The Missing Piece
Oct 16, 2014 10:33:53 GMT -5
Post by Vinny on Oct 16, 2014 10:33:53 GMT -5
Washington, DC.
Located a few blocks from 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, just off the Washington Circle Park is the George Washington University Hospital. The beige concrete facade stands unassuming against the overcast gray skies above; a steady flow of patients parade in and out of the emergency room doors and various other, less exciting, entrances and exits. Among these entrances is the Transfusion Medicine Service Lab, better known as the Blood Bank.
The lobby is sterile in appearance, as one might expect. A gray-green rug over the floor, white painted walls and handful of purple chairs, arranged into short rows. A disheveled older man hunches sleepily in one of the chairs, his face resting in his palm and a small spittle of drool hanging from his lip. Across from him, in black leather jacket, T-shirt, jeans and combat boots sits Malcolm Drake. Drake brushes the dirty blond strands of hair off his face as he stares down at a clipboard cradled on his lap. In his left hand is a red pen; he slowly marks “yes” and “no” answers to the “Blood Donation Eligibility Form.”
“It seems like everyone is keen on seeing me bleed,” Drake says without lifting his eyes from the form, “Hmm. I don't know why that is. Maybe they're expecting my blood to be black... and viscous. Maybe they're looking for something to point at and say 'See?! There the monster! He's not like us! He's not human!'” He stabs the point of the pen into the clipboard making a hard check in a “no” box as he speaks, “Well... as my father would've told you, I'm nothing if not a constant disappointment. The blood that courses through these veins is just as red as yours. Albeit it might burn a little hotter and might be crawling with... undesirable paramecia... but it is red. It is human. O+, since you're all so interested in my hemoglobin.”
Drake takes a brief look over his form before standing. He walks over to the glass-protected nurse's station and slides the clipboard through the opening, depositing the red pen back into a coffee mug that reads “GIVE BLOOD” next to the insignia of the Red Cross.
“Give blood?” he says, tilting his head at the mug before returning to his seat, “That's the idea isn't it? At least here anyway. But not too far from here and not too long from now that idea will change. It'll twist and pervert. It won't be about giving blood, it'll be about TAKING... blood. A First Blood match,” Drake gives a wave of his hand, “It's a quaint notion considering where we've been and what we've done. Look at the scars on my hands, on my body. They're like monument markers on a road map. Points of interest, if you will. And I'm a very... interesting... man.”
“It started with Mirage asking me to bleed for him, and now Dom Harter wants my blood on his hands. I get it. It's... primal. Violent. Basic. And that's why I hate it. You might not believe this, but I don't have any desire to hurt Dom Harter. I don't want to make him bleed. I don't want to grind his bones to dust or mash his face to an unrecognizable pulp. I don't want to see his insides on the outside. I don't want to gut him and show everyone that his belly is, in fact, yellow. Dom Harter is the closest thing I've ever had to a brother. The closest thing I've ever had to a friend...”
Drake pauses and his head sags, long strands dropping over his face. When he raises his head back up the nurse is standing in front of him with the clipboard he had filled out.
“Mr. Drakowski?” she asks, knowing the answer already. Drake gives the slightest nod. The nurse fidgets a bit before saying, “I'm sorry, sir. But we can't accept your donation at this time.”
Silence hangs in the air as Drake stares, blank faced, back at the nurse. The nurse shifts her weight and drops her eyes back down to the clipboard, only glancing up at Drake when she feels it unavoidable.
“You answered yes to question 6 and question 10 here...” She extends the clipboard in front of Drake's eyes, indicating the questions with the shaky end of a ball-point pen. “We'd usually do a deferral for... uh... men who have had... relations with another man,” she pauses attempting to gauge Drake's reaction but his eyes are focused on the clipboard, “but I'm afraid the... intravenous drug use disqualifies you from donating.”
Another long pause settles in the room. The older man lets out a cough and a snort before falling back to sleep.
“I'm sorry,” she says slowly retracting the clipboard. Drake eyes rise first, meeting her gaze and holding her there. His body follows.
“So am I,” he says finally before turning and walking out of the room. Drake pushes the hair off his face and pushes open the exit door, moving into the light rain that has begun to fall.
“So then why did I leave?” he continues as if he had never been interrupted, “Why did I ABANDON you? Is that what you want to know, Dom? Why didn't I call, why didn't I write, why didn't I tell you I was coming back, why didn't I cup the balls... SHUT UP!” Drake stops in his tracks and punches himself in the head with his right hand. Once hard and then several more shorter blows. “Shut up, Dom! Not everything is about YOU! You've got problems? You've got issues? Well, fuck you, pal.”
Drake starts walking again, the rain intensifies. He kicks a street lamppost as he walks by.
“You think this is all about you. You think you let me down. God, Dom, could you be easier? Why don't you tattoo “inferiority complex” across your forehead. Or get it carved into your childish haircut. You want answers, huh? You think I OWE you that? Were you a disappointment to me?”
Drake stops.
“No,” he says after a breath. “No, you weren't a disappointment to me and that's exactly the problem. You aspired to earn the respect of a person like me; why? You know what IS a disappointment, Dom? You never wanted to better. You wanted to be like me... You wanted to be like me... If my leaving cured you of that idiocy then I'm GLAD I LEFT. I'm GLAD I 'abandoned' you.”
Drake spits.
“You were my vessel of success, Dominic. Now you're my vessel of redemption. I've always been able to mold you, Dom. I've always been able to shape you into the tool, the instrument that I need. And I'm doing it again now. I did it without you even realizing it,” Drake allows himself a brief smirk. “It's a question you asked, it's the question that's nagged at you that everyone else seems to gloss over. It's the missing piece of the narrative...”
“...if Malcolm Drake, you know that 'evil mastermind,' came back knowing that everyone would hate him, if he was free enough from delusion to know what he was walking into, how could he not anticipate how Dom Harter would react? The person who he knows best, how could I not see that coming?”
“How indeed.”
“Is it coming together now? You're my punishment. You're my sword of redemption. You know the names, you recite them like a prayer: O’Hare, DeMore, Blayze, Junior, Kidd, Tryon, Marx, et cetera... Every blow you strike against me is a triumph for each of those people I hurt. Every bone you break is my penance, every scar a recompense. The blood I spill will be as a baptism. Don't you see, Dom? This is my gift to you. I've made you what you always wanted to be...”
“… a hero.”
Drake smirks and lets it slowly drift from his face as the wind whips his wet hair around like a halo.
“Memento mori.”
Located a few blocks from 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, just off the Washington Circle Park is the George Washington University Hospital. The beige concrete facade stands unassuming against the overcast gray skies above; a steady flow of patients parade in and out of the emergency room doors and various other, less exciting, entrances and exits. Among these entrances is the Transfusion Medicine Service Lab, better known as the Blood Bank.
The lobby is sterile in appearance, as one might expect. A gray-green rug over the floor, white painted walls and handful of purple chairs, arranged into short rows. A disheveled older man hunches sleepily in one of the chairs, his face resting in his palm and a small spittle of drool hanging from his lip. Across from him, in black leather jacket, T-shirt, jeans and combat boots sits Malcolm Drake. Drake brushes the dirty blond strands of hair off his face as he stares down at a clipboard cradled on his lap. In his left hand is a red pen; he slowly marks “yes” and “no” answers to the “Blood Donation Eligibility Form.”
“It seems like everyone is keen on seeing me bleed,” Drake says without lifting his eyes from the form, “Hmm. I don't know why that is. Maybe they're expecting my blood to be black... and viscous. Maybe they're looking for something to point at and say 'See?! There the monster! He's not like us! He's not human!'” He stabs the point of the pen into the clipboard making a hard check in a “no” box as he speaks, “Well... as my father would've told you, I'm nothing if not a constant disappointment. The blood that courses through these veins is just as red as yours. Albeit it might burn a little hotter and might be crawling with... undesirable paramecia... but it is red. It is human. O+, since you're all so interested in my hemoglobin.”
Drake takes a brief look over his form before standing. He walks over to the glass-protected nurse's station and slides the clipboard through the opening, depositing the red pen back into a coffee mug that reads “GIVE BLOOD” next to the insignia of the Red Cross.
“Give blood?” he says, tilting his head at the mug before returning to his seat, “That's the idea isn't it? At least here anyway. But not too far from here and not too long from now that idea will change. It'll twist and pervert. It won't be about giving blood, it'll be about TAKING... blood. A First Blood match,” Drake gives a wave of his hand, “It's a quaint notion considering where we've been and what we've done. Look at the scars on my hands, on my body. They're like monument markers on a road map. Points of interest, if you will. And I'm a very... interesting... man.”
“It started with Mirage asking me to bleed for him, and now Dom Harter wants my blood on his hands. I get it. It's... primal. Violent. Basic. And that's why I hate it. You might not believe this, but I don't have any desire to hurt Dom Harter. I don't want to make him bleed. I don't want to grind his bones to dust or mash his face to an unrecognizable pulp. I don't want to see his insides on the outside. I don't want to gut him and show everyone that his belly is, in fact, yellow. Dom Harter is the closest thing I've ever had to a brother. The closest thing I've ever had to a friend...”
Drake pauses and his head sags, long strands dropping over his face. When he raises his head back up the nurse is standing in front of him with the clipboard he had filled out.
“Mr. Drakowski?” she asks, knowing the answer already. Drake gives the slightest nod. The nurse fidgets a bit before saying, “I'm sorry, sir. But we can't accept your donation at this time.”
Silence hangs in the air as Drake stares, blank faced, back at the nurse. The nurse shifts her weight and drops her eyes back down to the clipboard, only glancing up at Drake when she feels it unavoidable.
“You answered yes to question 6 and question 10 here...” She extends the clipboard in front of Drake's eyes, indicating the questions with the shaky end of a ball-point pen. “We'd usually do a deferral for... uh... men who have had... relations with another man,” she pauses attempting to gauge Drake's reaction but his eyes are focused on the clipboard, “but I'm afraid the... intravenous drug use disqualifies you from donating.”
Another long pause settles in the room. The older man lets out a cough and a snort before falling back to sleep.
“I'm sorry,” she says slowly retracting the clipboard. Drake eyes rise first, meeting her gaze and holding her there. His body follows.
“So am I,” he says finally before turning and walking out of the room. Drake pushes the hair off his face and pushes open the exit door, moving into the light rain that has begun to fall.
“So then why did I leave?” he continues as if he had never been interrupted, “Why did I ABANDON you? Is that what you want to know, Dom? Why didn't I call, why didn't I write, why didn't I tell you I was coming back, why didn't I cup the balls... SHUT UP!” Drake stops in his tracks and punches himself in the head with his right hand. Once hard and then several more shorter blows. “Shut up, Dom! Not everything is about YOU! You've got problems? You've got issues? Well, fuck you, pal.”
Drake starts walking again, the rain intensifies. He kicks a street lamppost as he walks by.
“You think this is all about you. You think you let me down. God, Dom, could you be easier? Why don't you tattoo “inferiority complex” across your forehead. Or get it carved into your childish haircut. You want answers, huh? You think I OWE you that? Were you a disappointment to me?”
Drake stops.
“No,” he says after a breath. “No, you weren't a disappointment to me and that's exactly the problem. You aspired to earn the respect of a person like me; why? You know what IS a disappointment, Dom? You never wanted to better. You wanted to be like me... You wanted to be like me... If my leaving cured you of that idiocy then I'm GLAD I LEFT. I'm GLAD I 'abandoned' you.”
Drake spits.
“You were my vessel of success, Dominic. Now you're my vessel of redemption. I've always been able to mold you, Dom. I've always been able to shape you into the tool, the instrument that I need. And I'm doing it again now. I did it without you even realizing it,” Drake allows himself a brief smirk. “It's a question you asked, it's the question that's nagged at you that everyone else seems to gloss over. It's the missing piece of the narrative...”
“...if Malcolm Drake, you know that 'evil mastermind,' came back knowing that everyone would hate him, if he was free enough from delusion to know what he was walking into, how could he not anticipate how Dom Harter would react? The person who he knows best, how could I not see that coming?”
“How indeed.”
“Is it coming together now? You're my punishment. You're my sword of redemption. You know the names, you recite them like a prayer: O’Hare, DeMore, Blayze, Junior, Kidd, Tryon, Marx, et cetera... Every blow you strike against me is a triumph for each of those people I hurt. Every bone you break is my penance, every scar a recompense. The blood I spill will be as a baptism. Don't you see, Dom? This is my gift to you. I've made you what you always wanted to be...”
“… a hero.”
Drake smirks and lets it slowly drift from his face as the wind whips his wet hair around like a halo.
“Memento mori.”