Silent Film

Chapter Three : Extras

Warnigs, AU Slash, yaoi, adult themes.

thank you my reviewer.


790800909090

So was he truly emptied? That thought raced through his head and struck him deep. His head cracked open, his insides utterly hopelessly, haplessly exposed. The thoughts racing through his brain; aching, draining astounded his will and he rose to the surface.

Could you remember Ichigo, what happened today? Dark, licking, devious; that lingering voice attacked.

Could you, could you glaze upon that page and retrace the actions that led you here? Can you still scream? Try it, burn your throat raw until you feel the pressure booming in your head, and then whiteness begins to sink back inside you. You know the feeling, that harsh cold sensation of drowning. It rises from the depths, the seats swirling away, the screen fading into submission until the blatant horror of the drowning surfaces. That it cascades over your throat, pinning you to the broken seats, and ripping your eyes open. Force it, beg it, plead with it to destroy before you realize-- trapped, swallowed, adsorbed into the whole-- Its the blindness, that click-clack of heels, and the beating pulse attacking you. Scream, scream, scream Ichigo!

Realize that its all fake. God kill him.

Oh how hard it was to ignore that preposterous voice inside him. That devastating hum of his conscious that sought to haunt and torture him. He was clean, he was perfect, he was in the theater. Therefore he should be punished, beaten for hiding from those moths. For escaping the screaming and the brushing of the wings. Locust, moths, demons that flied through the air to attack his body and feast on his sanity. Protect him from what he wanted. Spare him from suffering from that devouring of the soul. Those moths, those souls, that clicking of the heels! they crushed him until he was left shaking! Shacking in the theater and screaming away the old him!

Realize that its all fake.

Where you sane Ichigo? Where you sound? Or where you imprisoned in the white room? Is that truly a movie screen, or is that the clicking of the heels, the dripping of that iv?

Protect him! Protect him from him!

He shuttered, his eyes burning. The clicking noise resonating, returning, recurring, the white room was a behemoth of dirty images. Ignore the whites and linger in the sanity of the present. Remember what you are now Ichigo, I-chi-go!

He was emptied, he was calm, and he was safe from becoming a was. As long as he was in this room, safe from the outside, he was an is. He was Ichigo Kurosaki and Jackal was dancing for him. The man was spinning, casting the room into a daze of envy. One creature retreating as the other was pursuing in a fantastical whirl of limbs and silk.

He new it was all just symbolic, the dancing, the flutter of Dawn's eyes.

Sometimes he feared her.

Her lashes beating against her cheeks like the flapping of wings.

Sometimes he wanted to scream to Jackal, to forsake her one more time and flee her trap!

She was a ruse and a clever one at that. Run Jackal, run like him until the screaming stops.

He didn't though, Jackal would not be fooled or devoured hopelessly, and he would never cherish Dawn.

"Protect me from what I want. "

Jackal. Jackal whispered the sweet words.

They had just met.

This was Dawn's flashback, the mountains faded away and the barren snow transformed into colors of passion.

A garden party, a dance, a chance meeting between the socialite Dawn and the play boy Jackal.

" My father says that you are gambler."

"You would have thought that people had enough of silly rumors."

"You presume to much foresight."

"Clearly, I look around and I see that my foresight is accurate. They are all whispering their little heads off."

"I find it a method for invoking the truth."

"Sounds more like a method of cruel torture. Next you're going to tell me that beating people with clubs is commendable as long as it serves your purposes."

"As long as it does yield results Mister, Mister--"

"Jackal."

"Jackal? What came of name is that?"

"My last."

"Really? Well Mister Jackal, do you have a first name or are you too obscure to recall it?

"Nope. And you have quite a sharp tongue, I feel as if I have been mortally wounded and damaged beyond repair."

"Are you a gambler or a chauvinist? Perhaps a hopeless playboy? Or even a high class vagabond."

"If I was any of those you'd be in bushes by now."

Why did Dawn blush? She insinuated the conversation, deployed a ruse of insults and bitter remarks to inspire a reaction out of the staltic stranger. She would slap Jackal and storm off, her dress trail along the ground, her heels clicking as Jackal watched.

"Here's to goodbye." Jackal twisted this glass into the air, champagne swimming in bubbles.

What if you could ditch the logical Ichigo!

Stop it, stop it, stop it!

Or else?

Or else tomorrow is going to come too soon!

Or else?

Or else the sandal hat's eyes would be burning through him, inside him, scorching his soul and rotting away his eyes with that look of knowing.

He would know that you were not calmed by the movie. He would know that you were still screaming. He would know that solace and serenity had not attached itself to serendipity and fastened itself upon your mind. He would glare at you, his eyes unwavering, removed from their glazing at cars and their viewing of passing souls. He would deviate from his sullen dispassion and kill you ever so slowly!

Will you scream then?

No!

Why?

Because I'm clean! Because I'm here!

Why?

Because I don't want to be a moth!

The voice faded into the hum of the screen. Dawn continued her memories and Ichigo lost himself in the black and white.

Safety, security, blatant horror, and familiarity blared his sense of perception. He was bound, tied to the seat as something began to emerge from within him and slink along his skin. He wallowed in the somber tune of the film and the eerie calm that collected itself around him. He felt the prickling of his hairs, that cold splash of water as he sat staring at the screen, releasing a gasp of surprise as his breath contorted into sharp, violent blasts. He was suffocating, his hand twitching, twitching, twitching like those beating wings.

He was drowned, the noise mounting, the humming returning; building, cascading into a mountain of unpleasantness, discomfort soaking through his body, freezing his core until the crash came. It came swiftly, a tidal wave that left him seeing white and screaming into the theater. He was screaming, his voice flowing with the screen until that squishy, soft spot inside his mind broke and the fluid flowed out.

His hands gasped at himself, as he poured out of his shell and over his clasped hands. He was sliding away, slipping through the cracks in his fingers. Over his curved knuckles, down his arms in a red, sticky staining mess, to cascade down his shirt front and away from his body. He was melting, his body shaking, dissolving into the seat.

His face was stricken, pulled tight against his skin as a bright light burst inside his eye sockets and he saw that illuminating hum. His throat was raw, stretched, blood vessels bursting as the water was thrown over his tongue and down his throat.

His arms were jerking, sporadic spasms as the puncture came and he screamed, screamed, screamed. The silver pin sinking into his blood to inject him--such disillusionment---oh to inject him with that mercury and cyanide.

He was integrated.

That was when he felt that forceful push, the interjection of fluid squeezing inside his veins, searing his tissue, secreting, and eating his skin until he sucked back in, back inside his shell, inside his body, sucked back away and then the whiteness smithed him.

The nurse was standing over him.

The Big Nurse, the Red Nurse, his bloody, cherry red, can't bite me, sour apple Red Nurse.

She was standing over his bed, her eyes gleaming, her hard mechanical parts shining under the hum of the florescent lights. Their noise frightening, terrifying, roaring like a lion and curdling his brain into a mushy pile.

Think, think think!

The hard, metallic shine of her instruments buzzed with a silvery doom as she touch his skin, and felt the freezing tendrils of ice creep over his cheeks.

Her hands were twisted into gnarled stumps; imitation of clasped fingers. Her nails long, spiked, thorns of plastic and false perfection. They were cherry red, sour red; blood and guts red.

They were shiny, so sinister and shiny. Smooth, unblemished, scrapping his skin with that soft light touch that she loved to scare him with. They were trailing along his cheek, cascading snippets of venom to linger along his face and burn him!

Her outfit was stark white, its color inducing the smell of bleach and the coughing of the antiseptic nausea. She had been shifting; he could discern through the stinging pain that she was putting away her inward machine. Her face was crooked, her lips set lopsided, her eyes glowing blood and guts red, hard machine red; slice you up all bloody gorgeous.

She was hardening, putting away her twisting steel intestines and parts and employing that false skin. She was fake; a cold, bestial appliance. Her skin to tight, to cold, to rigid. It had not been set right, she must have set it back on in a haste after some disturbance.

She smiled down upon him, and he died.

Her face was adjusting as she moved, the skin and muscles flexing with the inner chew of her tongue. She lifted her hands, tugging at the plastic organ until it settled into its proper place. Her lips were cherry red, her eyes hard glass, her nose small, and her skin white as frost.

She was completely hard.

She twisted those fake lips into an apathetic smile and released a goosh of air. She was pretending to swoon over his body and fuss with his pillows so that Dr. Klipspringer would not frown upon her stone features with discredibility. As she pressed her chest so close to him, he inhaled the scent of oil and sweat. Sickening, the residue swooshed along in tiny, ultra fine beads that jumped along his throat and settled in his pores.

He felt the weight of lead pressing harder on his larynx until he felt he had lost his ability to scream. Her nails trailed along his collar bone an he could not help it! Then realized that he could still exhale that terror

She arched her back, turning her neck until ---he swore-- it turned a full revolution to check for the presence of the doctor.

He was not there.

She snapped her neck back into correct position with a sickening, bone cracking snap. She leaned forward, her muscle tensing in a time reaction-- mimicking the result of muscles tendons flexing-- until her face was hovering above his. Then she smiled--exposing the second hidden jaw that he knew she contained--and he couldn't help himself, he couldn't stop himself!

He shivered.

Her teeth were razors, sharp, and protruding at a jagged angle that exclaimed "I'm going to rip you open". That was what she wanted, that was why she leaned over his bed and smiled at him. That was why the row of shark teeth widened at his unsuppressed shiver of humility and fear. That was when she knew that she could sink her mandibles into his flesh and tear apart his insides. She wanted to taste him, to lick him, to explore his caverns and then fix him. Oh she wanted to slip one of those fluttering, black moths--that lied beating, dying, thriving inside her chest cavity-- inside his exposed heart.

I can bite you, sour apple monster wants you.

So he squirmed and watched her sink closer; heaving softly, her fake breast moving in a discontinued rhythm; until she was inches away, her teeth set, her mind fixated, and he was still screaming, screaming until he felt that sick, sharp prick and then-----

"Thats enough now young man." They sunk the needler into his skin. The Red Nurse retracted; her eyes shone with that false glimmer of kindness as Dr. Klipspringer danced across the room.

She had tricked him.

She had stalked him, corralled him into the corner of his bed and then forced his mind to threaten suicide, while the damn orderly sunk that icicle into his arm.

He could see it now, the plunger pressed down, the long silver shaft turning transparent; see through, shifting until the silver blinded. It was shiny; pure wealth, pure hate. Its liquid was fire, warm, demolishing his muscles until he felt that hazy fog cover his eyes, and he knew that he was not the one lifting his arm. They had struck him, the orderly and Red Nurse and even Dr.Klipspringer who flowed across the room like an ashen, fantastic ghost to grasp the icicle and send his blood, his blood, pumping to the surface of the break. He was bleeding, he was bleeding, was he still screaming, was he still---

" Now that the patient is restrained we can continue group."

Yes group.

"Yes doctor." The nurse glowered. She twisted her head towards him and he heard another inhuman snap. Snap, snap, twist, and turn; snap and crunch. He had tricked him, turned his bed into a chair, his room into the circle. He hated the circle and the other Fixtures.

Damn group.

" Now Mr.Kurosaki, if you have settled down we can allow Mr. Tora to finish his confession." Dr. Klipspringer looked him over with his dark, beady eyes and Ichigo felt his eyes roll back.

His throat closed and swelled up as he released that groan that caused Mr. BellEyes to laugh.

The Red Nurse's verdict was forgotten, for all would forgotten when DR. Klipspringer commanded.

Dr. Klipspringer was on the board of directors. Graduated from a prestigious med school, fainted through gross anatomy, more fascinated with parading interns and donors than fixing the mental status of the Fixtures and Climbers.

There was a ghost on shoulder, Ichigo saw it out of the corner of his eyes and he found his fixation drawn to that memory. It whispered his name and he found comfort in the chill. Before him Mr. Tora was weeping, his face contorted into a snotty lump of fluid. The man was a climber--a fixable, returnable, appliance that could be reinvented and sent flying out-- all shiny and new to the outside world.

The man had been sitting there, crying, blubbering, pounding his fists and screaming his obscenities;mantras of self woe; screaming, screaming, crying and feeding his tales of crimes to the Red Nurse for years. Mr. Tora had been eroding there in that same dull, lack luster plastic chair for decades. His actions slow, painstakingly horrid as he dared to lift his legs, hands, chin, eyes, mouth, and voice.

He could remember when he first arrived, the condition of Mr. Tora. He had been thriving, thrashing, throwing his body in jutting angles; twisting, and spinning until he broke the arm of the orderly.

So spirited, so fantastically wicked.

Mr. Tora the fighting tiger, Mr. Tora the soulful and proud.

Ichigo, he, him, whatever the hell he was, had clapped. Sat up from his own dull chair and screamed as the ruby red blood hit the floor. So bright, so shiny, so exciting to have fresh, blood circulating throughout the room that he could not contain his reactions. He swooned.

Then, then the blood turned matted gray and Mr. Toar, Mr Tora flattered; the red death approached.

Mr. Tora met the Red Nurse.

And he Ichigo, Ichigo who was and is, dissolved into the background to remember.

She had seen him living, driving the doctors and orderlies away from his burning fists, and knew that he was tasty. She had approached him, cool, hands gliding like gel. Cool with that ready to sting venom. She appeared unquivering, steady, hard in front of Mr. Tora.

She had struck her claws into the soft, yielding flesh of the fighting tiger. That was all that if took for the man to flutter; falter; die. The red nails sunk deep inside and injected Mr. Toar with that cold metal. Mr.Tora jerked, and he; Ichigo, remembered with acid clearness, Mr. Tora's face morphing into a sick, painful smile before collapsing. His face melted off his skin, slipping over the bone; breaking into a million shamed pieces before it settled into a crying ball of mush. Wetness forever slinking down old cheeks.

God kill the diseased.

Mr. Tora had been stuck, glued to his seat since the Red Nurse signed his check in slip and planted him there. Wall ornament and wall flower, Mr. Tora the fading, fighting tiger. Most of the time his mouth relaxed soft; pure limp, perfectly congealed, lips hanging loosely over his dark gums, drool cascading like a snail over his chin.

Today Mr. Tora was telling his crime that landed him St. Christoper's Hospital for the Mentally Inferior.

" And then i struck, i struck i struck, and i took her!" Mr. Tora was a pedophile, in love with children. Children are our future and Mr. Tora was their past. Mr. Tora had been in love with a teenager, a "borderline" as the Dr. Klipspringer joked. Not quite hard and firm but still something that said tightness.

In other words she was almost legal.

Mr.Tora had been dating his girl, seeing her, screwing her, killing her. He had been poisoning her; gold cyanide laced with candy. Or perhaps it was candy lolly-pops laced with golden acid, cyanide, sweet poison. He had loved her, had crystals in his eyes.

Oh, but she had betrayed him.

Betrayed him ever so sweetly, gently, like melted gold sugar.

Ichigo didn't care to know the rest of the story. That was why his arm burned with that invidious pain. Oh Mr. Tora was fun to stare at, groan at, laugh at with a unmerciful sprig of laughter until all you could do was slip away into the black sleep. Sure Mr. Tora was fun to jest with but only with that stinging pain of looking into the future and seeing, seeing, seeing, your destiny sprawled out into a dirty chair. Stains and dried oatmeal crusted over clothes, arms smarting from the icicles, mind wondering far away to perhaps, look back and stare as well.

Nice afternoon thoughts.

But today Mr. Tora's tale was to real, to sad, to plain, to hallow, and to damn depressing. That was why he, Ichigo, saved Mr. Tora. Rescued the sniffling lump, from the Red Nurse.

He had screamed! Screamed when Mr. Tora was ejaculating his crimes! He had screamed until he saw white. He thrashed his arm about, and drove the Red Nurse to spring from her chair. He had laughed, thrown his head back and laughed until he knew he was doing more than laughing.

He was disturbing group, breaking that gilded veil that fell over the chained, shackled, condemned with his devil trombones and heavenly flutes.

He had created the spark.

That incendiary vibe that flew from his chest, his fighting laughter to strike. This vibe,this power sought out life in the circle. Soon all was cascading! all was trembling, mounting, exploding in a hushed upheaval of shrieks.

"God Save the Queen!"

"God Save The damned!"

"I'm tired!"

"Damn! Fuck Damn you all!"

"I said I'm tired!"

"God save..! God Save! God Save!"

"God save Ichigo!"

" I'm tired, I'm just tired...."

Those were the real confessions, the exalted, jolted feelings of the group. Penitence, contrite and sour, sweeped the room. Gleaned the souls of those insane, dementia, inflicted incarnations of human flesh, and fed. With strife and merriment they, the group, all fell to the vibe, the power, the distancing scream that separated them from their shells. The Red Nurse snapped, her head swishing side to side, spinning in such a mechanized oscillation that Ichigo stuttered with joy. She blew herself up, tall, threatening, to leap into action. With hands that fail to quell she attacked the patients, failed to retain order. Her was falling, twisting into a run down heap, rusting before Ichigo's glossy eyes.

He had started a revolution, a brief, fleeting period where everything was released from the medication, the hazy fog, the Red Nurse's clutches. With the group screaming, applauding, Ichigo cried with envy. Cried as he felt his eyes sink into his skull. His throat close off to constrict, air sputtering into wisp heaves. His body convulsed, soaking through his dull, lack luster chair.

He slipped, over the cold tile floor to climb the wall, liquid inch by inch. A wall flower with viscous eyes he stared through the fog. A sharp pain assaulted and he cringed in a brackish substance that was his body.

He was just faking.

This was all a hallucination of younger days.

He slipped from his place.

For all was a memory. The Ichigo that destroyed the peace of the group was a childhood wraith. A remembrance from when he was little. This was all a momentary snap back into the past as he stroked his brain in the movie theater.

He succeeded in remembering, failed in maintaining sanity of the present, and scored the prize of having a flash back.

His faint sparkling of memories of horrible confinement caused him fear becoming an unknown, or a worse, moth.

For a black, fluttering moth was not a bug. No, the moths he despised was the creatures that his past and the Red Nurse transformed you into.

A resemblance.

For this reason, his past plagued him. His memories the reason he ran screaming to a bastion of crumbling black- n -white to stare upon a dead screen at a no named actor.

He knew that all was in his head, that he needed to pull together to get over petty screaming!

Why was he screaming! Staring at an old movie screen in a deserted theater where mice and roaches were king!

He didn't know.

So he kept screaming, his body shaking from his flashback, his throat raw. He kept screaming until he heard the footsteps of the sandle hat coming. He kept screaming, throwing his eyes shut, tossing them back open in horror until then he noticed. While he was screaming, staring at the dead screen with a no name actor, the actor, his jackal, was starring back.

Jackal was out of place. Jackal was staring out into the audience.

No illusion, no mental crack. Just black eyes that should not have been turned, but were.

"God save Ichigo".

0-0-0-0

Not everything is cut and dry. Remember this an AU!