Okay, this is based off of a wonderful deviantART picture of Silva entitled 'Mommy, I need you...'. If the artist is reading this, it's dedicated to you. The reason behind this – we all have our pet theories about China and this happens to be one out of the head of a slight M/Silva shipper. Well, they seem to end up a couple as a bi-product of a lot of my fics, but I just can't get enough of these two wonderfully complex characters. How the hell the poor man survived all of this is totally beyond me, but...
Tiago lay as sprawled out as the small amount of space in his cell would allow, one hand clamped hard over the deep gash in the left side of his stomach, attempting to hold it closed and stem the flow of blood. The cut was something like four inches deep and twice as long, slashing down his torso exposing the sickening red gleam of his guts, which he could see in the half light when he mustered the strength to turn his head and look.
He bent his head low, his overlong hair, dark and matted, falling into his face and obscuring his vision. He kept his gaze focused slightly cross-eyed on the shattered bridge of his nose, not wanting to look at the sick, bloody, twisted mess of his legs. Agony had seized hold of his mind; his body shook with every laboured breath, movement was complete murder and he could practically feel himself slowly shutting down. The Chinese certainly knew how to break a man, both literally and metaphorically.
The grip of his other hand tightened, not wanting to lose what he had clasped tightly in his sweat-dampened palm. With a fragile movement that took more than a few attempts, he held the tiny white capsule up to his eye level, loss of blood making him see double. Should he? A warm bead of perspiration slipped down his already tear and blood streaked face. His eyes closed, his thoughts all on her. She was a lot of things to him...but she was also a traitor. No, she wasn't. Yes, she was. This was her fault. But he couldn't bring himself to blame her for his suffering. M. He thought back to those several futile attempts at guessing her real name, and when all else failed resorting to referring to her as 'Mommy' or 'Mother'. He uttered that now, the cyanide capsule inches away from his open mouth, the white plastic surrounding the lethal poison within warm from his body heat and brushing his lips.
"Mommy, where are you?"
A slight involuntary jerk of his foot reminded him of his pain and what he now so badly wanted wanted to be freed from. Focusing on his strongest memory of her, wanting her face to be the last thing on his mind ever, he placed the capsule in his mouth and bit down. Hard.
Hours passed. Hours turned to days. Days to weeks. The pain Tiago was in now truly was something else. He couldn't swallow. Couldn't speak. Couldn't close his mouth. Couldn't even blink. His hand traced the sunken line of his right cheekbone, feeling the hollow of his cheek and the still ever-constant burn of the acidic poison lingering over the inside of his mouth, burning all the time as if it were on fire. His partially dissolved tongue ran across near-empty, bleeding gums, not able to taste so much as his own blood. His hands were shaking, his whole body convulsing with sobs of utter agony. His head lolled back on his weak neck, leaning on his shoulder like a ragdoll's, the mutilated shell of his once-handsome face angled up at the ceiling. What were left of his teeth sunk into the papery skin of his lips, sending a torrent of crimson down his chin in a warm flood. He stared at the layer of congealed blood covering almost every inch of his clotheless body.
This...and life still clung to him like a disease...
Though the strangled gargle that now was his voice would have made no sense to anyone else, he knew exactly what he was saying – well, trying to say – and hoped that somewhere she did too.
"Mommy, I need you..."