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Cicada Days
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((Ben Fields continued from Forget About What I Said))

Things were heavy now. Ben had to keep his head shoved slightly down, a falsely advertised interest in the contour of his beat up cleats. He could sort of remember them still, the second set of announcements. Not really in the tone, that had already become ambiance like the creaks of tepid, still air. Of killers maybe shuffling along in the distance. In the names. He'd told himself, what had it been? Yesterday? He'd told himself that he wouldn't be caught passing on eulogies to the nonexistent generation to follow Cochise's damned. He'd told himself that yesterday. And he'd meant it.

He could still hear old Jasmine's voice whispering rumors and grandeur into his ear. Jane, Sabrina, Sanford- it was Sandy, he vaguely recalled- Bradley, Jerry, Mitch, Danny, Samuel. The other names that had come up didn't matter, except for how they set Ben's blood to a slow simmer of a boil.

One other name no longer mattered. All of them had trusted that motherfucker. They'd thought he was harmless. What had that aspie stolen, when it came down to it? Their trust? Maybe their dignity. Ben didn't know what was worse. Maybe a blow to the pride somehow hurt more, like the swing of solid iron against his chest. Fuck that kid. Ben would have run himself straight off the roof of this damned place, shouting his head off bloody suicide, if he hadn't remembered there were bigger problems. Bigger targets. Bigger names, than the freak of nature Ben had once called Henry Spencer.

But so far, they hadn't found shit. The asylum was the biggest, most obvious fucking place on the island. Maybe that was why it was seemingly abandoned. Ben was about ready to call it. He didn't know where it was they needed to go, but anyone hiding themselves away in a basement's worth of rust and decay wasn't the sort who'd let themselves be announced. In body, in name. If this search turned up nothing they had to go... somewhere. Ben needed to think about that somewhere, but it was where they needed to go.

"Fuck this. Holy fucking shit, this is fucked."

Ben dashed around the corner, almost headbutting his way through Matt.

Ben had never expected a casualty of war to go quite like this. People who actually knew how to write liked to call death 'peaceful'. Peaceful as the churning in Ben's gut, sure. This was a scene no words would ever adequately describe. This was what was being done to them. A camera's worth of gore, of indecency. Their last moments of agony coldly taped while they were unceremoniously shoved away into a corner, crumpled into crunchy bits of discarded homework. The last, ugly rites the boys and girls of Cochise would be allowed.

Ben's fist found, slightly pulverized the door frame. He only realized how loud he was when his voice, pitched more than he ever otherwise allowed, bounced right back at him.

"Fuck. This is what we need to be stopping-... Why the hell are we letting this happen!?" Ben was already turning the gears of his body away, as much as his eyes stayed stuck on the red carpet that had been laid out over the floor for them to walk on.
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Coming Out Of The Closet · Water Treatment