Fic Long is the Way
Jan. 16th, 2020 09:39 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cornerofmadnessTitle: Long is the Way
author:cornerofmadness
Characters/Pairings: Malcolm Bright
Disclaimer: Not mine, Chris Fedak and Sam Sklaver owns it
Summary/Teaser: Malcolm knows he’s in hell but isn’t sure he can find the way out.
Rating: teen
Notes: written fortemplefugate in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
comment_fic for the prompt Any, any, and then it all went to hell. Mentions of suicidal thoughts.
Long is the way and hard, that out of Hell leads up to light.” ― John Milton, Paradise Lost
XXX
He’d been so caught up in the holy grail – the childhood home of a serial killer – that he’d missed the important details swirling around him. Matilda had shaped John Watkins from the day he was born. She’d poisoned him with her religious zealotry, instilling in him a hatred of his mother and by extension people of loose morals and addictions. He’d known that when he’d gone up the stairs to see if ‘her Johnnie’s’ bedroom was still intact. He needed more insight and Matilda had given him some such as Grandfather Benjamin had been ‘a good father’ and yet he ended up crushed under a car. Had Watkins killed him because Malcolm could imagine Benjamin as being as rigid and moralistic as his wife? Had it truly been an accident but one that Watkins imprinted on and had echoed in his own style of killing in his junkyard? Had it excited him? From Matilda’s brief explanation Malcolm assumed John had been young when it happened, likely pubescent. It was possible that his grandfather’s crushing death had gotten mixed in with his sexual awakenings. Could the junkyard crusher have been a sex substitute? Why the hell was he thinking about it now?
Because he had allowed himself to be distracted. Because he hadn’t followed procedure. Because he hadn’t done the one thing Gil had asked of him. Distracted, he hadn’t even considered Matilda, a blind, old woman, knew full well what her grandson was and approved of him ‘taking out the trash.’ Neither he nor Shannon had followed procedure, hadn’t called in their location, hadn’t even told Gil what they suspected or how they’d found Watkins’ name because they - for very different reasons – didn’t want taken off the case once the higher ups realized what was going on and now Shannon was dead. Even when Malcolm realized Watkins was in the house, he didn’t call for back up before pursuing him like he had promised Gil he would and then it all went to hell. Now he was chained to the floor in a what amounted to a dungeon in the deep woods unless he missed his guess.
The only reason Watkins hadn’t killed him yet was he wanted something of Malcolm but he wasn’t sure what. Was there some lingering feelings of loyalty to Martin Whitly, which is what Malcolm assumed had saved his life the first time he’d been under Watkin’s control. Did he want to know what Malcolm knew about how close the FBI were to finding him? Had he progressed to fit Watkins mission? Oh, if John was watching him now, Malcolm might actually fit the role of ‘addict’ that needed to be taken out like trash.
Altered state of mind didn’t begin to cover it. He knew benzo withdrawal could cause all sorts of havoc. Malcolm had already seized twice; fairly sure he’d broken a bone in his wrist during it thanks to the tight handcuffs. He’d awoken from what little sleep he’d managed to grab to see Ainsley’s and his mother’s bodies dangling from the ceiling, dead and bloated. It had taken a lot of screaming and trying to convince himself it was a hallucination. He only succeeded when their bodies slowly morphed into Gil and his father’s corpses. He shook so hard he thought he’d never stop. Sweat cloaked him, sticking his shirt to him, fear and withdrawal both feeding into it. He couldn’t sleep. It was obvious to anyone watching him in this hole that his mind was on fire. It would make it easier for Watkins to justify killing him, just another useless addict.
All Malcolm could do was keep Watkins distracted. If Gil thought to go to Shannon’s house, he’d see the records. He and the team would be smart enough to put two and two together and it would lead them to Matilda’s home. They could do a property search but Watkins would probably be too smart to have this cabin under his name. Hell, this might even be Malcolm’s father’s secret place. If he could distract Watkins, he could live longer. If he could keep Watkins focused on him, Gil and the FBI would have time to get his mother and Ainsley into a safe house because Watkins wanted to break him and Malcolm knew that he was close to figuring out how to do it. It wasn’t his own body and well-being that concerned him.
Malcolm had endured torture for days now. His feet ached from the cold. Watkins had taken his shoes just in case he got free. Walking in the winter woods barefoot would be difficult. Malcolm suspected Watkins was too prudish to go one step further and strip him entirely. That would have been the smart thing to do but he sure as hell wasn’t going to suggest it. Malcolm didn’t know what was going to come next. From their ‘talks,’ he wondered if Watkins was bringing him a victim to help him kill, to pick up where he and Malcolm’s father had left off twenty years ago, to induct him into their ranks. If he could make Malcolm complicit, he might actually let him live but even in the horrible mental state he was in, Malcolm knew he’d never do it. No, his fear was Watkins would get hold of his mother or Ainsley or even Gil and then give him a choice, them or him.
Of course, that was no choice. If he chose to die in their stead, Watkins would still kill them. He would offer his life for them if need be. Malcolm had thought of death before, had considered suicide in the past, trying to find peace. In the end, he knew that his brain was screwing with him, that he had things to live for. He couldn’t imagine what his death would have done to his mother and Ainsley, to Gil. So, he’d fought to live, took his medicine in spite of the side effects, did his yoga and meditation. He persevered. He wasn’t going to let Watkins kill him now without some kind of fight but the fight was going out of him. Watkins had picked up - like the predator he was – on the love Malcolm had for his family, blood and found. They were going to undo him because he knew Watkins would go for them if he could.
Malcolm needed to clear his mind in spite of the benzo withdrawal making him sick. He fought to keep from vomiting. Dragging in deep breaths, he struggled to calm himself but the shakes wouldn’t let him go. Shackled to the floor Malcolm couldn’t get into the poses he preferred to use to quiet the battle in his brain. Hell, he couldn’t even get into the savasana pose, the corpse, because he couldn’t separate his arms. When he attempted to sleep earlier in the day – or night he wasn’t sure which – he couldn’t get onto his back. He’d tried sleeping on his side but he couldn’t manage it.
If he did nothing now, the anxiety from the withdrawal coupled with his usual anxiety would destroy his cognitive abilities. His PTSD had him screaming off and on as waking nightmares played across his mind’s eye. Watkins was getting a good show if he was recording any of this. If he was, would he somehow try to get it to Martin? No, don’t think about it.
Finally, he managed to get onto his knees, restrained arms extended in front of him in balansana, the child pose. It was an excellent quieting position for him. He usually preferred to have his arms back along his sides but that was out of the question. Resting like this allowed him to grab back some of his control from his sick mind. He wasn’t going to die here. He wasn’t going to let Watkins hurt his loved ones.
As the burning anxiety died down and his shakes quieted, Malcolm had only one thought to meditate on. How was he going to get out of this mess?
author:
cornerofmadnessCharacters/Pairings: Malcolm Bright
Disclaimer: Not mine, Chris Fedak and Sam Sklaver owns it
Summary/Teaser: Malcolm knows he’s in hell but isn’t sure he can find the way out.
Rating: teen
Notes: written for
templefugate in comment_fic for the prompt Any, any, and then it all went to hell. Mentions of suicidal thoughts.Long is the way and hard, that out of Hell leads up to light.” ― John Milton, Paradise Lost
XXX
He’d been so caught up in the holy grail – the childhood home of a serial killer – that he’d missed the important details swirling around him. Matilda had shaped John Watkins from the day he was born. She’d poisoned him with her religious zealotry, instilling in him a hatred of his mother and by extension people of loose morals and addictions. He’d known that when he’d gone up the stairs to see if ‘her Johnnie’s’ bedroom was still intact. He needed more insight and Matilda had given him some such as Grandfather Benjamin had been ‘a good father’ and yet he ended up crushed under a car. Had Watkins killed him because Malcolm could imagine Benjamin as being as rigid and moralistic as his wife? Had it truly been an accident but one that Watkins imprinted on and had echoed in his own style of killing in his junkyard? Had it excited him? From Matilda’s brief explanation Malcolm assumed John had been young when it happened, likely pubescent. It was possible that his grandfather’s crushing death had gotten mixed in with his sexual awakenings. Could the junkyard crusher have been a sex substitute? Why the hell was he thinking about it now?
Because he had allowed himself to be distracted. Because he hadn’t followed procedure. Because he hadn’t done the one thing Gil had asked of him. Distracted, he hadn’t even considered Matilda, a blind, old woman, knew full well what her grandson was and approved of him ‘taking out the trash.’ Neither he nor Shannon had followed procedure, hadn’t called in their location, hadn’t even told Gil what they suspected or how they’d found Watkins’ name because they - for very different reasons – didn’t want taken off the case once the higher ups realized what was going on and now Shannon was dead. Even when Malcolm realized Watkins was in the house, he didn’t call for back up before pursuing him like he had promised Gil he would and then it all went to hell. Now he was chained to the floor in a what amounted to a dungeon in the deep woods unless he missed his guess.
The only reason Watkins hadn’t killed him yet was he wanted something of Malcolm but he wasn’t sure what. Was there some lingering feelings of loyalty to Martin Whitly, which is what Malcolm assumed had saved his life the first time he’d been under Watkin’s control. Did he want to know what Malcolm knew about how close the FBI were to finding him? Had he progressed to fit Watkins mission? Oh, if John was watching him now, Malcolm might actually fit the role of ‘addict’ that needed to be taken out like trash.
Altered state of mind didn’t begin to cover it. He knew benzo withdrawal could cause all sorts of havoc. Malcolm had already seized twice; fairly sure he’d broken a bone in his wrist during it thanks to the tight handcuffs. He’d awoken from what little sleep he’d managed to grab to see Ainsley’s and his mother’s bodies dangling from the ceiling, dead and bloated. It had taken a lot of screaming and trying to convince himself it was a hallucination. He only succeeded when their bodies slowly morphed into Gil and his father’s corpses. He shook so hard he thought he’d never stop. Sweat cloaked him, sticking his shirt to him, fear and withdrawal both feeding into it. He couldn’t sleep. It was obvious to anyone watching him in this hole that his mind was on fire. It would make it easier for Watkins to justify killing him, just another useless addict.
All Malcolm could do was keep Watkins distracted. If Gil thought to go to Shannon’s house, he’d see the records. He and the team would be smart enough to put two and two together and it would lead them to Matilda’s home. They could do a property search but Watkins would probably be too smart to have this cabin under his name. Hell, this might even be Malcolm’s father’s secret place. If he could distract Watkins, he could live longer. If he could keep Watkins focused on him, Gil and the FBI would have time to get his mother and Ainsley into a safe house because Watkins wanted to break him and Malcolm knew that he was close to figuring out how to do it. It wasn’t his own body and well-being that concerned him.
Malcolm had endured torture for days now. His feet ached from the cold. Watkins had taken his shoes just in case he got free. Walking in the winter woods barefoot would be difficult. Malcolm suspected Watkins was too prudish to go one step further and strip him entirely. That would have been the smart thing to do but he sure as hell wasn’t going to suggest it. Malcolm didn’t know what was going to come next. From their ‘talks,’ he wondered if Watkins was bringing him a victim to help him kill, to pick up where he and Malcolm’s father had left off twenty years ago, to induct him into their ranks. If he could make Malcolm complicit, he might actually let him live but even in the horrible mental state he was in, Malcolm knew he’d never do it. No, his fear was Watkins would get hold of his mother or Ainsley or even Gil and then give him a choice, them or him.
Of course, that was no choice. If he chose to die in their stead, Watkins would still kill them. He would offer his life for them if need be. Malcolm had thought of death before, had considered suicide in the past, trying to find peace. In the end, he knew that his brain was screwing with him, that he had things to live for. He couldn’t imagine what his death would have done to his mother and Ainsley, to Gil. So, he’d fought to live, took his medicine in spite of the side effects, did his yoga and meditation. He persevered. He wasn’t going to let Watkins kill him now without some kind of fight but the fight was going out of him. Watkins had picked up - like the predator he was – on the love Malcolm had for his family, blood and found. They were going to undo him because he knew Watkins would go for them if he could.
Malcolm needed to clear his mind in spite of the benzo withdrawal making him sick. He fought to keep from vomiting. Dragging in deep breaths, he struggled to calm himself but the shakes wouldn’t let him go. Shackled to the floor Malcolm couldn’t get into the poses he preferred to use to quiet the battle in his brain. Hell, he couldn’t even get into the savasana pose, the corpse, because he couldn’t separate his arms. When he attempted to sleep earlier in the day – or night he wasn’t sure which – he couldn’t get onto his back. He’d tried sleeping on his side but he couldn’t manage it.
If he did nothing now, the anxiety from the withdrawal coupled with his usual anxiety would destroy his cognitive abilities. His PTSD had him screaming off and on as waking nightmares played across his mind’s eye. Watkins was getting a good show if he was recording any of this. If he was, would he somehow try to get it to Martin? No, don’t think about it.
Finally, he managed to get onto his knees, restrained arms extended in front of him in balansana, the child pose. It was an excellent quieting position for him. He usually preferred to have his arms back along his sides but that was out of the question. Resting like this allowed him to grab back some of his control from his sick mind. He wasn’t going to die here. He wasn’t going to let Watkins hurt his loved ones.
As the burning anxiety died down and his shakes quieted, Malcolm had only one thought to meditate on. How was he going to get out of this mess?
