[ They are men on the run and who is to say that they don't like pounding the pavement or hitting the highway. There's a thrill to be had with running, with being wanted, and it makes Isaac laugh with one hand on the steering wheel and the other draped out the window. Jack's cigarette fills the car with the occasional plume of smoke before it's cast out behind them.
Isaac Clarke. 44. Male. Caucasian. 6'0". Violent Schizophrenic. Suffers from dyskinesia, hallucinations, seizures.
When you are reduced to facts and numbers and statistics with your name to yourself and only that, stripped of your personality, drugged and drugged and drugged, you get a little vengeful. You want to burn the world down. Bend it over and make it your bitch. The car hits ninety and Isaac can't care because it's the open road and he and Jack have been living out of an old blue Volvo for a week and a half.
Everything is better than a cell.
Even open stars.
(One night they take the blankets they've piled in the back and lay themselves out and never quite touch under the stars.)
Sometimes, there is the craving for violence there, the sort of thing that runs thick and in your blood. They're on the run, but it doesn't mean they aren't allowed to stop sometimes. Indulge the hunger. Isaac knows he does when they hit a motel (finally finally) and stop for the night. The money comes from here or there. Odd jobs they blow into town doing under false names. They breeze in and out like ghosts, different cities, different identities. They laugh at it all because what's there to be scared of when you're a free man with power over yourself?
No more mental conditioning. No more would you kindly or settle down.
They make their own rules.
The shower in the motel is hot and the single bed is soft (softer than cracking leather seats. They try to make it to the bed after the shower, but instead, Isaac is all sharp edges and impatience, so by the time the shower is off with a halting stutter of pipes and the water goes down the drain, Isaac has him pressed to the wall with fingers digging into Jack's thigh, bruising, and his mouth hovering just over his lips, whispering: ]
no subject
Isaac Clarke. 44. Male. Caucasian. 6'0". Violent Schizophrenic. Suffers from dyskinesia, hallucinations, seizures.
When you are reduced to facts and numbers and statistics with your name to yourself and only that, stripped of your personality, drugged and drugged and drugged, you get a little vengeful. You want to burn the world down. Bend it over and make it your bitch. The car hits ninety and Isaac can't care because it's the open road and he and Jack have been living out of an old blue Volvo for a week and a half.
Everything is better than a cell.
Even open stars.
(One night they take the blankets they've piled in the back and lay themselves out and never quite touch under the stars.)
Sometimes, there is the craving for violence there, the sort of thing that runs thick and in your blood. They're on the run, but it doesn't mean they aren't allowed to stop sometimes. Indulge the hunger. Isaac knows he does when they hit a motel (finally finally) and stop for the night. The money comes from here or there. Odd jobs they blow into town doing under false names. They breeze in and out like ghosts, different cities, different identities. They laugh at it all because what's there to be scared of when you're a free man with power over yourself?
No more mental conditioning. No more would you kindly or settle down.
They make their own rules.
The shower in the motel is hot and the single bed is soft (softer than cracking leather seats. They try to make it to the bed after the shower, but instead, Isaac is all sharp edges and impatience, so by the time the shower is off with a halting stutter of pipes and the water goes down the drain, Isaac has him pressed to the wall with fingers digging into Jack's thigh, bruising, and his mouth hovering just over his lips, whispering: ]
Let me fuck you.