He coughs, wet and shallow. The world around him is blurry, and he can make out some shoes that look like his father's and maybe for a second he wants to call out for him. He wants to feel his father's arms circling his body, holding him and petting his hair to tell him it's all going to be okay. Malcolm can't recall the last time he'd felt his father's embrace. He can't recall a time his father had ever really done so, despite the fact he had, in fact, been a good father once upon a time.
Sat in his lap as a child in his office, dark basement illuminated by dim lights, folders and medical text strewn across the desk. His father's exuberance, his father's knowledge, passed on to the son, his prodigal son, his legacy. Only when Malcolm looks back these days can he see the grooming. He sees the killer that Doctor Whitly had tried to turn him into. He sees blood-stained knives, one in his hand, a grown man doubled over, sliced, stabbed, maroon flowing down small hands and wrists like rivers to stain his sweater.
'It's show time, my boy. Make your old man proud, huh?'
These are not his father's sneakers. That is not his father's smell. Malcolm coughs again, head lifting, weak and bleary blues focussing and unfocussing as Watkins crouches before him. He'd snarl if he could, the noise leaving him nothing more than a garbled, wet whimper stuck in his throat. He hasn't the energy to swat away John's hands. The cold air of the room grounds him slightly, the cooler floor beneath him, puddled, pooling blood is sticky but he focusses on the texture. The iron stench. He's bleeding out in this room, and though Malcolm has faced many a dangerous situation in the past, this one takes the cake.
He's not certain he can make his way out of this one. Not on his own. Wary eyes flick around the room impatiently, not exactly looking for an exit, as he knows there is none, but looking for the hallucination of his father. It's the only solace he has had in the silence before John began to speak, and that makes a guttural laugh leave him despite himself. The laugh comes wet - another cough is soon to follow.
"Angus Barbieri," He starts, a slight wheeze to his voice; strained though sure. Confident, though he's shaking. "1971. He survived for 382 days without solid food."
It's a quip with the intention to simply argue; to give himself more time to think. Anger filters through him now. It crashes like a wave. He has already been through trials. Plenty of trials. He's a non-believer. A recovering Catholic. Malcolm himself spent three days without food and water, locked in that closet, screaming for help, please, somebody help me, please!
Malcolm allows the silence to linger, blinking lazily up at the towering figure crouched before him with a sigh. The sigh is petulant - a childish huff, a bratty disregard for politeness and etiquette that he'd been raised with. A thick swallow, a wince as he tries to adjust himself a bit, and he glances at the blade glimmering near him. "Have you an arm like that of God, or can you thunder with a voice like his?"
The Book of Job had been the only scripture Malcolm thoroughly enjoyed; however, he had often disagreed with the atrocities. Job's trials due to a fucking bet with the Devil. He stares the Devil down now, and that irks him, because he rather thought himself the son of Satan himself already. This wasn't a trial. This was a misstep.
Malcolm finally growls. It's time to switch things up; he'd already started.
"What reward do I receive for being a dutiful follower?" He sneers, hands shifting so he can brace himself against the cold floor. He attempts to sit himself up, kneeling before John, body hunched with the pain and an undignified whine leaving him as one hand shifts to cup the stab wound on his abdomen. "I think your Lord might be a little disappointed that you're trying to play Him right now." Despite the very fact he kneels before John now in contrition.
"Tell me, John. That voice in your head - what does it say?" He's trying to be attentive, but the blood loss has him swaying. He nudges the chain, head lolling back in an exaggerated flinch, exhaustion making every movement feel like he's wading through thick water.
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