Participants:
| Scene Title | The Sound of Solitude |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Diogenes spends the entire night torturing and ultimately killing homeless people whilst training his ability. |
| Date | September 14, 2009 |
A homeless shelter in Staten Island
A reasonably thick, cylinder-shaped piece of white chalk is dragged uniformly in a single direction, leaving a fairly straight and long line - a mark of its completed path. It traverses fairly rough and uneven terrain, guided by a firm hand along the grey concrete ground. Eventually, the hand and the piece of chalk it holds reach their final destination, and the two digits holding the drawing tool captive slowly rise up. A moment later the chalk slips inside the external pocket of a jacket, and the artist rubs the tips of his fingers against his palm and his thumbs to rid them of the chalk's traces.
The other hand rises up, and in it lies the common modern spring tape measure, the sort where the 'tape' is actually crafted from steel. The claw at its tip is placed at the drawn line, and from there those young and unblemished hands bring the house of the tape measure all the way to an immobile body, which is sprawled in a chaotic fashion on the cold floor; paralysed and having exhausted his library of obscenities and threats, all he could do was simply lay there, draw strained breaths and let the occasional hoarse wail slip out.
"Wanna try again?" The raspy yet youthful voice armoured by a steel tone cuts mercilessly through silence. From a crouching position at the limp body, Diogenes shifts to stand at his full height. He presses on the button and the steel tape dutifully and speedily retracts, scurrying back into its plastic home. "It's really difficult, you know", he hints at what the problem is, but does not give insight as to what that issue might be until he steps away from his victim. "Trying to give you a reason to fight for your life.
A brief pause of silence interrupts Tom's voiced thoughts. "If I killed you, I'd probably be doing a favour not only for society, but you, as well", he muses, now standing behind the line he has drawn for himself; a point of reference as far as distance is concerned. "You're a bottom feeder. A parasite. You thrive on the remnants of others' lives. What a sad parody of life." Thomas sighs softly before he begins listing all the things he finds to be pathetic: "No home, no family, no real friends— Not that I agree with that particular conce—
"…Go…" The hoarse voice initially overlaps with words Diogenes utters; the torturer falls quiet soon thereafter. The first word just barely manages to escape the victim's lips, but the following words come at a more or less rapid pace, overcoming shortness of breath. "…fuck yourself…"
After another short pause, Diogenes continues as if nothing interrupted him moments earlier. "But that's not the saddest part of your existence. Fancy that, huh? No, the saddest part is, you have absolutely no drive." And this is the part where the pot calls the kettle black. On the other hand, delivering this speech to that unfortunate sap, Diogenes was, in a way, scolding himself. It's not long before he even forgets who he's in the room with, in fact. "You're fine with where you are. Sure, there are occasional tiny sparks of motivation that, sometimes, make you think that maybe this bleak life is not eternal, that there's hope."
"But do you hang onto that line? Do you struggle to crawl out of this pit you've dug for yourself? No. And why should you - you wonder. You breathe, you eat, you shit, you sleep - you exist. Ergo, the status quo is fulfilled. What else must a man have to be happy, right? Friends? They can betray you. Family? What if it falls apart? Home? Home is where the heart is, right— Be it in a ditch somewhere or up in a penthouse. Why strive towards achieving a little something, if you risk everything in the process?"
By now, the torturer's eyes are scurrying about every surface in the spacious room, a faint layer of glimmer coating his grey orbs. Ultimately, however, they fall upon the prone figure on the ground. Control is returned to the aged homeless man through the painful use of Tom's ability; oh, yes, having abused his ability for quite a long while, it actually was painful to use it further, just like any other overdone physical activity. The mind can get just as weary as muscles, after all. However, even with tired hands you can still lift weights, and even with an exhausted mind, you can push it further.
The figure, formerly crumpled on the ground, was now on its knees. The tired man looks up at Diogenes, taking long, heavy breaths. A dark unkempt beard hid his face partially, although the skin tone and the dirt and muck have made the guy's face already nearly as dark as his facial hair, figuratively speaking. The homeless person looked like someone who has been working in a mine shaft his entire life. His life might seem simple, but it by far was not. He had to survive whilst shadows of a great variety of predators loomed over him. Their life hardly consist of 'status quo'.
"What the hell do you want from me?", the man asks, momentarily closing his eyes. But, just as Diogenes smirks and parts his lips to deliver an answer, he is cut short by his own prey. "Want me to keep running at you, so you could train your Medusa stare on me?" His eyes shoot open, and the man clad in pitifully cheap and tattered clothing spits towards the ground. "Why don't you go and jerk your tiny prick off, then come back here and finish me off. Then go out and bring in the other one, eh? There are two more left."
Dead silence spins its webs across the room. Diogenes smacks his lips before he speaks up - almost a full minute later. "I think I'll go do just that. The endorphins should help me with the headache." Diogenes's third and unseen hand ripples through the man's spine, taking away control from him once again. He witnesses his fall; it wasn't the first one, but it most definitely will be his last. "I'll be nice and not have you wait, though. Enjoy your slow and painful death." Indeed, the way Diogenes killed his victims was brutal, even if it was not gory. His power could take away the ability to breathe, thus suffocating his targets.
'Kind' enough to let the man die completely in solitude, Diogenes wanders towards and past the door leading into the other room, where a neat row of both the living and dead were arranged by Yours Truly. He closes the door behind him, and hesitantly steps towards the row of prone men. Were they really as pathetic as he thinks they are? Who is the Judge that has the right to decide who lives and who doesn't? Are we to make that choice in the absence of higher, divine entities? Most importantly, who are you, Diogenes? Is your life any less pathetic if you hide behind a mask of a Greek philosopher?
"Eeny meeny miney moe", he mutters, eyeing the two that were still breathing, even if hardly. "I guess you're the lucky one. Come on."