Ultramarine -- REWRITTEN

Twenty Eight. [c.h.] -- REWRITTEN

*NOTE: this used to be the glossary, but (going to be honest here), I'm selfish and I want to keep my reads and votes so I changed it, LOL

          When I awoke, I had three Commissioners. I took a deep breath and opened my eyes, startled by one that stood next to my cot. I sat up and held the blanket in my fist as I looked him up and down with wide eyes. He was bigger and taller than Mr Clean, and I didn't know that that was possible. Veins protruded from the back of his hands and I could almost see the ones in his arms as his uniform was uncomfortably tight against his tanned skin. His thick neck was too red as if he were constantly flexing and never breathing through his wide, long nose. Pinocchio on some major steroids. Clutching the stiff fabric, I looked over at the other new one, who was smaller than the other two. Shorter, but considerably more wider with bigger ears. I looked between the three men.

          "Who are you people?"

          None of them answered as both shoulders began to ache, one similar to the pain of getting hit with an anesthetic dart. The other just a sharp pain as if I had run into something. I rubbed one and came to the conclusion that I had tried to escape again, but couldn't pin the moment when I had run into something or someone. I groaned and ran a hand through my hair. Those damn anesthetic darts!

          Buff Pinocchio moved out of the corner of my eye, my body automatically scooting away. "Why are there three of you?" I exclaimed. Still, no answer.

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          None of them spoke for days. For days I was surrounded by people perfectly able to make conversation, but was shut out by all of them. Eventually my throat began to hurt whenever I opened my mouth to speak, only arguing when Buff Pinocchio held me down from working out (giving up even doing so within a day), and when I needed to go to the bathroom. The good part was that no one needed to hold me as we walked to the bathroom, but the consequence being that if I took a step farther than Mr Clean and Buff Pinocchio, Chubby Mickey Mouse (given the nickname because he was agile and had large ears), would grab the back of my collar and pull me back. It wasn't my fault that my pace was longer than everyone else's, and in result, my neck was beginning to bruise. Every time it happened I wondered if my father was treated so poorly, sending my road to recovery back a few paces. I was stagnant between the area of anger and acceptance. I was dead center in a tug of war where neither side was winning.

          Or I would think of Harry. 'If Harry were still here, I wouldn't have a bruise. If Harry were still here, I could be out of here by now'. And I felt selfish for thinking so. If only, if only, if only. Empty words that fed the guilt that sat on top of my head. A friend that I had indirectly killed and shouldn't have meant as much to me as he did. If I were deeply honest with myself, it pissed me off that he was the only person I was thinking about. That led to more guilt. I shouldn't be pissed off that I, in a periphrastic way, murdered someone and was now being haunted by their ghost. In fact, I deserved it. Pissed that I deserved it. I should've been coming up with plans to escape, or thoughts about my family and boyfriend. I should've been finding ways to give the acceptance more of an advantage to pull me past the stagnant area that I was fastened in. Not revisiting the guilt in the lonely hours.

          How long would it take to stop trying to identify ways that I could've stopped his assumed death? When would I accept the fact that until I had all angles to the story, I could never figure out if I could've stopped it or if I was even the cause? Harry had stopped taking his capsules on his own, and if that were the cause of his death, I had had no part in it. But when had I first told him to stop taking his capsules, and when did he actually stop? I could be forever haunted by the unknown; a much worse fate than knowing itself. I'd always roll over every possibility in my mind even when his face and voice would vanish from my thoughts. It would be a mystery never to be solved.