FicWad

Some days, it was easier than others. Some days he got caught up in the work of it: the processes and procedures, the absorption in the puzzle, the simple, visceral thrill of catching the bad guy. He got involved, got his hands dirty, and got the job done. That was, after all, what he'd always wanted. And there would be periods of time when he was just purely /there/; body, mind and heart in focus, in sync. He would almost forget, during those times, almost relax. Almost be happy.

But then there were other days, when nothing came together and it felt like his brain had been covered in cotton wool; when none of it made sense and he couldn't understand what the hell was going on. When he felt alone and distracted and lost.

Those were the days with the things that weren't real: the dreams, the television that spoke to him, his mother's voice on the phone.

And that was pretty funny, really, when you thought about it. The things that weren't real. That would be just about everything, then. That would be his room, his job, his entire fucking life.

That would be Nelson, and Phyllis, and Chris. That would be Annie. That would be Gene.

He understood the truth of that, he just didn't understand why it disturbed him quite as much as it did.

Some days, he wished it was already over. Some days he felt like giving up, just surrendering to the inevitable: it was obviously almost finished, back in the real world. He was dying by degrees, his muscles wasting, his limbs contracting. Everything was winding down. He'd crawl into his narrow little bed on those days, and gradually curl into a foetal position. He'd lie there, his eyes shut and his body still, and wonder what it would be like when the end came. Would there be any warning? Would he feel anything? Would he even know?

But then there were other days, when he found that he wasn't actually ready to stop fighting. When he decided that there had to be a reason for this: a design, a plan, a higher purpose. When he believed with a sure and passionate conviction that he was going to figure it out; that he was going to get back.

Those were the days when he remembered what was real: his home - his real home - the world he'd left behind, the people who were waiting for him.

And that was the key, wasn't it? It was what he had to remember: that he still had a place in the world, that he still had a part to play, that there were still real people out there who needed him. That would be his colleagues, his friends, his mother. That would be Maya.

That would not be Nelson, or Phyllis, or Chris. That would not be Annie. That would not be Gene.

He understood the truth of that, he just didn't understand why it disturbed him quite as much as it did.

Some days, he felt like he was doing nothing but going round in circles.