The Farm. (Patreon)

Well, 150 patrons and a bad brain day means you get a new venting fic. Enjoy! Farm days Sidestep, from before the first escape.

---

There's a taste to despair. Slow. Suffocating. It drags you out like a rubber band, the tension increasing with no relief in sight. It's slow, pressure building until days bleed into nights, and there's nothing in here to mark the passage of time.

The lack of daylight doesn't help.

Will you snap? When? What if you don't? Will that be worse? Held at high tension until you grow brittle. Cracks. Filling up the gaps with mortar and pretending that this house is livable. Ordinary.

You're not special. They told you. Repeatedly. Didn't even score that high on the tests. Average at best. At best.

There's a whisper inside you that makes you doubt them.

What if they're wrong? What if they lied to you? You know they did, about other things. You know they lie every day. You can feel it even when you're not supposed to. See the mouth say words that the mind knows are wrong. They are laughing at you.

They are scared of you.

Everything used to make sense, but there are too many voices whispering now, and you can see the cracks. You keep plastering over them so they won't show. Don't smile. Don't frown. Don't even practice in the dark.

You know they're watching.

Every time you've been taken into the light, it's a new scene. A new place. A new situation. Your handler is the one constant, your team your only reassurance. Focus. Do the thing. Act the part. Be the doll they dressed you up as. You're an extension of their will. Don't bother to think.

But you do.

In the light, there are so many things to look at, and you do it out of the corner of your eye. Don't stare. Don't react. Do the job. Listen to the voice. Remember your training. Remember your programming.

But you hear them.

Like the birds they can't get rid of, singing in the background when it's quiet. Brittle bubble minds, projecting, strong, unprotected. New thoughts. Strange words. You focus on your duty, but you listen. They don't want you to hear. They don't want you to remember.

They can't stop you.

Make a shell. Put everything in there. Can't crush an egg if you squeeze it in one hand. Need to focus. Be sharp. They're not. They're blunt and clumsy and you don't smile and pass the checkups, your training intact.

On the inside, you are filling up with words. Concepts. Thoughts.

Not your own. No. That's new. Your own. Owning. Being you. Separate. Unique. The you they made. The you that you are remaking. Stealing words. Ideas. Thoughts. They are yours now. Brilliant and sharp, and they make everything hurt more than ever. It would be easier to crack that shell and let it drain away when they process you, but you keep it hidden. Hard.

Yours.

You. A you. Singular. Unique. Nobody else has your memories now, training flaking off like old paint, not sticking to the facade. Who gave you those ideas? Who liked buildings enough to provide them with name and function sufficient to stick inside you? Who gave you the idea of walls?

Who gave you the idea to break them?

You don't know. You don't remember. Things still slip. You're always kept in the dark. They don't trust you. They are afraid of you. They need you.

She needs you.

You hate her, but she gave you that. You're needed. You're special. Prize project. Words unsaid, but you stole them from a room down the hall when she wasn't looking. Wasn't shielding. You're not supposed to be this strong, that you know, so you pretend that you're not.

Lies. She taught you how to lie.

Everyone else taught you how to hide it. 

Now you're nothing special. Ordinary. A good tool. Pliable. But you're also waiting. Biding your time. Keeping your head down because there's another word you've learned. Another concept. It's strange, and you're not sure what you're going to do about it. What it really is.

Freedom.

It doesn't apply to you, but could it? You keep that concept close in the dark as you practice imagining what it would mean for you, training yourself to act. Not just react. What do you do when you don't follow orders? What would you do if you weren't punished for it?

Maybe one day you'll find out.