He could hear the whispers. Taunting.
Mocking. Insubstantial. They eluded his grasp as if they were nothing more
than smoke and mirrors. And perhaps they were. He was never quite sure if
they were a product of his imagination or if people really were talking
behind his back as he passed.
The elevator ascended to the eleventh floor
and he stepped off, relieved to be in familiar territory. In a place where
the whispers were muted. The whole drive over to ATF headquarters had seemed
slightly unreal. Nothing quite as he remembered. He had wondered if perhaps
this was all a dream and he would wake to find himself in the hot,
suffocating air of India with the sounds of his Father's ranting filtering
through the flimsy walls of the hut.
Or maybe he was just crazy. Like...
No. He couldn't think about that. It wouldn't happen to him. He wasn't
alone. Wasn't weak. He opened the door leading into the offices of The
Magnificent Seven ATF team, longing for the solid comfort of his desk. The
reassurance that came with having a place. A purpose. As long as he had
that, he couldn't be crazy. Could he?
Silence greeted him as he walked in
and headed in the direction of his desk. He paused halfway there. Silence
was not something natural in this place. Not with Buck and JD's near
constant horseplay. Or Ezra's incessant complaints. Or Chris Larabee's stern
voice barking orders. He slowly turned and surveyed the room. JD was edging
towards Chris' office door. Vin and Ezra were exchanging glances, eyes heavy
with emotion. Buck was staring fixedly at his desk. Nathan had taken a
hesitant step in his direction, a look of determined sadness on his face. It
was to him, Josiah's oldest friend, that the ex preacher
appealed.
"Nathan? What's wrong with everyone? Why are you all staring at
me?" He could hear the edge of panic and hysteria in the question. Judging
from the expressions on the faces of his friends, they heard it as
well.
"It's ok, Josiah. We're your friends. We'll help you." Nathan spoke
soothingly, as one might speak to a wild animal. Or a crazy person, the
whispers jeered at him.
Josiah opened his mouth, intending to assure
his friends that everything was fine. That he was fine. To his horror, the
voice that came out of his mouth did not belong to him. It was like
listening to the ghost of his father, ranting and raving. Only it was Josiah
Sanchez who was standing here, saying these awful things. Josiah who could
see the looks of pain, regret and pity etched on the faces of the other men.
"Hell. Sinners. There is not one among you who is worthy of redemption.
I shall cleanse this city of evil and filth. Only goodness shall remain."
His voice went on and on and he was helpless. Unable to stop the mad
ramblings.
Chris Larabee strode out of his office, followed closely by
JD. At the sight of their leader, Josiah was almost able to break free of
this insane stranger who had taken control of his body and his mind. But an
anguished Chris was all he was able to say before he was again locked away
in his own mind. A spectator to the awful, terrible sight. A silent witness
to his own breakdown. To his own craziness.
It took the combined
efforts of Chris and the others to subdue him until the ambulance arrived.
They had no choice. Not once he had begun attempting to tear down the walls
in his efforts to destroy them. His friends. Now his enemies, according to
his diseased mind. The small, sane part of him that was still there wished
he could tell them he understood. That he didn't blame them for what they
had to do. The looks of anguish on their faces was almost more than he could
bear. And was that a hint of tears in JD's eyes?
He lay on the
stretcher, strapped to a gurney. On his way to a place where they took care
of people like him. Locked them away. He was no longer able to scream on the
outside. His voice hoarse. His system slowly overcome by the injection
they'd given him. But inside, he was still screaming. Would forever scream.
Josiah
Sanchez sat up in bed, heart pounding, cold sweat making him shiver in spite
of the blankets. He struggled to regain his equilibrium. He began half a
dozen attempts at prayer, only to abandon them after a few sentences. He
reached over and turned on the light. The cheerful glow of the bedside lamp
anchored him a bit. His breathing slowed and he sighed heavily. He hated
this dream. Hated the fear it conjured up from the depths of his soul. The
fear that he never allowed himself to acknowledge when he was awake. As if
thinking about the possibility of going crazy would actually make it happen.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and got slowly to his feet.
He grabbed his robe on the way out of the bedroom. He was still feeling a
bit chilled. A glass of whiskey would help. And perhaps he would get an
early start on some paperwork. For Josiah wanted nothing more of sleep or of
dreams. Not tonight.
The End
