Strawberry Panic {TomTord}

And that's the tea, sis

Physical therapy took time- a resource that they didn't particularly have an abundance of. 

Days stretched into a blurred mess of colour, thick lines of monotony sluggishly blending in with the mundanity of everyday life; agonisingly slow, and yet unnervingly fast pace. Uselessly falling through his fingers like fine grains of sand, time trickled into a near constant anxiety, a slow burn that niggled on the murky edges of his vision, lurking just beneath the frazzled nerves of his sweat-slicked skin. It pooled cruelly at his feet, slowly building up into large mounds of worry, piling higher and higher as his restlessness for progress grew exponentially. Creeping up his exhausted body, the ever-present knowledge of his own stalling incompetence itched at his lungs, choking him from the inside out as he wriggled and thrashed, desperate to claw himself out of the heaving weight of maddening responsibility that was slowly crushing him. 

Each week that swept by, every month that was gradually crossed off- it all merged together in an amalgamation of bitter fear, the overly aware notion that the Volkov family were still a very real, looming threat. Cooped up within the towering walls of the compound, Tom was encased within a little bubble of immunity, safe from most impending personal threats, but trapped with the grasping knowledge that without action, other people were being used, and abused- much in the same manner he had been. Guilt had become synonymous with breathing, suffocating and endless as self-loathing rattled his empty skull. 

Tord didn't seem to be doing much better.

Trudging through a thick fog of irritated hysteria and grating impatience, Tord had become a whirlwind of acidic burning rage- a prisoner of his own uncooperative body. Frustrated with the slow progress, and the steadily mounting pressure of being perceived as a strong,  no-nonsense leader, everything had bubbled over into a frothing chaotic mess of seething violence.  

Tom counted the seconds, waiting for the exact moment the man would burst a blood vessel- wound tight, and high strung; he probably pissed blood out of his eyes from the long period of anger he was experiencing. Jaw clenched into a strained scowl, lips hissed wild atrocious threats, leaking over his features like liquid poison- sizzlingly black that went straight for the jugular. Narrowed into squinted slits, the swirling silver depths did nothing to conceal the untamable lust for power and the craving desire for the slow painful end for everything in sight. Rasping breath huffed out of flared nostrils, teeth bared in a feral grin, skin stretched almost unnaturally from the aggravated snarl that twisted his features. 

Over the course of several weeks, Tom had rapidly lost count of the number of times a soldier had openly started weeping in front of their pissy superior- mouths pressed into tight, wobbly lines that hiccuped salt, armoured bodies trembling in a regressed state of terror as they absorbed the fiery foaming rage that seeped through the cracks of their leader's usually detached foundation. Seemingly, the entire army appeared to be walking on proverbial eggshells around him, creeping past inconspicuously, keeping their heads down and lists of offences clear.

No one wanted to be the next target. 

Especially Tom.

Although he had been relatively excluded from the absolute minefield that he had somehow managed to tiptoe his way through, he knew that eventually, somewhere across the line, he would be the next victim of a destructive tongue-lashing that would make suicide the only viable option. Having the fear of authority beaten into him as a child, perhaps it should worry him of the borderline sexual nature of his submissive tendencies- then again, it was probably one of the only reasons he was currently alive, so perhaps he should be thankful for being the bitch boy that he was.

Deep down, from the far corner of his mind, it thoroughly unnerved him how reminiscent Tord's behaviour seemed- an unsettling echo of his father's mistreatment. The thought alone never failed to keep him up at night, laying rigid among the soft sheets as the snorting beast grunted behind him in sleep.