Chapter Text
A single square was one-foot-long on each side. There were different colored horizontal lines running through it, sixty of them in total. Fifteen red lines, fifteen orange lines, fifteen green lines, and fifteen brown lines. Fifteen feet of red lines, fifteen feet of orange lines, fifteen feet of green lines, and fifteen feet of brown lines. There were one hundred squares covering the floor. One thousand and five hundred red lines, one thousand and five hundred orange lines, one thousand and five hundred green lines, and one thousand and five hundred brown lines. One thousand and five hundred feet of red lines, one thousand and five hundred feet of orange lines, one thousand and five hundred feet of green lines, and one thousand and five hundred feet of brown lines. One hundred square feet.
A single square was six inches long on each side. There was only white filling in the square, a single blot of alabaster or ivory or off white cream or shattered egg shells under porcelain feet. There were a thousand squares covering one wall. Thirty-six thousand square inches of bastard white covering the walls, clashing with the fresh blood and slow sunrises and fresh foliage and pungent dirt of the floor. One hundred square feet.
There were four walls, a thousand horribly bland squares on each wall, four thousand cancerous chalk stamps surrounding him, leaking into the setting sun and powdered pomegranates and dirty money and decaying slush of the floor. Blended dairy squares that mush into a lactic mirror of limp darkness and beaten down light. One hundred square feet. One hundred square feet. One hundred square feet. One hundred square feet. Four hundred square feet.
There were twenty-five squares on the ceiling, two feet long on each side. One hundred square feet teetering on the edge of solid clouds, reaching and longing for ripe roses and sour citrus and turtle soup and rusted pipes. They had no color, or perhaps they were blackened with too many colors to see clearly through the muck of virtue. One hundred square feet.
A hundred squares. A thousand and one hundred squares. Four thousand and one hundred squares. Four thousand and one hundred and twenty-five squares. A hated, welcomed cage made of four thousand and one hundred and twenty-five squares, four colors or five or six or innumerable hues of geometric, shapeless forms.
Four exits. One door, shapeless, colorless, locked and open and inaccessible. One window, closed blinds, bright fingers creeping in, barred, glass-less and lined with jagged ice, inaccessible. One smile, swallowed pills, dishonesty, and fake alibis, accessible and inaccessible, play it out. One last sigh, pills in a pillowcase, honesty and genuine smiles that look like frowns, stained sheets and dripping onto putrid kaleidoscope carpet, thick and congealed and opened tunnels encased in prickled skin. Accessible.
Exit number one opened, smoothly and swaying, and a high pitched voice called out, “Mr. Di Angelo?”
Dark eyes twitched to follow the frosted, suffocating air that was swept into the room with the new push, dark energy forcefully oxygenated, coiling in repulsion and reeling back to observe the intrusion. Expanding and contracting voids trailed glinting dust particles, twirling and colliding against clotted stillness, and blinked as they opened their maws and bared their teeth to the darkness, dripping florid acid onto emulsified bone – small yawns answering the loud roar of screaming dust and clashing, fist to fist, in a battle of explosive sparks and blinding shadow.
The air was clean and only smelled stale if inhaled through prejudiced lungs, absent of dust and color and movement. The phantom flashes present in the free air violently slaughtering the tepid darkness slumbering peacefully behind the dark eyes, eyes now staring owlishly at the curved pink half circle stretching in his direction, were nothing but brief inquiries of eruptions that must be tingling the nerves of some poor creature in the otherworld or frizzing out of a generational passion or the cobwebs collecting in the cracks of the walls on this concrete cage. It is easy to imagine the muchness found in the available nothing when time is irrelevant to the equation.
A shadow fell over those eyes as an outstretched hand waved daintily in front of them. Tangled curls fell across a pale forehead as the hunched figure previously huddled under a white blanket pushed up with shaking arms to a sitting position. The hand flinched back and dark eyes followed its movement, watching the reflection play out in the pink frosted tips extended from the long appendages that were pressed into thin lips of the same color. The woman chuckled unsympathetically, a forced smile on her face.
“Mr. Di Angelo? I’m sorry, sugar, I didn’t know you were awake.” The woman smoothed down her hair and moved further into the room with a sigh, looking out between the bars to the light. “That’s good, though, because you’re seeing Dr. Thorn today.”
The boy stared after her dazedly, eyes vacant of recognition but tracking every small movement the woman made. He watched her as she pulled a round mirror out of her breast pocket and puckered her lips at her reflection. She wiped the corner of her mouth with a finger and caught the boy’s eyes in the mirror before she shoved it back down in her shirt and turned to face him.
“Well, I think you are looking so much better today, honey.” She pulled a bottle out of the deep pockets at her side and emptied two pills onto her palm, extending it to the boy that was looking down at the blanket pooling around his waist. She waited for him to look up at her and take them, but after a minute she huffed and grasped his wrist firmly, shoving them in his hand before leaving the room.
She came back in seconds later with a glass of lukewarm water threatening to slosh over her fingers. Sharp nails dug into the thin skin of the boy’s wrist as she took hold of it again and raised it to his mouth, forcing the pills through. His eyes were still trained down and he made no move to help or hinder her actions. The woman pinched his chin between her fingers and pushed the cup between his lips, the glass clinking loudly against his teeth, and tilted his head back, the glass moving with the motion and sending water cascading down the boy’s chin and throat.
He sputtered and coughed as the water forced its way into his airways before he swallowed on instinct to stop the burn, the pills flowing down with it. The woman pulled the glass back when she was satisfied with the amount of water spilled down his front. She patted his cheek soothingly as he continued to cough, still looking down at his lap.
“You know, we wouldn’t have to do this every day if you would just cooperate with me, sugar. I thought you would have learned your lesson since the last time you stayed with us. Now look at you, sopping wet. I’ll be in to change you after a while. You can’t expect Dr. Thorn to want to help you looking like you wet yourself, do you?”
The door closed after her and the room was once again filled with silence, broken only occasionally with the boy’s harsh pants until they calmed down into a steady rhythm again. He knew she would be back soon to pull his hair out in harsh tugs because she didn’t care to learn how to brush his hair correctly, that she would be back to clothe him in clean material that smells of the vanilla laundry detergent they use with the ever present scent of bleach still clinging to it.
He knew he would be strapped into a wheelchair soon because he refused to walk, being pushed to see a man with a menacing face and no compassion as he prescribed him more medicine and treatments that he didn’t need. He knew the male nurse that seemed to take a liking to him would come around noon to give him his lunch that he wouldn’t eat, and that the woman from earlier would be back again to force him to until his stomach would churn and he couldn’t help but get sick, yelling at him for giving her extra work to do.
Everything had a routine, a set pattern that followed day to day that only deviated occasionally, each time categorized in his mind to see if something like it would happen again. Perhaps the nurse with the red hair tied into the bun would forget to change his sheets, or maybe Dr. Thorn would have the TV on when he’s first wheeled into the room, or the lights could burn out again and the bald man with the large mustache would come in to change them, flirting with the woman at the reception desk on his way out.
That was all predictable, easy, comforting in its design. The real chaos was evident in the quiet moments when he was left alone and the tendrils of the darkness that lurked within him would begin to wrap itself around the corners in his mind, discoloring his vision. He could feel himself slipping further and further away, struggling to remember why this was happening to him and why he needed to leave.
Time had little meaning to him anymore, only relevant for when someone was due to make him choke down more pills or look at him with condescending eyes and touch him with unforgiving hands. There was little else to do other than watch everyone, take note of their comings and goings, calculating when he would see them and for what purpose. Soon he had everything put away into his memory: who was who, what they did and when they did it, and who he should be wary of.
Sometimes he would find himself slipping when those dark tendrils would tighten, forgetting that the boy who looked too young to work there was supposed to come by to check him over for injuries or a drastic fall in his health. Startled, he let his composure slip, grimacing in horror for forgetting something so important. He couldn’t afford weakness like that, it was unacceptable, but he still couldn’t stop it from completely happening.
The door opened again, the woman locking it into a wide open position and rolling a wheelchair through it. She regarded him with twisted lips. Her nails pinched the white fabric around her hips. They stared each other down, dark eyes blank and calculating as the woman’s brows slowly furrowed closer together. He wouldn’t move, not willingly and not for her, they both knew this, and this time was no different than the countless other times that she thought she could make Nico obey her.
She gave up quicker than she usually did, sniffing at him and hauling him up forcibly from under his armpits. A shooting pain ran up Nico’s ankle from where it collided with the side of the chair but he just bit his tongue to stay quiet. He learned his lesson a long time ago about making noise around the people here.
Placed in the chair like a rag doll, he had never felt so helpless. He hadn’t exactly weighed a healthy amount before being stuck in this hell hole, but he knew he was losing weight. He could see it in the way his wrists became smaller and weaker, how the places above his collarbones hollowed out, and how his hip bones became more prominent with each passing day. Counting his ribs was easy and he could run his fingers under his knees and feel the fragile ligaments barely holding his body together. He was losing himself.
Nico wrapped his fingers around the armrests of the chair tightly as she lead him out of the room, not bothering to close the door behind them. The edges of his lips turned down. They were very persistent about the patients being presentable when they left the privacy of their rooms, no matter if they were seeing their counselor or if they were simply being escorted to the restroom. He was never allowed to be taken anywhere without first having his hair brushed and his clothes changed. This was the first time it hadn’t happened.
She lead him down the now very familiar corridor, passing closed door after closed door, right into the next hallway, all the way to the back through a conference style room, and then the second door to the left. It was cracked open. He felt warmth on his shoulder as she leaned around him to rap her knuckles on the frame. He held his breath as her perfume wafted toward his nostrils, gagging him with a sickly sweet grip. Hair tickled the back of his neck as she pushed further against him. He tilted his head forward to try to escape her touch but she just followed after him, her cleavage pressing obnoxiously on his nape. Bile rose in his throat as he tried to swallow around his heartbeat.
She pushed the door the rest of the way open with his legs, wheeling him into the dim room. Dr. Thorn was sitting behind his desk as he always was at the beginning of their sessions, a hulking, looming figure perched on the edge of a comfortable looking chair with a tightness around his eyes that was never absent. He smiled when he noticed their appearance, his teeth sharp and resting crooked in his mouth.
He wasn’t the only one who noticed their entrance. The man sitting across from Dr. Thorn turned to face them as well. Nico could feel the walls of his throat threatening to close up as he made eye contact with dark eyes so much colder than his own, wrinkles stretching from their corners and gouging the space underneath where they sat back below thick eyebrows. The man swept his eyes over him once before turning back to speak to Dr. Thorn.
“He’s looking pathetic, as always.”
Dr. Thorn curled his lips and gestured for the woman to bring him closer. She rolled him to sit in front of the desk as he answered the other man, “Yes, well, he has been a rather difficult patient, just like he always was. He refuses to eat, refuses to clean himself, refuses to sleep unless exhaustion gets the better of him. I don’t believe I’ve heard him utter a single word since he was taken into our care again a month ago, and the only time he attempts to communicate at all is when he needs to use the restroom and he doesn’t wish to soil himself.”
Nico’s nostrils flared as the man snorted. He wanted to close his eyes but he couldn’t show weakness, not in front of him. He had to be strong. He had to show him that he couldn’t control him forever. He had to endure because he had to get out of here. He had to get out of here.
A month had passed, apparently. It had felt so much longer. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been outside, or used his voice other than to scream himself out of sleep when he couldn’t force his eyes to stay open any longer. The nightmares were easier to handle than being awake, but they hurt in other ways. At least when his eyes were closed he could see tousled hair and bright eyes and an even brighter smile smirking at him invitingly, but he couldn’t stand waking only to realize he wasn’t there. He didn’t avoid sleep because of the nightmares, no, they were his only solace. He avoided sleep because waking up to the reality he was living in was infinitely worse than anything his imagination could hurl at him behind closed eyes.
“I didn’t expect any less from him. His stubbornness is just one of many bad qualities he inherited from his mother’s side of the family. I assume you are still confident in your ability to break him of these undesirable qualities?”
Nico grit his teeth as his father spoke, wanting to spit venom at him and disappear right through the floor at the same time, angry and scared and powerless. He knew why he was here, and yet he didn’t. He didn’t know how long he was going to be kept here or how much longer he could handle the constant presence of watchful eyes and pill filled hands and sharp teeth grimacing in a facsimile of a smile. He had never felt so alone as he did surrounded by these strangers.
“Of course, it shouldn’t be a problem. He’s troublesome, but manageable. We’ve already seen some improvement, haven’t we, Tammi?”
Pink tipped nails dug painfully into his collarbone as Tammi shook his shoulder. “Yes, sir, we have. When he was first put under my care, he would thrash and scratch his claws every time we even came near him with a needle or with his medicine. He forced our hand and we had to strap him down. It was for his own safety. Now, though, he doesn’t fight me at all. It’s a step in the right direction.”
“Exactly.” Dr. Thorn flashed his teeth at Nico. He tried not to puke. “By the time we’re done, he’ll be normal. You know my work, Hades, I don’t disappoint.”
“Yes, of course, but it obviously didn’t stick with him the last time.”
“Then we’ll just have to make sure this time is different.”
Nico bit down on the side of his cheek and winced as his teeth cut right through the pink flesh and clanged together loudly. Everyone’s eyes turned his way upon hearing his whimper at the impact. He could feel his mouth flooding with coppery tang, warmth spreading to fill the spaces between his teeth and pushing at the seam of his lips. His breath was coming in too fast, wheezing through his nose and labored as he tried to keep his lips mashed together.
Tammi cooed at him and pinched his chin between her thumb and forefinger. “Now, honey, what did I say about hurting yourself?” She grasped his jaw and pulled down forcefully, thick blood oozing down his chin and dripping down to his shirt, staining his teeth. Dr. Thorn simply stared at him, his father sneering at him in disgust. Tammi frowned down at him and wiped the blood now painting her fingers against the sleeve of his shirt.
His eyes were burning, begging for him to blink just once to rid himself of the prickling feeling creeping behind his lids, but he couldn’t for the fear that blood wouldn’t be the only thing slipping down his face. Clenching his throat he gulped down wave after wave of the sticky blood. It didn’t matter how many times he swiped his tongue over the gash on his cheek, the blood still spilled between his lips and collected in the hollow of his throat, pooling above his collarbones, seeping through the fabric of his shirt.
“Does he do this often?”
Dr. Thorn shook his head quickly at his father’s question. “No, of course not. Nico here hasn’t tried anything of the sort in a long time. We are very good at warding off bad behavior such as this. This is surely an accident, although an unfortunately timed one. Tammi, be a dear and clean him up a little. We have more to discuss before you can take him to get changed.”
Tammi reached across Dr. Thorn’s desk to bring a box of tissues closer. She wiped roughly over his chin and across his bottom lip until it was dry, pieces of tissue paper sticking to the ridges of his chapped lips. He could feel less blood filling his mouth now, what was left was easily swallowed. He tried to ignore how the drying blood was tickling the skin on his chin. He wanted to lick at the corners of his mouth but he couldn’t move.
“Well, let’s move on, shall we? Nico, your father and I were just discussing how you’ve been adjusting here again. Would you care to add anything? Is there anything we can do differently, perhaps a certain food you would like, something of that nature?”
Silence rung through the room.
Nico watched his father reach up to rub his chin out of the corner of his eye. “You can't expect him to have any opinions of his own. The only things rattling around in his head were put there by his meddling sister or that brat in New York.”
Dr. Thorn chuckled with him. “Speaking of the young man, has he been giving you much trouble?”
The air in his lungs felt tight in his chest. He tried to stay calm, he tried so hard, but still he could feel his eyes twitching and his nostrils flair. Slowly, as to not to draw any attention, he inclined his head slightly in his father’s direction.
Hades scoffed. “As annoyingly persistent as he is, the boy can’t possibly pose a threat to me. He isn't even a challenge.”
Dr. Thorn hummed and adjusted the pens on his desk. “So I assume that means that he is still unaware of Nico’s location?”
“He hasn't a clue, I can guarantee that. And by the time he does, my . . . son won’t even give him a second glance.”
“You're wrong.”
All eyes turned his way in various levels of shock. Tammi looked confused and Dr. Thorn was squinting at him curiously, as if contemplating what made him decide to finally break his silence, but his father looked at him like he had just received the best news.
“Oh, Niccolò. If only you knew how right I was.”
They stared at each other with unblinking eyes, Nico’s lips retreating into a snarl. He felt his anger grow back, curling heatedly in the core of his gut, the emptiness that had settled in his chest shoved aside by icy determination.
A throat cleared. Nico dropped his eyes and forced his face back into a set of indifference. “Tammi, how about you take Nico to get changed now while I finish here with Mr. Plutos?”
Nico stared down at his lap as Tammi grabbed his chair up to pull him backwards out of the door. He could feel his father’s eyes on him. Just before they were out of the door frame, Dr. Thorn called out to him.
“Oh, and, Nico? You’ll be coming back here after you change, but I’ll be finished with your father by then. I invited him down to go over your progress and paperwork, but he wanted to see you briefly. You can say goodbye now if you’d like.”
He choked down more blood, his throat convulsing around the sharp taste. His father didn’t say anything and he wasn’t planning on doing so either. After a while when he realized that neither of them were going to speak, Dr. Thorn cleared his throat. “Go ahead, Tammi.”
He met his father’s eyes before he was rolled away and down the hall. They were cold, like always, hard and unblinking, but filled with a smugness that made his stomach tighten like a spring.
He wasn’t getting out of here.