the three, for obvious reasons, and try not to audibly giggle, or say anything that they would hear.
At the end of three "L" shaped halls that only seemed to get cooler and damper as the men progress, they unlock the door and shut it behind them. The trio have their heads down, eyes shut or pinned to the cheap white marble floors malodorous of bleach. The halls are silent as midnight approaches; it's entirely better than the screaming individuals throughout the day time. The three men wait.
He doesn't acknowledge them when they walk in. He's struggled hard to stand himself up with his body wrapped around itself. The night sky is pitch black, especially in the corner of the building he's tucked away in. There's only trees surrounding, and he misses being at the front to see what was going on outside. It is a rare occasion that he could even stand straight, or on his own.
Pupils dilate as they approach, it seems like slow motion to him when their hands hurriedly reach out for him, and he thrashes to be free from those men, and his self-imprisonment. He knows well enough not to fight back, but something makes him do it anyways. He doesn't have strength left in any sense of what it appears his body is capable of putting out, and is easily tossed to the small cot.
Their fingers clutch him tight, nails digging into his pale inked flesh that hasn't seen any direct light that hasn't been fluorescent. Outside they can't hear the brawl through the heavy walls, as the man exerts his body to a heavy sweat before being stabbed with stainless steel.
Exhaust settles in quick to his powerlessness, and lays with his face down into the hard, wire exposing cot. Their hands latch on to his arms that become free, he gasps out painfully at the movements that crack his stiff bones. They force him up and clean the dried blood from his face and limbs, and run him over with an alcohol wipe to rid of the pungent smell before sloppily wiping the floor up with the towel. They hadn't been prepared for the visit.
One opens the door, personas changing instantly to the false helpful, caring ones that he's used to on the normal hours.
Everything is motionless, dilated silver eyes stare at their own limp limbs strewn over the stained mattress sheet and pointed ears listen to the white noise only they can hear. His eyes close with the tightened breath he tries to claim for his lungs, and lays in silence.
Finally, the three are allowed inside, and the others are gone.
He feels the bed sinking, but doesn't move to get up. His limbs are shifted, and his body is moved to sit up on the leviathan's lap, his optics fixed up at him and he tries hard to remember. Not being afraid is always a start. His gaze slowly shifts to the corner of the room, where his ex-protégés stand, horrified as usual. Their eyes seem to be frozen on the poorly wiped up blood he's spilt on the floor.
He has trouble recognizing his husband's voice away from the fake one that runs rampant through his world full of white noise. The man takes his limp hands, and massages the feeling back into them. His husband doesn't approve of the use of the straitjacket they confine his once beautiful Viper in, but he takes comfort in knowing there is some sort of drive left in him to fight back. He's still alive….
Dave carefully holds onto him with one arm, slinking out of his leather jacket. He wraps it carefully around his lover who feels colder than ice.
He quietly speaks to him, most of which he assumes Randy can not hear. He knows that his lover hears things that aren't really there, but he never knew the man could occasionally test positive for deafness from it.
His skin has an artic radiance that makes ever so slight contact before the actual touch, his husband tries his best not to look discomforted, or even acknowledge it. He knows the jacket, or anything else he'll bring, can not stay; and that he's lost the privilege to even have a sheet….
His brown eyes settle on the tiny window, and the wonder of how to tell him that they'll be moving him into a windowless room sets in, it's the first piece to unsettling information.
Randy's finger tips rest gently on Dave's clean shaven face, shakily cupping his jaw with the attempt to be closer. He sighs heavily and pushes gently against his powerful body, nestling into his warmth and security. His voice is low, empty and guilty. He looks back to Cody and Ted for a moment, and they hang on his every word. Once he remembers, he always makes sure that Dave is taking very good care of them, and they the same for his leviathan.
He asks when Dave will take him home. "Soon" is the constant, indefinite answer, but he'll still smile at the idea of home before he confesses that he doesn't remember what it's like to live day to day simple tasks, or to even lay on the couch and let the day go by under his prized heating blanket.
He doesn't want to upset them any further, and motions with his eyes for the younger men to sit on the small cot and tell them about their storylines, and their daily lives. Cody and Ted smile and come off their uneasiness and settle into the former Legend Killer.
They talk a little louder to break through the white noise that they don't understand or hear, and banter back and forth with each other to keep Randy entertained, though he says nothing, his set-in optics closed with dampness formed on the lashes, and a smile they've been dying to see on his lips makes their long trip to the psychiatric hospital worth every minute.