The Expatriate-the story of a Prodigy

14. Lost

 Andrew Stewart was dead. Alex Mars was a Prod. He, instead, should have died. 

 The suicidal feeling obsessed him for days. 

 If he had just confessed that he was a Prod, if he had somehow grabbed a gun and killed the guards and Fawkes first, if he hadn't come to the military at all, if, if, if. 

 Alex Mars felt as if he was swimming in a pond full of 'if's and after a whole day of paddling, finally sinking to the ground, streaked of energy. He now realized things that he would have never realized without the loss that he had just suffered-he now thought that this previous actions to hide himself, be artful, be the actor for his entire life, had been...plain old silly and dumb and stupid. 

 He now rather wanted for his life to end, to get discovered,d whatever. As I told you before, he didn't care anymore of anything. He also had no more tears-barren at all of moisture in his eyes. They would never be there for long before things went even stranger in the near future.

 And time went by, as it always does. 

 It was after a whole week and 3 days when Fawkes and the others couldn't stand him. When Fawkes stormed up to his room and opened the door, he found Alex buried beneath the covers, eyes empty. Ok, not really empty. He was reading-Andrew's 'The Goner'. th entire pile of old magazines were spread on his bed-he had read them all. 

 "Mars. You better come back to the filed and help me and the others," Fawkes said, picking up one of the magazines from the bed, looking disgusted.

 Alex didn't talk back. 

 "Come on, you didn't come here to sleep and eat, though you don't even eat a lot. I noticed your depression, so I arranged a few things around. If you agree to help me starting from today once more, I let you stay here. But if you don't, you're gonna be treated in mental rehab sessions before th depression kills you away. And if you even refuse that, you're off home. No salary, Mars," I loathe money, Alex replied in his head, You just know nothing.

 "What's your choice?" Fawkes asked to Alex, who was in the same rigid posture as he had been in hours before there general had been came in. He had been disinterested at first, bu then, his hand twitched, wanting to punch the man in the gut and escpae. 

 "I'm not ready yet, I think," He almost growled straight at the man, hands clenched together, crumpling page 378 of the Goner a bit. The general gave him a desperate sigh. 

 "I don't understand you, Mars. This is the chance-the chance of your life! And you-" 

 But Alex was already over the conversation and muted him out, annoyed and tired with life.

 Fawkes threw the magazine back onto him and left, frustrated. 

 But the thing was, Fawkes wasn't close at giving up with Alex Mars. So the next afternoon, at exactly the same time, he was back.  

 "Alex Mars, if you were chosen for god's sake as the bellwether, come on, act like one," A bellwether is applied for sheep, you stupid, Alex thought. The man paused, then kicked the mattress. "You're coming with me to the nurse's office. Our expert psychoanalyst agreed to bring you back to an Alex Mars of the past," f**k off my ass, Alex groaned in his head. 

 But the more he thought of it, it made sense. Maybe he was mentally ill. Maybe. And though he didn't want to be cured to live another round of years full of horror and cruelty, he still..wanted to try it out. 

 He finally moved and aroused dust into the air which had settled onto his covers-he has been in their for so long esexpt the minor bathroom visits. Fawkes tried to smile his grin and a sneeze, and his effort on the latter was ineffective. "Good, Al. Go down, introduce yourself as Alex. She'll know what to do," 

 He didn't reply this time either-and forced his aching bones to work as he clambered down the stairs. 

 The nurse turned put to be the only nurse at the base, thus the nurse who had taken care of Andrew at the day of Thomas' Scandal. 

 "Alex Mars," His voice cracked a bit, and he winced when a dull ache on his numb legs shot up to his thigh. The woman's eyes lit up with pleasure. "Ah, Alex Mars. I know that General Fawkes asked me personally for you-he must care a lot for you. Come on," She beckoned to him deeper into the office, to the waiting room with comfy cushions. Alex felt the comfort of not having to pretend as a Prod anymore in his life, and decided to risk it-for a bit of fun, after weeks. 

 "You support Freud?" The nurses' eyes lit up once more with excitement. "Why, yes, Alex. I am quite surprised that you know of him. His own and representative theory of psychoanalysis, huh?" "Yeah-those cushions to facilitate comfort in talking of anything on mind," "Gee, you know my intentions already to make you be comfy and tell me all you know. Don't worry,though," They both sat down with a sigh, and Alex felt the awkwardness of his smile back on his lips after all those days. He remembered that people mostly said that smiling makes you happy-but the thing was, he wasn't too happy. Maybe cases of depression caused by death was different. 

 "So, let's start with your relationships with Andrew Stewart," The woman said. f**k, Alex thought. He hesitated, looking at the cushion on the chair with agony clear in his eyes. The woman backed off. "Oh, maybe the question was a bit too fast and direct. Ok. So, are there any traits of yours that you think you are proud with?" s**t, Alex thought this time. I shouldn't have come here-this nurse isn't a psychoanalyst but a psychopath. 

 "I'm not sure. I was just interested in fighting and those stuff. So applying for the army was a no-brainer," The nurse grinned. "Of course Alex. I have one particular question, thought, before we get to the main point-how did you become friends with Andrew?" Alex's stomach made a huge flip, then a dive of 60 feet below into a sea of nausea. f**k, f**k, f**k. Why had he come here?

 "He just seemed lonely," He croaked up finally, pressured form his nausea. It was more confirmed that the nurse wasn't going to be much of a help but a good waste of time when she didn't seem to notice his worsened depression and just nodded thoughtfully, like those teachers who pretend to be listening carefully while thinking of going shopping after work. "So how was he like? I mean, aside from being lonely," Suddenly, Alex felt something rise from beneath his stomach, pushing him up onto ground from the sea of sickness. And that ground was dubbed anger. 

 "Don't ask that now," His voice suddenly roughened and the nurse tensed up. He stared right at her and glared with all his might. "If you wanted to know, you should have asked already," So this nurse had been trying to dig info to justify the exact reasons of Andrew's death, excusing it as a mental curing process for Alex, the poor, unfortunate and 'tricked' friend of the 'dirty Prod, the notorious Andrew'. 

 And Alex ahorred the idea. 

 "Maybe, I should be off now. I am going to exercise, those weeks alone in the room has made me weak," Alex grumbled, trying to press the ground of anger back. It simply wasn't working in the positive way. The nurse crinkled her forehead, and Alex was delighted by the situation that he had made her feel frustrated. "But the thing is, Alex, you're supposed to-" "Maybe you can call me for another session another time-not today, though," Alex now bolted up, and with the psychopath-ic psychoanalyist behind, left the room with a mighty bam of the door.

 When he got back to his room, his mood didn't get better. Mark and John was bak from a laborious field work involving hauling all kinds of heavy suplies into the base, and they each took hour-long showers, beating Alex into it with just seconds aprt. Thus he had to wait two hours. And worst of all(or the best?), Mark started to blabber to John of the second-in-rank positions and their personal benefits like a great bonus, obviously implying Alex. Like, "You know that those peeps' families get $100 each week? Plus, the generals are required to be good to them all the time-"

 Alex was almost ready to yell 'just take my posiiton, I'm so sick of life' to him, but found himself too tired and out of energy to yell his words. He skipped dinner as usual and walked finally to a door that he had been avoiding himself from, a door that he had discovered that day when he had found the generals' room.

 The rooftop. 

 His hands didn't shake as they touched the metal knob and he turned his wrist and went into a stariway which smelled of old boxes, sweat, and dust. Seldom used, obviously, Alex thought wearily. He climbed up some old, green-painted stairs and hauled himself up and up each single step, to a thick, rusty, metal door. He took a deep breathe, then pushed it open. 

 He was actually relieved and happy when he was met with cool, night air, which he had onnly breathed in only at a few night duties. So cool and refrshing. But it didn't push him back far towars the wall, far from the edge of the cliff. He stepped through the frame of the door and put his feet onto the foreign cement, painted pearl white. In his eyes spread a huge canvas of black and stars, a sight he hadn't seen so often. He realized their beauty, but still, walked over to the edge, and leaned against the cement wall, looking down and aroud the base. 

 He had, at first, revered it, wondering about the insane things that would happen if he was discover-he now couldn't remember how his life had been so much of importance to him before Andrew was killed. How selfish he had been. And now, his thoughts swung by to pass over his memory with Andrew. When he had first talked to him at the bus stop, looking a bit apprehended by Alex Mars. And then on the bus, talking of Damien. From then on that Andrew had started to look up to him and respected all of his moves, trying to learn. And the painful memory of Alex suspecting, then finding out, that Andrew was definitely not a Prod. 

 While all the while, he had been one himself. 

 He should have warned Andrew, tell him that he was a Prod instead, and kept each other safe. Andrew had gotten close as a brother, and he had loved the sensation.

 Alex Mars had read somewhere that letting a person die should also be included in the act of killing. 

 He had killed his own brother. He had failed Andrew's belief that Alex Mars would save his life on that specific day-as always.

 His arms inched towards the railing on the wall. One tiny heave, and his body would be hanging half-way on the railing. then, one tiny twitch of the muscles in his abdomen, and he would be falling splat to his death on the far-away cement ground. The general would be disappointed, then find out his Muter in his brain and suspect him as the Prod, then gladly dispose his body somewhere, at least a bit apologetic for killing the innocent Andrew. His parents would break down, crying and everything. 

 Then he remembered the Martyr. 

 The man had devoted himself so much to himself, saying that he had found himself inside the boy. To Alex, the man had become more than a dad...

 He realized that the abdomen part of his body was level with the railing, and gulped. His feet and arms had moved without his head noticing. He stepped down, then reconsidered his decision. Letting his soul escape from his body for the last time would end his agony with Andrew's death and his guilt. But it would create more agony for his family and friends. 

 Alex Mars simply couldn't do it.

 He sighed and back off completely from the wall. 

 He hoped his brain could be much more decisive for the first time in his life.

 So as his life continued, so did his agony, guilt, and now, annoyance-with Fawkes and the psychopath-ic nurse. 

 "Today, tell me of the day," She demanded, forgetting completely of the ethics of 'patient' and 'etiquette', on their second meeting. Alex felt as if life was so cruel. "I found out that my friend had died," He said curtly, chewing his lip. He looked up to find her eyes on her notepad, scribbling something down-not caring of his answer. "Well, Alex, we all know that fact. Just tell me of the things before," Mars moaned. "It was cruel, ma'am," He said, wincing for the hundredth time from the terrible memory. The bullet imbedding inside Andrew, blood pooling beneath his bare feet. The worst nightmare one could ever dream. "I see," The nurse said matter-of-factly, and Alex felt as if he was 3 seconds away from breaking a bone in her. Any bone, he added, growling mentally. This nurse was only going to waste his time. Maybe he should just tell the general that he was now fine, or pretend to be too sick for rehab. cure and necessitating an army resignation... 

 "My general just forced him... up a pole, and...I was being restrained, and I needed to save him..." Alex Mars forced the words out of his lips-that sentence was the one he had said in his entire life that had the most pauses. The nurse sighed, gripping her board. "General Hale must be furious, Alex. I know that your general did it to train you to be strong at cruelty, but it is normally not allowed at your age, and the plan has back-fired. Look at you now," Ale wondered why the nurse was telling this to him. Well, he knew what Hale's reaction would be and everything already. And this nurse wasn't trying to help his depression but just analyzing the situation. 

 A total waste of time, Mars, he spat at himself mentally. 

 "I know, yeah. So what?" The nurse stared at him, all serious. "I know that Generalk Fawkes assigned me to you, but I think he was a bit...violating the rules," Great job, keep accusing him, Alex shouted mentally. I also hate him. 

 The nurse sighed, shaking her head. 

 "But I think that you're getting better each day, Alex. Just now try to attend your duties and try your best." But Alex Mars had already muted her out-he already had thought plenty on that issue-and he was never going to do the army nor the nation any good. Anyway, why would he have to serve his greatest enemy?

 "I think I'll be going now," He murmurred, then got up in his inhumane, Prod speed that the nurse looked bewildered as her patient had been 2 feet away from her and then,on the next second, at the door. 

 "Sure, sure," Alex muffled her voice by closing the door and left for his dorm. 

 He wasn't able to get there fast enough. 

 He found Hale leaning in with a disturbed look on his face. It was quite uncomfortable and rare for Hale to interfere in a newbie soldiers' life, so Alex right away knew that something serious, maybe involving himself, had to be going around in there. 

 "So what do you mean with 'his inactivity', John?" "He doesn't go to his work-he just stares off into the space..." Alex coughed and John and the general both swung their head to him. Alex looked at each pair of eyes very slowly, and making sure to look innocent. 

 "Alex," Hale finally said after 3.6 seconds of a pause. Alex raised his eyebrows at him. Hale looked back, displeased. "Yes, sir?" How petty and arrogant and time-consuming generals could be only to be called as 'sir', he thought. 

 Hale nodded. "John just was reporting of your strange behavior," s**t, Hale was addressing him as if he was some poor rat in a lab inside a glass cage.

 "Strange behavior?" Alex murmurred, then turned his glance at John with calculated speed on his turning head. The other boy shrank back as usual when he glared at him. But then, he stopped backing off into their room, then shrugged.

 That asshole, Alex Mars thought. 

 "Um, Alex?" Hale now asked at him directly, uncertainly. an Alex could sense that something bad was coming up.

Ok, nothing bad was coming up.

 But something very bad apparently was.

 "I think you should be coming to my office. Just a few checks, Alex," 

 And Alex Mars knew that there was no way to get out of his Prod-identity crisis this time.

 And he didn't care too much.