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

Author: Coyote aka. Trick Coyote aka. Little Psycho "gun toting" Coyote

Contact: trickcoyote@gmx.net

Disclaimer: Weiss Kreuz is not mine until I kidnap the corporate lawyers that is. Characters from the series are the creation of Takehito Koyasu but everything else springs from the steaming pit of filth and depravity considered my imagination.

Cruciamentum et vindicare

---

6290, 6291, 6292, 6293....
"LET ME GO YOU FUCKING PSYCHO!"
"I HAVE MONEY, CREDIT CARDS, ANYTHING!!!"
"JUST Let me go..."

I sat cross-legged in front of him, watching the quiet drops, moving only to insure their continuous path to the ground. He stared at me with horrified eyes, as I licked the cuts that had stopped bleeding. Thin red slices covered him from his ankles almost up to the kneecaps.

"Let me see...8720 drops...about 1/10 of a ml each...so, 87.2 ml...almost up to a Liter. "

He hung by a cord I had lashed around his wrists and to a pipe up over his head. Church basements are a wonderful place to work, quiet, dark, not too many disturbances in the middle of the night, full of people to kill, and as a bonus, it hurts God to know this is going on under the feet of his innocent little lambs.

The blood was starting to pool around his toes, creating an interesting pattern on the concrete floor every time he thrashed. Little droplets of red in loops and swirls covered the floor and wall behind him. God was crying and his tears were in shades of blood. I wanted to reach up and connect all the small red dots, creating a little art while I worked but I needed my mind to be focused on the task at hand.

A particularly violent swing splashed the liquid in a crimson arc across my face and chest.

"You know, struggling around like that will only make you bleed faster and break my concentration. Then I will have to kill you and find someone else to start this over again."

10454...
Just like the red on the floor.
10456...
Just like the red that decorates the walls of my cell.
10457...
Just like the red that flows down my arms.
10458...
Just like the red that stains my teeth and tongue.
10459....

---

Et fui flagellatus tota die et increpatio mea in matutinis

He will rescue them from oppression and violence,
for precious is their blood in his sight.
Psalm 72:14

---

I could hear my parents arguing about the confrontation with the nun he called my mother. Creeping a little ways up the stairs my father bellowed at the top, "I may have fucked you but that little bastard isn't my son! He's nothing more than another mouth to feed and a check from the government for taking him in!"

My head was spinning from what I had just heard. Mom wasn't Mom…Mom was Sister Ruth…but….I just couldn't come up with a solution. It was like all the gears in my brain had come to a screeching halt and leaning against the railing was the only thing keeping me from tumbling down the stairs. A resounding smack echoing down the stairs meant father was beating on my mom again, God I hope my sister isn't up there to see that. He hasn't started beating on her yet, and I still bear the bruises from our last little session. It was like this every time he was pissed off, drunk, or he was just in the mood to pummel someone.

I ran up the stairs two at a time to confront my parents about what was going on. My mother was lying on the floor, a welt already forming on her cheek from the slap dad had given her. Sis was clinging to her leg crying into the soft fabric of her skirt.

"Speak of the devil, here's the little shit now."

The only thing I could do was just stand there and stare. Hundreds of questions rattling around my brain wanted to come out all at once and I didn't know where to start

"Dad, I...I...I, what...?"

The one thing that really scared me about my father wasn't his strength or even his penchant to violence…it was his eyes. So pale they were almost yellow and often glassy when he was on a binge or filled with hatred and sadistic amusement when they glared down at me. They were the one indicator that trouble was soon to follow, and right now they looked very pissed off. Closing the space between us he grabbed my wrist wrenching it to the side and pulling me from the top step.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing with that knife boy? Gonna poke me, heh? Kill you're dear old Da with that little blade?"

Reaching back he swung a closed fist hitting me on the cheek and hurling me intot he wall. All the breath was nocked out of my lungs and stars danced around those furious yellow eyes staring at me from above. I had forgotten that I even had the knife in my hand when I ran upstairs. Stunned and trying to draw a breath all I could do was stare right back at him and wait for what was next.

"Maybe I should have drowned you in the river after that bitch left you here, just like the little mongrel pup you are."

He kicked me in the ribs and I could feel myself begin to tumble down the stairs. Something made a nasty crunch when I reached the bottom but by then I hurt all over and couldn't quite tell what it was. Dad was still standing at the top laughing and hurling insults at me. His face slowly faded as the blackness took over until all that was left was two glowing yellow eyes. After they disappeared, all was quiet.

Some time had passed before I came to. The sun had just gone down making the house pitch black. My head felt like some one had used for a soccer ball and my ribs burned. Reaching gingerly up my side I could feel a couple ribs give a bit under the pressure and tried not to scream when they sprung back. Yep those were definitely broken. Other than a few bumps and scrapes that looked like those were the worst of it. Damn lucky I didn't end up with a broken neck.

The house was silent and a solitary crack of light shone from the kitchen door into the living room. I could hear the clinking of silverware against a plate, guess they decided to have dinner whether I was alive or not. Fighting the vertigo that swam in my head I stood up and walked toward the kitchen, but stumbled over something that lay on the floor. Biting down on my bruised bottom lip I tried not to scream. Mom and sis lay in a twisted bloody heap at my feet.

"Da…what have you done?"

I shook sis gently, when she didn't make a sound I pinched her arm to make sure she wasn't playing. She didn't even flinch. Nothing in the room moved, not my heart or the bodies carved by the knife that sat beside them in a pool of blood. It was the one I had taken from the kitchen. My stomach heaved at the thought that I had given my father the very knife that had killed them. I felt just as dead as they were. It was then that I decided I didn't want to die again.

Crossing the living room to the stand beside the couch I slid open the small drawer of the table my dad kept his revolver in. The pistol's weight was reassuring in my hand but I could only pray that it was loaded. Turning to walk toward the kitchen to end all of this madness and death I tripped on a cord sending a lamp crashing to the floor.

A chair scraped on the kitchen floor and the kitchen door swung open hitting the wall with a loud thud. My father stood silhouetted in the light glaring at me in shock. Wasn't I supposed to be dead?

I was caught like a deer in the headlights. Unable to move or even raise the revolver I was holding. His eyes first wide with surprise suddenly shrank to thin slits as he approached me growling in a low voice "I thought that last lesson would have taught you not to threaten me boy. Put down that gun or I'll teach you something that you will never forget."

A voice screamed in the back of my mind that this was my father and that I couldn't shoot him, but the practical side told me I was about to end up like sis if I didn't. My father glared at me with fearsome amber eyes started to walk toward me with his right hand raised in a fist.

So I pulled the trigger,
and again,
and again,
and again.

Father lay on the rug stained with the blood of my mother and sibling. Still trying to get up from the floor with a look of absolute fury twisting his face he rolled on his back to face me. Those yellow eyes never blinked when I fired the last shot into his head.

I would never be hurt again, not by him, not by anyone.

---

Author Notes:

Yep this is taking a bit longer that I thought it would. Between working three jobs so I can go to Germany next year and all the stuff that has been going on in my family life GTCH has had to take a back seat. Thanks to all of those who read the original and to those who are reading the rewrite!

Story Notes:

Title Translation: Cruciamentum et vindicare - Latin: Persecution and Vindication