I've just realized I haven't posted in a really long time… sorry about that. :D But anyway, this is part 1 of a 3 part thing I'm doing about Tahno :D Gosh I love him. When I saw him all broken and shattered in episode 107, the creative section of my brain just EXPLODED. I had to write these little ficlets :D here we go! Just a warning, these will be EXTREMELY angsty… hehe.
Tahno reeked. That was that. His hair was greasy, limp and lifeless. He had long grown used to the smell of his own stink and it no longer bothered him. The smell of stale sweat rose off of him in droves, making any rare passerby gag. But then, when they saw who he was, their expressions almost always turned from disgust to pity.
Oh, how he HATED their pity.
The women, who walked by and saw Tahno drained and withering away; the men, who looked down their noses at him with pompous disdain; the children, who scamper away in fear of him to grind him down into nothing- they all had an underlying layer of pity for him that he loathed.
He loathed them all.
Without that power he was nothing. Every time he was forced to bathe (he started attracting bugs), every time he drank (he always seemed to be dehydrated), every raindrop reminded him of the things he had lost. Every time he passed over the bridge, he looked down at his reflection and was shocked by what he saw. He saw an emaciated figure, his cheeks hollow and his eyes sunken. He saw the deep purple bags and his limp, bedraggled hair. The image in the water he so loved and hated scared him, taunting him and mocking him relentlessly. Tahno looked like a dead man walking, risen from the grave, for that is what he felt like.
Every step he took reminded him of the chunk that was gone from his chest. The water that was so central to his being was no longer under his control.
Every time Tahno woke up, he stumbled out of bed, shaking and sobbing from the nightmares, plunged to the sink, his hands floundering for the knobs, turning, turning, turning, until the cold water came gushing out-
Tahno would thrust his hands under the flowing water, willing it to move with every ounce of his being. 'Maybe this time,' he would think, hoping and wishing and praying and thinking-
But to no avail. He would punch the water, screaming and crying and thrashing all over again. The walls had dents in them from where he would punch them, bruising and bloodying his knuckles. He would then slump against the walls of his flat, then completing the image of the dead man walking. He had nothing to live for.
He was no longer part of the living.
He merely survived.