That's the color of this dumbass jumpsuit they put him in. They; some unknown thinks they can just stick him here and he'll stay quiet? Fat chance of that, he thinks with disgust. Perhaps there's no profit in making trouble when he can't even remember his gorram name, but there sure as hell ain't no profit in sitting still neither.
But the red. There's something about that color that feels like a tickle in the back of his throat, like a sneeze that's just sitting there, meant to torment and aggravate. What is it? And why does he think he can recall that, when he's forgotten so much?
Yes, he can tell there are gaps, missing parts like holes in mouths where teeth should be. He was somewhere else, somewhere cold but with the sense of...belonging. And then...then the gaps. His name...faces, but no names for them either; a junk heap of metal and wires dares call itself a ship...but her name is gone too. There are flashes, memories that come and go like a fresh breeze in a stale land.
He stares down at the band around his wrist, M and a string of meaningless digits. And then he remembers.
A young girl's face, blank and bloodied, the deep red drops trailing down her chin. "He looks better in red"; she states it as a fact.
Well, she's got her wish. He's covered from head to toe in the damn color now. Would it make her happy? Would he care? Those are things he cannot yet recall though.
Wandering through the prison, he comes across another man in red, pacing back and forth before a giant clock. Walk, stop, turn, walk, stop, turn; he swings consistently like a human pendulum.
He can only watch for a few minutes before it drives him up a wall. "Can you give it a rest with the gorram pacing, you're gonna make me sick!"
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That's the color of this dumbass jumpsuit they put him in. They; some unknown thinks they can just stick him here and he'll stay quiet? Fat chance of that, he thinks with disgust. Perhaps there's no profit in making trouble when he can't even remember his gorram name, but there sure as hell ain't no profit in sitting still neither.
But the red. There's something about that color that feels like a tickle in the back of his throat, like a sneeze that's just sitting there, meant to torment and aggravate. What is it? And why does he think he can recall that, when he's forgotten so much?
Yes, he can tell there are gaps, missing parts like holes in mouths where teeth should be. He was somewhere else, somewhere cold but with the sense of...belonging. And then...then the gaps. His name...faces, but no names for them either; a junk heap of metal and wires dares call itself a ship...but her name is gone too. There are flashes, memories that come and go like a fresh breeze in a stale land.
He stares down at the band around his wrist, M and a string of meaningless digits. And then he remembers.
A young girl's face, blank and bloodied, the deep red drops trailing down her chin. "He looks better in red"; she states it as a fact.
Well, she's got her wish. He's covered from head to toe in the damn color now. Would it make her happy? Would he care? Those are things he cannot yet recall though.
Wandering through the prison, he comes across another man in red, pacing back and forth before a giant clock. Walk, stop, turn, walk, stop, turn; he swings consistently like a human pendulum.
He can only watch for a few minutes before it drives him up a wall. "Can you give it a rest with the gorram pacing, you're gonna make me sick!"