Interlude of Pacing

[x-wildchild.livejournal.com]

Kyle's state of mind.




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White walls, more of a greyish color, if Kyle was really feeling bored, and he was always bored lately. he wouldn't call them padded though. It sure as hell hurt the one time he slammed himself into them. They had some kind of soft rubbery coating, enough that he couldn't actually hurt himself, but not enough that he couldn't bruise up his hips.

But then, even that should've hurt -more- he thought. Maybe. He wasn't much sure of anything. Except that those walls were not white. Because it was all he -saw-.

White walls, the cot he sometimes slept on, when he could sleep, and the molded white rubbery chemical toilet and sink.

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Kyle had no idea what a chemical toilet -was-, but if this was anything, it had chemicals. It smelled nasty. It wasn't so much the stink of his own waste that bothered him, but the biting smell of whatever was in that toilet so that his urine and crap didn't make him sick. Or he presumed that it was there to not make him sick.

It sure as hell wasn't there so he didn't smell, because Kyle figured he smelled pretty ripe. Again.

Sometimes he'd wake up and wouldn't smell anymore. And that really should have bothered him more than it did, because it had really, really bugged him before.

He guessed, maybe he was getting used to the smell. He sure as hell wasn't getting used to the food.

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Bland, tasteless and he was so damn hungry all the time that he ate it anyway. Usually about halfway through before he realized that maybe -this- was a bad idea and the reason he kept waking up sore and with a headache and those horrible nightmares about the faces and needles and long echoing tunnels was the food.

Except that he was so. Damn. hungry. All the time. So every time he looked at the food his stomach growled. And then usually Kyle growled, and he was getting -so- sick of that.

Chewing on his fingernails wasn't helping either, and he'd have chewed on his toenails if he could, but he'd tried that once, and they were too sharp, and the taste of his own blood wasn't any more appitizing, and it made him growl even more.


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What was worse was the sound of his heart. Because it was the only thing he was hearing most of the time when he wasn't moving. Steady, even, and dammit, it should have raised, or lowered or, God he wished he hadn't slept through health and biology and all those other science classes that would've told him why his heart rate wasn't getting any higher even though he knew he should be scared out of his mind.

He had figured out very fast that clawing up the walls didn't do any good except make his fingers ache, and he did it a little still, just to give himself something to -do-. It didn't do anything to the walls, or his claws, but it was better than counting his arm hairs and seeing if he had any new ones.

He had talked to himself for a while, recited as much as he could remmeber, talked to the probably non-existant people in the hall outside. But that got boring, and it required effort and he just couldn't be bothered most of the time to think of anything to talk -about-.


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The floor wasn't cold or warm under his bare feet. It was just a floor, not too different from the walls, except that he could walk on it. The cot was hard, which he'd expected when he woke up in the cell. The cots were always hard on television shows and in movies.

Kyle figured he'd watched too many movies. By now, someone should've come in and rescued him in some dramatic fashion. Or else he should have had that one chance to get a guard and knock him out. Except that he hadn't seen anyone really since leaving the juvinile hall facility and that was probably the worst part.

At least, no one real. Those shadows and the blank faces in his nightmares, and Kyle just wanted to stop pacing, stop walking the four steps to the wall, and then six to the door and just go home.