Mute

[4] Loki

 4. Loki

     If there is ever away to torture a person till they stand in the doorstep of insanity, it's the constant reminder of what could have happened differently. It's giving that person a pencil and an opportunity to erase the past when one is fully aware that it can never be done. It's the endless thought that a person could have had the slim chance of being the hero. It's the looming idea that they could have saved a life or been responsible for terminating one.

     The endless possibilities crowd my brain and bang against my skull as I stand at the foot of my bed at the mercy of my own mental torture. Dots dance along my vision while the trill of Thora's soprano and mangled cries from before twirl together in a distorted hymn. The pressure in my chest spreads up to my head as I collapse on my knees and press my forehead against the mattress. Loud, mangled sobs echo throughout Barrack 7 but there are no witnesses to my breakdown. It's a rare day among us Mutes, a free day where we get to roam the confinements of our prison without any questions. Most will wander aimlessly till they're called back to the Incubation Center. Some will try to run. There's always one that thinks they're smarter; one that thinks they're faster or braver or one that thinks that they can make it out of the MUTE complex and into the free streets of Syrus.

     Before our sessions in the Incubation Center resume, we'll hear of those brave and strong that did not make it.   

     My sheets are soaked with warm tears before I have the will to lift my head and observe the meter on my wrist. The light at the end of my arm blinks bright red, warning me of my hysteria as I sigh and take several deep breaths. 

     Calm down, I order myself, gripping my wrist in a death lock. My gaze fixes on the flashing light as it slips into a light shade of orange and then lapses back into its standard green. The pressure on my chest subsides and an invisible force drags the weight off of my body after what seems like an eternity. 

     "Praying are we?" says a voice followed by the sound of clicking boots. The far too familiar stench of tobacco taints the air as the figure draws closer and closer. From my peripheral vision, I can see Loki's boots pause beside me. Several seconds later, he too bends down on his knees and shakes his head. "Nope it's not working for me."

     I restrain my uprising frustration and swivel around to meet Loki face to face. He's closer than I thought, close enough that can smell the scent of cigarette radiate from him. "I thought you were gonna' play poker with the Officals from Barrack Two," I say, watching closely as Loki shrugs, rises and shoves his fists in his pockets. "Isn't that what you always do?"

     The corners of his lips arch into a fleeting smirk. "They punked out," he exclaims without a trace of disappointment. "So I figured I'd find you and see what you were up to. Just like I thought, you're mourning over how much your life sucks."

     His statement hits me hard in the gut and my mouth slacks open in disbelief. "I am not!"

     "Humor me then." Loki falls into the same spot as this morning and smothers the butt of his cigarette between my sheets. "News around town is your speech was smashing. The dress you wore was apparently riveting, made by this guy Charmelon or whatever. Parents are already signing their kids up from the time they're born to get into the MUTE lottery-"

     Loki dips forward so that his nose barely brushes against mine. "-so whatever can you be crying about, pipsqueak?"

    The lack of space between us drives my heart rate up to the roof. "It's nothing. Just some after ceremony nerves, I guess."

     He doesn't believe me. Instead of pressing on the issue, Loki retracts and slides his hands in one of his pockets with his face wiped clean of emotion. Gingerly, with the upmost sense of care and diligence, he draws a roll of some sort tied in a dainty red bow.