It started with the knock on Randolph door.
No. No, that wasn’t true. It had started a long time before that.
It started when he was seven and his parents looked him in the eye and quietly murmured that he wouldn’t be going to magic school.
He still remembered that day. He’d always had a great memory. He prided himself on it.
He was his friends’ calender. They weren’t all that nice to him, but he didn’t mind too much. He understood, after all. Sometimes he was tired of being nice, too. Sometimes he just wanted to shout at something. He was happy to be that something for his friends.
He still remembered the day Mom had looked in his eyes and told him he couldn’t go to magic school when he was eleven like she’d promised.
He still remembered the confusion. The disappointment. The first words that left his lips at the news;
“Why not?”
And Mom had told him. Told him that he wasn’t magic, like the other kids. That he hadn’t done anything special.
It wasn’t that he had no magic, she’d explained hastily. He still had magical blood. He just couldn’t do magic.
His Dad had been behind her, not even looking at Randolph. He remembered wondering why that was. Was he embarrassed? Afraid? Ashamed?
...Disgusted?
Perhaps disgusted was a bit of a strong word.
But Dad still acted differently towards him after that. He seemed to touch Randolph a little less often. Not as many spontaneous hugs. Not as many hands quietly rested on Randolph’s shoulders.
He didn’t say he was proud of Randolph quite as often. Didn’t say he loved Randolph quite as much.
That was fine, Randolph told himself, with a determination that spoke of the man he would become. Dad just needed some time. Everyone did sometimes! He knew he did.
It wasn’t anything about Randolph.
It was only after two years that Randolph finally came to the conclusion that Dad hated him.
That was okay. Dad could hate him. If that was what he needed. Maybe one day Dad would forgive him for not being magic. For whatever was wrong with him.
He always had Mom.
Mom still loved him just as much. In fact, now, she seemed to love him more, almost. More hugs; usually quick, tight ones. Like she was afraid he’d try and squirm out of them or something.
Why would he do that? He loved Mom’s hugs.
But sometimes… Mom acted differently around him, too. Especially with her friends.
Mom’s friends didn’t like him anymore. They used to praise him, give him lemonade and oatmeal cookies, ask how he was, what books he was reading. Now… Mom didn’t give him those proud looks. Call him her smart boy. Now, her eyes darted whenever they saw Mom’s friends - and, more often, she tried to let him stay home.
“You’re ten now, Randolph,” she had explained, eyes not meeting his own. “You’re a big boy. You can stay here on your own, can’t you?”
And he told her that of course he could. And she let out a little relieved sigh at the lack of resistance, and went off to see her friends.
Suddenly, Randolph wasn’t her smart boy anymore.
Suddenly, Randolph was the boy who was always at home.
That was okay.
Randolph had never been outdoorsy anyway.
“Do you hate me, Dad?” he’d finally brought himself to ask, one day. When Mom was away. He knew Dad did, but. He needed to hear the words from Dad’s lips.
And Dad had froze. Shock-still. It made Randolph think about the time he’d mentioned Mom’s birthday, off-hand, and Dad had done the same thing. Or the time the lights had suddenly turned on when Randolph was in the kitchen getting a midnight snack after a bad nightmare.
He hadn’t had that many nightmares. But he still got them sometimes.
“No, Randolph, of course I don’t hate you,” Dad had said, turning to him and looking… surprised? Randolph couldn’t quite tell. “Why would you say that?”
“You don’t like looking at me anymore,” Randolph said. This was something he’d only noticed recently. Dad hadn’t looked him in the eyes for a long time, unless it was absolutely necessary. “You don’t hug me. Don’t… tell me your proud of me…”
And - without warning - the words were dissolving.
The world turned blurry.
“Randolph…” Dad whispered, as Randolph collapsed to his knees and finally let out years worth of wretched, hacking sobs.
Arms enveloped him.
Dad’s arms.
“Of course I still love you, Randolph,” Dad murmured in his ear.
That just made the tears come faster.
He sniffled, loud and ugly. “T-then why don’t y-y-you-”
“I… was just being a fool,” Dad said, gripping him tight. Pulling him closer - apparently oblivious to the tears and snot staining his shirt. “I’m sorry, Randolph. I’m sorry if I ever made you think the worst of me. You’re still my son. No matter what.”
You’re still my son.
Randolph held his Dad like he was the only stable thing in the world.
And sobbed.
After that, Dad started acting normal again.
Well.
Kind of.
He no longer sent Randolph those furtive, wary glances he had when Randolph was six. He hadn’t known what they meant until much later.
He still didn’t tell Randolph he was proud as often.
But it was better.
A lot better.
He had his dad back.
Randolph’s eleventh birthday came.
They had a small celebration. This time Dad sung happy birthday with them. And Randolph got to cut the cake himself. That was exciting.
The rest of the day he spent in his room. Staring out the window.
Waiting for the owl to come. With his invitation to magic school.
Maybe Mom and Dad had been wrong. Maybe he was magic.
The owl never came.
Randolph didn’t sleep much that night. His dreams weren’t pleasant.
And then the knock came.
Mom answered.
It was a tall man. Taller than most of Mom’s friends. Taller than the few men he’d seen around his dad. Randolph peeked at him curiously around his mother - he’d never seen anyone so tall.
“Hello,” he said. His accent was foreign. British, Randolph thought. “I’m with the W.A.P. We heard there was a squib child registered here?”
His mom went shock-still at that. Just like Dad had when Randolph asked if he hated him.
“No, you’re mistaken,” she said, sharply. “You can leave now."
She went to close the door on him.
The word echoed in Randolph’s mind.
Squib.
A squib child.
Is that… me? I’m the only child here.
What did squib mean?
Why didn’t Mom like it?
The man stuck his foot in front of the door just in time to stop her.
“Ma’am, we think we could help your child,” he said.
A pause.
Mom was still. Maybe even more still than when the man had said squib.
The door opened a crack.
“...Help him?”
The man gave her a distant, cold smile. “We think we could give him magic.”
It was clear that Mom didn’t know what to do.
That was about all that was clear, though.
The man had talked a lot. About magic, about creatures Randolph had never heard of, about research and statistics. About the government.
He kept saying ‘squib,’ too.
He never looked at Randolph.
He could at least ask Randolph’s name, since he clearly didn’t know it. He didn’t need to keep calling Randolph squib.
He thought he knew what the word meant now, though.
It meant he didn’t have magic. Just a different word for No-Maj. Maybe that’s what they called No-Majs in Britain.
But they’d just given Mom some very official looking papers, and a quill. Dad was staring at her expectantly. And Randolph wasn’t sure what was happening.
“I think we should,” Dad said, suddenly.
Mom glanced at him - and then back down at the paper, worrying her bottom lip.
“You won’t hurt him?” she asked, suddenly - glancing up at the tall man.
“Of course not,” the man said, smoothly.
Randolph squinted at him. He didn’t like the tall man all that much.
And with that - like she was afraid the quill would suddenly explode or leap out of her hand - she signed the paper very, very quickly, and dropped the writing instrument like it was on fire.
The tall man gave her another one of those cold smiles. “You won’t regret this, Mrs. Boo. Come along, squib.”
The tall man stood - and looked at Randolph expectantly.
Randolph glanced at his mom, confused. “Mom? What’s going on?”
She looked like she was in pain, for some reason. “You’re going to be staying with this man for a while, okay, Randolph? Be good, won’t you?”
Randolph glanced at the man, and then back at his mom.
I don’t want to.
“How long?” he asked instead.
“I’m not sure, dear,” Mom said, glancing at the man. “But not too long, okay? Just for a little while.”
“Why?” Randolph finally murmured. Because you don’t want me?
“Because… we think this man could give you magic, sweetie.”
Randolph blinked - and looked at the man with wide, wide eyes.
“Could you? Really?”
The man simply nodded. “Yes, we believe we are very close to curing squibness.”
“Just do whatever he asks, Randolph,” Mom said, ruffling his hair. “You can do that, right?”
Do I have to?
“Of course, Mom.”
“Good,” the tall man said, shortly. “Come with me.”
Randolph glanced at his parents one last time - and then went to follow the man.
There was a lot of driving after that.
Randolph met other boys like him. Other boys without magic. Some of them were nice. Some weren’t. Randolph didn’t stay with any of them for long.
He felt lost. Only one thought thrummed through him - kept him following the men in coats, complying with every order.
He could have magic.
He could go to magic school.
They could fix whatever was wrong with him.
So he kept following. Kept being drove around everywhere. Kept complying.
Eventually - the driving stopped.
He ended up out on the street on a wet, rainy day, lined up with a lot of other boys. Presumably ‘squibs,’ like him.
There was a slightly older boy in front of them. He was old enough to have a bit of peach fuzz stubble, and straight black hair that he had swept haphazardly to one side. His robe was dark green.
“Alright, kiddos, let’s see - raise your hand when you hear your name!” he said, in a smooth voice.
He started reading off names. It went by alphabetical order for last names - which meant Randolph was the third name called.
“Ran...Boo?” the boy said, tilting his head curiously.
Randolph - hesitantly - raised his hand. His last name was Boo, after all. And Ran was short for Randolph. Maybe the boy was just shortening his name for convenience?
“Ah, alright,” the boy said, nodding at him. “Howdy, Ranboo. Okay, Edgar Calium?”
Ranboo.
Did he have a nickname now?
Soon enough, the boys were all handed off to men in coats and brought to separate rooms. Randolph got a room of his own - it had no windows.
He was led behind a glass panel. There was a bed that looked only a touch more comfortable than the floor, a silver toilet, and a sink.
It reminded Randolph starkly of a picture of a prison cell he had once seen.
He didn’t have time to think about it before the thick glass panel slid closed.
And he was too tired to let himself worry too much.
His first injection was the worst.
They brought him out of that cramped glass room for the first time, and told him to sit on a chair they’d brought in. Then they rubbed something on his arm - and stuck a thick needle in him.
It took all his willpower to not scream in shock.
When he looked at the needle they had just stuck in him, he only had a moment to see the thick glowing purple liquid they were injecting him with before it was all in his bloodstream.
Immediately, the place where they’d stuck the needle throbbed dully, and Randolph winced, tears coming to his eyes.
They took the needle out - and a red bump was quickly growing where it had been.
The man who’d just stuck a needle in him quickly made a note on a clipboard he’d brought. Randolph quickly held the bump as it leaked a thin droplet of blood.
“Ow,” he hissed.
The man didn’t seem to notice. Or just chose to ignore it.
And with that - they ushered him back behind the glass.
Maybe they injected him with magic? he thought, hopeful despite himself. And despite the throb that was growing between his temples.
Men came in occasionally. Watched him behind the glass.
Eventually, one took him out and asked if he’d experienced any side effects.
“My head hurts,” he’d murmured. “Bad.”
The man hummed in acknowledgement, and made another note on his clipboard. “Anything else?”
“...No,” Randolph said, holding his head and trying to fight back the horrible, splitting throb there. “What did you inject me with?”
The man ignored him as he finished his note, and walked out.
The next person to come in was the black-haired boy from the first day.
It had been hours by then. When he heard the door creak open, and light spill into the room, the headache pounding at Randolph’s skull became that much worse.
The boy came up to the glass, and glanced over at him - huddled up on the bed, back against the wall.
“Oof. That looks rough, bud,” he’d said.
That’s the understatement of the century, Randolph thought, through the splitting pain.
“Brought’cha some food.”
Randolph glanced up at that. He was pretty dang hungry.
The boy slid the glass back and set a pale beige tray on the floor, before slamming the room’s fourth wall back into place.
“...How ya feelin’, Ranboo?” the boy asked, suddenly. Almost hesitant.
“Bad,” Randolph said. More honestly than he expected.
The boy winced. “Yeah. You look it, bud.”
“...Does this mean I’ll get to go to magic school?” he asked, a moment later.
The boy hesitated again - and then nodded. “Yeah, Ranboo. You’ll get to go to magic school. Just keep following orders, arright?”
Ranboo leaned back and closed his eyes against the pounding headache. Not able to answer.
But he held onto that.
Keep following orders.
You’ll get to go to magic school.
It would all be worth it.
He didn’t see the boy again for a few days.
Instead, men in coats came. To give him food and occasional injections. Always that same bright purple fluid. He grit his teeth and bared it.
He could go to magic school.
He wouldn’t be wrong anymore.
He could bare a few pricks.
By the third day - things were changing.
The headaches faded, as did the throbbing bumps left by the needles. Instead, he had this feeling of his skin tightening. Of being like a stranger in his own body. It was almost worse than just the splitting pain. More disorienting. Sickening.
He told the doctors as much when they asked about side-effects. Symptoms. They made notes on their clipboards and kept giving him injections.
The boy delivered his food again on the third day. Lunch and dinner.
Randolph asked him, again, if he’d get to go to magic school. Just to hear the boy say yes.
He held onto that.
The days blurred together. Without any windows, the only way he had to tell time was his meals and injections.
It took a little while for him to realize that it was getting harder to remember things.
The first things to go were voices. He didn’t remember what his friends from school sounded like. Didn’t remember what the boy who delivered his meals sounded like.
He thought it was just so long cooped up in this cell. It was only when he found himself struggling to remember Mom and Dad’s faces that he reported it to the man in a coat as a new symptom.
“I’m having trouble remembering some things.”
The man seemed mildly intrigued by that - but still simply noted it down on the clipboard, like always.
It took a bit longer to notice he looked different.
He might not have noticed at all, if it weren’t for the difference between the left and right sides of his face. Making it look like he was split in two.
One side was paler, and one was darker. Not drastically so - again, he probably wouldn’t have noticed if it weren’t for the division. Even if he’d gone home with one of those skin tones, it could’ve been passed off as a tan, or spending a lot of time indoors making him a touch paler.
He passed it off as his imagination.
When he woke up the next day and it was still there, though, it was harder to shake.
The discomfort lessened.
The memory loss, meanwhile, got worse. As did his face.
He noticed his eyes only after the difference in his skin tones became alarming. One side of his face pale enough that he would’ve looked dreadfully sick with it - one dark enough that it would be pretty hard to pass off as just a normal Summer tan.
And his eyes had changed color a bit, too. One of them getting speckles of deep, piercing green. The other a thin ring of blood red near the pupil.
He was sure that more than a week had passed.
...Pretty sure.
Even his days in the lab had begun to fade from his memory. It took him a little while to remember Mom and Dads’ names.
The only thing that came to mind right away was why he was here.
He was going to magic school.
The boy had stopped delivering his meals. He had forgotten what the boy sounded like. What he looked like was fuzzy.
He hoped he’d get better soon.
...He had to.
The first time was the worst.
He was sitting in his room (he struggled now to not think of it as a cell), waiting for someone to deliver a meal and doing his best to remember what Mom and Dad looked like.
It started with his vision growing a bit fuzzy.
He blinked - and started trying to blink away the fuzziness.
It didn’t go, though.
Suddenly - his heart seized up and missed a beat. He gripped his chest, expression morphing into confusion.
Something was happening.
His skull began to pound quietly, as his vision began to bleed into a shade of light purple.
He huddled his knees up to his face, and gripped them tightly - like he was trying to keep himself together.
He squeezed his eyes shut against the pain. Against the sudden feeling that he was tearing apart down the middle - like his stomach was stretching. His heart squeezing. His whole being getting yanked into a new shape, like taffy.
He shut his eyes tighter.
Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop, he thought, desperately. Suddenly not even sure if this was something that happened to him regularly. Maybe he’d just forgotten.
It didn’t stop.
Instead, suddenly, his entire body was torn apart.
He screamed.
It hurt, it hurt, it hurt it hurt it hurt-
He squeezed his eyes shut, pushed himself against the wall, like he was trying to hide.
A long moment passed.
He cracked one eye open - and blinked.
He was on the other side of his cell.
The pain had faded, now. It had been one blinding moment of pure agony - and then it was gone.
Suddenly - he let out a loud, hacking cough. One that burned his throat and tore his lungs.
It was only when the effort of it had him gripping his knees so hard his nails made indents that the cough subsided.
His head fell back.
Make it stop.
That was all he wanted.
Magic school could go fuck itself, for all he cared.
He just wanted it to stop.
Later that day he realized that, at some point between the teleportation and the blinding pain, he’d forgotten his own name.
It was difficult to remember why he’d ever bothered remembering it in the first place. Was it really that important?
Still. A part of him felt a bit sickened by the revelation.
He teleported several more times that day.
He reported this to the man who gave him his meal, who looked quite startled by the revelation - and by his being outside of the cell. The shock turned to interest when he told the man what happened, though that interest faded a bit when he reported he couldn’t control the teleportation. Which was called ‘apparition’ by the man in the coat.
He felt a need to ask what his name was after that, and reported that he had forgotten it. The man noted that on his clipboard, and said his name was Randolph.
He did his best to remember, but forgot a few hours later.
His light brown hair had darkened noticeably on one side, and lightened noticeably on the other. Making him look half-brunette, half-blonde. The shades of his skin had changed to inhuman ones. One side too pale to be natural, even if he had been sick, and the other too greyscale to be passed off as human.
One of his eyes was now bright green. The other was blood red. They shined slightly in the darkness.
He didn’t think any of this was normal. It was mostly intuition, though. He couldn’t remember a time when his skin wasn’t two shades. It was only natural that his hair would be, too.
He got worse.
He gave up on trying to remember anything. Soon enough he’d forgotten all outside his cell and dark room. All he knew was that he’d be fed sometimes, that he would be let go from this place eventually, and that he would get injections whenever he woke up.
He tried to stay awake one night so he didn’t have to get stuck with a needle. He didn’t like it that much. But about an hour later he forgot he was trying to stay awake, and went to bed anyway.
The only reason light ever entered the room or people came in was to feed him or stick him with needles.
Sometimes he closed his eyes, felt his whole being tear apart, and experienced a moment of blinding agony before ending up somewhere else in the room. Usually this made him cough up a lung. These became normal occurrences - another item on the short list of things he remembered, and knew would happen.
He teleported outside his cell regularly.
He never tried to open the door. After all, this room was everything that existed. Men came from outside, of course, but he didn’t know what was out there. Best to just stay where he knew it was safe.
(Though, sometimes, he thought it might be better to not be safe. What happened when you died? He wasn’t sure, but occasionally he thought it had to be better than this.)
(But he held on. He’d be let out, eventually. He didn’t belong here. It was one of the few things he still knew - down to his very bones.)
(They’d let him go home eventually.)
One day, a boy came in.
The only people who came in were the tall men in coats. He’d never seen one so short. And this one didn’t have a coat - though he was wearing something similar. A long black garment of some kind.
He only entered after several loud noises against the door. These caused him to jump up in panic, glancing around rapidly, before settling quickly again when they ended.
The door creaked open after a pause.
Whoever entered closed the door softly behind them shortly after opening it. He blinked several times into the darkness.
His hair was sandy blonde, and his eyes were a piercing shade of green.
Just like one of mine, he thought, briefly.
“Lumos,” the boy muttered a moment later - and the room was filled with a soft white light. Usually the men didn’t light the room like this. Or at least, he didn’t think they did.
The boy glanced around. He took a few steps further in, craning his neck to inspect every nook and cranny - though his eyes never fell on the boy in the glass-walled cell next to him. Not even when he took a step closer to that very glass and glanced around inside that very cell.
After a moment, though, the boy turned, and rested his hand on the doorhandle - as if to leave.
He didn’t mean to cough. Really. But it was hard to avoid in this horribly dry room.
The boy froze at the sound, and quickly turned - his eyes locking onto a mismatched pair behind a glass wall.
The boy’s eyes widened in shock. And maybe fear.
“Are you here to inject me?”
After all, the boy didn’t have food for him. People came in to inject him or to give food.
The boy shook his head silently, still wide-eyed.
Relief flowed through him, as, after a moment, he remembered that a shake of the head meant ‘no’. “Oh, okay. Is it lunch time yet?”
Or dinner. Or breakfast. It was hard to remember, exactly.
The boy shrugged. Eyes still too wide.
The one in the cell tilted his head curiously.
“Are you scared of me?” he asked, a hint of wonder in his voice. Glancing at the illuminated wand in his hand as a few fleeting memories graced his mind.
Being wrong.
Not magic.
Wizards.
The boy. He was called a wizard. That’s what the wand was. A wizard’s wand. He was magic.
Not wrong, like the one in the cell.
“No,” the boy answered.
“You’re standing all the way over there,” the one in the cell pointed out. And your eyes are still very wide.
The boy walked a few steps closer, and crossed his arms. “Not anymore.”
“You shouldn’t be scared of me, you know,” he said, gesturing to the boy’s wand as a kind of explanation.
“You’re a wizard.” He felt proud of himself for remembering that much. “People like me can’t do magic.”
People who are wrong.
The boy brought his wand closer, studying the one in the cell’s face. “You’re a person?” he asked, with a hint of curiosity and a hint of dawning dread.
“I think so. To be honest, though, my memory’s gotten really bad,” he admitted. “I don’t even remember how I got here.”
Something told him that was important.
“Hey, where are we, again?” he asked, curious. Though he knew he’d probably forget in just a short moment.
“Caerphilly,” the boy answered.
“I don’t know where that is,” he confessed.
A pause.
“What’s your name?” the boy asked.
He blinked.
What is my name?
After a moment, he repeated the boy’s earlier shrug.
“You don’t know your own name?” the boy asked, eyes wide.
“Nope. I-”
He felt the world begin to grow fuzzy, and gripped himself tightly.
He was torn apart.
When his eyes opened again, the boy had a hand to the glass and looked very alarmed.
His mouth fell open when he spotted the boy in the cell now several feet away from where he’d been a moment ago.
“Did you just apparate? I though you said you weren’t a wizard!”
He waved the boy off with a pained cough. “I’m not. That’s just a thing that happens to me sometimes.”
The boy glanced around in alarm - and his eyes fell on one of the desks lining the wall. A man in a coat had left something there. Papers.
The boy rushed up to them, and took a small device out of his pocket.
A camera, some distant part of him remembered. He felt another brief flush of pride.
By the time the pride had dulled, the boy had already put the camera away, and was turning to him again.
“Hey, uh, I gotta go,” the boy said, taking a few steps backwards towards the door. “I’ll… see you around?”
“I don’t really think I’d remember anyways,” he said with a shrug. “Goodbye.”
And with that - he was alone again.
He didn’t mind too much. At least the boy hadn’t injected him. And had even answered his questions.
It was a nice interruption to his schedule.
He forgot the boy had ever come a few hours later.
A day more of injection, food, sleep. The men asked if there were any changes, with what sounded like finality. He reported that he felt worse, and remembered nearly nothing.
They made notes on their clipboards with grim expressions. He felt, strangely, like he had done something wrong.
He went to bed and woke up again.
And then a man in a coat came in.
It was never the same man. At least, he didn’t think so. Again. It was hard to remember.
This one had greying hair and thin wrinkles by the corners of his lips. Either from a lot of smiling or a lot of grimacing. He ushered the boy in the cell out.
He expected another injection.
Instead - he was led outside.
Outside, into the world. Memories rushed through him - old, faded memories, like pictures left out in the sun, but memories nonetheless.
It was a bright, beautiful day. The sun hit his skin and warmed him to the bone.
He smiled a giddy smile. “Am I finally going home?” he asked, joy and relief flowing through him.
No response, but that wasn’t out of the ordinary.
He held onto hope as the man led him into a truck.
After a long drive, that brought back very fuzzy déjà vu, he was led into another white-patterned building.
The man led him through the entrance, and he was practically hopping with joy now. Was this home?
He never hesitated to follow the man. He glanced around at the abnormally bright surroundings as the man walked down a long hallway, and through a door that said Employees Only in big, red letters.
He wasn’t sure how he was still able to read. The memory loss should effect that too, right?
Either way, he was glad. Maybe he could still write, too.
He was led into the room. It had only a single, large table, with bindings.
“Get on the table.”
It was an order. The man didn’t try to disguise it as a request.
As he climbed onto the table, the boy almost thought he could appreciate that. The fake kind men were worse than the ones that just gave orders.
Once he was laid down, the man fastened the bindings around his wrists and ankles.
“Can you move?” he asked, not even waiting for an answer before pulling out a needle. The boy almost sighed - turned out there was another injection to be had, after all.
But still - maybe this was the last one! It was in a different building, after all, and there wasn’t a cell around this time. Maybe this would make him look normal and fix the memory loss, so he could go home.
(By now, doubt was seeping in. He pushed it back. All he had left was hope.)
“No,” he answered, eyeing up the needle curiously. It wasn’t the usual bright purple fluid within - instead, it was perfectly clear. The only thing that told him there was any fluid at all was the line where it ended, and a few suspended bubbles.
“Good,” the man said, shortly.
He jabbed the needle into the boy’s arm. He didn’t even rub anything on the spot first, like the other men normally did.
He winced at the pain, gritting his teeth and repressing a yelp.
The man pushed the plunger down. The fluid ran into the boy’s veins.
It only took moments for his eyelids to grow heavy.
“W-what…” he murmured.
Darkness enveloped him.
He didn’t fight. Sleep was his only reprieve from the endless injections, after all. Darkness was his friend.
His eyelids fell closed for the last time. His last thought was that, maybe, when he woke up - he would be home again.