Fan Fiction ❯ Alone ❯ Born in white ( One-Shot )

Alone - Born in White

 

Alone. Forever alone. A terrible feeling really, to never know the touch of another, to never realize what you were missing since you had never experienced the feelings of others before. Interaction? A myth. Romance, friends, relationships? All lies. There is nothing to base those ideas off of, if you are alone, forever alone. I was born that way, alone. I was removed from my mother's womb like any other, spanked, entering the world with a cry of challenge, calling it out to send me back to the place I had brewed within for nine months before breaking free. And yet, unlike any other, I did not go home with my mother, I did not even see her after that moment, I can only imagine what she might have looked like. Separation has caused that desire to even know to fade, for I cannot stand the thought of knowing her, one that would agree to give up her child. Or maybe she didn't agree, but how will I ever know? Loneliness was my companion; I grew up in a place without windows. A room filled with silence, with white. I imagine they must have moved things about in my room, my container, whilst I slept. I cannot remember any other images of people, no memory of familiar faces, shapes. I see colors sometimes at night, colors of people who I might have had feeding me through tubes or IVs - methods I cannot imagine, and neither would I want to. My first time walking was to move toward a foreign object in my cell, a round sphere which I could describe endlessly for you, continuing the detail I saw the first moment it was there. Deprivation causes that in people, anally retentive attention to detail. It was red, a sphere, it was covered in small bumps, they probably were mere millimeters apart, and I remember that the way the ball rolled they caused no change in it's motion. They might have even increased the ability of it to bounce, which I learned quickly. It bounced, it moved, I threw it, it came back. The red was in white, and that red gave me pleasure, an emotion unknown before that. I could know food, nourishment, there was always something to drink, and I seemed imbedded with the knowledge of how to use that, as well as how to eat the food I found. It seems highly improbable that such actions are capable in a child, but somehow I accomplished them. I have never been atypical, and I will never be, probably because of my upbringing.

 

Years pass like days to someone who has no concept of time. Time to me was merely when the lights were on, and when the lights were off. The white on red, eventually, the black on nothing. Shadows were never my enemies, and because I had no concept of fear, neither were they my nightmares. Things moved, and those were my personal demons. The things that touched in night, that pondered, that prodded, that prowled - they were my monsters. Monsters I describe as tall, strong, and unseen. For I cannot remember ever seeing them, but I can remember hearing them, and smelling them, that scent that smells like nothingness that burns - a pungent smell, so purifying and painful - and knowing the taste of blood in my mouth, that blood that for some reason tasted slightly sweeter than it should. It was probably when I was about five years old that I first experienced learning. Another foreign object was placed in front of me, a tube, which sprayed for a reddish dot, which seemed to move about. It flowed, like a plant, although I had no idea what a plant was at the time, and seemed to move about as I watched it. Curious, I remember the first thought, to touch and see what it was. I also remember the consequence: the burning sensation in my finger-tips, and the utterance that came from my mouth, a scream of pain, a sensation previously unknown to myself. That taught me something, and after that lesson caution entered into my mind when new objects appeared. More toys began to spring from the walls of white: blues, yellows, browns, blacks, purples, and greens. These things stood out in my mind, things that rolled, things that sprung, things that could be built with other things. These I stared at and tested with my ball before touching, and then began my play, and for awhile that was enough, but then I was seven. I guess, since my time sense is never going to be like that of a normal person, it sort of happens after years of not knowing what the sun is.

 

Learning became the goal of my taunting monsters, I don't know what they wanted, but whatever it was, I never seemed to accomplish enough. Things would be there one time, and disappear the next moment, and my mind began to seemingly fragment as I could no longer accept reality. What I saw wasn't always solid, and what I heard, well, what I heard began to be the words that I began to utter from my mouth.

 

“don't touch the fires...”

 

“... cheating is wrong, Henry!”

 

“Experiment... signs... abilities...”

 

Some phrases jumbled, but I had no idea what they are, and I remember the frenetic dance as I tried to figure out where they were coming from. Nowhere and yet everywhere, and they never stopped. My dreams filled with them, words, images, shapes, I began to see things that I had never perceived. As a seven year old, I knew the visions of birth, of death, of decay, of blood, of gore, of love, of lust. And yet, comprehended none of it. The learning, all the while, became more and more increased. Knowledge was their goal, and their instruments of distributing it were the only things that changed. Soon I began to be shown books, which I picked up quickly. Words appeared in my mind so commonly that had somehow figured out what they meant. Of course it could have been the fact that those monsters who tormented me knew the books, and were reading them alongside me, reading them, reading me, learning. They probably enjoyed it too, those maniacal beings who stood by and watched a child alone. Alone but not really anymore, deprived from stimulus, maybe, but a variable in the equation, my images, my thoughts, those mingled with the images that I began to see from others, and they escalated, they grew, more complex, until I began to speak, aloud.

 

“The words in mind are always thought aloud. The thoughts aloud are always said in mind.”

 

I could not understand why I said it, although I can guess now. It is highly improbable that I would speak, and according to even their estimates, which at this point I knew, they doubted I would ever reach a state of intellect above that of an ape. I proved them wrong when thoughts became words to my tongue, which somehow knew how to say. Their meaning appears before me now, and sadly, a tear is all I can give them.

 

“Experiment has shown signs of cognizant thought.”

 

“Vocalization of possible words heard, compromise of procedure?”

 

“No compromise, impossible situation.”

 

More images, more words, more noise. I had begun to associate those thoughts with static, something that couldn't be changed, couldn't be removed; however, I had not known the true strength of static, I didn't live in a world of sound until I began to hear those images, those thoughts, those dreams, those fears. Without that, I would have known only the silence of desolation. A gift, however, it should not be called. For now, I had revealed myself inadvertently, shown the pain of existence that I suffered through, and they could not possibly understand, which they quickly proved. The gifts of color disappeared from the room of white. The red which was so familiar, was gone, and sorrow, became my friend. I knew the words, I knew what I was feeling now. It wasn't alien, because I had known it in others, I had known it in some people who had looked upon me, and it was strange to feel sorrow for myself, when it was not my own.

 

Weeks, I now knew, were what passed as they tested what I was. No new objects, no nothing, no light, no sight, no smell. Yet sound was still my friend and nemesis. They stared at me behind eyes of color, knowing that color was not in my world, they looked upon me with gazes of scrutiny, and understood nothing. This I knew now, at the age of seven, for I knew then that I was seven, according to their deductions, calculations, and reasoning.

 

“Prospective theories relating to application of study in different environments.”

 

Those words resound in my mind as I remember what could only be called my removal, the destruction of my existence. As a seven year old those words meant a radically different thing, it meant I might see things again, see colors other than white, things with my eyes rather than my mind. Of course, I was right, but what would my eyes see that would teach me a lesson? The answer is of course, nothing. For learning occurred every moment I was in that room, removing me from that room was something entirely different, torture.

 

“Prepare for removal.”

 

Those words filled the room I was in. Sound from an outside source, and they startled me. Rather than hearing them where I expected them, I jumped, and screamed, and howled. Fear filled me. As my reality had been proven to be something static, it was hard to accept something so new. I looked at myself in that frenzy, and realized that my own body was small, and defenseless, and could easily be harmed. I had no clothing, no protective clothing, nothing to save me from the sounds and shapes which could infiltrate this room. Those monsters frightened me in that moment, those creatures who I dare say now probably sleep soundly, although they did horrible things. Soon, after the light had gone, and white became black, their noises filled, noises real, noises I couldn't prevent. These things grabbed me in the shadows, and pulled me, screaming, fighting, into a different place, a different room. This was a place of shadow, of gray, of light which flashed and then disappeared. The noise was terrifying, the static sounds had sprung out of proportion in ways that caused me agony. They weren't flowing, they weren't normal, they weren't near-silent. They were blaring, and horrible, harsh, rough, and I knew that wherever I was, it was somewhat akin to a cage. Caged within a room of noise, a room of sound, of horrors I could neither understand nor explain.

 

“Get to the ground... - No! Help m-... it's alright dear, they'- ... sometimes... shadows... dark... look a person... oh wait, it's a kid.... These rooms are too small for such... it's impossible to see a change in his... Insanity is becoming probable, as subject appears to be resisting transference...”

 

These things were my company in the savage light and shadow land. The gray that was not evil, and yet more horrible to me than even the deepest shadows. How could anyone stand such sound, such torture, and then along with that, the smells. I could smell the nothingness that is clean. I could feel the places I was bruised, battered, and bashed. It didn't matter to them if I were damaged goods, for I was merely a toy for them to examine, a toy to take apart and put together again. For a whole month I was ravaged by sound I could not comprehend past knowing that I was in a place of eternal torment. I considered thoughts, but I could not differentiate my own from those of the people outside. Inside became out, and I probably began speaking the words of those whom I heard, since the images became more fragmented, people considering my own sanity along with my physical state. Of course, the dashing across the floor, the movements, the dancing, the screaming, the howling, the pounding the floor in rage and anger that was not my own, it all was signs of possible insanity, and I can see their lack of comprehension there.

 

At one point, the sounds and images changed, and they too became horrendous to me, the lights again were on, and light and white became my sole enemies. Alone, I was, and yet, no longer could I be considered such, since the thoughts of others were my own. And yet not, that paradox, that simple understanding that I could not be them and myself was the only string holding to my previous existence in solitude. An existence I missed, although the noises there were somewhat constant as well. My cries outward, lessened, though, since I had begun to accept the change and could concentrate once more. They were a flurry of sharp knives to me, but I could dodge most of them, and the sound coming from me stopped. That created an interest in the monsters outside again, whom thought it peculiar to watch me scream for weeks on end, and then stop. Insane, was the most probable outcome, they believed. They must have thought it every day, that I would go insane, determine my state, and break free. Some of them feared me, feared what I might be, how I could speak without hearing, how I could no longer fall for the trap of fire, or with other various chemicals or dangerous things. They tried the older tricks on me, placing out books, placing out electrocuted metals, and I fell for none of them. I knew when the food and nourishment came, and would pick it up before it came, and then pick it up when it came. My world of illusions was hard to follow at times, for sometimes I would respond to a movement that wasn't in my range of vision, a movement in another room, another place, another hell.

 

I wonder, sometimes, at what point I realized that some of the thoughts that were there were my own again. That I had begun to construe rational ideas, ways of what life is, of what it must be, of how I am not truly alive, but I am. Philosophy, in a seven year old. When most children are barely potty trained, I was already able to understand what sex was, how babies were born, and what it was like to live in eternal pain and sound. There was, however, a sort of interesting string of images which began around that point, images and thoughts I could understand.

 

“What is this white place? What is this place of white? There's nothing here. There's a ball of red. There's people who smell like nothingness, there's no sound. I know there's someone else, but he's afraid of sound. He says so with his images.”

 

I couldn't determine what or who it was. Was it another demon? A tormentor ? Was it me? What was I? Am I a person, a monster like these beings which keep me here, they speak of children, they speak of their kids, but I am an experiment, a subject, I must not be them, I used to think. And therefore, when I felt the thoughts of one so similar to me, I wondered, yet did not act. Action was not something I knew how to do, for what could I do but listen, wait, see, and think. Thoughts did become my friends, mine at least, for I could use them to block some of the sounds and images I didn't want to see. Images of sharp pointy needles, which went in the eyes of others, things that I couldn't comprehend. Shapes who suffered, who screamed, who had pain, sounds which were of horror and terror. And as they were my ally, so were they my enemy. Keep my enemies close, but my allies, I couldn't flee. They followed me, I couldn't escape them, ever, nor could I truly escape my enemies, for those voices cried in every moment, I merely was able to ignore those voices at times, while having to deal with the pain at others.

 

The voice of similarity, however, that voice which I knew to be akin to mine, that voice filled me with curiosity, something unknown to me since I was years younger. My thoughts searched for the others, and when the red dot of pain was shown to me, I cried out, cried out vocally and with my stretching tendrils of sound and images, called to it, tried to warn.

 

“Pain! Do not go to it!”

 

Yet I couldn't stop it, and twice did I know the sorrow of betrayal. Still, that reaching out, that tendril, it grew within me, it touched the other and connected us, it began to sense me, as I sensed it. I didn't know if it was anything other than a reflection, and image, a lie, but it was there. It was comfortable, although invasive. Of course I didn't care, it was something I could protect, for although it could sense the sounds growing, it didn't have to worry as much, my thoughts, my images, were dominant, and shielded those of others less interesting. It seemed like we shared the world, and in a sense we did. In our spheres of white, there was nothing, yet inside of our worlds of light and color and sound and smell and touch and taste, that world of creation, there was joy. The first time I could understand that word was after speaking with the other, the one whom I shared my existence with. And yet, although I protected the other with my being, suddenly, one day, it left as well, and it was that moment in my existence that I knew loneliness beyond any other. For after the loss of the only one whom I had ever shared something with willingly, was a pain I lovingly caressed, a pain I let sit, a pang of being Alone.