Darkness does strange things to places.
Naturally, Fordo had had plenty of time to observe this because he avoided sleeping at all costs with the Uracilians about. He noticed there was always an incessant beeping from the room next to his on the right side, as though the occupant was hooked up on a machine. The room to his direct left contained an occupant who cried at night. Not cried, really, but moaned. He (or at least Fordo thought it was a he) seemed to be calling out to someone or perhaps something, making it hard for Fordo to determine whether it was pain or loneliness he had.
Fordo didn't know what his own house became after hours. Only once had he been unable to sleep fully and then he had been so utterly terrified of being eaten by possesed dolls that it was impossible to focus on anything as interesting as nocturnal noises.
Now, however, there was something new to consider. The heavy door had blocked out the noise from the corridor. Now it was infecting his old quiet like a virus. At odd times, nurses would rush down the corridor and, later, saunter back to the desk. Their soft sneakers padded definitively on the linoleum more obviously than the heels of the day nurses.
Mysterious doors to nameless passageways opened and closed throughout the night. Faceless patients with impossible diseases wheeled about on beds from nocturnal treatments.
More and more, Fordo realised the tangibility of the Uracil Centre's secrecy. As he lay still on the bed pretending to sleep he pondered about the Uracilians and why they might've come here. He didn't know, of course, because he never spoke with them and avoided coming within a three-metre radius of anyone here, except for the strange girl who had given him the cards. You had to wonder, though. Supposedly it operated on a "volunteer basis", meaning all of the Uracilians were signed up by their parents/guardians for some reason or another. No one here exceeded the age of eighteen. It reminded him of an Orson Scott Card passage. "They call us children and they treat us like mice."
Fordo rolled onto his back. What would become of him if he
didn't manage to escape? He knew the "treatment" would occur, whatever it was, but that was all he knew for certain. After the first treatment there would inevitably be more and probably extra medication he'd have to flush. There was always the possibility that Moscoe would find out he wasn't taking the drugs, too. Would he be hooked up to some machine like the kid next door? Would the nurses strap him down and force-feed him?
He didn't want to be a mouse. Mice were small and defenseless and easy to catch. Fordo, as he was, had always been fairly tall, well-built and fast. He refused to be stuck here forever.
He pondered over what there was that could help him escape. Something prodded his memory and begged for attention. The knife in Moscoe's drawer! All he needed now was to steal it. That was another issue entirely. He'd have no choice but to steal it tomorrow on his way to the third corridor. At least it was on the way. Fordo lay back on his side and planned the daring escape he was going to attempt.
Twenty-two hours remained.
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Back by popular demand, here is your
new chapter! I know it's late and I apologise. My occasional muse went to Gulf Shores and my usual one is demanding a larger salary. Damn you Cartoon Network for taking away our happiness!!!11 Sorry about that (long story, don't ask). I'm still trying to write Kap. 7 and having a hard time of it. JK Rowling threw her block at me and went off to Majorca or something. I'll do my best to get it up soon but I 'ave to write it first. *frightened eyes*
And the crazy girl was in this chapter so quit cher bitchin'.
Kirily Wood
fordolives@hotmail.com (send for updates and listserv delisciousness)
