Deprivation	   Deprivation

 by Actizera

  

Notes: Written without the benefit of a beta, as per The Lyric Wheel
Rulez, so all mistakes are all mine. I've taken some liberties with what
might have happened after the prisoners' post-evacuation return to Oz. For
instance, don't you think they would have given Toby his old job back
eventually? Yeah, me too... 

Dedicated to Mav, for making me do it. : )  

He sat on the cafeteria bench, a tray of food on the table in front of
him, and fed himself. He sat there surrounded by the same people as
yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that, and he ate. What
else was he going to do? It was that time of day. Noon. The morning's work
was finished, the work of the afternoon would begin in half an hour. It
was the time when he was expected to sit quietly and eat. Was there any
point in not complying? 

The voices of the people around him blended into a steady current of white
noise. If he adjusted his attention in precisely the right way, he could
hear none of the words being spoken -- none of the petty concerns, none of
the complaints, none of the gossip, not even that of the people sitting on
either side or in front of him. He had discovered he preferred it that
way; he routinely chose the distraction of empty sound over that
containing any kind of meaning. The less he felt obligated to engage with
the pathetic facsimile of a world around him, the better. It was how he
managed to make each day and night flow seamlessly into the next, and it
actually tended to happen relatively quickly. He would pass the remainder
of his sentence that way, if he could manage it. 

As he inclined his head to take a bite of food, he caught a glimpse of the
sleeve of the person next to him. It was the sleeve of a gray sweatshirt,
pushed slightly up a forearm. He turned away quickly, but it was too late,
and his mind had already filled in the rest of the details: the pale skin
that wanted to be olive but never saw the sun, the coarse black hair, the
strong muscles, the bones of the wrist, the veins and tendons tracing
paths to graceful, powerful fingers. A sharp longing took form in his gut
and bloomed outward, spreading until it constricted his throat and he
couldn't swallow the food in his mouth. He waited, breathing deeply
through his nose, until the feeling had passed -- until he had
successfully pushed it into a corner and replaced it with the usual
feeling of apathy, reinforced with an instinctive drive toward
self-preservation that kept him only as aware of his surroundings as he
needed to be. Since returning to Oz after three months in Lardner, it was
the only emotional state he could tolerate comfortably. 

He resumed eating. The arm he'd seen belonged to a new inmate who'd been
in Oz for...maybe a week now? He wasn't sure. Well, anyway, long enough to
learn that Tobias Beecher was a reasonably safe person to sit next to, all
things considered. He didn't cause trouble, and he no longer attracted it
the way he used to. The few Aryans left in Oz disliked him, of course, but
not very enthusiastically. Given the opportunity to see him dead, they
obviously wouldn't say "no," but they seemed unwilling to put any real
effort into doing the job themselves. These truly were "half-assed
Aryans"; the others were all gone. Chris had seen to that with the
multiple homicide that had been his parting gift to him. 

That gift had enabled Toby to maintain his baseline state of mind and
still stay alive. He had no further need of alliances or attachments, and
he avoided situations that would earn him any new enemies. His reputation
preceded him just enough to take care of the rest. Life in Oz continued
around him in the same way it always had, but he now saw himself as not
much more than a phantom on its periphery. The political machinations, the
alliances, the brawls, the occasional friendships -- they all simply
formed a flat backdrop to his day-to-day life, like a plywood landscape in
a stage set. It provided a sense of place, but he didn't interact with it.


There was only one thing that was consistently able to intrude on this new
arrangement and pierce the barrier between him and Oz. He took a quick
look at the man sitting next to him, now an ordinary person of no
significance -- someone who just happened to be wearing a gray sweatshirt
with the sleeves pushed up on his arms. But he knew it was only a matter
of time before something else had the same effect. 

/If I die, don't forget me.../ 

Yes, this is all just exactly as Chris would have wanted it.  

Benjamin Taylor Stone. When he turned the parts of the name over in his
mind, he felt a twinge of something he couldn't and didn't want to
identify, so he moved on quickly, rapidly typing the details of his case
file and not giving the name any further thought. He read the first few
sentences of Sister Pete's scrawled notes, then looked back at the screen,
typing them from memory. 

Another new prisoner, and apparently he was in Em City. Toby couldn't
immediately think of a face to go with the name. Judging from the name
itself, though, the only gangs this guy was likely to be joining were the
Aryans or the Homeboys. There had been a time when he would have thought a
lot more carefully about that, when he would have used his position to
carefully assess this man as a possible danger. Those days were over now.
Well...almost over. He skimmed through the remainder of Sister Pete's
assessment and saw a long history of heroin use that probably meant he
wouldn't be accepted into the Brotherhood anytime soon. Of course, if he
was pretty enough, he could end up serving a different purpose... 

That last, unwelcome thought lingered for too long and threatened to
distract him. He closed his eyes and shook his head, as if to clear it,
and then quickly continued typing. He read the words on the page but
didn't let them touch him; it was an easy adjustment to make, back to his
default state of consciousness. After all, it was an adjustment he'd been
practicing for months now. As far as coping mechanisms went, it beat drugs
and alcohol. 

"Tobias, do you have something you'd like to say to me?" 

Sister Pete had left her desk and materialized next to him, one hand
resting on the table beside his keyboard. Her fingers tapped a quick,
uneven rhythm that served to broadcast her mood precisely. She was both
nervous and upset, and, judging from the tone of her voice, probably a
little worried about him. Toby stopped typing and looked up at her. 

"Something I'd like to say?" He searched his recent memory for some
interaction between them that might require explanation. "No, not that
I...no." 

Sister Pete sighed wearily. "Where were you yesterday afternoon?" 

"I was here. Working." 

"After that." 

"I was..." Where? Where had he been? He wasn't often required to account
for his whereabouts at a specific time. Had he been watching TV in the
common area, or had that been the day before? Had he spent the hours after
work reading in his pod? Napping? He did remember a recent afternoon spent
on his bunk, falling in and out of sleep, periodically opening his eyes
and blinking in the light, hearing laughter and conversations shouted from
one end of the common area to the other. But that could have been two days
ago, or even three. 

He focused on her again. "I'm not sure, actually," he said with a small,
self-deprecating laugh. "Did we...have an appointment or something?" 

"Yes, Tobias, we did have an appointment. You missed yesterday's
addictions counseling group." She paused for a few seconds, and when she
continued her voice was less stern. "I know I don't have to tell you that
technically you're required to attend because of the...circumstances of
your parole violation. Now, I'm not going to report this to the warden,
but..." She trailed off with a quiet sigh. 

Toby snorted, then laughed. "Right. I'm sorry to have to be the one to
break it to you, but I don't think I need your group to help me with the
circumstances that led to my parole violation. See, that particular
problem has already taken care of itself. Remember?" 

Pete was silent, which Toby thought was probably the only appropriate
response. He knew she didn't want to encourage such cold feelings in him,
and yet she really had no valid argument against them. Sensing that she
was gathering her thoughts and preparing to speak again, he forced a
blank, emotionless expression onto his face; the last thing he wanted was
for her to get an urge to try to draw him out and make him talk about his
emotions. As he turned away from her, he found himself looking at the
chair in front of Pete's desk. 

That's where Chris would have sat, he thought. 

He tried to preserve his emotional detachment from the thought, but it was
already slipping away. He was almost able to see Chris in that chair; he
must have spent hours in it during the course of his sentence here. After
Toby, Pete was probably the person in Oz Chris had been closest to. And,
as with Toby, their relationship had also started as nothing but a lie. 

It was too easy to imagine the things Chris would have done as he sat in
that chair and weaved himself into the fabric of her confidence. It was
also easy to imagine how Pete must have responded. She probably wouldn't
even have noticed that a change was overtaking her until one day, maybe,
he didn't appear when he was supposed to, and then she would have suddenly
realized that she had spent every minute until that moment rehearsing the
kind and witty things she would say to make him smile and the exact way in
which she would smile back, how she would sit, what she would wear and how
many buttons of her sweater she could get away with leaving undone without
seeming too obvious. 

He knew what Chris had done to her, because he'd done it to him, too. He
knew what it was like to have your mind and body subtly and painlessly
rewired until it required Chris's presence to go on working properly. And
what had made him think that things were any different now? Because he
wasn't just imagining Chris sitting in that chair; his mind was once again
filling in all the necessary blanks, replacing the empty space in front of
him with Chris's body, slouched insolently, one elbow resting on Sister
Pete's desk. His eyes were actually seeing it. When he took a breath, he
could smell that hot, hypermasculine smell that had sometimes been the
first thing to wake him in the night, even before he heard him whisper or
felt his hands on him. If he reached out, he would be able to press the
palm of his hand against the skin of Chris's left shoulder, skin that had
always struck him as so strangely, incongruously soft. He was going to
feel it against his hand again. All he needed to do was reach out and
touch it... 

Part of him wanted to close his eyes and make this go away, to get rid of
this laid-bare sensation, this feeling of susceptibility. The contrast was
too stark; he wanted things to revert back to their usual, anesthetized
state. But another part of him clung tightly to this with both fists --
the part that represented the person he used to be, still buried somewhere
inside him. The guy who fell in love and forged friendships and did his
best to make Oz seem like life. For all the good it had ever done him. 

"Tobias?" 

And just like that, it was gone again. Chris was gone. The decision had
been made for him. His heart was still thumping anxiously, but all he saw
now was an empty chair. Sister Pete moved in front of him, trying to
capture his attention; he took one last deep breath through his nose but
was able to smell nothing but the faint scent of Pete's hand lotion. 

"Listen. Never mind about yesterday's session. I'm concerned about you." 

"You don't need to be." 

"Oh, I think I'll be the judge of that." Her voice had taken on a quiet
yet commanding tone. "I have the authority to require you to attend
counseling sessions -- private counseling sessions -- and I intend to use
it. I refuse to watch you withdraw inside yourself like this and not do
anything about it. Not this time. Not again." Her small hands chopped
through the air in front of her as she struggled to make her point. 

Toby shrugged and nodded. "Fine." Fighting against the idea would only
make her more determined, and this discussion needed to end now. He could
feel himself hardening, a protective buffer of neutrality again starting
to form around him, and he didn't want the process interrupted by a
heart-to-heart with an overly concerned and meddlesome Sister Pete. 

She continued to talk, outlining the things the two of them would be
covering in their future sessions, reassuring him that this wasn't meant
to be any sort of punishment, etcetera -- but he was already elsewhere,
nodding agreeably and murmuring his assent while idly contemplating the
return to the solitude of his pod, now only a couple of hours away.  

He knew it couldn't last forever, having a pod entirely to himself. Sooner
or later, McManus would either move another inmate in or move Toby out and
into AdSeg, where he would remain while on trial for Chris's murder. The
prosecutors were still slowly gathering evidence and interviewing
witnesses, after the process had been interrupted suddenly by the
evacuation of Oz. The case had never been of particularly high priority,
obviously, because of the identity of the victim. Many in the office of
the District Attorney would have been just as happy to do the job of
killing Chris themselves, albeit in a more carefully controlled and
state-approved manner. 

In truth, he doubted he would ever be charged. There were too many people
willing to testify to Toby's character and Chris's lack thereof, too many
people with knowledge of Chris's dangerous, all-encompassing obsession
with him. His rejection of Chris in those last few weeks had been both
brutal and public. It wasn't a stretch for those whose testimony would be
considered trustworthy -- Sister Pete, McManus, a few hacks who had been
at the scene -- to believe that Chris had thrown himself off that balcony.
The fact that many of the prisoners were somewhat less convinced was more
or less immaterial. 

Whatever ended up happening in the future, at the moment he was content to
enjoy the relative peace of an empty pod, where the only creaking of the
bunks was his and the sound didn't evoke any specific memories, anyway.
All of the beds in Em City were new and constructed differently from the
old ones. They felt different and hadn't even had a chance to develop a
distinctive smell. His bed was reasonably safe that way. 

Other aspects of the pod were less safe. The sink, for instance, and the
mirror over it. He almost always needed to close his eyes as he brushed
his teeth, or else stare down into the drain. The mirror, the bed
reflected in it -- those were things that could transform his entire
emotional state if he wasn't careful. They were doorways through which
Chris was able to breeze right into his mind and make himself at home;
once there, locked with him in his pod with no interruptions, he often
wouldn't leave without a fight. 

Toby rolled to his side on the bunk and let the book he was reading dangle
from his hand. He still felt slightly off-balance from his earlier
conversation with Sister Pete. It meant another crimp in his routine, and
he would need to somehow adjust around it. It wouldn't be easy, dealing on
a weekly basis with her dogged attempts to plumb the depths of his
consciousness and force him to expose his feelings to her. He thought it
was probably important to make a show of complying, though, especially if
she ended up having to testify in court on his behalf. He would sort out a
strategy when the actual appointment was approaching; for now, he wanted
nothing more than to clear his head completely and fall asleep as soon as
possible. 

The lights were still on, but he tossed his book to the empty bunk beneath
him, closed his eyes, and began trying to relax each of his muscles, one
group at a time, the way the nurses had taught him to in the hospital
after his arms and legs had been broken. He had worked his way up to his
hamstrings when a hack's baton slammed against the wall of a pod a few
doors down from his. Toby's eyes shot open, and the first thing he noticed
was the white t-shirt thrown carelessly over the back of the chair next to
his bed. 

It almost always happened that way. Most times, he never even saw it
coming. Something about the shirt, the precise way it had fallen, reminded
him both of Chris and, in a brief flash of insight, of why he had missed
his appointment with Sister Pete the previous afternoon. The shirt had
been lying there for days now. Why hadn't he picked it up yet? He was
annoyed that such a small thing, such a mundane detail, could have such a
profound effect on him, but of course that didn't change anything. Chris
was now standing in the middle of the room, shirtless, a gauze bandage
taped to his chest. He was standing there reaching for him; he wanted to
touch Toby, to take off his clothes and hold him close and taste his mouth
again, but he was trying hard at the same time to restrain himself, to be
sympathetic and unselfish. It was a small-scale illustration of the
central problem between the two of them -- the inherent contradiction
between how completely Chris needed to possess him and the life Toby
himself felt he needed to lead. Those two needs may never have been
entirely compatible, but seeing him this way made Toby think of how hard
Chris had tried to change that. 

He lay there and looked at him, watching to see what he would do next.
This, of course, is what he had done yesterday afternoon, losing all track
of time in the process. Tomorrow, outside the pod and in a less emotional
state, he might think carefully about how real Chris was to him at this
moment and wonder whether he should worry about his sanity. Chris was
solid flesh and bone in front of him, giving off bodily warmth and
electricity. He knew it had to be an illusion, that his mind was once
again creating stimulus for his benefit, but how did that really matter?
Whether Chris was actually there in front of him or not, these were the
strongest emotions he'd felt all day -- a sharp, aching reminder that he
was still capable of having them. 

"Chris..." he whispered, wondering how it would play into the illusion, if
at all. It didn't seem to have any effect; Chris just kept looking at him
in the same way. Toby realized he wanted him to stop looking at him that
way; his instinct was suddenly to jump down off the bed and shake Chris to
his senses. His body twitched, wanting to act, even as he told himself the
instinct was ridiculous. Shake what to its senses? There's nobody there. 

Minutes passed. An hour. Two. Toby lay in bed and continued to watch,
having imaginary conversations and heated arguments, remembering specific
moments between the two of them -- some of obvious significance, some
completely inconsequential. Chris kicking the underside of his mattress to
distract him from his reading. Waking from half sleep to feel Chris's
fingers brushing gently through his hair. A long conversation they'd had
about Slaughterhouse Five, which Chris had read after he had seen it in
Toby's footlocker, claiming it was only because he had nothing better to
do. The way his eyes darted around the chessboard as he calculated his
next move, while at the same time clearly not wanting to seem to care too
much about the outcome of the game. 

When the buzzer sounded and the lights went out, Toby's first involuntary
thought was "Now...now we can really touch each other." He glanced outside
the pod and saw that no hacks were nearby. When he looked back, Chris was
gone. 

The surge of anger that followed took Toby by surprise. He looked around
him with a newly intense hatred for everything he saw, for the tiny room
with its transparent walls and industrial fixtures and furniture that
would be surrounding him for God knows how many more years. And for what?
He wanted Chris to appear again, so that he could at least direct his
anger where it belonged. "Why are you the one who's gone?" he thought. He
clenched his hands into fists as he considered the fact he should be
tucking his kids into bed right about now. Chris should be the one lying
in this cell, wondering where Toby was and what he was doing, conjuring up
images of him in his mind. Instead, Chris was free of Oz, and Toby was
still here. Chris had brought Toby back and then left him. There was
nothing more to be done or said, no chance for some future reconciliation
or clarification of actions or motives. Chris had taken it all away with
him. 

He became even angrier as he remembered how, just a couple of minutes ago,
he had been thinking about touching Chris again. Oh God, somewhere,
wherever he was, Chris was just loving that. He swung his legs off the bed
and jumped to the floor, his agitation too intense to be taken lying down.
Raking his fingers through his hair, he paced once across the pod, then
back to the bed again. Would Chris ever relinquish his power over him?
Would there ever be a morning when he would wake up and find that Chris no
longer had the ability to manipulate his feelings at will? 

He turned away from his bed and saw the white t-shirt lying draped over
the back of the chair. How stupid, how completely idiotic, that something
like that could have started all this. It was just an old shirt he had
taken off and tossed aside, nothing more. He began to reach for it, then
stopped. Wouldn't it be a kind of defeat to move it now? An admission of
his own weakness, of his susceptibility to Chris's influence? He turned
and walked quickly to the sink and began to brush his teeth, having made
up his mind to leave the shirt exactly where it was, a defiant affirmation
of his sanity. Really, there was no need to move it. Not yet, anyway. Not
quite yet.  

He walked into the cafeteria and found an empty seat at a neutral table.
He met the eyes of none of the people already sitting there, and he didn't
greet any of the men who sauntered over to sit near him once he had begun
to eat. They all knew better than to try to engage him in conversation. As
always, he remained aware of their presence in much the same way that he
was aware of the table in front of him, the bench beneath him, and walls
enclosing the room. They were just neutral features of his surroundings
that caused him neither pain nor pleasure. 

Pain... He had a sudden recollection of recent pain and anger, now faint
to the point of being barely detectable, like a diminishing echo, but he
couldn't put his finger on the exact source. More importantly, he didn't
want to. He knew something had upset him last night -- a dream, maybe? --
but he didn't have any desire to pursue its source. There was still a lot
of daily routine to get through; it was important that he preserve his
complete detachment. 

A fight broke out across the room, somewhere behind him. He heard shouting
and cheering, trays clattering to the floor, blows being struck. Instinct
told him he was far enough away from it to not have to worry about his own
well being, and he continued to eat as those sitting around him twisted in
their seats and craned their necks to get a better view. They were talking
to each other in excited voices, but Toby wasn't listening. Yes, things
went on here, inside Oz and outside, the same as always. None of it
touched him. Somewhere, his surviving children went to school and laughed
and played on swing sets, far away from where he or anyone else could
cause them pain; his mother still woke up each morning and made breakfast,
alone, for only herself; grass grew over the graves of his wife, his son,
his dad, his friend Said. The cities grew, the rivers flowed, babies were
born, people went to work, to cocktail parties, to PTSA meetings, they
fell in love, got married, and eventually died. To dwell too long on any
of it could only be counterproductive. In the end, it would only cause him
further pain. 

Instead, he concentrated on each bite of food, chewing methodically and
thoroughly, staring down at his tray. In about 20 minutes or so, the work
of the afternoon would begin; a couple of hours after that, he could
return to the solitude of his pod. He was already counting the minutes.  

"I'm Still Here," by Vertical Horizon 

I found the pieces in my hand 
 They were always there 
 It just took some time for me to understand You gave me words I just
can't say 
 So if nothing else 
 I'll just hold on while you drift away 

Cause everything you wanted me to hide Is everything that makes me feel
alive 

CHORUS: 
 The cities grow the rivers flow 
 Where you are I'll never know 
 But I'm still here 
 If you were right and I was wrong 
 Why are you the one who's gone 
 And I'm still here 

I'm still here 

You've seen the ashes in my heart 
 You smile the widest when I cry inside and my insides blow apart 

I try to wear another face 
 Just to make you proud 
 Just to make you put me in my place 

But everything you wanted from me 
 Is everything that I could never be 

(chorus) 

Maybe tonight it's gonna be alright 
 I will get better 
 Maybe today it's gonna be okay 
 I will remember 

I held the pieces of my soul 
 I was shattered 
 And I wanted you to come and make me whole Then I saw you yesterday 
 But you didn't notice 
 You just walked away 

Cause everything you wanted me to hide Is everything that makes me feel
alive 

(chorus) 

The lights go out the bridges burn 
 Once you go you can't return 
 But I'm still here 
 Remember how you used to say 
 I'd be the one to run away 
 But I'm still here 

I'm still here	Please send feedback to Actizera.