Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Chains ❯ Ground Me ( Chapter 64 )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

Notes: Sorry for delay everyone, but I’ve recently gotten one of those job things…a real one, not just writing for food…and it’s a bit of an adjustment. But I love it, really, still can’t believe they’re letting me influence young children, but I do get to teach them to read, plus, my desk is completely surrounded by books! So, no worries, I’ll find lots of time to write, there’s that whole lunch break not to mention staff meetings…


Chapter Sixty-Four: Ground Me


Aya stood quietly in the greenhouse, trying to soak in the warmth of the place. He wished it was sunny outside, but even with an overcast sky, mild heat gathered in the glass structure.

He was so cold. The orange sweater was thick, but Aya still felt chilled.

For a long time he stood there and tried not to think of anything beyond the sunlight, but other thoughts refused to be held long at bay; soon their heavy assault was upon him, heading him back towards the spiral of hopelessness that had been set in motion the night before.

So much was confusion. He didn’t know whether to be angry or worried, and part of him was just scared. He hated that part the most.

He was such a failure. How pathetic. If there had been a shred of honor left in him, it was gone. What would his father say? Aya had run away, scared like a small child. He had betrayed his sister by refusing Yohji then tried to run away from the situation, from her. What would Aya-chan do if he killed himself? If Crawford found out about his refusal and took his punishment out on her? He had chosen his own comfort over his comatose sister’s. He would go to hell for that.

Aya smirked a little, unable to help it. It was a hard expression. He had decided long ago that if hell existed, and it might, it had to be better than where he already was. Often he toyed with the idea that he had died in the explosion and was trying to expiate his sins in some sick version of purgatory.

It had been reincarnation that his father had believed in. If that was the case, whatever Aya had done in a past life, it must have been terrible. It showed how awful he was, how sick and dirty the core of his being was to be reincarnated as this thing that was to be abused. And he couldn’t improve it. He was a sad excuse for a son and brother, willing to throw away his responsibility just because his chore was unpleasant.

And he couldn’t even do it himself. What would his grandfather say? How could Aya ever face that dignified man and say that he lacked every honorable trait possessed by his samurai ancestors. Forget seppuku, he couldn’t even manage to slice his wrists. He just kept seeing her, seeing Aya-chan’s face. But he had already betrayed her, so it had to be an excuse.

He was so angry at himself. The situation…no, that didn’t matter. It was his fault.

Those he had failed were like so many dead voices in his head.

All night he had cycled through memory and dreams, past and future horror interspersed with tense moments of trying to decide what to do. Then he had failed again. Left bloody and tired, he had tried to pick himself up and go on, to tell himself he would beg for Yohji’s forgiveness and submit to the man. The images came, then, laying on Yohji’s bed where he had slept so peacefully, so warm against the other, now he would be forced back upon it, caught under the sweating man as Yohji told him over and over how wrong and dirty and pathetic he was.

Anger came and went, finding no outlet.

He was so weak.

For a long time he had sat on the floor by the window, watching black go to purple then to gray. He tried to reign himself in, to restore part of the cold calm that had helped him with Crawford.

He couldn’t do it. His resolve to follow orders collapsed when Omi saw him; the boy had looked so worried, and the false sympathy crushed him. Yohji had scared him, and he was too exhausted to fight it; he had shamelessly displayed his fear, and it could only be used against him. Aya just wanted it to be over. He loved Aya-chan with all his heart, but he wasn’t strong enough; he wanted to be, but he knew he couldn’t go through that again without going mad.

The idea of that wire wrapped around his neck, the quick tug, the last press of Yohji’s warm body against his own. That was the touch he longed for, now. If only Aya-chan…

No, she would die. If he chose death, he chose it for them both.

And why not?

Quickly he shut out that voice, the one that liked to whisper late at night that Aya-chan wasn’t going to wake up, that his sacrifices were in vain.

Could he do it? If he tried again, could he make the blade bite deep enough? Yohji had told him not do, but what did it matter? If he didn’t, could he let Yohji touch him, like that, hurt him and use him? Perhaps Schuldig would come for him shortly, since he had been so uncooperative, or maybe Crawford.

Was that better?

Stop it.

He took a deep breath and tried to still his thoughts before they got out of control.

***  **  ***

Aya didn’t know how long he had been waiting in the dark and had decided it might be forever.

His stomach had ached from want of food, but it had before so the feeling gave no indication of time’s passage. His eyes had adjusted as much as they would, making out only the faint lines of the walls. His arms had long ago fallen numb, suspended over his head so that he hung with his toes barely touching the floor. At some point his shoulder had ached, being strained by his last punishment, but that was numb now too.

It was cold. For a long time he had shivered, naked flesh covered in gooseflesh. His nose had run, but he had no way to clean it. Now, nothing happened. He wasn’t feeling his body; it was all cold.

He had never had so much time to himself, not since before. Aya thought perhaps they had forgotten him or left him purposefully there to die.

Part of him screamed for death, begged him to give up to the cold and just go to sleep. The pain would go, then, was already going. The wonders of death, of stillness and nothing, called to him. He wanted to smile, but his lips wouldn’t move. Oh, he might be close.

No! Another part of him cried out. Mentally, he shifted gears to listen to it, thinking he might try out all sides since he had so much time on his hands.

Why not? he asked it, closing his eyes to listen carefully.

Aya-chan. His own mind hissed the word at him. His sister. His innocent little sister, laying still in some bed, trusting that her brother would keep her safe in her sleep. A different sleep. But pain free, even if it was dangerous. He wanted Aya-chan’s sleep.

You can’t have it. You don’t deserve it.

Right. By his very desire he was proven unworthy. How weak to long for relief when it was up to him to protect her. He was bound by his family’s honor, but his duty, to do everything in his power to save her. But he was without her, and there was only the pain.

To die or not, or to live in pain, or to die because of pain, but then the guilt would stop him or not, and if not, was there guilt in hell?

//Stop that!//

He heard the words in his head before he felt the hand strike him across the cheek.

Yes, that was the pain. It barely touched him through the numbness. Pain stung, but guilt ate. What did—

//I said stop it!//

Another strike to his cheek, and Aya got his eyes open enough to see Schuldig standing close in front of him. There was light now, dim and from an odd direction.

“What’s wrong with him?” Nagi questioned, coming closer to lift a large flashlight and shine it in Aya’s eyes.

“The idiot’s trying to drive himself crazy,” Schuldig supplied, keys working in the locks above Aya’s head. The cuffs snapped open, and he dropped, supported easily against the German’s chest.

//That way madness lies, kätzchen. Come away from it.//

***  **  ***

Tired, Aya searched for a place to sit before he fell. Keeping one hand on the wooden table, he made his way to the back of the greenhouse and lowered himself to sit on a stack of pallets. To his right was a collection of junk, an odd assortment of things that didn’t belong with the plants, everything from a broken toaster to a pair of skis. He hadn’t had any idea where to put those things, so they had ended up occupying one corner. A corner, he had learned a few weeks before, that held one of the few unmonitored entrances to the greenhouse.

Behind the stack of junk was a hole some creature or another had dug, one that let cold air seep in. Aya had felt the chill first, and upon investigation had discovered the gap where a floorboard was missing and the wall no longer met the ground perfectly. He had thought to cover it, but then he had reconsidered due to Manfred.

Clicking softly, Aya looked in the direction of the junk pile. For a second he thought it wouldn’t happen, but there was the sound of stirring, and Manfred emerged. The large gray cat barely fit between the closely stacked clay pots, but it stepped carefully through and, after having a languid stretch in the meager light, came over to sniff at Aya’s outstretched hand.

“No food,” Aya told it honestly. The cat didn’t seem to mind, rubbing against his fingers and beginning to purr. As awful as he felt, Aya could help but pet the large head.

Manfred wasn’t an attractive cat, and even Aya admitted the animal wasn’t going to win any awards. But then again, neither was he, and the redhead was if anything more endeared to the creature for its scraggily appearance. Though big, Manfred was thin, all paws and head, covered in long, gray fur that stood out in unnatural tuffs. The gray tail had been broken and, left untreated, bent unnaturally in the middle; still, the cat made an effort to lift it up as it nuzzled Aya’s leg in appreciation. The top half of Manfred’s left ear had been lost to some in accident as had the cat’s left eye; it was now little more than a patch of skin split by a scar, better, Aya thought, than an empty socket. It reminded Aya of the arm’s dealer, Korat, and that had been his first thought for a name.

Deciding it was unfair to compare the cat to someone so odd, he had settled finally on Manfred*, a character much on his mind. Unfortunately, a few days later, he realized that Manfred was in fact a girl, but by then the name had stuck and he wasn’t going to change it.

He thought of all of this, life and death and boys with girls’ names, as he held his hand still and let the ragged cat walk under it, turn, and walk under it again.  

~tbc~

Notes:

* This one belongs to Lord Byron, from a poem by the same name.

Review to pet the kitty…whichever one you like.

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