Work Text:
Drip, drop.
Plip, plop.
The beads of water fall, its tap-tap-tap rhythm as constant as anything else in these bare, minimal walls. It is clean, of course; cleaned as it is every day, like clockwork.
There is no other sound in the room. Only her, and the sink. She prays they never find it, and she carefully covers the piping in layers of toilet paper before anyone enters. In a prison of no imperfections, the minute flaws are all that's left of her freedom.
The room is not uncomfortable, by any means; her caretakers would never allow for anything else, nor would the thousands of dollars paid by Him. Let the world see His kindness; His devotion to his poor, poor wife, despite the sickness in her mind, despite how she has broken the perfect family apart.
Breakfast arrives as usual at 8AM on the dot. Simple fare, bread and fruit, endlessly and eternally. The woman who brings it doesn’t speak to her, but then they seldom do. She eats slowly; time doesn’t exist, not for her.
Drip, drop.
There's no clock in here anymore. Supposedly another patient kept shattering them, crushing glass with bare hands. There’s no books in here, after someone carved weapons using nothing but papers and book bindings and somehow escaped. No furniture unattached to the floor, after a patient, in a fit of rage, picked up a chair and threw it at the nurse. Nothing of harm is allowed in here, and slowly but surely, everything goes.
Plip, plop.
Sometimes, nowadays, her youngest child, the prodigal son, visits. Supposedly she is forgiven for her violence all those years ago, as she acted upon him the way no mother ever should.
He tells her of all that has changed, and all that has not. He tells her of his schooling, of his classmates, of newer, kinder teachers. He tells her of his grades, his friends, his green-headed companion who brought him back to her.
In between his stories, she hears what isn’t told.
She hears that He has not grown merciful. She hears that her son still trains to exhaustion every day, that he still yearns to surpass the best of the best, that he is still the product of His treatment. She hears that the family is still shattered, crushed from the death of her first son in his own greedy flames, from the mistreatment of Him, from the years in between.
She hears that He is still a jailer to them all, whether He be the warden of their house, or of her institute. Their lives still are governed by His iron fist, to be judged and executed at His will.
Drip, drop.
Lunch comes at some point, then dinner. Some days, she counts the droplets of water throughout the day, and it almost keeps her sane. 30678, 30679, 30680. A measure of time as good as any other.
Plip, plop.
The lights turn off, and she sleeps to the beat of her home.