Post by KT ♥ on Oct 11, 2009 16:07:36 GMT -5
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
Tock. Tock. Tock. Tock. Tock. Tock. Tock. Tock. Tock. Tock.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
Tock. Tock. Tock. Tock. Tock. Tock. Tock. Tock. Tock. Tock.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
Tock. Tock. Tock. Tock. Tock. Tock. Tock. Tock. Tock. Tock.
"Toby?"
That clock would drive him crazy.
Ninety-nine red balloons.
Tick....tock. Tick.... tock.
The clock was going to drive him crazy. ("Toby?")
Ninety-nine red balloons go by.
The first line of chorus repeated (the clock was makin' him go crrrazyyy) inside his head.
Ninety-nine... red ball(oon)s... go by(?).
Tick....tock. Tick... tock.
The mechanical voices kept asking-- ("Toby?" Tickock Ticktoooock?)
"Toby?" And red ballons.
"Toby, can you hear me?" Ticktock, ticktock, balloons, heehee.
"Toby, are you there?" That clock, it laughed like, aheehee.
"No use. He's comatose again."
TICK TOCK, aHEEHEE.
(99 red balloons go byyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!!!!!!!)
He giggled softly to himself as the mechanical voices hushed and walked away.
"Kid hasn't moved for the better half of an hour. Only movement was shiverin' from the AC or his wacky giggling. Interrogation's over. Father's free by plea of insanity. Now let's all go home."
Weinburg's gruff voice finally broke the virgin silence on the other side of the glass, though his bulk alone easily could have done that...and his moustache. That man probably had the furriest lip on that side of "New Yawk." Of course, none of these fresh, just-out-of-college law school graduates would know that. The nerds, they'd stayed on the case for at least a week now, nonstop. Even Evelyn, that pretty blonde with the good legs, couldn't keep her attention off of it. Weinburg himself didn't see the case as anything more than your everyday abuse. But he hadn't looked into it, and after thirty years in the field, you get to see a lot of sick shit and get your feet calloused really quick.
He lounged in his cushioned chair, a cigarette held between two bloated fingers. He took a great drag off it as he peered in on the stick in the interrogation room. Heh, Evelyn fancied him, called him a "beautiful boy." He couldn't see why; the kid was a slip of a boy. What that needed was for someone to crawl up between those lovely legs of hers was all.
He couldn't remember her age, but Evelyn was certainly too old for the kid. Unless she liked 'em young, fresh, and "innocent." Looking the boy over from his sane side of the glass, Weinburg figured the teen was as far away from innocent as can be; as a matter of fact, everything about him made Weinburg wrinkle his moustache and think "FAGGOT." Faerie or not, the kid was psycho. It didn't matter if Evelyn had the hots for the nutcase because the fag wouldn't want anything to do with whatever sexy surprise she had hidden up in her skirts.
(Speaking of skirts, would she wear one today?)
Weinburg continued to glare at the mute in the other room, taking an occasional inhale off his cigarette. He took to sitting in silence once it had burnt out, listening to the drone of the clock.
Evelyn arrived long after Weinburg had jumped the border between boredom and despair. She wasn't wearing a skirt (an addition to his illusion of hopelessness), though she greeted him with a cute enough smile to let him excuse the day's lack of leg.
"Come in a little late, didn't you?"
He grinned at her in the best way he could manage, a hint of a joke in the back of his throat. Truly, he didn't mind; the heavenly view of her rear he received as she went to fix her hair in the reflection of the double-sided glass was enough to excuse all sins. The subject hadn't said anything of interest anyway. His eyes snapped up from her bottom to her face as he heard her laugh. Had she prepared for this question?
"Yes, I'm sorry about that", she said while addressing a slight curl on the right side of her head. "The electric when out in my apartment, and Roger didn't bother to wake me up when he left."
Weinburg pushed his eyes away from her. He knew who this "Roger" was, knew what privileges he had with this lovely-legged woman. And in that instant he hated her for letting another man, or (God forbid) woman, have her.
"Does this look okay?"
He forced himself to look at her, despite how horrible she was. Her pleasant, expecting face looked over at him in such an innocent curiousity, he had nothing more to do than forgive her...but only this once. He gave her a slight nod of approval. "Looks great, Ev. Not that he's going to care anyway. The kid's only been mumbling just like yesterday."
Evelyn's face fell at this, either because now she lacked a hormonal teenage audience or her indisputable liking for the boy. One could never be too sure with pretty missies like her (or fag lovers, for that matter). He watched her as she took one last look in the glass, and then she high-heeled her skinny self over to the door to the interrogation room.
"What's he been saying?" She asked him, hesitating at the door.
Weinburg thought about revving her up by answer her with "shock treatments" or "the sexy lady in the next room." In the end, honesty won out. "Nothing of importance. Don't worry about it. Good luck with him. I'll be listening in."
With that, she flashed him her miraculous smile and entered the room adjacent.
Evelyn Stevenston graduated from West Virginia University just two years before. Her major in law, minor in child care, she had, from the beginning, desired to specialize in youth-related crimes. She'd sat through many a court: divorce, juvie-bound, simple suits. But never through a mental case. There weren't very many nutty kids running around in her area of expertise. That was psychology. And so she began to wonder just what the circumstances were that she be placed on this case -- or hired more like. She was a professional now.
The click of her heels on the tile reverberated around the four-cornered room. It clashed with the rhythmically ticking seconds fo the clock. The boy didn't seem to mind; he was looking at the table in front of him, bent forward with his head on his forearms
He looked cold.
It was cold, Evelyn realized. She looked over to the black mirror and waved. That was the signal to stop the AC -- or was that to start recording? Before she could curse herself, there came a click in the ceiling that signified that waving was, indeed, the signal. She whisked a smile to Weinburg and sat down, cross-legged, in the chair opposite the boy.
The boy made no indication that he knew she was there. His eyes were set on the table. They did not move. She cleared her throat in an attempt to gain his attention. There was no response but the monotonous ticking of the clcok.
"Mr. Fell?" She addressed him and took a moment to let him answer.
No response.
She adjusted herself in her chair and spoke again. "Mr. Fell?"
The boy's shoe moved...but that was all.
Evelyn held back a sigh of many origins. She slouched in her chair to study her subject, as the time and her irritation permitted.
He wore a simple black jacket. Its hood was pulled untidily over his head. A soft-looking mess of hair fell in a rebellious tuft on the side of what she could see of his face. She could see his eyes, see how lovely a light brown they were... or were they green?
I shouldn't be in an occupation where I'm going to be checking out my patients, she thought to herself as she sat upright once again. It's things like that that get you fired. Yet in this pedophilic moment, she could not look away form his eyes. So empty, so disembodied, so
(Intriguing?)
"Mr. Fell? Toby?"
Her voice played back at her, both in the chamber and her mind. It seemed nothing was there but his eyes, nothing but that enchanting concoction of sienna and jade, nothing but the poetic hollow expression ringing in his eyelashes.
"Mister--"
She had to stop herself from jumping as his eyes snapped up to meet hers.
And the room grew that much colder.
Tock. Tock. Tock. Tock. Tock. Tock. Tock. Tock. Tock. Tock.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
Tock. Tock. Tock. Tock. Tock. Tock. Tock. Tock. Tock. Tock.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
Tock. Tock. Tock. Tock. Tock. Tock. Tock. Tock. Tock. Tock.
"Toby?"
That clock would drive him crazy.
Ninety-nine red balloons.
Tick....tock. Tick.... tock.
The clock was going to drive him crazy. ("Toby?")
Ninety-nine red balloons go by.
The first line of chorus repeated (the clock was makin' him go crrrazyyy) inside his head.
Ninety-nine... red ball(oon)s... go by(?).
Tick....tock. Tick... tock.
The mechanical voices kept asking-- ("Toby?" Tickock Ticktoooock?)
"Toby?" And red ballons.
"Toby, can you hear me?" Ticktock, ticktock, balloons, heehee.
"Toby, are you there?" That clock, it laughed like, aheehee.
"No use. He's comatose again."
TICK TOCK, aHEEHEE.
(99 red balloons go byyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!!!!!!!)
He giggled softly to himself as the mechanical voices hushed and walked away.
"Kid hasn't moved for the better half of an hour. Only movement was shiverin' from the AC or his wacky giggling. Interrogation's over. Father's free by plea of insanity. Now let's all go home."
Weinburg's gruff voice finally broke the virgin silence on the other side of the glass, though his bulk alone easily could have done that...and his moustache. That man probably had the furriest lip on that side of "New Yawk." Of course, none of these fresh, just-out-of-college law school graduates would know that. The nerds, they'd stayed on the case for at least a week now, nonstop. Even Evelyn, that pretty blonde with the good legs, couldn't keep her attention off of it. Weinburg himself didn't see the case as anything more than your everyday abuse. But he hadn't looked into it, and after thirty years in the field, you get to see a lot of sick shit and get your feet calloused really quick.
He lounged in his cushioned chair, a cigarette held between two bloated fingers. He took a great drag off it as he peered in on the stick in the interrogation room. Heh, Evelyn fancied him, called him a "beautiful boy." He couldn't see why; the kid was a slip of a boy. What that needed was for someone to crawl up between those lovely legs of hers was all.
He couldn't remember her age, but Evelyn was certainly too old for the kid. Unless she liked 'em young, fresh, and "innocent." Looking the boy over from his sane side of the glass, Weinburg figured the teen was as far away from innocent as can be; as a matter of fact, everything about him made Weinburg wrinkle his moustache and think "FAGGOT." Faerie or not, the kid was psycho. It didn't matter if Evelyn had the hots for the nutcase because the fag wouldn't want anything to do with whatever sexy surprise she had hidden up in her skirts.
(Speaking of skirts, would she wear one today?)
Weinburg continued to glare at the mute in the other room, taking an occasional inhale off his cigarette. He took to sitting in silence once it had burnt out, listening to the drone of the clock.
Evelyn arrived long after Weinburg had jumped the border between boredom and despair. She wasn't wearing a skirt (an addition to his illusion of hopelessness), though she greeted him with a cute enough smile to let him excuse the day's lack of leg.
"Come in a little late, didn't you?"
He grinned at her in the best way he could manage, a hint of a joke in the back of his throat. Truly, he didn't mind; the heavenly view of her rear he received as she went to fix her hair in the reflection of the double-sided glass was enough to excuse all sins. The subject hadn't said anything of interest anyway. His eyes snapped up from her bottom to her face as he heard her laugh. Had she prepared for this question?
"Yes, I'm sorry about that", she said while addressing a slight curl on the right side of her head. "The electric when out in my apartment, and Roger didn't bother to wake me up when he left."
Weinburg pushed his eyes away from her. He knew who this "Roger" was, knew what privileges he had with this lovely-legged woman. And in that instant he hated her for letting another man, or (God forbid) woman, have her.
"Does this look okay?"
He forced himself to look at her, despite how horrible she was. Her pleasant, expecting face looked over at him in such an innocent curiousity, he had nothing more to do than forgive her...but only this once. He gave her a slight nod of approval. "Looks great, Ev. Not that he's going to care anyway. The kid's only been mumbling just like yesterday."
Evelyn's face fell at this, either because now she lacked a hormonal teenage audience or her indisputable liking for the boy. One could never be too sure with pretty missies like her (or fag lovers, for that matter). He watched her as she took one last look in the glass, and then she high-heeled her skinny self over to the door to the interrogation room.
"What's he been saying?" She asked him, hesitating at the door.
Weinburg thought about revving her up by answer her with "shock treatments" or "the sexy lady in the next room." In the end, honesty won out. "Nothing of importance. Don't worry about it. Good luck with him. I'll be listening in."
With that, she flashed him her miraculous smile and entered the room adjacent.
Evelyn Stevenston graduated from West Virginia University just two years before. Her major in law, minor in child care, she had, from the beginning, desired to specialize in youth-related crimes. She'd sat through many a court: divorce, juvie-bound, simple suits. But never through a mental case. There weren't very many nutty kids running around in her area of expertise. That was psychology. And so she began to wonder just what the circumstances were that she be placed on this case -- or hired more like. She was a professional now.
The click of her heels on the tile reverberated around the four-cornered room. It clashed with the rhythmically ticking seconds fo the clock. The boy didn't seem to mind; he was looking at the table in front of him, bent forward with his head on his forearms
He looked cold.
It was cold, Evelyn realized. She looked over to the black mirror and waved. That was the signal to stop the AC -- or was that to start recording? Before she could curse herself, there came a click in the ceiling that signified that waving was, indeed, the signal. She whisked a smile to Weinburg and sat down, cross-legged, in the chair opposite the boy.
The boy made no indication that he knew she was there. His eyes were set on the table. They did not move. She cleared her throat in an attempt to gain his attention. There was no response but the monotonous ticking of the clcok.
"Mr. Fell?" She addressed him and took a moment to let him answer.
No response.
She adjusted herself in her chair and spoke again. "Mr. Fell?"
The boy's shoe moved...but that was all.
Evelyn held back a sigh of many origins. She slouched in her chair to study her subject, as the time and her irritation permitted.
He wore a simple black jacket. Its hood was pulled untidily over his head. A soft-looking mess of hair fell in a rebellious tuft on the side of what she could see of his face. She could see his eyes, see how lovely a light brown they were... or were they green?
I shouldn't be in an occupation where I'm going to be checking out my patients, she thought to herself as she sat upright once again. It's things like that that get you fired. Yet in this pedophilic moment, she could not look away form his eyes. So empty, so disembodied, so
(Intriguing?)
"Mr. Fell? Toby?"
Her voice played back at her, both in the chamber and her mind. It seemed nothing was there but his eyes, nothing but that enchanting concoction of sienna and jade, nothing but the poetic hollow expression ringing in his eyelashes.
"Mister--"
She had to stop herself from jumping as his eyes snapped up to meet hers.
And the room grew that much colder.