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Lying starfished on the concrete, staring up at a ceiling and tracing the line of ducts and beams, was Franco.
The area was quiet, save for his naturally heavy breathing. He couldn't help his busted nose and shit respiratory system, hence why reagents always heard him coming, always prepared to toss something at his fat fucking head or slam a door in his face.
They'd all gone back to their sleep rooms now, all together, to get drugged up some more and forced to go another round. Franco could only wish they'd dope him up enough to be as lost as they were. He was far too used to all the alcohol and lines of coke that it took a heavy supply to get his head in the clouds.
Didn't help that he hadn't even seen a goddamn cloud in who knows how long.
This place fucked with his sense of time. He hardly knew day from night, only able to draw conclusions based on how much staff he saw and when he got fed meals.
Meals.
More like scraps.
Sometimes he wondered if they gave him reagent's leftovers, finding him undeserving of anything good. Made no goddamn sense, given how much they needed him for whatever batshit military-type training they had going on. One would think they'd treat their prize pig a little better.
Instead, he had to chew on limbs and pump breasts of female victims till they produced a delectable white. Those were his version of a quality meal in this fabricated dump.
If he itched for it, he was sure he could get out of here. He had killed their augmented grunts without a scratch to show for it, always thirsty enough for blood to slaughter whomever he wanted. Those pathetic, limpy doctors and guards who stood behind their protective fences would be so easy to murder one right after the other. They'd have to put several tranqs on him to get him down, and even then, when they had once before, he still put up a fight before blacking out.
Did he want to, though?
Maybe being in here, controlled, yet free, neglected, yet protected, was best for him.
He was sick in the head, that was why he couldn't survive outside, that was why he was wanted by people crueler than him, to keep him caged and used for their own benefit, like a child playing with their Barbie in a dollhouse.
That was all he was. A tool to be refined and utilized. It should make him happy that he got to live out his most sick desires and fantasies. They even provided him with endless cigarettes, booze, and cocaine.
So why was there a pit in his stomach?
His vision started to get blurry, and he would've thrown a fit if he hadn't felt so exhausted.
What was he even fuckin’ crying about now? There were a myriad of problems, none of which he could fix, so what was the fucking point of being upset at all? Waste of goddamn time to mope and wallow in self-pity, as if his predicament was anyone's fault but his own.
Still, he couldn't find it in himself to get up. His bones were heavy, his skin felt like it was drooping to the ground under the pressure of gravity. The more he thought, the more he hurt.
But there was no cure for being a freak, a monster. He was who he was, he couldn't help it. He had his cravings, he had his wants and needs and no one was going to stand in his fuckin’ way and mess with his shit. What he wanted, he got. And if it wasn't given, he was gonna take.
Why shouldn't he? The world at least owed him that. He didn't ask to be born like this, to be a permanent stain under his father's shoe and an easy target for others to point and laugh at.
They didn't understand. No one did. No one tried to understand. But he gave up hoping for that long ago. If anyone else were in his shoes, they'd be just like him - he knew it.
Though no one was. Which was why he lived in solitude his entire life, climbing from bed to bed, crawling from heel to heel, splitting anyone open who didn't keep up the act of enjoying his company.
Franco wasn't some angsty child, but when he was by his lonesome for too long, when he had already thought of everything possible and couldn't muster up the energy to play with the dead bodies, he could feel a dull burn in his chest. Something that reminded him that he would always be alone.
Even if anyone listened, no one would get him. No one would sympathize or give him any grace. He knew people weren't hard-pressed to give a fuck about Franco Barbi.
He felt a lump in his throat. The fuck was he feelin' soft for? He had always been alone. That was all he knew and all he'd ever know. Letting his heart race at the mere thought of someone really taking pity on him, acknowledging that he never had a fair chance.
Franco's fingers curled around Lupara's comb, taking hold of it with both hands and pointing it directly down on himself.
Flashes of images of his own brain splattered across the street tempted him, thumb hovering over the trigger.
He never did turn the safety on.
It'd be so easy to turn himself into nothing. To be a mere ghost. He'd be free of this place and free of his thoughts. No more pain, no more crying, no more misery. The choice was his.
What would they do if they found him dead here? Would they mourn him? Mourn what he gave them? Would he be buried or cremated? Would they tell his father?
His stomach turned at knowing the answer to everything.
No, yes, cremated and probably thrown out to the fuckin' sea, no.
He held Lupara above himself, waiting a moment, listening to his heart beat loudly in his ears. He wondered if Murkoff was sending people to stop him before he acted upon an impulse and ruined whatever deranged shit they were using him for.
Franco couldn't help but chuckle at that. Yeah, right. Everyone here was replaceable, even him.
It was stupid he even held onto the notion that he may be important enough for them to want him alive when anyone around him would rather him dead.
His arm flopped back onto the ground, hissing at the hit to his elbow.
If no one would care about him in death, he may as well continue to terrorize them while he was alive.
Grunting as he sat up, ribs poking him uncomfortably, he cleared the tears from his eyes.
Stupid fucking idiot. Weeping over something he never had. No point in craving the unobtainable.
Franco pushed himself up off the ground, shakily panting. He wasn't a pansy. He wasn't. He was a grown fucking man who was just fuckin’ peachy.
Yet, when he turned, the shop's mirror whispered everything he already knew.
Bulging eyes with heavy underbags from his lack of sleep, looking permanently tired, but body always pumped full of drugs to keep him compliant, keep him focused and deluded enough for trials. His skin, which sagged at his young age, though it and the aches and creaking of his body made him feel much older, flopping under his chin.
The amount of teeth in his mouth could likely be counted on two hands, given his poor hygiene, tobacco habit and the way he sucked on pacifiers till they broke. All his bones protruded or curved weirdly, forcing him into uncomfortable stances and making his joints click.
Unmissingly atop the right side of his balding head were fat, red lumps, crusty and wet with blood and pus. He had limited sensation in the area, nerves clearly fucked up by whatever testing Murkoff subjected him to.
All in all, he was fucking grotesque. Anyone with eyes could see that. Didn't mean it didn't hurt any less when people cringed at a mere glance, more fearful of his face than his status, than what he could do to them.
It was nothing short of pathetic to rely on instilling terror to gain respect, but he never had any other choice.
Being alive might as well have been prolonged torture til his death.
Franco didn't want to think anymore. It hurt his head more than any hard ass brick thrown his way.
Only remedy he knew was a mixture of brown liquid and powdered snow. Then, maybe, he could go back to pretending everything was all okay.
As if anything had ever been okay at all.