exterminators

lost butterfly

he felt many things.

he also had sight. and what he sees before him, as he sits, hurts his eyes. nothing but white. walls, floor, ceiling. even the bed he sat on. which didnt quite feel like a bed should. everything was so bright and white, yet he wondered, why does it look so dark...? why does it feel....

he couldnt complete the thought. he knows he's dead, but he noticed he felt lighter as though he'd dropped something. he tried to think what. as his mind wandered trying to think, he noticed he couldnt think of anything at all. he couldnt even think of a memory. his memories being left behind lifted a weight off him he never knew he had. whether this was a good thing or a bad, he cared not. without memory, how can you care? you dont know any one anymore so you cant miss anyone. you have no place to recall as home, so you become a nomad. any pain you have is gone, any happiness you've gained is made room for new happiness. in a word. a new life. or in dexter's case, just a new existance.

he made the effort to remove himself from the bed. but his legs made no effort to obey his will. his mind began thinking "I said get up...." nothing. he felt an involuntary panic rising. were it not for his lack of heart beat, he'd probably be having a panic attack. his lack of breath made it harder to find something to focus on, in order to calm down. so he focused on a smaller thought. "fingers..." his eyes slowly dropped to look down. his hands lay limp in his lap. "move your fingers..."

nothing.

"fingers...." his left pinky twitched. but nothing more. he closed his eyes after minutes of disappointment and wasted effort. but then the calm started to wear off. he chose to be angry. and after years of only peaceful harmonic intent, he finally found something he hates. being bound. physically and not. if he cant move, he hates it. the anger made him, without noticing at first, ball his hands into fists. they were weak but they were sure. still feeling bound to a paralysis, his fists clenched tighter and tighter. he was so focused on his own paralysis he didnt notice his forearms flexing, his knuckles whitening, and his fingernails digging into his palms.

he relaxes... now noticing the ease in his hands, he tried wiggling his fingers. they dont respond to his will.

his abrasions bore no pain or feeling of any kind. the blood that seeped from his palms, seemed to roll off the sheets, off his lap and back into his cuts. the discomfort alone shook him enough to flail his arms in surpise.

there had to be a key to enabling movement. but he saw no answer but to let anger take over.

focus was broken. the door to his left opened smoothly as the bed sheets and silent as if the door werent there at all. the lack of sound was making dexter more uncomfortable by the minute, as in walked a man in a suit amd sunglasses with a grey fedora hat. his skin was a disgusting, deathly grey, like a corpse on an autopsy table, post rigor mortis. the unsightly walking figure made Dexter's skin crawl in ways he never thought it could. the figure pulled up a chair facing the back toward Dexter, sitting in backward himself. he straightened his suit and leaned forward on the backrest. Dexter trying harder to will his limbs, only evident in twitchy, jerky spasms.
know who I am? the silence asked in dexter's head. I'm Death. Dexter ceased his spasms. looking at the man with a quirky expression. for now he took note, neither the man's lips nor jaw moved a single centimeter.
Right smart lad you are, no use tryin to move when I've got you bound to this room. the silent words speaking to his brain were freaking him out, placing more discomfort on him. he felt his mind was no longer his. it only made him try to move more.
right... well let us begin shall we?

at that suggestion, Dexter's quirky expression changed to a glare.
oooh, scary... I've delt with your kind before. stow it boy.
know this man? Death held a photo inches from Dexters' face. he managed to weakly shake his head no. good.... how bout this young lass? he turned the unfamiliar photo to the back side. on that side was a picture of a 14 year old girl. creamy pail skin, eyes and short hair blacker than the nights on Nycrota. her smile, white as the room Dexter sits in now. Dexter managed a small weak nod. as he did so, he felt a twinge in his chest. his stomach twisted itself, as he dread who Death was gonna show him next on that single piece of paper.
good... Death turns the paper around again to the front. I know you know who this is... Dexter lost it. Dexter's subtle anger set the place a blaze of destruction. he stood up, Wait, what? and kicked the chair at it's seat. the chair toppled over as Death stumbled to the wall. Dexter lifted the chair and threw it at him. he turned and flipped the foot of the bed into the wall near the head of the bed. he followed up by smashing his knee into anything he knew he could break. his fists pounding holes in the walls. finally stormed out of the room punching a hole in the door on the way out.

Dexter fell over upon stepping into the hall. he choked on a new air. breath filled his lungs, his palms bled again, and he legitimately felt his anger boil his blood like a witches' cauldron. worse, his surgical scar opened up. sadly sound did not return. and where he found himself was no better than where he was seconds ago.

Matthew sees things while he works. children kicked. women abused for fun. and the elderly worked till they keel over. strapping, adult men are forced to hold a rifle and made to dress in foot soldiers' duds. the dead are not mourned, only forced to be forgotten. But not Matthew. he keeps to himself, makes the soldiers laugh so they ease up on him a bit and give him more breaks. keep him fed and hydrated. and matthew laughs, not with the soldiers but at them, knowing that he is growing stronger by the day. at least till it's time to leave.

no rest for the weary.

but during his breaks, he would sneak into the infirmary to check on the young woman with red-streaked hair.

why of all the people in the camp, she happened to matter, he couldnt tell if it was cause she might be her way out, or if she was needed for something far more important.

in the short time that her eyes werent right, Gina used her ears the way Dexter had taught her to. being the tinker nut she is, she's always relied on her eyes for everything, and dexter had warned her "your legs can always break at anytime. you'll need crutch to support yourself on."

by the third night, it became a game, and it was fun for her. she imagined the conversations she'd hear between soldiers it was like in days of old when the fabled voice boxes with dials and antennae existed, only this was live. direction became easy to detect. the medic encouraged this, and even suggested while the injured were absent or asleep, she should practice using her hands to find her way around. but then the old man would visit. when he would walk in the medic would hold a finger to his scabbing lips. he would remain silent. move so quietly an Ant couldnt hear his steps. just watching her progress. when it was time for her to sleep, as recommended by the medic, matthew would stay a while and talk to the injured.

it wasnt till the fourth morning, just before she'd fallen asleep that something had dawned on her.

there havent been any SIN. no other people attacking the camp. so how are there injured soldiers in here every day?
............

the hallway was short. small, even. neighboring doors all hardly a foot from one another, and no more than a yard across from their opposite. ten doors down to either side, and there was a dead end.
even you cant escape Death, kid...