Snippet #2740464

There was no noise coming out of the silence in the room. Opening his mouth didn't amplify any smaller sounds either.

He could hear his own echoes and the echoes of his echoes at a low, uncomfortable volume that he couldn't reach with his complaints. Understandably, Hanan had started to shift around his room in the facility after having rested for the past 51 hours. For the same reason of having slept for so long, when he moved he'd take the chair with him, wearing a stiff upper lip as he did so.

It was a dark room, no noise - the Scientists had obliged him and kept everything dark and quiet at his request. But he hadn't obliged himself for a long time, and had kept himself noisy, unrestful, hypocritical in his cell for as long as he could remember so that it wouldn't be quiet. Although his desire to keep the room quiet hadn't changed, he'd become more energetic for lack of a better schedule or company.

As the chair squeaked due to its rubbing against the concrete floor, he stared frowning at the Roman candle in the middle of the room. This was the only luxury that remained, or perhaps the only luxury he ever had. He could remember a time where he had the luxury of being able to read books. Admittedly, all the factors that worked against his health didn't compare to the fact that he hadn't read a single book since the first day he was detained in this facility. He wanted to read one of Kafka's works, ideally "Der Trial", a book he found out about by coincidence, because he was sure it wasn't esoteric. Kafka had become a household name in the collective consciousness of the Merzbows. Eventually he reminded himself that reading Kafka would be a gratification he'd have to delay, as long as he had a duty to fulfill to these scientists. Apparently it was for the safety of others, and he didn't suspect a thing about that - it seemed perfectly unstrange that they were alarmed.

He'd accidentally injured, fatally injured, mortally wounded and maimed a few people. Then he'd done what seems to have been described as "killing quite a few researchers". Their names weren't countless but he couldn't remember a single one of their names, and therefore couldn't lament the loss at all. After all this time of being a subject, it would be suspect that he was in any fit state to lament anyway

Things were just as they were, and would be for quite some time again. Someone magnetized by his strangeness might meander in to ask whether he was alright and then they'd leave again for a number of days, because he was an unscheduled act. He was glad, in a way, that his violent novelty had worn off. People fell in to a steady pattern of hating him with an edge of sympathy.

In a way he wanted enemies and got them, so he'd started to move on to his other aims. He wanted to go outside now.