DAY 64: ARTS AND CRAFTS (THIRD SHIFT)

[envy_the_sinners]

Scar had spent the morning napping in the Sun Room. Brunch had been skipped, as the nausea was still persisting. He would have been happy to lounge around all day and catch up on sleep, but his nurse had continuously been suggesting that he would be happier if he did something with himself. Fine.

So, Scar had meandered into the Arts and Crafts room. Sitting at one of the tables, he absentmindedly fiddled with the supplies at the center. The scissors were disappointingly dull. He had been hoping for something useful, but apparently they really did think of everything.

He may as well take his time to sort his thoughts. But he wasn't really sure where to begin. He looked down at his injured hand. The bandage didn't cover the rash entirely, but at least he had received medical attention.

He still wasn't at ease with this whole "illness" thing.

[For Murphy!]

Comments

[envy_the_sinners]

Scar nodded. "The way he speaks, I'm sure he's well aware of what is actually going on." He looked up at the other man again.

"Are you new?" Scar didn't mind conversing with this man. He didn't seem to be stupid, and he wasn't so excitable that he got on Scar's nerves. Two traits that were definitely positives to the Ishbalan. Plus, he wasn't gawking at his scar. Another good thing.

[stop_the_rain]

"What's going on, yeah, but...he still might think some of us are nuts." Murphy found himself looking up, as though the discussed doctor were some force or entity watching them from on high. That feeling was the same as prison, too. Just knowing the COs were up there in their towers, keeping an eye on the sub-society below them.

"And yeah, I guess I'm new. Woke up here last night, but waking up in fucked up hellholes without knowing how is pretty much my life right now."

And as far as he could tell, this place wasn't in Silent Hill. Why he'd been sent here...or taken here...

Fuck if he could figure it out. Maybe he just wasn't done being punished. He could believe that. The things he'd done...the things he was responsible for... one quick trip through hell didn't make up for all of that.

[envy_the_sinners]

Scar put down the supplies, giving up on finding anything useful. The nurses were too careful to not give them something that could actually be a weapon of any kind. He leaned back in his chair.

"There are some here whose sanity I have called into question."

Pretty much his... life? Scar wouldn't ask. He didn't really want to know.

"That is a fairly accurate summation of this place, though," he grumbled. It was. This was hell.

[stop_the_rain]

"Always are." Murphy shrugged and picked up a box of crayons, turning it over in his hands. He remembered 'art therapy' when he was going to counseling. What a joke that had been. Not the therapy itself, but Murphy attending. he hadn't wanted to, hadn't really cared. He'd been going through the motions in the office and going through bottle after bottle of scotch at home. And every day, Carol hated him a little more....

"So, uh, I don't mean to pry, but...you done some time? I'm fresh out of the can myself, that's the reason I'm asking. Stupid shit got me in there."

He didn't mind fessing up to being an ex-con - literally, he had figured - but he knew the conclusions people could jump to. Even other prisoners. He didn't want to give the impression, that he was violently dangerous or some kind of drug fiend. On the other hand, 'stupid stuff' was vague enough that if this guy was a violent con...Murphy could swing it so there wasn't any problem.

[envy_the_sinners]

A convict? That probably explained the weathered look the other man had.

"I was wanted," he responded, watching the table with a frown. Scar would give him more details if he asked for them, but he wasn't about to offer them up freely.

Scar didn't want to think about what would have happened if they had caught him alive. They would have had to chain him up to keep him from using his arm... Drop him in solitary... Treat him like trash because he was an Ishbalan...

[stop_the_rain]

"Sucks, huh?" Murphy tapped out a crayon, not looking at the color. "I was wanted for all of eight hours." And then he'd pulled over in South Ashfield and let the cops arrest him. Funny how he was still brought up on resisting arrest charges. Hadn't 'evading capture' been enough?

Not that it mattered.

"I just got out of jail two days ago. But now I guess I'm back in there." As he spoke, he pulled a piece of paper in front of him and began doodling, not paying much attention to what. "Only I can't figure out if this place is better or worse than where I was. Probably worse. At least there weren't any kids stuck in the can."

And the one in Silent Hill hadn't been real. Thank God.

[envy_the_sinners]

"It was what I deserved," Scar replied quietly, watching the other man doodle. Actually, he had deserved worse than to die at the hands of a firing squad.

And he supposed he had. But apparently that hadn't been slow and painful enough of a death for Ishbala. So here he was, alive all over again.

"I don't even know how long I was on the run." He had been on and off the streets, in and out of camps... His sense of time had been lost. All he knew was that he had aged a lot more in that time span than a normal man would have. He felt old and tired almost all the time.

[stop_the_rain]

Murphy could only shrug at that, a round clock face emerging on the paper in front of him. His drawing skills were nothing to write home about.

"I don't know your story, pal." And who was he to say what someone else deserved? He'd thought he had that right, once. Look where that had gotten him. Hell and deeper into hell, and no way out no matter where he turned. Was this about justice and karma? Or was it some sick joke?

"You got any family?"

[envy_the_sinners]

Scar was silent for a moment. No, he didn't know his story. A scant few people did, really. And he was unlucky enough that one of those people was here. Then the question.

"They're all dead."

There wasn't any point in avoiding the question. Everyone he loved was gone; taken.

[stop_the_rain]

"I'm sorry."

Murphy knew better than to offer anything that would come off as pity. He knew that kind of pain, you didn't want to hear anybody's pithy advice or commiseration on the subject. But these were just the kinds of things you asked each other in this kind of situation.

He finished his crude sketch of a clock tower and the crayon kept going, making a diamond in the corner of the paper.

"Been here long?"

He didn't dwell on the subject of family. He knew that tone, too. Plenty of guys had it, himself included. It was a big neon sign that said 'I don't want to talk about it'. You learned to respect that pretty damn quickly.

[envy_the_sinners]

And he knew not to dwell on the subject, either. Finally, someone who seemed to understand Scar's 'don't talk about anything personal' vibe. This man was probably in a similar boat.

"This is my..." It took him a second. Could it really be only his fourth time waking up in this hell hole? He frowned. It had felt like so much longer... So much had happened.

"This is my fourth day. So no, not even a week."

[stop_the_rain]

Only four days? That wasn't that long at all. Murphy would have guessed ' a few months' at the lowest and a 'few years' at the highest.

"It gets easier," he offered, a squiggly line now extending from the base of the triangle. "Being locked up, I mean. You start to get used to it. Get used to the schedule. That's the biggest thing, I think. You get so damn used to doing this thing at this time and then it's all you know."

He wondered if there were any work details or groups or anything like that here. He'd found that keeping his mind and hands busy in the clink were a life-saver. Workshop had at least made the time go faster, and even let him forget a little bit.

"And hey, it's three meals a day and a bed."

[envy_the_sinners]

Scar's eyes narrowed. He didn't want to get used to it. He wanted to be rid of this place, however that may be possible.

"Maybe so. But most prisons don't have beasts running around the halls." He could deal with the schedule. With the condescending nurses. What he was sick of doing was running for his life. But if he ever wanted to get out, running for his life every night was the price he had to pay.

"That's true," he conceded. It was much easier when he at least knew he could sleep and eat without being attacked.