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Mar. 4th, 2017 11:23 amBodhi didn’t intent to cut himself. It wasn’t an act of will.
He’d been using the knife to take the Imperial cog patches off his repaired flight-suit. The bar had given him other clothes. Simple clothes. But they weren’t his.
The fight-suit was his.
It was the only thing that was.
Even his own breath, his heartbeat. They didn’t belong to him anymore.
This place had taken him away. Away from whatever rest he had hoped for. Away from the Force.
Away from Galen.
All he wanted was to be with Galen. Even for a moment.
But this place had taken him.
Because there was something he had to do. Some task.
And no-one would tell him what it was.
He just had to wait.
A prisoner in an afterlife he didn’t want.
He had nothing. No control.
But he could control this. Change this one thing. He would wear the flight-suit.
Because it was his. And it was all he had.
But the patches had to go. He could change that one thing.
The rats had left the knife when they cleaned. It was stacked with a bowl and cup and the tea making thing the man he couldn’t bear to look at had given him. The man with Galen’s eyes. The man who made his heart break over and over. A wound that would never close. That kept being ripped open. Over and over.
He didn’t have scissors or a seam-ripper. Anything else he could use to remove the tiny stitches that helped the patches on. But he had the knife.
With that knife he could take back control. Even if it was only over that small thing.
It was fiddly, getting the tiny stitches to open. And every third one was a lock stitch so he couldn’t just pull it off once the thread was cut. So frustratedly he picked and cut, three stitches at a time.
It should have been easy, taking back that little part of himself. Shedding the power the Empire had over him, even if he couldn’t shed to power Milliways had over him.
But it wasn’t. And he soon grew reckless, yanking at the patches, and slashing at the fabric.
Which is how he slipped with the knife. And sliced across the meat of his palm.
It wasn’t a deep cut. It didn’t even hurt. Not really.
But then… he didn’t really feel anything. Not anymore.
There was no real pain. But there was blood. Quite a bit of it. It pooled in the hollow of his palm, red rivulets flowing down to his wrist before dripping off.
The sound as each drip hit the wooden floor was…
Loud. So loud.
As if he’d been deaf for years and it was the first sound he was hearing.
And the blood. It was so bright. So red. Somehow more real than anything else in existence. The only colour in a sea of grey.
He sat there, watching the blood pool, listening to it drip for what seemed like hours. Till the blood slowed and clotted.
He slept then, blood smearing on the pillow and sheets.
It was the deepest and cleanest sleep he could remember having in a very long time.
With that knife he could take back control.
***
Myrrh slipped in through the cat door the Bar had kindly installed in Bodhi’s door. The scent of blood was strong and she sniffed at the splatters on the floor. In alarm, she leapt onto the bed and nuzzled at Bodhi. He was warm. He was breathing. His chest still moved in the deep sleep he was lost to. His hand was a mess of blood but it was dry and flaking. She licked him fingers a little, trying to clean him up but there was too much of a mess for that. Instead she curled against his chest and purrs reassuringly. She would get help later. For now, he seemed to be a peace so she curled up, one paw over his heart and watched over him as he slept.
He’d been using the knife to take the Imperial cog patches off his repaired flight-suit. The bar had given him other clothes. Simple clothes. But they weren’t his.
The fight-suit was his.
It was the only thing that was.
Even his own breath, his heartbeat. They didn’t belong to him anymore.
This place had taken him away. Away from whatever rest he had hoped for. Away from the Force.
Away from Galen.
All he wanted was to be with Galen. Even for a moment.
But this place had taken him.
Because there was something he had to do. Some task.
And no-one would tell him what it was.
He just had to wait.
A prisoner in an afterlife he didn’t want.
He had nothing. No control.
But he could control this. Change this one thing. He would wear the flight-suit.
Because it was his. And it was all he had.
But the patches had to go. He could change that one thing.
The rats had left the knife when they cleaned. It was stacked with a bowl and cup and the tea making thing the man he couldn’t bear to look at had given him. The man with Galen’s eyes. The man who made his heart break over and over. A wound that would never close. That kept being ripped open. Over and over.
He didn’t have scissors or a seam-ripper. Anything else he could use to remove the tiny stitches that helped the patches on. But he had the knife.
With that knife he could take back control. Even if it was only over that small thing.
It was fiddly, getting the tiny stitches to open. And every third one was a lock stitch so he couldn’t just pull it off once the thread was cut. So frustratedly he picked and cut, three stitches at a time.
It should have been easy, taking back that little part of himself. Shedding the power the Empire had over him, even if he couldn’t shed to power Milliways had over him.
But it wasn’t. And he soon grew reckless, yanking at the patches, and slashing at the fabric.
Which is how he slipped with the knife. And sliced across the meat of his palm.
It wasn’t a deep cut. It didn’t even hurt. Not really.
But then… he didn’t really feel anything. Not anymore.
There was no real pain. But there was blood. Quite a bit of it. It pooled in the hollow of his palm, red rivulets flowing down to his wrist before dripping off.
The sound as each drip hit the wooden floor was…
Loud. So loud.
As if he’d been deaf for years and it was the first sound he was hearing.
And the blood. It was so bright. So red. Somehow more real than anything else in existence. The only colour in a sea of grey.
He sat there, watching the blood pool, listening to it drip for what seemed like hours. Till the blood slowed and clotted.
He slept then, blood smearing on the pillow and sheets.
It was the deepest and cleanest sleep he could remember having in a very long time.
With that knife he could take back control.
***
Myrrh slipped in through the cat door the Bar had kindly installed in Bodhi’s door. The scent of blood was strong and she sniffed at the splatters on the floor. In alarm, she leapt onto the bed and nuzzled at Bodhi. He was warm. He was breathing. His chest still moved in the deep sleep he was lost to. His hand was a mess of blood but it was dry and flaking. She licked him fingers a little, trying to clean him up but there was too much of a mess for that. Instead she curled against his chest and purrs reassuringly. She would get help later. For now, he seemed to be a peace so she curled up, one paw over his heart and watched over him as he slept.
