#ive always struggled with his eyes (sockets) BUT I FINALLY FOUND A WAY

[thetomorrowshow]

Slower Than Words Ch. 5

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I legitimately feel sorry about this chapter! It wasn’t meant to be this intense, just lightly angsty. Virgil really threw himself under the angst bus for this one so buckle up y’all

cw: gagging, unethical eye operations (not in great detail), panic attack, kidnapping, by a cult specifically, character being restrained (both on a table and not), brief mention of blood, fever, intense pain, vomit, that’s a lot of warnings, passing mention of drugs, singular mention of an IV, surgical implications

~

Everything was decidedly not going to be okay, Virgil realized several days later when he was rudely awoken by rough hands pulling him out of bed and out the door before he could say a word. He opened his mouth to scream and had a rag stuffed in it, which was also rude.

While being dragged down a hallway, Virgil took the moment to reflect on his current mental state, which was scarily calm considering what was happening. Shock, probably. Even more likely was the overwhelming gratitude he was feeling that it was him leaving the safety of the room, not Patton. That gratitude gave way to fear (finally) as he was brought into another room, one with a distinctly medical smell.

The room. Not the room, please, not the place where his eyes burned and he could hear himself screaming but was fairly detached, watching from the side as the men and women in white coats leaned over him and measured his reaction. The place where he was left alone, for weeks, as his eyes slowly healed but never saw again. The place where they had strapped him down, hadn't drugged him even as he struggled and sobbed with pain—

They were doing that now, Virgil realized with a start, and he began to fight, trying to force them away and roll off the table, but they already had his ankles secured.

“Get that out of his mouth, we're not monsters.”

Virgil would have cried at hearing words that didn't come from his own mouth if he weren't already crying. The rag was pulled from between his teeth, and he gasped out incomplete sentences of pleas and desperation.

“Virgil, is it?” a woman said.

“My name, that's my name,” Virgil sobbed, almost incoherently. No one had said it in so long, he almost wanted them to say it again.

“Well Virgil, we're here to help. All we need you to do is lie still.”

Virgil would have promised anything, but he was suddenly aware of the fact that they had finished strapping him down. He didn't have a choice here. He tried to calm his hitching sobs, aware that he definitely looked not only like a fool, but weak.

“Wh-what are you going to do?” he asked pitifully. There were several long moments of silence. Then the same woman before spoke, saying eerily familiar words.

“We're going to fix you, in the name of the Prophets.”

Virgil screamed.

-

Virgil had been in the back of this van for far too long. His mind was still in overdrive with fear, but now he could wonder—why had he been kidnapped? There was nothing special about him. He was just like any other college kid, trying to make his way in life with money in the negative and relationships even lower. The only person who might care about him was his roommate Roman, but he also had no money and therefore would never be able to pay a ransom. Not to mention, Roman was promising. He was only failing geology, he'd just gotten a role in a production at the high end theater across town, and he had a boyfriend who definitely didn't care about Virgil.

There was nothing he could do to escape whatever awful fate these strangers had for him. They didn't look too dangerous, all four men wearing square-looking jeans and plain t-shirts, but none of them had very built figures. Only one looked like he worked out, which was a testament to the fact that Virgil was a pathetic weakling. He should've splurged and bought that gym membership.

The van stopped for hours at one point, Virgil assumed in a hotel parking lot or something. He would've liked to get out of the cramped space, but it was clear that wasn't happening any time soon. His hands were tied to his ankles (a fact that had sent him into more than one panic attack) and both were pulled behind his back in a hog tie, and a bandana was bundled up in his mouth and tied around the back of his head. He could tell it was night; some of the light from the part of the van with seats filtered in during the day. It was nice to have a little light. Darkness scared him—he always slept with the blinds on the window turned to let some moonlight in, now that he was far too old for a nightlight. Now, however, there was zero light and Virgil was barely keeping himself from freaking out. He just had to survive the night, then nothing would ever be dark again.

They were back on the road. The men chatted loudly, but so many of the words seemed to have a different context for them than they did for him. Haven? Blessings? Liberating? It sounded like a cult, and Virgil once again attempted to free himself of the ropes. The only thing he gained was rope burn.

When the door opened and Virgil blinked at the sudden light and wave of heat, he had to assume they'd arrived. Instead of moving (or shooting) him, two people stared. A man and a woman, the man in a simple suit, the woman in an even simpler dress. Sweat trickled down Virgil's temple as he stared back at them, his jaw aching and limbs strained.

“This one will do,” the woman said eventually. The man nodded agreement, and then the ones that had kidnapped him in the first place were dragging him out of the van. Virgil maintained eye contact with the two as he passed. What did that mean? What did they need him for?

The sun beat down on them as the four men carried Virgil across a dirt road. There were small, one-story houses lining the street, but nobody outside. Virgil only had a moment to wonder why before he was being ushered into a large building. It was cooler inside than out, but still stuffy, like the air conditioning was one of those old window units.

He was carried into a room that smelled like a hospital—and looked like one. The counters were laden with different tools that he had no idea what they were to be used for, but looked vaguely like they belonged in a horror movie. The four men rolled him onto the operating table in the center of the room, then set to work untying him. Virgil lay still, hoping to trick them into thinking he would be compliant. He'd wait until his legs were free, then start fighting back.

That was a no-go, as it turned out. The men easily grabbed his legs and pulled a strap over them, securing him into place. He managed to flail his fist into one person's nose, and felt a deep satisfaction when the man doubled over, bleeding. It was quickly snuffed out as the other three got a hold of his arms and strapped them down as well. Then they all left, even the man Virgil had hit, shutting the door and leaving him alone.

Virgil's eyes darted around the room, taking it all in. The only sound was his heavy breathing. He flexed his fingers and toes a few times, trying to get feeling back into them. He groaned deep in his throat as they began to tingle, then ache. He shifted a little, the sweat pooling under his shirt and hoodie making him supremely uncomfortable.

The door opened with a bang, startling Virgil enough that he jumped. Quite a few—seven, maybe—people in white lab coats entered, the last man wearing plain clothes and looking less like a nerd than the others and more like a bodyguard. Virgil swallowed. What were they going to do to him?

“Hello, Virgil,” an older man with a scar on his chin said, smiling too wide. He leaned over the table, and Virgil tried to lean away. The man tsked, his smile dimming slightly.

“Now, that won't do. Don't be scared, Virgil. We aren't going to hurt you.” The man frowned for a split second, then chuckled. “I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to lie. This will likely be very painful, Virgil.”

Virgil couldn't force his eyes away from the man's, cold brown eyes boring into his soul. He felt the fear rise, bubbling out of his throat in a muffled cry, even as a tear slipped out of his eye and rolled toward his temple.

“We're going to break you, in the name of the Prophets.”

Then they were holding his head still, and—no—no—not his eyes, please, anything else—

Virgil screamed.

-

Virgil didn't know how long he feverishly drifted, but it was certainly hours. His eyes—it was more than burning, somehow. It was the fire of a thousand suns, concentrated in his eye sockets and pounding through his head. All he could feel was the pain, not knowing where he was or aware of any outside stimulus.

The moment Virgil recognized that it was terrifying was the moment that he could feel his fingers. Suddenly, he was no longer a miasma of pain, but a human being (engulfed by pain) again. That was also when he realized there was something pressed up to his lips. He opened his mouth—water, warm and stale but still water—flooded his dry mouth and and he choked as it hit the back of his throat. The bottle was pulled away, and Virgil spluttered for a few moments before all the water was clear of his airway. Exhausted by the fight and debilitated from the pain, Virgil let his eyes slip closed and drifted again.

When he next woke, it was to incomprehensible pain and the sensation of moving, as if whatever he was laying on was being moved. Barely letting himself wonder where he was headed, Virgil drifted again.

The cycle repeated for a while before Virgil found himself fully conscious. It hurt to turn his head, so he laid still, despite all the noises around him. He was shaking constantly, and he was pretty certain he was strapped down. The room wasn't cold, exactly, but Virgil longed for a blanket, something to perhaps weigh down his legs and ease the quaking.

“Can you hear me?”

Virgil wasn't sure if the person was talking to him or not, so he didn't respond. The other noises around the room—a sink running? A quiet conversation?—continued as if nothing happened.

“Can you hear me?”

This time, the voice was louder, and distantly familiar. Virgil nodded slightly, cut short as he grimaced in pain. Moving his head made the pain spike, inducing nausea. Now he felt he was going to throw up, as well as shiver to death. Great.

“Tell me your name.”

“Virgil,” he rasped. He'd never given these people his last name—how they'd found out his first was a mystery to him—but it didn't quite count as an act of defiance when just saying his first name had sapped all of his energy. He tasted copper in the back of his mouth and wondered vaguely if he'd screamed so much that his throat had bled.

“He's conscious enough. Try to get him to stand up.”

Virgil was trying to figure out how to respond to this when he registered the sound of Velcro tearing, then hands grabbed his arms and pulled him off of the surface. Immediately his headache spiked, and he cried out, barely aware of his knees buckling and hitting the floor.

A sigh was heard. Virgil sniffed back tears, despite the little voice in the back of his head telling him he had literally zero dignity left. He didn't want to cry, especially not at just standing up.

Then suddenly, they were moving. Virgil struggled to get his feet underneath him, but failed and resigned himself to being dragged. He was certain he was about to pass out. His head grew fuzzy, limbs filled with pins and needles. The sound of himself being pulled on the concrete was even louder than anything that had just been going on in the room; it filled his ears and pounded along to his heartbeat.

He distantly heard a laugh, then gasped as someone let go and his head cracked against the floor. It wasn't too bad, he wasn't very far from the floor anyway, but the pain of the impact still caused him to lose the battle against his stomach, vomiting all over himself and the floor. Some commotion followed that; Virgil's head was spinning and splitting and his eyes burned and put simply, he couldn't keep track.

He drifted again, laying on the floor in his own sick, not sure what was real and what wasn't. Too soon, though, he was brought back to the waking world by a jet of water hitting him square in the stomach. He jerked, then spluttered as the water hit his face. Somehow, while shocking, it was more pleasant than the pain, a nice distraction. That didn't last, though. Soon enough, Virgil was shivering and numb as the water kept spraying, a sob tearing from his throat as more and more went up his nose.

Finally it stopped, the only sounds being the water dripping from his soaked clothing and his shuddering sobs. Virgil couldn't stop crying and shaking, and there was only one thought in his head, playing over and over: I want Patton. Please I want Patton. Please Patton please I want Patton please—

After what felt like hours of just laying there, hands grabbed his wrists again and began dragging. Virgil didn't even try to stand, or stop crying. He was so cold. So, so, cold, and he just wanted Patton, just wanted to be safe. . . .

More noise—so loud—and a little more strain on his arms before he was dropped, palms bouncing lightly off the floor. Virgil wanted to curl up on his side, hoard what little body heat he had, but he couldn't move. He couldn't move, and they were coming closer. His sobs ratcheted up as he just knew they were right above him, holding those tools and moving closer and—

Someone touched him, and Virgil whimpered loud. He couldn't—not again—please no, please please please no—

They took his hand and touched his wrist—an IV, they were just putting drugs in him—with warm fingers, tracing something—

Tracing . . . something. . . .

P-a-t-t-o-n.

“Patton,” Virgil croaked. Patton was here. Patton was safe, Patton would make everything all right. With that knowledge, Virgil finally fell into a comfortable sleep.

~

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