Rebel: A Monstercat Fanfic

067 - Escape

Song of the Chapter: Flight - Tristam and Braken (Drumstep)
Escape - Rogue (Dubstep)

(Braken's POV) 

After my story, I eventually fall asleep in Noisestorm's arms, exhausted. I don't know if he sleeps, too, but I wake up, still hugging him, as an echoing voice announces that it's five thirty in the morning.

He releases me and rubs his eyes. "Thank you," he says silently. He's smiling brightly, like he finally has a friend in this dark world.

"Thank you, too," I reply, returning the smile. I feel like I haven't smiled in months.

I slowly climb to my feet and try to stretch my wings without hitting him. I fail miserably and smack him hard in the face. The sound he makes causes me to spin around in panic, hitting him again. "I'm sorry!" I yelp, but he's laughing, not like he usually does, but just a quiet chuckle. It makes my heart soar to know he's still able to laugh.

He shoves the black feathers out of the way and sneezes.

"Oh, tell me you're not allergic to me," I say.

He shakes his head and touches his nose before sneezing again.

"Thirteen hours," a soldier reminds, walking past our cell with his partner.

"Is Aero alright?" I call after them.

"As fine as he can be," he laughs ominously.

I sigh, and then that terrifying rage hits me again. I let out a yell of fury and slam my fists into the bars of the door. "Why are you doing this to us?" I demand, my voice sharp and cold.

The soldiers don't answer.

I take a breath to yell again, but Noisestorm puts his hand on my shoulder as a warning. His touch relaxes me and I sigh once more. "We have to get out of here."

We both know that's impossible.

The hours seem to pass far too slow, and yet much too fast. I finally get Noisestorm to let me clean him up, and I'm relieved to see that he doesn't have the bullet still in him. I don't know what I would have done if it was still there. I don't bother to ask him where he got his own scars. He wouldn't have been able to tell me anyway, even if he was willing to. An hour or so into my wait, he suddenly scrambles to the tiny toilet in the back and throws up. He's shaking, too, and presses his fists into his forehead. I try to ask him what's wrong, and after a painfully long time, I finally understand that he's suffering from alcohol withdrawal. I didn't know he had a drinking problem - it seems like it was a problem long before yesterday, or whenever he got drunk again. I wish I could ask him about it, but I'd only hurt and confuse us both. He climbs into the second shelf bed and curls up to get some rest, and I try my best to avoid hitting him with my wings. He's shivering from the cold and his sickness, and I give him my scratchy blanket, so that he has both of them. Eventually, I give him my hoodie, too, and discover that it's been ripped open in the back - for my wings. There's snaps at the bottom of my wing-holes, so that I can unsnap it and take it off. Even so, I almost rip it the first time, and then I almost rip my wings, which is more painful than I thought. He puts it on and almost starts to cry again. I never imagined he would be the one to cry, or show any kind of saddened emotion. He tries to tell me something, and finally, I understand that he's apologizing for being an emotional wreck. I almost laugh at him. He's not the one sobbing his heart out every time he starts talking.