Sins of the Brother

Who: Seph
When: 2 1/2 years prior
Where: The Whalestoe Institute, somewhere in Nevada

It was cold, everything was cold, why did they keep it so goddamn cold in here? Seph had tried to strip the bed, but they had the sheets tied down under the mattress somehow. Probably so he wouldn't try to hang himself with them. The damn thing was so heavy, and with the straps and everything ... tugging only made his fingers hurt. He didn't want to be up on the bed, no, that was too exposed. Too out in the open, too out ...

He was huddled up underneath the bed, curled in on himself, back pressed against the painted cinderblock wall. Seafoam green, a wretched color. It was supposed to be soothing. The clothes they made him wear were too thin, it was too cold. Too fucking cold. He would always be cold, be cold until he died. Here, in this place, in this room. Like so many others.

The memories that weren't his danced through his mind. The people had been here, the dark-haired thin girl who'd killed herself by smashing her temple against the edge of the bed as hard and as often as she could. She was there, huddled in the corner, singing softly to herself as she dug into her spirit-arms with her spirit-fingernails. The blood never hit the floor. She didn't know he was there. The waves of hate from some of the techs as they pulled hair and pinched and shoved patients who wouldn't do as they were told. The build of their karmic backlashes, beating on his consciousness, reminding him of where he was. The screaming from other rooms, the walls being beaten in, the noises and voices no one else could hear. There was no rest here, no 'rehabilitation'. The idea was laughable. The feelings, the vibes, the ether in this place was everywhere, all around him, all through him, a part of him. It sustained and kept him alive, but it was horrible at the same time. Horrible. There was ... too much, too concentrated. A blight in the desert, an open sore of bad karma and death, and they'd dropped him right in the middle of it.

"London bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down ..." the girl sang as she tore out every capillary and sliced through every muscle.

They'd put him here, and he wasn't well. He knew that, even without the doctors trying to get him to speak and making their analyses and giving him shots when he fought too hard. He wasn't well, but he was worse without her. It had always been that way, always, always, always, always. Always worse without his rock, his balance, his sister, his Syn. Two parts of the same whole, he the wretched, she the beautiful, and she was his balance and his rock and his sister and his love and his sin and his Syn. And she wasn't there.

" ... pockets full of ashes, ring around the posies ... London bridge all falls down ..." She was mixing her songs again. Seph pressed his hands over his ears and squeezed his eyes shut.

He'd killed the boy, the dude, the asshole, the Bobby. Killed him, stronger than he ever knew he was. His spine had liquified, they'd said. How had he done that? He'd do it to himself if he could, if he could only remember ... what had happened. He didn't know, just the flat red rage and the feeling like his soul was a thousand miles away from his body and the power. He feared it, was afraid that one day he'd lose control again. If he ever left here, that was. He wouldn't. Never see her again, lost, lost, so lost and out of balance.

He fumbled a stub of a crayon out of the waistband of his underwear. He'd stashed it, he couldn't remember how long ago. Couldn't remember. It didn't matter. Seph started to write on the dirty linoleum next to his head, furiously, as though the fate of the world depended on it, before the darkness swallowed him whole again.

siyn sin syn my sweetest synsin god loves all the children and the synners of the world little synsinner mine all syns are forgiven forgive me my sins my syn keeping my syns to my sin ................ ..... . . ... blue ......... . .. . . ........gone