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tonithegreat) wrote2025-06-29 06:11 pm
tonithegreat) wrote2025-06-29 06:11 pm
LJ Idol Wheel of Chaos - Week 2 - If its any consolation
Silva hurt. Her face hurt. Her ribs hurt. She didn’t want to wake up, but she found herself awake anyway. Awake and ironically, feeling like she’d gotten good sleep. Solid restful sleep for the first time in what felt like weeks. The anxiety cloud had lifted. But of course it had. The worst had happened. Slowly, consciousness coalesced. The hardness of the floor. The jaggedness where a tooth (please not teeth) was broken. The fullness of swelling on her face- maybe on her abdomen. She’d been in a car accident once. So much force and trauma. But being beaten by other people- other people with purpose- was definitely worse.
She struggled to sit up, counting the litany of little pains, thinking to herself that sitting up didn’t matter, that she should just try to fall back asleep. She should rest while she could because there was no telling what would happen next- no reason to pretend that her actions could prepare her. She’d spent so long thinking that she was doing everything necessary, everything right. And none of it mattered. She’d thought she understood the system she was working in. But the system decided to turn itself inside out. So it didn’t matter that she’d tried tirelessly to meet the objectives she’d been presented with. In the end, when they decided they didn’t like her, they just made up lies. The calculus she’d struggled with every day, of whether she was giving too much to a cause that she wasn’t fully on board with- that hadn’t mattered at all. Because they had always been planning to take everything from her. Of course they had. They had not been waiting until she wasn’t useful to them anymore. They’d just been waiting until they could get away with it.
One of the men who’d kicked her the hardest had been familiar. A supervisor from years ago. A person she hadn’t gotten along with, had never been able to communicate with. A person whose objectives she’d never been able to figure out. Maybe his objective had just been control. Certainly he still seemed to harbor a lot of anger about it.
She wanted to turn off her brain and go back to sleep. Instead her train of thought ran on. Hadn’t she just been listening to a story about recent research regarding revenge and how addictive the pursuit of revenge was? Of course people were being encouraged to act in ways that felt good in terms of revenge. Another powerful tool in the toolbox of those who were in charge.
Her body hurt, and she worried about her family. Her phone was gone- maybe doctored up to show evidence of whatever crime they were accusing her of, or maybe just destroyed because evidence wasn’t even necessary anymore if things moved along quickly enough. Maybe all it took to seal her fate was testimony of people who were willing to lie. But there was just a numbness now instead of anxiety when she thought about work. She knew beyond all doubt that she’d read the signs there wrong. She’d thought that she’d been on the same page as her direct supervisor and the people at her agency at least. But surely. . . The violence wouldn’t have happened. Surely she wouldn’t have spent a night on a concrete floor if any of them had gone to bat for her. So, either they believed the lies that the aggressive officers had been shouting about when she was picked up, or they were unwilling or unable to do anything about their disbelief of the story being spun about her.
The thing was, Silva wasn’t an important person. She wasn’t a decision maker. That was why she thought she’d thought it was okay to continue along with her ideas and ideology intact in a crumbling system. She thought that she was completely under the radar because the radar wasn’t tuned to key into little cogs that kept turning smoothly. Who could be angry with someone who was just pushing along at a little government job? Sure, she’d pointed out true things at times that might have felt inopportune to some. But the things were true. And it had been her job to point them out.
She had taken too much solace in thinking that she was on the same page with her direct supervisor. And now here she was, thinking about her friend Lenny- how scared he had been the last time they ran into each other for drinks. How he had told her that what really mattered- the only thing that really mattered was whether you were friends with the right people. She had laughed it off. But it didn’t seem funny now.
She shuddered, suddenly realizing how cold she felt. She should try to find a wall to sit and lean against. She should open her eyes more, catalog the hurts, try to get on with living. But her mind drifted and she considered concussion in a distracted way. Maybe there wouldn’t be a chance to get on with living even if she tried.
Her mind drifted to where she’d been before she was taken. Her morning run. She’d started driving to a trailhead, never one afraid of bears or the down-on-their-luck characters that sometimes orbited around the trailhead parking. And sure enough those weren’t the things she should have been afraid of.
She had felt good that morning on the trail. Sure her joints were sore and some muscles were tetchy. She wasn’t young anymore. But the pace had felt right. The dew on the bracken and the smilax climbing the pines. The wildflowers and dewberries and sumac. Names for old friends that it felt good to know, and it had seemed like it was going to turn into a good day. . .
A few hundred yards from the trailhead as she finished her out-and-back the voice of the first man in black had reached her ears. “Silva Moorehaven, step forward and get down on your knees!” No good morning. No hello. No friendly cyclists in sight.
***
They didn’t hit her again. And it became clear that she wasn’t the only person in her predicament when some different people in black appeared some unknown number of hours later. These people added plastic restraints to her arms and legs and put a cloth bag over her head. Soreness and dizziness made it hard to move the way they directed her to, but eventually she found herself stepping up and being pulled up. It seemed they wanted her somewhere else geographically and it seemed that they wanted to move others as well. She was pushed down onto a bench, which mercifully backed a wall that she could lean on. She could feel others at her sides. Then there were diesel fumes and jostling and she tried not to think of nausea. Her abdomen hurt. But she was afraid to say anything.
An interminable time later she found herself jolted from reverie by loud retching and moaning a few body widths down the bench from where she sat. There was a terrible acid and organic smell. The moaning turned into panicked yelling. Silva heard someone beat the metal of the vehicle and then someone else yelling, "They won't stop until the fuel runs out. We're on our own with this scum back here."
Then from across a short divide she heard a familiar sounding voice. Her head spun. The voice was muffled, as though it came through a cloth cover like the one she wore. It couldn't be. . .
Silva thought about her boss, about how he had always seemed like a true believer in what the new order was doing. Sure, he also seemed reasonable. But a true believer couldn't be back here with her. Someone like him wouldn't be rounded up and abused.
"If you don't remove these masks, you're going to be smelling a lot more of that kind of thing before this ride ends," was what the familiar voice said. Then there was mumbling from what sounded like two or three guards. And then the moaning and yelling stopped, replaced by gasping breathing. And then Silva heard a few other groans and sounds of relief. And then Silva was blinking and gasping and breathing more deeply herself with her own bag removed.
She took her time letting her eyes focus. The guards were yelling at them. Yelling at each other. Silva didn't think she could stand up without a pull or a shove if she tried. But the man across the aisle from her was indeed familiar, and both of them smiled a little as they made eye contact, even if Silva was definitely also openly weeping. Apparently it didn't even help to be a true believer. Why did it even feel good to see a familiar face? They were so screwed.
She struggled to sit up, counting the litany of little pains, thinking to herself that sitting up didn’t matter, that she should just try to fall back asleep. She should rest while she could because there was no telling what would happen next- no reason to pretend that her actions could prepare her. She’d spent so long thinking that she was doing everything necessary, everything right. And none of it mattered. She’d thought she understood the system she was working in. But the system decided to turn itself inside out. So it didn’t matter that she’d tried tirelessly to meet the objectives she’d been presented with. In the end, when they decided they didn’t like her, they just made up lies. The calculus she’d struggled with every day, of whether she was giving too much to a cause that she wasn’t fully on board with- that hadn’t mattered at all. Because they had always been planning to take everything from her. Of course they had. They had not been waiting until she wasn’t useful to them anymore. They’d just been waiting until they could get away with it.
One of the men who’d kicked her the hardest had been familiar. A supervisor from years ago. A person she hadn’t gotten along with, had never been able to communicate with. A person whose objectives she’d never been able to figure out. Maybe his objective had just been control. Certainly he still seemed to harbor a lot of anger about it.
She wanted to turn off her brain and go back to sleep. Instead her train of thought ran on. Hadn’t she just been listening to a story about recent research regarding revenge and how addictive the pursuit of revenge was? Of course people were being encouraged to act in ways that felt good in terms of revenge. Another powerful tool in the toolbox of those who were in charge.
Her body hurt, and she worried about her family. Her phone was gone- maybe doctored up to show evidence of whatever crime they were accusing her of, or maybe just destroyed because evidence wasn’t even necessary anymore if things moved along quickly enough. Maybe all it took to seal her fate was testimony of people who were willing to lie. But there was just a numbness now instead of anxiety when she thought about work. She knew beyond all doubt that she’d read the signs there wrong. She’d thought that she’d been on the same page as her direct supervisor and the people at her agency at least. But surely. . . The violence wouldn’t have happened. Surely she wouldn’t have spent a night on a concrete floor if any of them had gone to bat for her. So, either they believed the lies that the aggressive officers had been shouting about when she was picked up, or they were unwilling or unable to do anything about their disbelief of the story being spun about her.
The thing was, Silva wasn’t an important person. She wasn’t a decision maker. That was why she thought she’d thought it was okay to continue along with her ideas and ideology intact in a crumbling system. She thought that she was completely under the radar because the radar wasn’t tuned to key into little cogs that kept turning smoothly. Who could be angry with someone who was just pushing along at a little government job? Sure, she’d pointed out true things at times that might have felt inopportune to some. But the things were true. And it had been her job to point them out.
She had taken too much solace in thinking that she was on the same page with her direct supervisor. And now here she was, thinking about her friend Lenny- how scared he had been the last time they ran into each other for drinks. How he had told her that what really mattered- the only thing that really mattered was whether you were friends with the right people. She had laughed it off. But it didn’t seem funny now.
She shuddered, suddenly realizing how cold she felt. She should try to find a wall to sit and lean against. She should open her eyes more, catalog the hurts, try to get on with living. But her mind drifted and she considered concussion in a distracted way. Maybe there wouldn’t be a chance to get on with living even if she tried.
Her mind drifted to where she’d been before she was taken. Her morning run. She’d started driving to a trailhead, never one afraid of bears or the down-on-their-luck characters that sometimes orbited around the trailhead parking. And sure enough those weren’t the things she should have been afraid of.
She had felt good that morning on the trail. Sure her joints were sore and some muscles were tetchy. She wasn’t young anymore. But the pace had felt right. The dew on the bracken and the smilax climbing the pines. The wildflowers and dewberries and sumac. Names for old friends that it felt good to know, and it had seemed like it was going to turn into a good day. . .
A few hundred yards from the trailhead as she finished her out-and-back the voice of the first man in black had reached her ears. “Silva Moorehaven, step forward and get down on your knees!” No good morning. No hello. No friendly cyclists in sight.
They didn’t hit her again. And it became clear that she wasn’t the only person in her predicament when some different people in black appeared some unknown number of hours later. These people added plastic restraints to her arms and legs and put a cloth bag over her head. Soreness and dizziness made it hard to move the way they directed her to, but eventually she found herself stepping up and being pulled up. It seemed they wanted her somewhere else geographically and it seemed that they wanted to move others as well. She was pushed down onto a bench, which mercifully backed a wall that she could lean on. She could feel others at her sides. Then there were diesel fumes and jostling and she tried not to think of nausea. Her abdomen hurt. But she was afraid to say anything.
An interminable time later she found herself jolted from reverie by loud retching and moaning a few body widths down the bench from where she sat. There was a terrible acid and organic smell. The moaning turned into panicked yelling. Silva heard someone beat the metal of the vehicle and then someone else yelling, "They won't stop until the fuel runs out. We're on our own with this scum back here."
Then from across a short divide she heard a familiar sounding voice. Her head spun. The voice was muffled, as though it came through a cloth cover like the one she wore. It couldn't be. . .
Silva thought about her boss, about how he had always seemed like a true believer in what the new order was doing. Sure, he also seemed reasonable. But a true believer couldn't be back here with her. Someone like him wouldn't be rounded up and abused.
"If you don't remove these masks, you're going to be smelling a lot more of that kind of thing before this ride ends," was what the familiar voice said. Then there was mumbling from what sounded like two or three guards. And then the moaning and yelling stopped, replaced by gasping breathing. And then Silva heard a few other groans and sounds of relief. And then Silva was blinking and gasping and breathing more deeply herself with her own bag removed.
She took her time letting her eyes focus. The guards were yelling at them. Yelling at each other. Silva didn't think she could stand up without a pull or a shove if she tried. But the man across the aisle from her was indeed familiar, and both of them smiled a little as they made eye contact, even if Silva was definitely also openly weeping. Apparently it didn't even help to be a true believer. Why did it even feel good to see a familiar face? They were so screwed.
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Well done.
Dan
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Maybe his objective had just been control.
Boy, have I been there. Screamed at, given conflicting information, and what he really wanted was the opportunity to be enraged. :(
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