Lime Green - Enabler AU
CW: descriptions of SH scars, suicidal thoughts
Today is Tuesday.
Jim had read the signs: red skies, helicopters flying, the floods of articles telling him war is soon to come. He thought he managed to shut the world out, where no evil could creep into his shelter and harm him. He waited for the thunder of bombs to storm with the rain of bullets. The drums of war banged at his doors and windows, beckoning him to come out when he knew the gas will poison his lungs.
He wouldn't survive the fallout, he never believed he could. Jim only wanted the world to disappear. No more noise, no more shadows, no more guessing if the sun will rise tomorrow. This time, he was sure. He won't wait for it.
Three days past since the call for martial law.
Jim can't remember how he got here. Well, no, the ambulance brought him. But the moments before waking up in a thin white gown were blurry. He didn't push himself to recall though, he was more worried about the impending doom of war creeping behind him.
He begged the nurses to shut off the vents and tuck towels between the gaps of locked doors, that the nuclear fallout can seep into the building if they keep air circulating. But the nurses assured him the building was safe from the fallout but Jim couldn't be sure. He tried to turn on the news channel, to show the other patients what's happening to the world, yet they screamed and yelled at him for interrupting their broadcast. The least he could do is make sure everyone's windows were shut (but he's gotten in trouble for that too.)
The doctors said he could leave once he feels better. Yet he feels sicker the longer he has to wander these sterile halls. His thoughts speak louder than he could hear, reminding him again and again that he needs to go home. He's not safe. He has to leave. But he doesn't want to listen, he's too tired. All he wants, is to get away.
Fingers dragged along the support frame, nails scraping off the old polish as he wandered the halls. His gripped blue socks never stepped out of line from the checkered tiles. He lets the white coats and gowns blur into the background of his mind, drifting into the monotonous greys of the world.
All but one: a green crayon. It rolls between his feet, curiosity tempting him to pick it up. He observes the worn wax in his fingers. Brief memories flicker into his mind. Not the ones that made him gnaw at his fingers, but remind him of daisies and daffodils. He looks over to the room it came from.
The colorful walls decorated with drawings and posters stood out from the rest of the ward. Patients sat at the table consumed by their crafts, whether they were molding clay, braiding bracelets, or drawing with paper. They don't talk, but gentle music fills the silence with a melodic piano. A fritz-haired patient paces around the table, looking under seats and crawling underneath the floor, a fistful of crayons clenched as he frantically searches.
Jim glances at the green crayon. He hesitates, but steps into the room.
"U-uhm, excuse me..." His voice barely breaks a whisper. Jim's crouched to the patient's level, but he hardly notices him.
"Where, where, where is it..." The patient mumbles, pacing around on all fours.
"T-the crayon... is this..."
He turns around, finally noticing the crayon in his hands. "That's mine!" His twitchy fingers snatch the crayon back, reeling Jim back with a yelp.
"Booker." One of the nurses approach them. "The crayons are for everyone, you have to share."
"I was using it! I need it for my drawing!" He whines.
"There's more green crayons in the bin."
"But-!"
"I-it's okay." Jim flinches at the volume of his voice. "I was giving it back to him."
The nurse squints at Booker for a moment, before turning her attention to another patient calling her name. Booker takes it as his cue to crawl from under the table.
"Sorry for acting so silly." He brushes his gown. "That's the only lime green in the boxes. All the other greens aren't the right shade and they don't look right!"
As Booker gets up, the light finally shines the full detail of his arms. Faded scars run up his sleeves, the deep grooves giving his skin a bumpy texture. He feared the animal that attacked him. Jim hesitated to take the hand that reached for him, but Booker wasn't waiting for it.
He took Jim's wrist, hoisting him up with unexpected strength. "Are you new? I haven't seen you before. Are you in hall C?"
"Uh, I- I'm-" Jim's thoughts spill out as babbles. Booker's patience is thin, taking his wrist again to read the flap of text on his wristband.
"Jim Robur." Booker reads out loud. "Hi, Jim! Want to see my drawings?"
Jim believed the interaction to be over and done with. But Booker stretches it thin, dragging him over to his side of the table. Drawings are spread out in his creative space with worn crayons scattered about. They're crude childish drawings of houses, clouds, cars, anything simple that could come to mind.
"I'm working on this one." Booker crayons roll away from the pile as he shuffles through the drawings, pulling one out to show the head of a red flower. "See? I needed the green for the stem."
"That's... nice." Jim's gaze wanders back down to the pile. Mixed into the artwork were crumpled sheets of red scribbles, some of the papers torn with harsh red strokes.
Booker notices. "Oh, don't look at those ones." He snatches the bruised drawings and shoves them into their own pile. "I drew those cause I was sad."
"Why were you sad?" Jim asks.
His smile twitches, hands crossing to soothe up the bumps of their skin. "I'm not allowed to use my epik marker. Sometimes, my thoughts get so boring that they start screaming at me like 'Hey! Do something, silly!' So I draw with my marker to quiet them."
Quiet... Something Jim didn't have for a long time. The nagging voices in his head were easy to ignore when he could distract himself, whether it was scrolling through the internet or flooding his shopping cart with new gears. Even then, he would always want more until his wallet dried and the power short circuited. Then, he'd have nothing.
"I asked for my marker back, but the nurses said no! They said it's not good for me and that made me so sad I started crying. But then the nurses said I could draw in the art room instead and I did, so I'm okay now!" Booker quickly wraps up his story, wanting to scooch into his chair and get back to coloring.
Jim should've taken his sign to leave, that he didn't have to be a part of this conversation anymore. But the room is so colorful and the music makes him feel light. He picks at his nails. "W-when you say quiet... does it really stop the voices?"
"Nope." Booker shakes his head. "They still tell me I'm bored. But it feels the same as drawing with my epik marker, so I don't care!"
Booker focuses on his drawings, Jim does too. He makes it look so easy. If the world were to end right now, Booker would probably still be smiling. It should've, three days ago, but if the apocalypse could wait, so can Jim. "C-can I... can I draw too...?"
"Of course, silly!" Booker hums enthusiastically. He slides a blank sheet of paper to the empty seat next to him, rolling some crayons over as well. "I'm finished with the lime green, so you can use it now!"
A smile cracks in the corner of Jim's lips. Gently, he pulls the chair out and sits next to Booker. He pauses for a moment, trying to think of something nice to put on the paper. And when he got it, he picked up the crayon, and pushed it against the white.
