Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ White Shadows and Black Reflections ❯ Walpurgisnacht, part I ( Chapter 5 )

Verdammte Scheiße.

 

Andreas would have tanned her hide for this, had he still been alive. No, seriously. He would have thoroughly trounced her in the exercise ring so that she'd be sore for days and then he'd have made her load and unload their van on her own for MONTHS.

 

Since Andreas was gone, she mentally whacked herself. She still couldn't believe she'd been so incredibly stupid. That she had been so fucking careless!

 

All right, so being surrounded by droves of air-headed, naïve little girls had been getting on her nerves. And maybe she had wanted to slap one or two of them for spouting some of the most inane rubbish she ever had the misfortune to hear. And even if the accompanying emotional background noise had been a damn, bloody nuisance…. So what! That wasn't an excuse. Hell, it wasn't even a good reason.

 

After all, most of the other girls were really nice and hanging out with them could be fun on occasion. Talking about boys, about clothes, going to the movies….

But in the long run, it had been like someone was trying to suffocate her with pink candy-floss.

She really, really could take only so much of that sticky sweetness. If she had to hear yet another 14-year old go “kawaii!!!!” over a fluffy toy or some small animal, she'd puke.

It had only been two months, but this morning, she had been so irritable and frustrated that she had been ready to commit grievous bodily harm.

 

Shutting everything and everybody out, even if it was only for a few minutes, had held an irresistible appeal. O.K., so there wasn't anybody to act as her backup. Screw this, at the moment, there was nobody in her life with either the ability or the knowledge, let alone the trustworthiness to act as a back-up. Worse yet, the way things had been going, it had looked as if there wouldn't be someone like that again for ages.

 

Now matter how right Andreas had been to caution her against lowering her guard, practicing constant vigilance all by her lonesome had simply sucked. And she'd planned to go “deaf” and “blind” for only a few short minutes….really!

 

In the end, sneaking off to find herself a quiet little spot beneath the cherry trees and then going null, revving up her shields to maximum, had been too much of a temptation. The complete silence had been pure, unadulterated bliss. She hadn't been this relaxed for ages.

 

And now look where it had gotten her.

 

Oh yeah, Andreas wouldn't have let her live this one down for a long time.

 

Apropos living. She still had some hope that she might actually survive this…even though she was shut in a cell together with a homicidal madman whose insanity tasted as bitter and acrid as burning flesh. If she wanted to live to tell the tale, she'd better get to work. It would probably take everything she had, and she prayed that it would be enough.

 

With a small part of herself, she maintained the feeling of panic and fear that she had been broadcasting ever since this little charade had started. She added a smidgen of mind-numbing pain for good measure. No point in jeopardizing the neat little smoke-screen that she had set up the moment she had regained consciousness. If the red-headed telepath caught on, she'd be in even deeper kimchee than she already was.

 

Never would have thought that the “scared lil' rabbit routine” I had to learn for our Spanish-Inquisition-Plays would come in this handy.

 

Getting inside the mind and the soul-place of the Madman had been unproblematic. His insanity had left him wide open and his mental shielding had holes like a swiss cheese. Ripping into him and pulling him down had been as easy as gutting and skinning a rabbit.

 

She found herself in the middle of an unyielding, swirling darkness tinged with red. Around her, memories and feelings whirled and revolved like shards of broken glass. Fast. Getting in had been easy. Being inside was a nightmare.

 

Blinding Pain, Agony, Fear, bleak Terror, nameless Dread, Hopelessness, Despair, burning Anguish, Sorrow, Regret, wild Fury and Hatred. It bit her like frost and scorched her like fire. It shook her like a dog would shake a rag and within seconds, she was shivering like an aspen leaf. She felt sick. It was like trying to breathe needles and eat nails. His emotions swamped her, too much too fast and his essence spread through her veins like boiling lead. Oh boy, this was bad….

 

Shield, damn' it girl, shield!!

 

My place, my ground, MINE! Get out!

 

For a brief moment, which seemed like an eternity, she struggled to regain and hold her ground. Then, slowly, the push of the feelings around her receded to a comfortable distance. It had been only her experience and the fact that her opponent wasn't able to make a conscious effort to harm her which saved her.

 

She had tangled with insanity before. Minor cases of schizophrenia and psychosis. Eating disorders. Post-traumatic-stress-syndrome. Panic-attacks. An undiagnosed telepath or two. But never, ever anything of this magnitude. She remembered witnessing a major multiple car-crash while they had been on the road. Bleeding and screaming and dying people all over the place. It hadn't been even remotely as bad as what she was seeing and feeling now. Shit.

 

Maybe if she started patching some of these memories and feelings together, then she could build a sanctuary. From there, she could pull in the core personality and aid it to rebuild and reorganize itself. Of course, this would only work if the core personality could be convinced to cooperate….if it couldn't…she'd have to come up with a plan B in a hurry. She fervently hoped that she wouldn't have to rely on a Plan B.

 

Insanity can be such a bitch….

 

The fundamental cause for insanity was usually the same. Human minds and souls were basically autopoietic and self-referential systems. This meant that they built and organized themselves and that they did so based on principles they themselves had created.

Oh, the environment could always feed the mind and the soul with outside stimuli and information. However, how those stimuli and the information were structured and connected was up to the core being alone.

 

She always liked to compare this to a game of Tetris. The game, which symbolized Life and the people around you, kept dropping you cubes and shapes. The cubes and shapes were problems to be solved and other input. How you stacked those cubes was up to you. If you kept stacking the cubes in a smooth formation, they would disappear and all would be well.

 

Now, if you weren't skilled enough at stacking, or if there were too many cubes at once, then you couldn't keep up with the game. You lost control, and the cubes would keep piling up until they smothered you. You'd loose the game, and your sanity right with it.

 

The good thing was, that as long as you were alive, there was always the option of going back and stacking the cubes again. As long as you were alive, you could still win.

 

Yes, getting the core personality to restructure from the ground up might just work once I have a sanctuary to start from.

 

Well, lets see whom I am dealing with here….

 

Huh. An Irishman. Well, what do you know. He certainly is crazy and I can vouch for his temper. That damn cut hurts!

Cursed stereotypes, proving themselves to be right at the most inopportune moments….

 

He'd grown up in one of the big cities that dotted the surface of the emerald isle. His environment had been drab, poor and grey for the most part, save for a few cherished trips to the country-side. His parents had been modest, simple people and devout catholics. Working class.

 

His mother had been warm and loving, but weak-willed, and she had deferred to her husband (and to whatever the church decreed) in all things.

 

There had also been a close friend of the family. A nun. Friendly and well-meaning, but also ineffective and weak.

 

They say that the way to hell is paved with good intentions….And here we have the perfect example. Gods, you should smack people that teach children such rubbish:

 

“Be a good boy, and nice things will come your way. If you are always good, God will love you and you will be happy and go to heaven. Wicked people have to suffer the fires of hell and are punished….”.

 

Fuck. The poor mite. The nun had been nice to him and he liked her and he was much to young to take anything she said with a pinch of salt. He believed every word she said and tried to live by it with every ounce of his being.

 

Most other kids would have been to busy playing and coming up with mischief to really make an effort to follow the rules society imposed on them at such an early age…Now why was he different in that respect?

 

The father. The father had been strict and distant. Whenever he had turned his attention on the boy, a faint trace of disapproval permeated everything.

 

What an awful thing to do to an innocent kid. I wonder where that disapproval came from…

 

The boy had tried to win his fathers' love. He thought that if he did everything just right, if he was a good boy….then maybe one day, his father would love him, or at least accept him.

 

So the boy had tried to fulfil his parents expectations, always doing what he was told, achieving good grades at school, helping in the house where he could and never getting into trouble.

 

By contrast, his friends were wild little ruffians, clamouring through the street, playing pranks, getting themselves all dirty and nicking apples from the backyards…and nevertheless, they were their parents' most cherished treasure.

 

Oh great…..

 

She groaned as she unearthed another fact about the white-haired maniac, who, in the real world, was still crouching above her, knife in hand.

 

He has a touch of telepathy…and empathy.

 

Hell and Damnation…..

 

To be so deprived of affection and respect by one who mattered so much to him….to be so hungry for a smile, for a pat on the shoulder, for a simple “Well done, son.”

 

…and then to have the thought and the feeling that there's something wrong with him, something unpleasant, virtually shoved down his throat….no wonder the kid was on the edge….

 

But what pushed him over? And what pushed him over so far as to achieve this kind of living, festering nightmare?

 

The next few memories brought no answers. However, like the three kings on Christmas, they brought precious gifts. Loving memories of good times and happiness. A feeling of joy. A sense of being safe and at peace. Everything she would need in order to create a Sanctuary.

 

It started with a small, bright chip that made her catch her breath. An opening. A childhood memory. The young, pale-haired boy playing and laughing with an even younger but equally pale-haired girl on a meadow.

 

So much happiness and contentment….

 

She smiled. Most of the fragments involving the small girl were useable. There was a lot of love there. Fierce and protective. And his memories….

 

Their parents went to work very early and arrived back home late in the evening, so she had become his responsibility. A responsibility he had taken very seriously.

 

He had been the one to comfort her when she had skinned her knee for the first time. In the mornings, he made her breakfast. In the evenings, it was him who read her bedtime-stories. He watched over her as she drifted into sleep and her hair had been as soft as downy feathers….he used to stroke it while she fell asleep.

 

Her smile had been as sweet and warm as fresh milk. It had made him feel so warm inside.

 

Her first word had been “Deartháir”….”brother”…..and he had wanted to be there for her, always.

 

Her name had been Breanna.

 

Time to bring the Berserker into the Sanctuary she had built.