Blood On Her Hands
DISCLAIMER: as far as I know, I do not own pokemon. Unless of course an email has arrived to tell me I have. *checks inbox excitedly* Nope, nothin’.
PREFACE: this is the
sequel to Bleed Like
Like all dreams, this one is distorted. Not a memory, but more a retelling of a certain event he had long wished had never occurred.
An event he could not quite remember; something that had long been pushed to the back of his psyche.
A soul can only handle so much guilt, after all.
His limbs shake. Sweat-soaked, sore and bloody, he pulls himself away from her, trembling as he gains the control he had been begging himself for these past five minutes.
Five minutes was all it took, and already her life is ruined.
No, her life was ruined some five days ago when they captured her; now, it is devastated.
There is no hope.
She chokes, spits up blood, curls her arms weakly about herself in a feeble attempt at shielding her violated flesh from him.
But it’s too late.
What’s done, is done, and by his hands, no less.
His mind screams as the other she –the only other in the room- retakes control, and once more he is just a puppet, bent to his Lady’s will.
The woman does not scream.
This time, she does not even have the strength to stop him, does not even bother trying to struggle. Lets it be done to her, even as his mind screams in protest.
But he is just a toy; no more capable of controlling his actions than the woman lying bloody and dying on the floor is.
Minutes pass, and once more his Lady calls him off.
He is no longer needed now; dismissed with a casual wave.
He wants to leave, but can’t help but stare at the woman on the floor.
What point was there to his directed actions? Unless the Lady found twisted pleasure in forcing him upon the human, he saw no point in her pain.
His feet marched him out the door, the woman’s blood drying on his skin.
The scratches in his arms from her feeble attempts at fighting him off bleed sluggishly.
He pulled himself into a dark corridor and wept.
The green lines on the monitor spiked for the first time in months. The nurse paused in her untangling of the IV line, and stared curiously at the display.
Again, a fluorescent spike traced itself over the screen.
Followed by another, than another.
More spikes, larger and sharper, poured over the machine in a green cascade.
“Doctor, I think we have some brain activity here!”
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The doctor peeled off his gloves, coming into the room.
“What is it, Joy?”
“Just look, doctor. I’ve never seen anything like it before...”
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
The spikes formed a pattern now; rising, falling, flashing.
“He isn’t waking. He’s not moving, but his brain activity is strange...” added the nurse as she finished detaching the empty fluid-bag from the IV, spiking a brand new one.
“More blood, nurse?”
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
“His RBC levels keep dropping, doctor. It’s as though his body’s... eating them. They just disappear. This is his third transfusion this morning. Gods know what his body actually does with the blood, cause it sure isn’t going into his veins.”
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
“Hmm. Get on the phone to Saffron. They’ve had a lot of incidences with a disease similar to this man’s condition. Maybe they’ll know what it is.”
“Right away doctor.”
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
The nurse scurried out. The doctor wiped his sweaty palms on his white coat as he bent over the supine figure.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The machine seemed to be slowing, the brief seizure of brain activity having passed.
Either way, the patient did not move; didn’t appear to be able to move.
“What are you?” he asked.
Predictably, there was no answer.
more murders reported to have taken place in
“Grisly stuff, Janine. And now onto the weather with Sarah.”
“Thanks Terry. Today’s weather was fine, at 22 degrees, with a slight north-west wind-”
The woman at the bar had long since tuned out from the television. Instead, she focused on the drink in front of her, as did the bar’s myriad of other patrons.
By her feet, her Marill growled softly, warning off the approach of yet-another drunken, would-be suitor.
It was not often a woman was found in this bar; when one was, she was considered ‘fair game’.
Strangely enough, no one seemed to bother this woman.
Perhaps it was the snarling Marill at her feet, or perhaps it was the knives sheathed on her hips.
Or it even could have been the fact that the first man to attempt to grab her had ended up with three broken fingers, one dislocated thumb and a dislocated wrist, as well as a knife wound to the stomach, and had then been dragged out side by the Marill, which had emerged some twenty minutes later, licking blood off its paws.
This the drunken man remembered, and managed to stagger in the other direction.
The woman ignored this, draining the dregs of the bourbon in her glass.
The slow burn in her throat clouded her senses not at all, and although the bar was as gloomy as it was grimy, she could see as clear as day.
She pushed back her stool, deposited a small, but reasonable amount of money on the bar, and made for the doorway.
No one made to stop her, no one questioned why she left, just as no one questioned why she attacked one unfortunate fellow by the door, dragging him out, leaving her Marill to wash the blood off the dirty tiles.
He disposed of the body as he had been told to: quickly, efficiently, and leaving behind no traces that it had ever existed.
Usually, he would have been ordered to feed it to either one of the many scum-sucking bottom-feeders that lurked in the city’s many alleyways, or have been told to just toss it in the refuse trench that backed onto the harbour.
This body was different, however.
The body of a woman, one of the ones he had been forced upon some few months ago.
Or was it weeks?
He could not remember, and by the frozen horror on the woman’s face, he had good reason not to.
Either way, the corpse -with its swollen stomach- was heaved into the furnace of the steel mill in the stinking industrial centre.
Molten metal closed around the woman’s flesh with a hiss, welcoming her into oblivion.
She had only died the day before.
She had killed herself, and whatever it was the Lady had valued in her.
He was not entirely sure if it was the knife he gave her, or the Rattata poison; either way, she was dead, and at his hands.
Just as his violence had been perpetrated against her weeks before.
He could not recall what number she was; just another in the endless stream that his Lady had used him for.
He did not understand; there was no gain to be made.
But while his body belonged to her, he could not help but obey.
Pikachu sniffed, and wrinkled his nose.
The air was heavy with burning flesh.
The woman scowled.
The feeder at her feet whined pathetically, reaching out for her leg.
Before broken fingers could clasp, a swift booted kick was made to his face.
Teeth crunched and cartilage jolted back into the feeder’s brain.
The body grew still, breathing cut off suddenly.
She was under no illusions that he was dead; within the next twenty minutes he would be up and about. A little sore perhaps, and certainly worse for wear, but not dead.
These damn things just won’t die.
Her interrogation of the currently-dead feeder had yielded her nothing, given her no clues as to what she sought.
The murders in Saffron would continue unabated.
She was perhaps the only one that knew what had really happened in that cavern; it had not been a cave-in caused by a suicidal cult, nor had the bodies suffered from a disease which caused blood loss.
Feeders were a disease.
A crunching noise in the background brought her out of her reverie.
“C’mon Marill, leave the body. You know feeding more than twice a day will give you indigestion.”
Marill grunted and swallowed. The feeder body was certainly in a worse state than before, missing a nose and both ears, as well as the jelly-like mush that was once an eye dribbling from an empty socket.
Misty rolled her eyes.
“Gods, Marill, I can’t trust you with anything, let alone a dead body. C’mon. We’d better head back.”
The blue aqua-mouse nodded, and trotted after her trainer.
Behind them, Rattata swarmed over the corpse, ensuring that this feeder at least would not rise again.
Fingers twitched, curling around crumpled white sheets.
The nurse adjusting his IV line for the fifth day that afternoon didn’t notice.
Eyelids twitched also, causing long lashes to flutter on newly-plump cheeks.
His brow creased, and the monitor, silent since that morning, beeped loudly.
“Another spike? Doctor, it’s happening again!”
Once more the doctor came, walking briskly down the hall and peeling off his gloves.
It would have been better if he had bothered to run like his instincts were telling him to; if he had done so, perhaps he could have avoided the fate that stretched before him.
The previously comatose patient was asleep no longer; instead a full-grown man held the nurse by the throat.
Her lips were turning blue, and blood dribbled sluggishly from one nostril.
The man’s eyes were angry and confused; a dangerous combination.
“Put her down. Easy there. Put her down.”
He did, throwing her in an overhead arc through the glass plated windows and down the hall.
Her body hit the concrete walls with a terrible crunch.
Blood pooled around her crushed head.
He turned towards the doctor now; stark naked and with various tubes and wires attached.
Blood dotted his skin as they were torn off.
The doctor found himself moving into a corner- the man was shepherding him as surely as Growlithe herded Mareep- and his back thumped against the wall.
The man grinned, no longer confused, but just angry.
Those black eyes are mad, thought the doctor as a hand reached for his face.
Gristle and bone crunched as the man squeezed.
AUTHOR’S NOTES: see? I said it was short. Still, I hope to update before the end of the month *fingers crossed* although in reality, it might be a while. I have homework, the school musical, various chunky assignments, not to mention my girlfriend coming down to visit me... phew, I’m a busy girl!
Anyways, reviews are always appreciated.