A Guide To Medicine and War

The prison bluesss

"Hey, it's my shift for guarding," Sam says, walking into the control room. The current guard is laying across the seat, snoring, the monitors left unattended. Not like there are many prisoners to watch, or even more than one, but still.

Responsibilities? They exist.

Sam rolls his eyes, kicking the chair. The chair, along with the guy in it, falls to the ground. The guy yelps loudly, and Sam winces, not intending to hurt him.

"Get up. Please," he says, trying to keep his voice from snapping. He hates this, he does. There is nothing worse than being assigned to watch his (not)son rot in a cell.

He's already reminded every day that he is the monster that put Tommy in that cell, that betrayed him, stabbed him in the back. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and sits down.

There's a calendar in the room, a little red rock for every day Tommy's been in the cell. There are 43 ticks.

6 weeks and one day.

Over a month.

Prime, he hates himself.

He should just…no. He's not doing it, not going there. There are things to look forward to, like the sun rising over a peaceful world, like releasing Tommy and seeing him jump excitedly after the wildlife.

(Like killing Dream for all he's done.)

He settles in, watching the screen.

Tommy, at the moment, is perched on his bed. He grins up at the camera, making a peace sign with his fingers. Then he squints, glaring at the camera.

It hurts.

Tommy's eyes are so angry, so dead and dark, and it makes Sam want to hit something.

He's not a violent guy, he doesn't know what's going on. All he knows is that he's angry, guilty, hateful of the fact that he failed Tommy. He was supposed to take care of him.

And now he's locked in a cell.

(Sam is glad the camera is only a grey scale. He knows there is blood along the border, on the pillowcases and sheets, and drawn along the wall. He can trick his mind into thinking it's paint, this way, instead of the blood of the broken gold.)

Tommy waves, grinning widely, and the grey of the camera does not hide the dark flecks in his teeth. Tommy jumps, tapping the camera and starting to talk. Sam scrambles to plug into the audio feed, turning the speakers on and letting the noise surround him.

"S-Sam?" Tommy whispers, voice hoarse and quiet. Sam turns the speaker up, and Tommy's voice crackles around him, digging itself into his mind. "Sam, can you hear me? Are you…sorry it's hard to talk. Are you guarding?"

He presses the intercom, but it's disconnected and doesn't work. All he wants to do is reassure Tommy that he's there, that he's not alone, that he'll be okay. The intercom beeps and beeps but it never works, and he is stuck watching Tommy talk to no one like it's the only thing he can do.

"Sam?" Tommy asks, eyes wiping his eyes. "I can'tâ€"it hurts, Sam. It hurts to talk and to breathe and to walk. My feet are so bloody and I hate it but I have to walk, I have to. What else would I do?"

Tommy sighs, flopping back into his bed. "I want a colouring book."

Sam wants to give him one, wants to give him everything he can, wants to get him out of prison because he's a fucking kid, he shouldn't be there, but he can't.

The intercom doesn't work and neither does his voice because he's choking on every breath.

The walls are crashing in and there's blood on the floor and Tommy smiles at him.