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Charlie still remembers the years he spent in isolation at the hands of Tony. He doesn't remember every day very vividly, most of the details are blurred together into one big cloud with a few lightning strikes of specific memories in his mind. He definitely remembers the feeling, though.
Charlie told Babe the brief version. The SparkNotes. Just enough so that Babe understood Charlie wanted nothing to do with that man other than his irredeemable demise.
He hasn’t even told Jeff the full details. Why would he tell his brother of all the psychological torture he went through, when Jeff’s already dealing with his own baggage that’s about to burst the seams? It’s Charlie’s job to shove others’ dirty clothes into his suitcase so that they can walk farther. Not Jeff’s, and not Babe’s
What Charlie didn't tell them was just how crazy he felt himself starting to go. Because everyday was the same. Waking up, staring at the blank walls in his room, getting his regular meals delivered, and trying anything to occupy his mind.
He used to be let out, back when Tony was still testing him to find his power. But somewhere between his 11th and 12th birthday, Tony had started losing his sadistic hope of selling Charlie to the highest bidder. The less hope Tony had, the less he visited, and the less Charlie got to leave his room. Eventually, the visits slowed to the first Sunday of every month, and the privilege of leaving his room was taken.
Then the visits completely stopped. Because he wasn’t worth the trouble.
At first, Charlie waited. Hoping that if he was good enough for a few days, Tony would let him out. Or at least come in and yell at him some more. But after four days of dissociating and pacing the length of his room, he couldn’t handle it anymore. He thinks the only reason he was able to hold out for so long is that he could hear everything that was happening outside his room. Every conversation, every footstep, every scream. He may have hated it, but it sure did help pass the time.
By the first week, he broke. He had been dissociating again, hoping to pass the time by letting his consciousness completely fuck off to a place where time wasn’t real. Where he didn’t even feel real. But for some reason, his brain decided to rudely snap him back into the reality where he’s locked in a bare room, with nothing but a bathroom and a bed.
He’d counted every bump in the popcorn ceiling three times by now. He’d memorised the pattern in the tiles in the bathroom. He’d taken fourteen too many showers, just to give himself something to do, before it finally processed in his head that Tony wasn’t letting him leave. Ever.
Something in his small 12 year old body snapped. Charlie threw all caution to the wind and needed to do anything to get out of that room. He couldn’t handle that room any more. It was too perfectly clean. Any form of entertainment- like the few toy cars or tiny army men- he was allowed was taken when Tony lost hope in Charlie having any sort of value. His bedroom was even less than a guest room, the only evidence of it being lived in was the wrinkles in the bed sheets.
The walls and floors were pristine. Charlie was always too scared to damage anything, lest Tony decided that’s cause for a beating. Wouldn’t be his first time he would’ve gotten hit by Tony, or one of his minions, but he’d prefer to keep it from happening when he could.
Though, after a few days trapped in what was basically a prison cell with a better bed, he didn’t quite care if he got beat. He just wanted something different to happen. He tried just yelling at first, hoping being loud would get someone, anyones , attention. When his throat started to feel sore, he added the banging of his hands on the door to the noise.
He knew Tony could hear him, knew he had cameras in all the rooms of the mansion. He wasn’t dumb, Tony had eyes everywhere. But it didn’t seem to matter. Charlie had tears streaming down his face, every bit of his hands down to his wrists felt as if they’d fall off from the pain, and was still trying to yell past his sobs. And no one came. There wasn’t even a shadow that passed by his door.
After his desperate attempt at using the “power of crying himself to death to get daddy’s attention”, Charlie found himself exhausted. He didn’t actually know how long he’d been yelling, but he’d definitely lost his voice and he could see his hands beginning to bruise. He didn’t even have the energy to crawl to his bed, so he laid on the hard floor in front of the door and fell asleep quicker than he had in weeks.
When Charlie woke up, he could still vaguely remember the dream he had. It was something to do with the man that always brought him his bare lunches, actually sitting down and eating lunch with him. They were laughing together as if they’d done it countless times. Though he can’t remember what they talked about, he remembers a kid he’s seen around the compound sitting in the corner.
He was always so stiff whenever Charlie got the chance to catch a glimpse of him, as if he was tasked to be a decorative statue. He was just as stiff in Charlie’s dream- sitting there, staring, not moving a muscle. It was honestly unsettling.
But Charlie would take that over having to strip the sheets off and re-make his bed for the six thousandth time any day.
He found, when he looked at the clock that’s been hanging on the wall- the same clock that’s been taunting him since his solitary confinement, seeming to go slower every time he looks at it- that he’d been able to sleep for four hours. Dinner time was now only forty-six minutes away. If he took his time doing his time-passing activities, he’ll be able to eat in no time.
Charlie figured out shortly after that, that his dreams got progressively weirder the more he slept. And the weirder they got, the more entertaining they were, and the more he wanted to sleep. It was like his own version of watching a bad movie or show, he’d be confused by the plot but couldn’t look away.
Not only were his dreams fun, they helped pass the time. There were times Charlie didn’t even have a dream in his sleep, or if he did, he didn’t remember it. Those dreamless sleeps usually felt like only minutes had passed, or even seconds; but when he’d look at the clock, he would be the one laughing, seeing the hours that had passed.
Charlie finally had something he could look forward to.
When Charlie could no longer keep track of the days, he’d started acting out his own dreams. Not the ones that came to him in his sleep, just random scenes or stories he would come up with so he didn’t have to feel so lonely. This was around the time he started to no longer feel real in his everyday life.
He realized he had probably looked insane to anybody who watched him through the security cameras- that he wished he knew the location of- in his room. However, with how he figured he figured the only way out was in a body bag, he didn’t care.
Besides, what else was he supposed to do? Sit on his bed and stare at a wall? There wasn’t even a new coat of paint that he could watch as it dried. If he didn’t find a way to entertain himself, he would’ve probably killed himself by now.
Not that he hasn’t thought about it. He has. He really has. Especially on the days he can hear the screaming. They’re always clearly child screams, and they always sound painful. He’s gotten close to it. Multiple times. He’s thought of the different ways he could do it. He thinks his favorite is using the butterknife he sometimes gets with his scheduled meals to stab himself in the neck, right in a carotid artery.
It definitely wouldn’t be painless, it was probably the most painful of the list he’d come up with. He thinks that’s why it was his favorite. It would have given him something to focus on. Something other than the detached emptiness of the room he’s been locked in. He would finally feel real, like he was solid in existence, like he wasn’t lost in those fake stories and worlds that he dreamed about.
He’d finally feel something real.
He’d have to hide, of course. Somewhere Tony wouldn’t be able to see him and wouldn’t get suspicious. Probably the shower, have the water running and the curtain closed. Hopefully, it’s a blind spot in the cameras and Tony wouldn’t get to him in time to save him.
With how he doesn’t have any special powers though, Tony probably wouldn’t care. He would just let Charlie bleed out, or send someone to help get the job done faster, then bury him with the rest of the kids that he’s covered up the existence of. Nobody would even remember Charlie existed. He’d just be another nameless skeleton that looked like all the other ones. Only to be surrounded by the worms and maggots that made his flesh and meat their dinner.
He thinks that’s why he hasn’t actually tried yet. Because to kill himself now would just be pointless. It would be letting Tony win, and no matter how much he’s stopped caring about his own life, he can’t let Tony get what he wants. At least this way, Tony still has to waste his money on Charlie running up his water bill and feeding him.
When Charlie heard Tony’s plan for Babe, he knew this was a way to get back at Tony. To keep him from getting something he wants, and he could help someone in the process. It seemed like a win-win for him.
So, Charlie finally broke out with Jeff by his side, and he found out he'd been in solitary confinement for about six years. It didn’t feel plausible. Sure, he knew he had to have been locked in that room for a few years, but six.
He spent six years doing nothing but sleeping and talking to himself.
Then, he met Babe. And suddenly he was so busy running around, always having something he needed to get done. If he wasn’t trying to protect the people he loved- which to be honest, was constantly- he was either planning ways to take Tony down, running after Babe, training/racing, or at the helping lab. He barely even had time to sleep, let alone nap.
Babe helped Charlie finally feel concrete. When Babe touched him, he felt solid under his fingertips. When Babe talked to him, Charlie felt more than some floating orb of gas. Babe helped Charlie feel like a person .
Before he knew it, it had been almost two years. Time seemed to muddle together again, but this time it was because he had so much to do, rather than so little. Charlie found he would much prefer his life like this, minus Tony’s annoying cockroach self reappearing where he’s never wanted, of course.
Charlie no longer had large parts of his days that he needed to miss lest he go insane. So, naturally, he thought his oversleeping days were over.
Who needs naps when your new life is as interesting as Charlie’s?