Post by Delion on Jul 30, 2006 7:38:41 GMT -5
((This is a REALLY alternate future story, hah. I don't see this happening, but it is very fun to write.))
Hot water scalded his skin as he scrubbed frantically, hands shaking so much that the rough brush kept falling back into the basin with a clatter. The water had long run clear, but to Delion’s eyes it may as well be blood pouring from the faucet itself. He was in a terrible condition for one usually so well-kempt; deep blue sagging eyelids from restless nights, nails with ragged edges from biting, and the same teeth had worried his lips to bleeding. His eyes were constantly alight with fear, paranoia, alertness.
The clatter of the brush against the stone basin startled him, making him jump and swear at himself. His gaze darted to the door, then windows, and even the corners of the room reflexively for a fleeting moment before he reached for the brush again, leaning heavily on the stone as his knees kept shaking like they belonged to a lame street mutt. His white hair was damp with thick steam that filled the room, hanging over his face as he bent low.
It’s going to happen again. Tonight. I know it will. And they won’t believe me at all. I really am going insane aren’t I? I must be. No one believes me.
Of course they had all been supportive at first. They were family after all. They’d calmed him when he had nightmares. When shadows moved and footsteps were heard with no one belonging to them, they had soothed his nerves. When he heard laughter by his window -hoarse, cackling- they reminded him about the night patrols, not to mention random drunkards at all hours of the night.
And then the wounds began.
The only warning was a soft press at his mind, as if someone were about to contact him. He had come to wonder where it would happen next, as he waited the brief moment -it always seemed like hours- until skin tore of it’s own accord. Brilliant red peeked at the surface of the tiniest slit, and he’d watch in horror as it split further, gaping, red plumes spilling forth from blue skin.
He had to tell them then. He knew what this was, he knew who was whispering sickly serenades in his sleep, who was haunting him alone. He had told them all of the death of Kanashimi by his hands, of how much regret he had for what was essentially cold-blooded murder. There was mixed reaction, some willing to forgive, others saying so but eyeing the Priest warily as if they thought he deserved whatever this was.
“The bugger’s sufferin’ from guilt.” Bricu had claimed.
“I’m not entirely surprised. It must be a terrible taint on his reputation.” Indara had added coldly.
“But, Del, she’s na’ alive. ‘S done with. Y’still seeing our friend Fordring, righ’?” Tarquin had offered.
Shaila had simply watched him, expression unreadable.
For a moment, Delion was relieved. Of course Kana couldn’t be alive. He had killed her himself. Saw her wracked with raw power, shrieking soundlessly and clawing at his robes as the energy coursed through her body, contorting it in horrible ways. And when he had stopped it went limp and cold to the grass at his feet, lying there with gaping mouth and wide blank eyes staring through him.
She was dead. And he must have been suffering from guilt, his mind cracked and broken because of it, his hands finding blade to wound himself and mark his shame. They had taken things from him then; scissors he kept his hair neat with, all his sewing needles, kitchen knives, the small blades that cut his cloth. And Delion was relieved, to believe that it was a simple problem to be fixed, and things would return to normal soon enough. He had slept well that night.
The coming day however, had been worse. Guttural shrieks came from The Finest Thread -now closed- in the early morning, and it took a passing patroller some time to break down the locked door as they continued.
Delion was found in his bed, writhing and whimpering piteously with his sheets damp and vivid red. Cuts and gashes marred his flesh, not one section of his body remained untouched. Patches of black proved to be burns, and within hours bruises of all different shades were blossoming on his pale skin.
In no condition to look after himself, he had been hastily carried away. He had to stand upright as his cuts were healed one by one, skin knitting together again. His back, chest, legs and arms bore fresh, thin scars, and they had even found cuts beneath his jaw and behind his ears. Dry blood dissolved as he was made to clean himself, bruises and burns still present on the backs of his thighs, above his right hip, shoulders and hands.
He was kept in a room that night, minimal furniture and pure white sheets, one small circular window, and someone at guard by the door. His sleep was slow to come because of his aches but after some hours he had drifted off, though it was far from a deep slumber.
A noise woke him with a start, though it did not continue. His hazy mind became aware of his surroundings at first, and then his wet hands. His hands should not have been wet, and for a second he pondered a leak in the roof or even a tap. He brought his hands up away from whatever it was, and his face went white as the sheets.
There was blood on his hands. Covering them like he had just dipped them in vivid dye, with no ache or gaping cut to signify where the red liquid came from. A thick drop fell into his lap, and then another.
There was someone else’s blood on his hands. And Delion got the message loud and clear.
((More coming as I write it.))
Hot water scalded his skin as he scrubbed frantically, hands shaking so much that the rough brush kept falling back into the basin with a clatter. The water had long run clear, but to Delion’s eyes it may as well be blood pouring from the faucet itself. He was in a terrible condition for one usually so well-kempt; deep blue sagging eyelids from restless nights, nails with ragged edges from biting, and the same teeth had worried his lips to bleeding. His eyes were constantly alight with fear, paranoia, alertness.
The clatter of the brush against the stone basin startled him, making him jump and swear at himself. His gaze darted to the door, then windows, and even the corners of the room reflexively for a fleeting moment before he reached for the brush again, leaning heavily on the stone as his knees kept shaking like they belonged to a lame street mutt. His white hair was damp with thick steam that filled the room, hanging over his face as he bent low.
It’s going to happen again. Tonight. I know it will. And they won’t believe me at all. I really am going insane aren’t I? I must be. No one believes me.
Of course they had all been supportive at first. They were family after all. They’d calmed him when he had nightmares. When shadows moved and footsteps were heard with no one belonging to them, they had soothed his nerves. When he heard laughter by his window -hoarse, cackling- they reminded him about the night patrols, not to mention random drunkards at all hours of the night.
And then the wounds began.
The only warning was a soft press at his mind, as if someone were about to contact him. He had come to wonder where it would happen next, as he waited the brief moment -it always seemed like hours- until skin tore of it’s own accord. Brilliant red peeked at the surface of the tiniest slit, and he’d watch in horror as it split further, gaping, red plumes spilling forth from blue skin.
He had to tell them then. He knew what this was, he knew who was whispering sickly serenades in his sleep, who was haunting him alone. He had told them all of the death of Kanashimi by his hands, of how much regret he had for what was essentially cold-blooded murder. There was mixed reaction, some willing to forgive, others saying so but eyeing the Priest warily as if they thought he deserved whatever this was.
“The bugger’s sufferin’ from guilt.” Bricu had claimed.
“I’m not entirely surprised. It must be a terrible taint on his reputation.” Indara had added coldly.
“But, Del, she’s na’ alive. ‘S done with. Y’still seeing our friend Fordring, righ’?” Tarquin had offered.
Shaila had simply watched him, expression unreadable.
For a moment, Delion was relieved. Of course Kana couldn’t be alive. He had killed her himself. Saw her wracked with raw power, shrieking soundlessly and clawing at his robes as the energy coursed through her body, contorting it in horrible ways. And when he had stopped it went limp and cold to the grass at his feet, lying there with gaping mouth and wide blank eyes staring through him.
She was dead. And he must have been suffering from guilt, his mind cracked and broken because of it, his hands finding blade to wound himself and mark his shame. They had taken things from him then; scissors he kept his hair neat with, all his sewing needles, kitchen knives, the small blades that cut his cloth. And Delion was relieved, to believe that it was a simple problem to be fixed, and things would return to normal soon enough. He had slept well that night.
The coming day however, had been worse. Guttural shrieks came from The Finest Thread -now closed- in the early morning, and it took a passing patroller some time to break down the locked door as they continued.
Delion was found in his bed, writhing and whimpering piteously with his sheets damp and vivid red. Cuts and gashes marred his flesh, not one section of his body remained untouched. Patches of black proved to be burns, and within hours bruises of all different shades were blossoming on his pale skin.
In no condition to look after himself, he had been hastily carried away. He had to stand upright as his cuts were healed one by one, skin knitting together again. His back, chest, legs and arms bore fresh, thin scars, and they had even found cuts beneath his jaw and behind his ears. Dry blood dissolved as he was made to clean himself, bruises and burns still present on the backs of his thighs, above his right hip, shoulders and hands.
He was kept in a room that night, minimal furniture and pure white sheets, one small circular window, and someone at guard by the door. His sleep was slow to come because of his aches but after some hours he had drifted off, though it was far from a deep slumber.
A noise woke him with a start, though it did not continue. His hazy mind became aware of his surroundings at first, and then his wet hands. His hands should not have been wet, and for a second he pondered a leak in the roof or even a tap. He brought his hands up away from whatever it was, and his face went white as the sheets.
There was blood on his hands. Covering them like he had just dipped them in vivid dye, with no ache or gaping cut to signify where the red liquid came from. A thick drop fell into his lap, and then another.
There was someone else’s blood on his hands. And Delion got the message loud and clear.
((More coming as I write it.))