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Can't Rob Me of Myself
by Pretender_Mel
The rhythmic pulse of the Centre’s ventilation ducts was the center of Angelo’s life. They defined his existence. Here he kept treasures no eyes aside from his had ever seen. Of course, he couldn’t feel possessive or proud of these keepsakes. They just existed, as he did, hidden away from the world. And in that similarity of location, was a certain kinship formed.
During the empty hours when everyone had left for the night, Angelo would systematically pick up each of these articles, gleaning flashes of significance from every one. Time and again they would offer him the same starburst of emotion usually accompanied by a fuzzy picture. The meaning, of course, was lost on him, as he could feel nothing in and of himself. He just liked to touch the things. They were the closest thing he had to company in the lonely sterile passages.
One item in particular, however, was different. It was a small, rectangular scrap of shiny paper bearing an image. Angelo kept it in his sock. He wasn’t sure why, but then again, Angelo didn’t contemplate whys. He just couldn’t and didn’t bother to try.
Every time he took hold of this small scrap of paper, which showed wear from the many times he’d taken it in his hands, the same words repeated in his mind (“There is no Timmy. From now on, his name shall be Angelo.”), causing him to bang his elbows against the sides of his enclosure to make them dissipate. They were the same words spoken by the shiny man who smelt of fire, the one who had taken Timmy away from him.
Some part of Timmy still existed within this piece of paper, however, and Angelo was determined to find him again. He wasn’t completely gone. And as much as the shiny man used him and abused him, he couldn’t completely kill Timmy. Because Timmy was right here, smiling up at him, holding hands with a man and a woman who loved him.
End.
by Pretender_Mel
The rhythmic pulse of the Centre’s ventilation ducts was the center of Angelo’s life. They defined his existence. Here he kept treasures no eyes aside from his had ever seen. Of course, he couldn’t feel possessive or proud of these keepsakes. They just existed, as he did, hidden away from the world. And in that similarity of location, was a certain kinship formed.
During the empty hours when everyone had left for the night, Angelo would systematically pick up each of these articles, gleaning flashes of significance from every one. Time and again they would offer him the same starburst of emotion usually accompanied by a fuzzy picture. The meaning, of course, was lost on him, as he could feel nothing in and of himself. He just liked to touch the things. They were the closest thing he had to company in the lonely sterile passages.
One item in particular, however, was different. It was a small, rectangular scrap of shiny paper bearing an image. Angelo kept it in his sock. He wasn’t sure why, but then again, Angelo didn’t contemplate whys. He just couldn’t and didn’t bother to try.
Every time he took hold of this small scrap of paper, which showed wear from the many times he’d taken it in his hands, the same words repeated in his mind (“There is no Timmy. From now on, his name shall be Angelo.”), causing him to bang his elbows against the sides of his enclosure to make them dissipate. They were the same words spoken by the shiny man who smelt of fire, the one who had taken Timmy away from him.
Some part of Timmy still existed within this piece of paper, however, and Angelo was determined to find him again. He wasn’t completely gone. And as much as the shiny man used him and abused him, he couldn’t completely kill Timmy. Because Timmy was right here, smiling up at him, holding hands with a man and a woman who loved him.
End.
