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DISSONANCE — Elliot Alderson
note; this is me dipping my toe into the fandom water with a potential first chapter, or maybe just a one-shot, exploring pre-canon time and trying my hand at Elliot’s characterization. I’m not sure how active the fandom is, but here is my little contribution! this is set after Elliot is locked in the server room, but before the events of Mr. Robot. Elliot’s POV, and an encounter with an interesting patient in the psychiatric hospital.
warnings; suicide mention
word count; 2,600
It’s been fifteen days since I tried to kill myself.
That’s what Darlene says happened. I guess I have to take her word for it, since I don’t remember doing it. I just know that there was silence. I know, I should be concerned with my lack of memory, but this isn’t the first time I’ve forgotten.
At least, according to Darlene.
What little I do remember is entirely worth forgetting; all encompassing solitude, so fucking heavy I could feel it even when I didn’t have a body. When I floated in whatever abyss takes over when your brain stops firing circuits to the motherboard. She says it was five minutes; five whole minutes my heart stopped pumping blood and my program crashed. It was catastrophic, but a reboot of three-thousand volts was a sufficient kickstart.
Those five minutes felt like eons, and I realized that an eternity of being alone is the cruelest hell any fallacious religion could conjure up.
I keep that thought pinned as I step into the common area, a herd of appointed white scrubs scattered around the room, sluggish in their movements—ghosts, shells. There’s too many people, too many faces, and the anticipation of being seen itches beneath my skin like needles.
“Elliot.”
It’s strange; being surrounded by so many people and feeling so utterly alone all at once. Ms. Krista had said something like that, back during our first session. I think it’s a mandatory aphorism on the psychologists checklist; ten steps to piece together the patient, troubleshooting procedures to work toward the root of the problem—I don’t think she ever reached the root of the problem.
I don’t even know the root of the problem.
“Elliot?”
Seguir leyendo
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Larrabee State Park, near Bellingham, Washington, May, 1973
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