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Gary first comes to him on the third day. There's irony there, cruelty potentially even -that he was buried, that he was raised on the third day- but John's mind is smeared across the padded walls of his cell and at first he doesn't even realize somebody has entered.
“It's good to finally meet you, John,” a deep voice says, seemingly friendly in tone and words but he feels goosebumps breaking out all of a sudden, his skin itching to escape the confinements of the straight jacket more than ever.
He looks away from the cross in front of him, blue crayon slipping from his mouth, and then he tries to scramble away from the light coming from the open door and the man smiling down at him.
“Now, now, no need for that,” the man continues and steps towards him and the world shatters. White padded walls turn into red bricks back to white back to red, white again, red, white, red, every splintered vision a needle rammed into John’s eyes.
He screams or maybe he merely tries to and all he hears is a soft laugh coming from the other side of the room. “We can up your meds if you're in pain,” says the man and then he is suddenly next to John, leaning down to him and gently cradling his chin. “We don't want you to be in pain,” Gary says. “Do we now, John?”
Hands wandering up his face, following the hollow of his cheeks, obscene gentleness in the touch. John flinches away but the fingers bend when he does, burrow into his flesh, fingernails digging deep.
“Hold still for me,” Gary says. “I need to see if you hurt yourself again.” The grip on his face grows tighter, dull pain erupting from where Gary is holding him and then the dullness suddenly turns sharp and wet.
“Would you look at that,” Gary says, suddenly letting go of him. “You have hurt yourself again.” There's blood on his hand when John looks at him, bright, bright red, dripping down onto the floor, onto his crosses, red on blue, drowning it out.
“I keep telling them the straightjacket just isn't enough for you.” A step away from him, from the red on his hands, from the red on John's face, the red of the brick walls around him - no, the white of the padded cell, intermingled with blue crosses, no, red, red on the wall, his face, the hands, red enough to drown in it.
He opens his mouth to scream maybe but all that comes out is a broken sob. Gary laughs. It echoes in this room that has muffled everything before, slithers into his brain.
“We have options, John. Other options than the straightjacket. All of this? It can disappear in one instant.”
It's already disappearing. In the padded room around him, in Gary's laughter surrounding him, in the darkness inside him. Into the itching underneath his skin and the wet on his face.
He lets his head fall forward, stares at the white floor below and begs for it to open up and swallow him. Hell cannot be worse than this. God forgive him. God forgive him but he will take hell over this.
“Maybe you're already there.” It doesn't matter how Gary heard his thoughts. Maybe they never were thoughts in the first place. He keeps staring at the white instead. Feels the wet on his cheek pool and then drop. Drop. Drop. Drop.
“Making a mess now. Whatever shall I do with you.” He stares at the red on the white and thinks of hell. Touch, pain, again. Guiding, pulling, pushing.
Led, dragged, through the white, the red, towards hell. He chokes on it, faintly hears laughter, echoing in the cell, echoing in his head. Pressure on his tongue, weight in his mouth and he swallows reflexively.
“Good.” Praise or mockery, both the same. It is hard to breathe like this, in this every-shifting prison, in the iron grip of Gary's hand on the back of his head. His lungs burn and fire, fire is good, isn't it, fire is cleansing, could burn him whole until there is nothing left. Hell has fire. He craves it.
“Not yet.” Craves it like air. Black mixes itself into the colors, too much inescapableness in front of him as he continues to choke.
“It can end. It can all just end.” Would Gary be in hell? Too much black to continue thinking, too much weight, too much pressure. The hand in his hair tightening, nails sharp like claws. “I can help you. Let me help you.”
It seems to twist in his mouth, moving on its own, deeper into his throat, flesh turning, shifting inside him. A sound, a whimper, and more wet dripping down his face, more blood, more tears, wetness all the same.
Drop. A shudder, one last choke. Drop. It spills from his mouth. Drop.
The body leans away from him. The hand stays. Keeping him in place, keeping him there and he looks down at him, he looks up at him.
“I love you,” Gary says and Gary loves him, John thinks. The hand on his head, no claws, the body in front of him, firm flesh. Normal, normal, normal, scream his ears, scream his eyes, screams his mind.
“Now, what will you choose?” But he cannot trust them. Behind Gary is the white of the padded walls. Behind the wall is the blue of the crayon crosses. In hell there will be Gary.
“Pater noster, qui es in caelis.” The blow strikes him hard across the face. “Sanctificetur nomen tuum.” He falls, lands on his back. “Adveniat regnum tuum.” Stares up at Gary. Gary stares down at him. Gary does not look like he loves him.
“Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo et in terra.” In the white padded cell, its brick walls bright red, in heaven and earth and hell, John prays while Gary does not love him.