Hellsing Fan Fiction ❯ Flying on Clipped Wings ❯ Chapter 2

Disclaimer: still don't own

 

CHAPTER TWO

Under the Covers

 

 

The room was completely dark except for the dull filtering of grey light from beneath the curtains on Monsieur Bossuet's windows across the room. Fine satin sheets engulfed my body shapelessly in softness. The only aspect of waking up in a strange room that scared me halfway to my grave was the light breath I felt across the skin on my neck, and the strong but satin-skinned arms that held me.

 

“Good morning, my pet,” Monsieur Bossuet whispered with a smirk on his voice, obvious satisfaction obtained from having me in his bed and knowing that I was a very fragile, small, weak girl. His velvet lips gently ran over my bare neck, the delicate and cold sensation sending chills down my spine. He stroked my hair softly with his right hand.

 

My skin went goose bumped. Monsieur Bossuet caressed my arms and hips with his long, slender fingers beneath the sheets, which sent me reeling in disgust. My eyes began to fog up while his curious fingers tried to have their way with my body, and even though it was humiliating, somehow, my body reacted in a way that enjoyed it. His firm hands explored every inch of my body from the neck down, as they were only interested in the areas considered “sexual.” And I could do nothing about it.

 

He chuckled softly and lifted me up, sitting me upward as he hovered over me. I sensed warm, wet tears streaking down my face, and he just seemed to deepen his laugh. I tried to wake up, hoping this was just a dream, but it felt too real. Then, when Monsieur Bossuet tilted my chin upward and grazed my neck with his teeth, his sharp, fang-like teeth....

 

I felt so violated, so stripped of all dignity.

 

“Heheheheheh....” an unfamiliar voice cackled. I strained my eyes, looking around the room while Monsieur Bossuet fed on my blood until I saw a dark, sharp-edged figure standing at the bedpost. It donned many snake-like eyes and was darker than the room's own deprivation of light.

 

“M....Monsieur....” I tried to wrestle out of my throat, anxiously attempting to fling the leech of a man off of me. “M....Mon....”

 

He suddenly stopped and lifted his head. “Oui?”

 

“B-behind you....a demon....” I shivered, sniffling and sobbing at the same time as the scene blurred whenever I blinked.

 

But Monsieur Bossuet only laughed as the darkness grew closer, exposing a wide mouth with many layers of fangs and razor-sharp nails. “Monsieur! Monsieur! Look behind you!”

 

Abruptly, Monsieur Bossuet fell foward onto my lap, his head landing directly in between my legs. Deep, gory scratch marks lined the back of his neck, and hollow bullet holes opened up on his severed torso and skull. Blood spurted like hellish fountains from the lacerations lining his cold, dying flesh, spraying patches of cold, stale maroon over my upper body as I sat in horror, immobilized by such amazing fright and disbelief. The body fluid dripped like ink across my pale complexion, entering my gaping mouth and stinging my copper eyes.

 

It was the sensation of blindness that took me back into reality. I was sitting on a mattress with a decapitated corpse, a body that was already dead to begin with but turned to grey flakes as I began to hyperventilate. My voice cracked with panic and disgust as I shrieked, nearly tripping while I ran at an abnormal pace down the hall. With all that was happening, I must've forgotten to dress myself again.

 

Then again, nudity was the least of my worries. From Monsieur Bossuet's room on the top floor, I ran down to the central hallway to where I met Madame Bossuet in her flowing evening attire. She wore a slimming, pure white chemise, embroidered with delicate white thread that formed intricate flowers along the swooping collar and skirt. Her soft, porcelain skin gleamed in the moonlight that seeped through the large glass windows lining either side of the hallway, her feet bare and gorgeous blue eyes full of spirit.

 

Despite my lack of uniform, she did not seem quite alarmed at all, and was very calm up until I informed her that her husband had held me in his chambers. For when I mentioned that crucial detail, it seemed that all mild emotions that were common for all sophisticated women of that century had dissipated. All I was left with was raw, uncontrollable rage.

 

“You zankless girl! `Ow dare you disregard all zat we've done for you!” she growled through clenched teeth. Her beautiful blue eyes didn't seem so beautiful anymore. In fact, they looked red. “I can't believe zis!”

 

“But Madame, I never forced Monsieur Bossuet into anything!” I pleaded with an aggravating lump forming in my throat.

 

“I doubt my `usband would ever sleep with ze `elp, little girl!” Madame Bossuet argued, obviously furious with my actions as I tried to convince her of my innocence. “All zose years in America must've dirtied your mind!”

 

“This has nothing to do with my homeland!” I indignantly retorted, infuriated at her mention of America like it was the most horrible place on Earth. What gave her the right to speak to me that way? Not even my employer's wife would get away with that, no matter how prestigious her reputation had been.

 

“I didn't do anything!” I screamed with a feeling of injustice, my eyes watering. “It's your husband that probably raped me!”

 

Suddenly, I felt her firm hand strike my face, sending me reeling backward. My cheek burned a fiery, tingling sensation as the moment reverberated in my mind, replaying for me like an old-fashioned cinematic movie in black and white. Over and over, I saw this beautiful woman whom all adored so perpetually turn into a raving, savage beast right before my eyes, and strike me for the first time in years.

 

The last time I was paddled was at the orphanage, but even that didn't seem to hurt as much as this, physically and mentally. Something was different about Madame Bossuet hitting me; maybe it was because of the way I revered her.

 

Either way, questioning myself was not going to help me at that point. Before I knew it, Madame Bossuet was channeling some supernatural current of strength and had me pinned against one of the windows. The glass was cold as ice, no light filtering through because of the mass of rain clouds hovering over Nice. It seemed as though those clouds never faded, even on the happiest of days.

 

“You loose little wretch,” Madame Bossuet whispered acerbically, her voice sharp with razor-edged words. Her grip tightened around my slit throat courtesy of Monsieur Bossuet, her skin like sandpaper against my raw wound. Her red eyes etched bullet holes in my own, hollowing me out for a better view of my fright. “For tempting my `usband, you will pay dearly.”

 

I couldn't even wriggle out a protest, for her grasp of my neck was all too stable. I felt the air escaping my lungs, my brain freezing all logic, and the sound of my declining heartbeat pounded in my ears like African drums. The wound on my neck had gone numb as I felt my skin lose all feeling, even with Madame Bossuet trying to crush my trachea with her thumbs. The vision in my reddish-brown eyes began to blur and fade monochrome once more, and all that was audible in the background was the sound of my own . . . dying . . . heart.

 

 

Then, I woke up.

 

Amazingly, all that had happened to me was a twisted, disgruntled dream created somewhere in my mind. However, upon waking, I realized that I was in the dream's original setting: beneath the fine silk sheets of Monsieur Bossuet's bed. His cold skin was pressed against mine, and I felt myself shudder in disbelief. How could this be happening, again?

 

“Good morning, my pet,” he whispered softly in my ear, slowly turning over to superimpose my little body. His skin was unbelievably cold, and feeling the frozen satin essence against my stomach and graze my warm inner thighs sent unwelcome chills up my spine. He bent down to kiss my lips, his chest gently rubbing over my own. While the kiss wasn't deep, it still sent me up the wall in desperate panic.

 

Then, I felt his long, gelid tongue try to force its way into my mouth, making me nauseous and petrified all at once. As soon as he succeeded, I tried to displace all emotions, I tried to force myself to act oblivious to the event taking place, but nothing worked, and all I could taste was the odd metallic flavor of stale blood. So, I did the only thing I could do.

 

I bit the unsolicited tongue.

 

On instinct, Monsieur Bossuet withdrew his tongue from my mouth, uttering a curse and looked at me with acid crimson eyes. He grimaced the most disgusted frown I had ever seen. Then, unexpectedly, he grinned ecstatically, his white fangs all perfectly viewable, and he roughly yanked me up to sit straight.

 

“Fine,” he chuckled with his breath against my lips, “if you don't want me to be nice, I won't be.”

 

The next thing I remember is Monsieur Bossuet holding me tightly with my head back, so my neck was stretched enough for his mouth to suck as much blood as he wanted. The whole time I felt my veins sting, subconsciously sensing the lifeblood being vacuumed out from within me. His cold, wet breath against my neck made me sick to my stomach, feeling utterly useless and unclean.

 

I then had a glorious revolution. If what was happening was related to the dream, that meant the demonic spiky spirit I saw that killed Monsieur Bossuet would soon appear.

 

“Monsieur . . . Mon . . . sieur . . . .” I tried wrestling out once again, weakly grasping his shoulders as I felt too much blood being taken from my body. But again, Monsieur Bossuet ignored me, and continued feeding on my bodily fluid. It was like drinking the blood of a human was a totally encompassing activity that took entire concentration to work right.

 

“Monsieur Bossuet!” I screamed as loud as I could with fangs in my throat, trying to disregard the aching burning that accompanied the loud exclamation. “Behind you!”

 

At that moment my master acknowledged me. “Oui?” he stated in the same tone and expression as the dream, and once I looked over his shoulders, I saw the demonic darkness staring straight at me with all twelve of its eyes.

 

“A . . . a . . . monster. . . .” I shivered, once again feeling weak from fear and lightheaded from loss of blood. The scene blurred every second or so between blinks and breathes.

 

Unfortunately, Monsieur Bossuet laughed as obnoxiously as before. As soon as I saw the spirit open its mouth, I sprang from the bed in order to avoid being sprayed with blood.

 

I ran down the hallway in hot pursuit of escaping the cursed mansion in which I lived, never once looking back to gather my uniform or see what had become of my master. I already had a fairly good idea what he looked like.

 

Right where I predicted, Madame Bossuet was trotting down the long hallway in the middle of the building, her evening chemise exactly as it once was. Yet this time, I needn't worry about informing the now widow of her husband's “trespassing,” for as soon as I reached within five feet of her, Madame Bossuet charged toward me with another implement of destruction:

A shining, black, automatic.

 

Oh, shit! I mentally cursed, knowing that even though I would be more aerodynamic without my frilly maid's outfit to weigh me down, it would be a narrow survival if I dodged every one of Madame's seemingly heat-seeking bullets. I could barely stand to be on my feet, I was so dizzy, not to mention the pallor and weariness that just appeared to be setting in. If I managed to break through one of the windows and land on a concrete windowsill of the second floor, I would personally dub myself the luckiest sixteen-year-old alive.

 

“You mangy, sleazy little `ore!” Madame Bossuet bellowed, mercilessly and sloppily shooting out as many rounds as she could in one hold of the trigger.

 

Now, as I said before, I was as disorientated, nauseous, and lightheaded on that night that I could've easily passed as your average late-night hangover sufferer. So, knowing I was as good as a wingless goose, I defied all boundaries that my mind had made for me with a headache and ran as fast as I could around Madame Bossuet, closing my eyes to not focus on dodging bullets and to just try to get out of there on pure instinct. I could feel my skin begin to pinprick and sting rabidly at my wrist, so I knew I was hit at least once. Nevertheless, the less I concentrated on the pain, the faster I could get the hell out of that mansion.

 

“You fucking bitch!” I heard Madame Bossuet scream from directly next to me, so I knew without opening my eyes that she was close. “Get ze `ell-“

 

Suddenly, I felt warm liquid hit my skin, and the sound of the machine gun hit the floor bluntly, along with a soft thud. Curious, I opened my eyes to see Madame Bossuet sprawled across the floor, her chest gaping and right leg severed. I saw a new coat of blood droplets on my flesh, her blood warm unlike Monsieur Bossuet's had been. While scanning my body, I also saw that even though I'd sworn I felt my skin curdling under bullets, I was ultimately unscathed.

 

It was also then that I saw another one of those sharp-edged demons standing in the hallway beside Madame Bossuet, its smirk revoltingly gleeful and hands stained with the blood of the fop's wife. Where were these coming from? Were they just some satanic hallucination formed in the depths of my mind? And if they were just that, how is it that people keep dying whenever they're nearby?

 

Even so, I decided that I could try and figure out the logic behind these odd creatures after I fled from the property of the Bossuets. With that in mind, I sped from the central hallway to the stairs connecting the parlor to the upper floors. On the stairway, I ran into Brigitte, who seemed alarmed at my appearance of wide-eyes, nude body, and blood spatter. She held in her hands a clean new uniform in my size. I then remembered that it was her day to do a load of clothes.

 

“Brigitte!” I huffed tiredly as I was out of breath, “You have to get out of here!”

 

“Lynne?” She gasped, “where are your clozes? Why are you covered in blood?” She seemed to not have heard me.

 

“That doesn't matter! You have to-“ I tried to reinforce my prior warning, but before I could get out the whole sentence, I saw Marguerite approaching us.

 

Her eyes were white without pupils, her mouth agape and neck drenched in blood. Her body floated limply in the air, her left foot and right arm missing entirely. As puddles of blood poured from her extreme wounds of disconnection, I saw vaguely behind her a smiling black shadow, performing with Marguerite's body like the old woman's corpse was a marionette of malign.

 

“No!” I cried, my eyes watery as I gritted my teeth with anger at the heinous speck of darkness. “You bastard! Why are you doing this?”

 

I heard the rough drawing in of air beside me, and I saw Brigitte beginning to convulse violently with stuttering, incomplete phrases, and spasms of her limbs in horror. She dropped the uniform and attempted to run farther up the stairs, but her mind was too overridden with fright that she tripped and bashed her forehead right into the steps. Tears began to stream from her beautiful umber eyes shaking and glossed over with uncontrollable mixed emotions. As soon as her head wound began to bleed, I realized how much of a mess Brigitte had become.

 

“”Oo are you talking to?” Brigitte exclaimed with a voice shaken with both sadness and skepticism as she stared me in the eyes. “Marguerite's dead body?”

 

“No!” I pleaded, appalled that Brigitte couldn't see the evil spirit conducting our friend's body. “The spirit behind Marguerite! Can't you see it?”

Brigitte gave me an unrelenting look of bitter hate that still haunts me to this day. Her dark eyes seemed darker than they had ever been, bitten with such abomination at what probably sounded like blaspheme and sick, cruel entertainment. Here I was, an American that she had come to trust and consider a friend, and my description of the spirit probably sounded so viciously crude that I would never be on the same level with her again.

 

I only wish that she hadn't died hating me so much.

“You're crazy,” Brigitte spat at me the way that Madame Bossuet had in my dreams. “You're crazy and evil!”

 

With those last words, Brigitte's body was slit in half at her hourglass waist with a sickening crack of breaking bones. Once again, I was greeted with the lifeless eyes that seemed to stare at you with their whites, and her angry expression made me feel intolerably confused, to the point where I felt like I would burst with tears of every emotion combined that had crossed my path that night. To think I was the only one spared in the whole mansion, and the only one who could see the evil, was a burden that still weighs a thousand pounds.

“Why?” I whimpered, kneeling next to Brigitte with my head bowed in shame. “Why are you doing this? That's all I want to know!”

 

I still don't know exactly what the answer to that question is, even though I've been searching for some clarity my whole life. All I'm sure of is that my leaving that mansion, donning the ruefully-worn uniform that Brigitte was carrying, was one of the most paramount decisions I had ever made, and has affected my life ever since.