Post by pierce on Aug 17, 2015 0:52:24 GMT -5
August 15. 2 o' clock p.m. on a sunny Tuesday and the traffic surrounding the train station had slowed to a standstill, inching forward to let the wailing ambulance, police cruisers and emergency vehicles through. The murmuring of travelers grouped together, away from the man, collectively let out a sigh of relief as they came to take him away. He'd been just like any one of them for the first part of the trip, quiet and to himself, but it was not long before he started the rambling. Words that any sane person just would not utter on a full train, going full speeds. Everyone grew nervous of him, those seated around him finding some other spot away from him- some even opting to stand just to escape the dooming and paranoid words that spouted from him. Maybe someone would've gotten hurt if they'd stayed closer, it was a feverish topic among those who had been seated the closest. If someone had gotten in the way or tried to stop his self-infliction – he'd probably be facing some serious charges. But luckily, no kind soul tried to stop him when he pulled out a soiled swiss army knife and began to alternate deep slices in to both of his hands.
The emergency personnel were shocked to see the man so docile, slumped over and humming to himself – always taught to expect the worse from calls such as these. His identification read: “Clay J. Carpet” Born August 18, 1995. They held back their snickering, consoled the silent man and loaded him in to the ambulance. His hands at this point were so mangled, they were surprised to find that he could even slightly move them as they cleaned them up and bandaged them properly. The nerve damage was extensive, but it was a good sign that meant recovery was possible. The ride was otherwise quiet, the young man did not budge. That is, until they arrived in front of Metric's E.R., the breaks squeaking in to a stop. In the closed quarters of the rear of the ambulance, Clay made the first sudden move which they were completely unprepared for. He lunged forward at one of the EMTs closest to him with his mouth and bit hard in to the flesh of their forearm that had risen to protect their face. A taste of warm velvety iron filled his mouth and spilled over his torso and the chaotic scene. He yanked back and around, hearing the melodious screams of pain and horror all around him - so many hands digging in to his arms to pull him away with no luck. Then, a sharp pin-prick sensation entering his outer thigh...everything slowing and fading to darkness. A hum.
Clay was covered in blood from the lower half of his face down - unconscious, bound and muzzled just in case and was rushed in to the hospital where they stitched up his hands as well as the unlucky EMT's arm. He was cleaned up, dressed in patient garb and locked away. Clay came to very slowly while in isolation, noticing the schedule. Someone slipping medicine under the door - someone with an escort coming in to test him for violent tendencies - some evaluations with clipboards and darting eyes, all of it blurred from the heavy doses they gave him - out of fear he'd just as soon lash out as get better. Clay soon came to his wits, though, and began to squirrel his medicine away - sometimes mixing it with remains of the food or drink they gave him. He'd played patient before, for his brother. This would be easier than having to bear the affliction of a punch-happy guardian, he knew it would be.
It felt like a few hours, with the help of his deep sleeps - but in a weeks time he was let out to mingle with the others. They wanted to see how he'd do socializing again and they weren't surprised to see how he isolated himself right away. Clay sat beside the window and far from the others, on the floor beside an empty chair - gazing out the window and then down to his bandaged hands. They instructed him to flex them, to keep them from atrophying. So he was doing as he'd been told, pulling his fingers and clenching in to a fist the best he could - then relaxing his palms up. He could feel the stitches stretch, pinches of pain shooting up his arm now and then - pains which he had long learned to embrace. He smiled intently in to his hands, knowing all they could do once he revived them. You don't deserve to have hands with all you've done fucking pipsqueak. The distinct voice of his brother penetrated from his subconscious. Clay shut his eyes and shook his head, opening them and just smiling wider - humming a melody to lull the voice away, continuing the exercise.
The emergency personnel were shocked to see the man so docile, slumped over and humming to himself – always taught to expect the worse from calls such as these. His identification read: “Clay J. Carpet” Born August 18, 1995. They held back their snickering, consoled the silent man and loaded him in to the ambulance. His hands at this point were so mangled, they were surprised to find that he could even slightly move them as they cleaned them up and bandaged them properly. The nerve damage was extensive, but it was a good sign that meant recovery was possible. The ride was otherwise quiet, the young man did not budge. That is, until they arrived in front of Metric's E.R., the breaks squeaking in to a stop. In the closed quarters of the rear of the ambulance, Clay made the first sudden move which they were completely unprepared for. He lunged forward at one of the EMTs closest to him with his mouth and bit hard in to the flesh of their forearm that had risen to protect their face. A taste of warm velvety iron filled his mouth and spilled over his torso and the chaotic scene. He yanked back and around, hearing the melodious screams of pain and horror all around him - so many hands digging in to his arms to pull him away with no luck. Then, a sharp pin-prick sensation entering his outer thigh...everything slowing and fading to darkness. A hum.
Clay was covered in blood from the lower half of his face down - unconscious, bound and muzzled just in case and was rushed in to the hospital where they stitched up his hands as well as the unlucky EMT's arm. He was cleaned up, dressed in patient garb and locked away. Clay came to very slowly while in isolation, noticing the schedule. Someone slipping medicine under the door - someone with an escort coming in to test him for violent tendencies - some evaluations with clipboards and darting eyes, all of it blurred from the heavy doses they gave him - out of fear he'd just as soon lash out as get better. Clay soon came to his wits, though, and began to squirrel his medicine away - sometimes mixing it with remains of the food or drink they gave him. He'd played patient before, for his brother. This would be easier than having to bear the affliction of a punch-happy guardian, he knew it would be.
It felt like a few hours, with the help of his deep sleeps - but in a weeks time he was let out to mingle with the others. They wanted to see how he'd do socializing again and they weren't surprised to see how he isolated himself right away. Clay sat beside the window and far from the others, on the floor beside an empty chair - gazing out the window and then down to his bandaged hands. They instructed him to flex them, to keep them from atrophying. So he was doing as he'd been told, pulling his fingers and clenching in to a fist the best he could - then relaxing his palms up. He could feel the stitches stretch, pinches of pain shooting up his arm now and then - pains which he had long learned to embrace. He smiled intently in to his hands, knowing all they could do once he revived them. You don't deserve to have hands with all you've done fucking pipsqueak. The distinct voice of his brother penetrated from his subconscious. Clay shut his eyes and shook his head, opening them and just smiling wider - humming a melody to lull the voice away, continuing the exercise.
