Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ White Shadows and Black Reflections ❯ Veitstanz ( Chapter 4 )

The voices were back again.

 

He could hear the murmurs, always there, and for now just a tad to low to be understood. He couldn't make out the words. Not yet. He was afraid that soon now he would begin to understand what they were saying. He was so very, very afraid of that.

 

There was a movement at the edge of his vision. A flick of strawberry-blonde hair. A whisper. If only he could remember her name….

 

The smell of fresh cut grass was strong. It was spring, wasn't it? Dad always mowed their front lawn in spring. It looked like a shimmering emerald, faceted by the dull, lifeless grey of the squat buildings in the neighbourhood. Such a bright, bright green.

 

If only he could remember her name….

 

In the other corner! A pale shadow, there and gone again, and he twisted wildly, hoping and fearing to catch a glimpse of her. The chain by which he was suspended head-down clinked musically at his movements, and slowly, his struggling form began to rotate.

 

Nearly there….NO! Don't leave! Don't leave!.....Come back! You can't just leave me here alone….

 

Sweet, musical laughter traversed the room, leaving the smell of fresh spring flowers and warm milk in its wake. A memory of happiness caressed him and all he wanted was to take a knife to his wrists and spill his blood, hot and red, onto the emerald green hills of his island.

 

If only he could remember her name….

 

Other voices came and went. Some harsh, some soft. Somewhere, someone was screaming as if their heart had been ripped out. A young boy.

 

The coppery tang of blood was in the air, thick and cloyingly sweet. Intermingled with the putrescent scent of evisceration.

 

From the corner of his eye, he saw a woman walking by, her blue dress swishing gaily around he legs, a black shawl draped over her shoulders and over the plain white blouse she was wearing. He knew that if he hugged her, buried his head at the cosy softness of her bosom, she would smell of lavender, the only luxury she allowed herself.

 

Her face was marred by a frown as she tugged a loose strand of hair behind her ear that had escaped from the thick, black braid that reached down to her hips.

 

“The shame….”

 

His heartbeat pounded in his ears like a war-drum and his throat constricted with grief, but still, he knew that he had to reach her, no matter what the cost. If only he could reach her, everything would be alright again. If only he could touch her once more, then none of this would have happened. If only….

 

She walked by, and he tried to say something to her, anything, anything at all that would make her smile at him again, anything that would make her take him into her arms, softly stroke his hair and tell him that everything was alright, but words failed him. He began trashing around, swinging violently as he fought to regain control of his voice, but all that escaped him was a harsh, hacking sound.

 

She was gone within an eyeblink and he screamed in fury at loosing his chance yet once more. The screams went on for a long while, only to fade into pained whispers as his voice gave out and the darkness around him grew thicker. He shivered in dread, because he knew that the next time he saw her, he would remember what had happened, and it would smash his soul to pieces and grind his mind to dust.

 

He knew what was coming and he knew there was no escape. The whispers had been a babbling brook in the back of his mind, but now the floodgates of despair had opened and the swirling, murky torrents of insanity swept him away and dragged him under. He was suffocating, drenched in agony and unspeakable terror and yet, he knew it wouldn't kill him, and that was the worst of all.

 

He didn't want to remember anymore. He didn't want to feel. He just wanted it all to end. But there was no rest for the wicked. They had told him that.

 

One grey moment stretched into the next. Voices faded into whispers only to return as mindless shrieks for mercy.

 

He couldn't stop. He tried to, but he just couldn't stop. His hand trembled as he fought for control, but his hand, his body moved as if it had a mind of its' own. Maybe if he cut of his hand it would stop. Maybe if he tore out his heart, then he wouldn't have to feel anymore. Anything, just to stop the agony of being alive.

 

The darkness faded and a pale greyness enveloped him. Behind him, a man stepped forth from the mists; the sound of his steps as familiar as his own.

 

He couldn't see him, but he knew that the man stood behind him, tall and rigid, his face harsh and commanding. The temples of his dark hair touched with grey and deep lines of worry and bitterness edged into his skin. He knew that the man would be wearing brown, simple clothes, a miners' sunday best.

 

“That damn hussy and her devil-spawn will rot in hell. They'll suffer the fires of satan, as is their due. That shameless whore.”

 

Such hatred and such anger in that calm voice. All hope fled and he flinched away. How could a few words hurt worse than any beating he had ever taken?

 

The door to his cell clanked, breaking the hold his visions had over him. The man behind him faded as the man at the door, the red-headed telepath, kicked the door open. Slung over the red-heads shoulder there was a girl, struggling weakly and sobbing. Shapely legs, dark blue school uniform with a pleated skirt and long, brown hair twisted into two braids that had come partly undone. And a cross. A tiny, star-shaped cross that dangled on a golden chain around her throat.

 

The german dumped the girl unceremoniously onto the ground in front of Farfarello and then kicked her in the ribs, hard, so that she wouldn't have enough breath to try and scramble away while he untied the insane Irishman.

 

The buckles on the straight-jacket holding the berserker were popped open, straps were loosened, and as he was unhooked from the chain that had held him suspended up-side down, he dropped to the floor, rolling gracefully to his feet. With a smirk, the telepath tossed him a wicked-looking knife and then left the cell, whistling. The door clanged shut again, and he could hear the bolts sliding home.

 

The girl on the floor was coughing and choking, trying to breathe again. The berserker contemplated her in silence, the knife resting in his hand like an old friend.

 

Maybe this time he would be granted his miracle. His Salvation. His End to all Sorrows. Maybe this time he would remember her name and she would return to him. Maybe this time she would not die.

 

The girl was breathing regularly again, if a little fast. She had pushed herself up on her hands and knees, but her head was still lowered, the braids dangling to the ground.

 

It was time to dance his little dance again.

 

The berserker pounced her, throwing her on her back, pinning her wrists above her head with his free hand. He crouched over her, one knee digging into her abdomen and his knife poised over her heart. He'd have to work slowly. He'd have to give God time to hear her screams, her pleas for mercy. And maybe this time, God would find this little corner of hell and to come and rescue the two of them.

 

His knife slipped under her blouse, grating over her skin, drawing the first blood. With a silky sound, the soft fabric parted before the blade, much like the sea had parted before Moses. The girl shivered violently beneath his hands, her eyes pressed shut and little choked sobs pouring from her lips.

 

Why did God allow evil things to exist? Why didn't he stop the pain and the suffering? Wasn't God supposed to be merciful? Wasn't he supposed to be loving and kind? So why wasn't he here yet? Where was the divine intervention he needed so badly?

 

Didn't God care? Well, he was going to do everything in his power to MAKE the Bastard care.

 

He needed more room to work properly. The blade danced over the girls body, cutting her blouse, her bra, her jacket. He flicked the cloth aside with the tip of the knife in order to get a better view of the material he was to work with. It wouldn't do at all if she expired too soon because he had become impatient and sloppy.

 

The layers of white and blue fell to the side, revealing…

 

What the fuck….?

 

A definitely female anatomy, but also well trained muscles and a multitude of old scars. Most certainly not the physique of a shy, frail and innocent teenager.

 

Irritated, he lifted his eye to her face, where his golden-eyed gaze was met with an expression of blazing fury and ice-cold determination.

He only had time to register that her eyes were blue. A piercing, glacial blue.

 

Then he felt something slam into his mind with brutal force. It viciously cut through him like a hot knife through butter and scattered the fragments of his memories like leaves to the wind. The agony as he shattered once again was indescribable.

 

There wasn't even room left for one last thought as he was pulled under.