BasDorcha
Golden Age Dinosaur
The building was dark, per normal, with the only natural light being that weak beams that filtered in from the ceiling so high above they had never even been cleaned. Damien sat in his cell, reading another random library book, flipping through the last few pages. It was almost over. This brought a sigh to his lips. He hated endings – they made him think of his mother’s end. Putting it down, he left the last five pages of the last chapter unread, and closed the cover, heading for the library room down below. As he stood in the entry way of his cell, the door propped open by a tower of books, he put it on top, examining the view in front of him.
Below various patients roamed, from cell to cell, from floor to floor, or guided by orderlies to places above. It was business as usual. The young man headed down to the ground floor, each floor’s walkway circular with a flight of stairs at the start and end of the circle, one going up and one going down. Between them an elevator, but it could only be used by the orderlies and doctors, with a flash of their badges to get in. He didn’t like them anyways, they made him feel claustrophobic. The one time he had been in them, they were bringing him back from his first ‘checkup’ and he had nearly thrown up on them. Since that time, they had forced him up the stairs when they bothered with him at all. Mostly, he made sure to stay out of sight, out of mind, and under the radar as much as possible.
Finally reaching the ground floor, he paused again, this time looking up at the giant white marble statue of an angel, with open arms that had greyed with age. Some took solace in the statue, but Damien felt nothing. He did like to look upon it, but only for the sake of art itself – someone had painstakingly carved in every detail, every line, every feather. Someone had cared once. A few minutes slid by, and a rumbling stomach drove him to the cafeteria. It must have been about midday, judging by the almost bright light that was lifting some of the darkness at the bottom of the tower, and the spread that had been placed in grab and go containers on the counter. He picked up a stale bologna and cheese sandwich and a bowl of mushy broccoli, and a glass of water – the milk was always warm, and he couldn’t stand milk even cold. Making a face he left the line and sat down at one of the few tables.
A few familiar faces milled about, but not anyone he had spoken too – not that Damien ever spoke. He hadn’t spoken in years. Still, there were ways to speak, without speaking. You could write it down, plus there was a whole range of body language most people never learned read. Damien was a reader. He could read it.
Outside the cafeteria, in the common space came a ruckus, Damien felt the vibrations in the tabletop. Furling his eyebrows, he turned in his seat looking out the door. A patient was being chased by the orderlies, screaming, and throwing things. With an interested eye, he stood, taking the sandwich, and leaving the rest, to watch the scene in front of him.
Pipsqueak Beckspace MusicBoxSugar
Below various patients roamed, from cell to cell, from floor to floor, or guided by orderlies to places above. It was business as usual. The young man headed down to the ground floor, each floor’s walkway circular with a flight of stairs at the start and end of the circle, one going up and one going down. Between them an elevator, but it could only be used by the orderlies and doctors, with a flash of their badges to get in. He didn’t like them anyways, they made him feel claustrophobic. The one time he had been in them, they were bringing him back from his first ‘checkup’ and he had nearly thrown up on them. Since that time, they had forced him up the stairs when they bothered with him at all. Mostly, he made sure to stay out of sight, out of mind, and under the radar as much as possible.
Finally reaching the ground floor, he paused again, this time looking up at the giant white marble statue of an angel, with open arms that had greyed with age. Some took solace in the statue, but Damien felt nothing. He did like to look upon it, but only for the sake of art itself – someone had painstakingly carved in every detail, every line, every feather. Someone had cared once. A few minutes slid by, and a rumbling stomach drove him to the cafeteria. It must have been about midday, judging by the almost bright light that was lifting some of the darkness at the bottom of the tower, and the spread that had been placed in grab and go containers on the counter. He picked up a stale bologna and cheese sandwich and a bowl of mushy broccoli, and a glass of water – the milk was always warm, and he couldn’t stand milk even cold. Making a face he left the line and sat down at one of the few tables.
A few familiar faces milled about, but not anyone he had spoken too – not that Damien ever spoke. He hadn’t spoken in years. Still, there were ways to speak, without speaking. You could write it down, plus there was a whole range of body language most people never learned read. Damien was a reader. He could read it.
Outside the cafeteria, in the common space came a ruckus, Damien felt the vibrations in the tabletop. Furling his eyebrows, he turned in his seat looking out the door. A patient was being chased by the orderlies, screaming, and throwing things. With an interested eye, he stood, taking the sandwich, and leaving the rest, to watch the scene in front of him.
Pipsqueak Beckspace MusicBoxSugar