Teenage Wildlife

Hallo, Spaceboy

by Alys

White room. White room. Bars. White room. White room.

He yawns. The shadows stretch between the buildings, dark and chilling, their tendrils reaching - reaching for him.
He curls more and more into a ball, shivering. His light blue linen pyjamas dno't keep out the cold. There is a light mist in the air, dampening his hair.
The mist makes the shadows in the alleyways even more forboding than before. His eyes dart back and forth, while his heart beats fast tempo.

White room. Bars. White room. Danger -- can't let them -- Danger.

No use crouching here any longer. They'll take him, they'll find him, his custody calls.
Don't you want to be free? voices whisper. He clutches his head and moans.
Get out, get out, get out!
Don't you want to be free?

White room. White room.

You're sleepy now, voices whisper, over and over, again and again. There is no escaping.
Crying out in anger, frustration, agony, he stumbles from the alleyway into a crowded street. Faces menace, and he clutches the side of a building. His legs give out, and his mouth opens in a silent moan. Nerveless fingers clutch at seamless stone.

White room. White room. Grey society, flat and dry. No emotions, no life, no colour. Everything is a blur, not a hint of anything without the norm.
People stare at him, their faces blank, their eyes glassy. They had drugs like he'd had. Ramona's interest drugs.
Ramona A. Stone. His mind focused on her. She's the one, she's the one. He repeated words and phrases over and over, the sound patterns merging into a steady murmur.

White room. White room.

Moondust will cover you, a mere whisper. He turns to see, but cannot. The voice from his past, the memories, the pain. Blood drips from his fingers, running down the cold grey stone. Do you like girls or boys? The crack of a whip. Do you like girls or boys? Moondust.

White room. White room.

Rough hands seize him, and drag him across the cold grey sidewalk. Everything is grey. He can even imagine his blood, now splashed on the wall in brilliant hue, turning grey as the ashes in funeral urns. Manhandled into a grey car, men beside him, black suits.
A pain in his arm, the needle plunging deep, a bead of blood pooling at the tip, the quick woozy feeling of the interest drugs.
It's confusing these days, voices whisper.
Get out, get out, get out!
Another grey building. More men, black suits de rigeur.
Welcome back.

White room. White room. More drugs.
God bless Ramona.

Forced in the door, tossed onto the small cot they have the gall to call a bed. Unsteady grip, the walls sinking in at his touch. Grasping the window ledge, silhouette stationary.
This chaos is killing me, he thinks. Shimmering light fills the room. Qhite powder -- interest drugs -- is emitted from ducts in the ceiling.

White room. White room.
Moondust....

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This document last updated Saturday, 15-Apr-2000 15:37:48 EDT
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