Feb. 16th, 2008

re_mybrains: (Bob 1)
I'm not going away, you know, Tom.

Tom's eyes snap open, and he sits up in the bed, flailing out for his gun, and then letting out a pained ah as bright lights hit his eyes. The bed rattles strangely. His flailing hand hit cold smooth metal and tightens -- but it's not his gun, it's a railing.

It's the side of the gurney he's in.

What the fuck is

Now, now, Tom,
says Bob, tone soothing. And gurgling and rasping at the same time. Don't panic. I see your crisis management skills haven't improved significantly.

There are doctors in white lab coats all around him, and Bob is at the foot of the gurney, hands clenched around the railing. One of the doctors comes closer. He's carrying something that looks like a mass of cloth and buckles. Tom scoots up the bed, away from the zombie and the doctor, but the others put hands -- burned scarred mangled hands -- on his shoulders and arms, holding him still.

The doctor shakes out the bundle. It's a straitjacket.

This is for your own good, you know, points out Bob.

My own good what the fuck are you talking about let me GO DAMMIT

The doctors hold out his arms and start working him into the jacket, and it's a dream and he's weak and slow and can't fight them. They're humming, low and sonorous and discordant, like fucking Enya as performed by horror movie monks.

Because you're crazy, Tom. Aren't you?

The doctors wrench his arms around and fasten the straps.

We do encourage our employees to take advantage of the company's psychiatric services, you know, Bob points out, like a disappointed teacher who knows you could have earned an A on that final if you'd just tried a little harder. And you know you can talk to me any time, Tom. My door

He shoves the gurney, and it goes rattling down the hall towards the door, the Milliways front door

is always

which is shaking in its frame and it swings

open

open and the shamble comes pouring in hands reaching for him his hands are bound he can't move he can't move they were waiting

they're COMING


Tom's eyes snap open and he sits up, flailing for his gun -- or tries to. He's tangled in his sheets and blankets and it takes a long fucking second before he's free of the cloth.

He sits there shaking for a while before swinging his legs over the side of the bed, and then he sits and shakes like that for a little while.

Once the shaking seems to be done, he gets up, pulls on a long-sleeved T-shirt and sneakers (weird-looking with the sweatpants he sleeps in, but what the fuck ever right now), and heads downstairs.

He wants something that'll get him out of his own head for a little while.

Fat chance.

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Tom

April 2011

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