rareslash | "A Flea's War" / Pink Floyd: The Wall

Title: A Flea's War
Author: theratman
Fandom: Pink Floyd - The Wall
Pairing: Pink/Schoolmaster, Pink/Pink's Wife (unnamed)
Rating: R, for sexual situations
Warnings: Contains mention of underage rape. Also some het. elements.
Notes: Written for the War challenge over at Contrelamontre.
About: Alone in the asylum, Pink contemplates his room, taking comfort in a few familiar people even when he knows they'll hurt him.

Disclaimer: Not my characters and it's all fabricated.

A Flea’s War
The sun is setting; Pink can see the golden hues cast over the meadow through the barred window, although the sun itself is, of course, setting on the opposite side of the asylum. He wishes he could watch the sunset; it was something he had always liked to do, Before, but the doctors never listened to him when he asked to be moved so after a while, he simply stopped asking. Shadows are creeping across the meadow, and he knows they will reach him before they reach the other cells. It still frightens him, even now, but in a way he’s almost grateful that the sun has gone again; the light burns his eyes during the day, especially at the sunrise, when the harsh whitish light beams in his window and scorches down on him like flames. Still, the darkness seems sinister to him, more so than the light, and he crawls into the comfort of the bed to hide.
Time passes, and he thinks of better days, days before he spent his time huddled in the corner all alone with only the shadows for company. The room is darkened entirely now, with only the silver-pale moonlight seeping in, and shadows hang in the rafters like bats, silent accusations that seem far louder in his own ears than they should.
Sometimes he finds himself staring out the window at the barren field and thinking about things, strange things that only seem half-real. Of a woman, maybe, or money, or being famous. He feels he should know about all this, but the subjects seem vague to him; in his mind, he can remember flashes of instance, moments that he’s sure should fit together to make a whole, but he must be missing some of the pieces. He thinks about desire, but not in a desiring manor. He wants, but he doesn’t want the things he ponders. Rather he simply wants to understand them.
In moments of clarity, he thinks about being touched by the Red-Haired Woman; cold hands and warm thighs and belly, and it should feel good - he remembers it feeling good - but now he shies away even from himself, not wanting to be touched by anyone, because he feels contaminated somehow even thinking of the contact. He can’t even fathom touching himself, when these thoughts fill his addled brain, and the hunger that builds in him when he thinks of her or others only shames him further and he has to go back to the bed and lay still until he can again force his mind onto something else.
Money used to mean something, too, but now it just seems rather silly. He can’t imagine what he could want, or why the money would even be important at all. He wonders if he had money would they let him out of here? It seems even more silly, and he laughs. The sound surprises even him, echoing strangely off the bare walls, and he shivers and pulls farther under the blanket.
He likes the way the blanket feels on his skin; different from the Red-Haired Woman’s hands. Lying there he feels protected somehow, like Before, in the Other Place, when he was wrapped up in the Mother’s arms. She is another he remembers, from the time Before; her touch was soft and kind and gentle, and he clung to that, desperate for some island of calm away from the constant chaos in his brain. But there was something else, too, something that reminds him of the Red-Haired Woman, that makes him feel ashamed and angry, makes his guts feel cold and dark. He doesn’t like the feeling; it scares him and makes him want to hold tighter to the Mother, but even as he does he can feel that sickness growing even more potent.
When this happens he sometimes gets onto the floor, where the tile is cold and smooth. When he lays on it he can feel it seeping into his body, calming the fever burning under his skin. He feels numb when he lays on the tile, staring out across the wasteland of beige squares and off-white grout. Sometimes, when he’s looking at the tiles, he wonders what it would be like to be an insect. To a flea, the little indents in the tile from the grout would be as wide as trenches, the long stretch of brownish porcelain a huge desert. Maybe the other little fleas have wars on the tile, when they think nobody is watching; he can imagine tiny bombs exploding on the cold floor, microscopic plumes of smoke rising up towards the ceiling and miniature guns blasting away.
He smiles to himself, drawing a finger over one of the grout lines. The Mother would tell him he was being silly, to stop playing foolish games like this, but when he’s down here he doesn’t have to listen to what the Mother tells him. He licks his lips and rolls over onto his back, staring up at the ceiling and the little holes in the tiling. They look almost like stars in reverse, with a white sky and a million tiny black suns staring down at him. Almost like eyes, but that’s frightening to imagine, so he tries not to think about it too much.
But sometimes, like today, he can’t help thinking about it; he failed to snuff out the thought in it’s infancy and now it’s growing in his mind, picture becoming clearer as his fingers tighten helplessly against the grout. He remembers the way they all stared at him, their cruel laughter, and above all those cold blue eyes of the Schoolmaster; boring into him, stealing his words away simply to humiliate him further. He remembers how he would grit his teeth when he felt that pain again - it still hurt even after all this time, he was just a child, and the Schoolmaster a grown man - but he would hold back his cries, vowing not to give the Schoolmaster the satisfaction of knowing he’d caused him pain. The old man never stayed afterwards, just left him there on that cold tile floor of the classroom… That was when the tears would flow openly, and he never bothered to hold them back then, just let them drip down his face and onto the tile as he cleaned himself up, the saline burning tracks down his pallid face as if he had wept turpentine. He’d felt shame then, too, worse than when he was touching the Red-Haired Woman, worse than the feeling he got deep inside when he remembered the Mother.
He whimpers softly, drawing his arms into his chest; he can feel wetness on his face and he has a headache. The tile is too cold now; he wants to go back to the bed for a piece. In the dim light, he sees a bit of drool has spilled out into one of the trenches; he wipes it away hurriedly with his finger tips. He doesn’t want to drown the fleas.
He pulls himself up onto spindle-thin legs, crawling back into the welcoming embrace of the bed. He can feel the Red-Haired woman’s touch, the Mother’s touch, even the Schoolmaster’s touch as he pulls his little frame onto the yielding mattress. The shame is still there, but he’s resigned himself to bearing it, if only for the little comfort he gets from not being alone. Another battle lost, perhaps, but at the moment it seems easier to admit his defeat than to die alone in a trench, like a flea.