Well, here's my first GW fic. I'm actually up to part 15, but I'll post one chapter every day or so until I'm caught up. Reviews would be greatly appreciated!
Once again, this fic deals with very mature and possibly disturbing themes. Please DO NOT READ if you can't handle it.
Author: Amanda 02
Title: Scar Tissue
Warnings: lots of angst, depression, dark, disturbing, self-injury, blood,
language, slight shounen ai, kind've AU (This starts six months after the TV
series ended. Endless Waltz doesn't happen.)
Pairings: 3+4/4+3, maybe a hint of 1+2?
Disclaimer: If I owned GW, I'd be a much happier person, but I'm not, so
obviously I don't own them. *sob* Suing is pointless, as I have little to no money! (And I'd much rather spend it on more anime anyway.)
/blah/ = emphasis or thoughts.
Chapter 1
My scars itch.
Okay, so they're not exactly scars. They're at that awkward in-between stage. No longer new wounds, but not completely healed, either. My head knows that the itching means they're healing, that the skin so violently sliced open is trying to knit itself back together. But it's driving me crazy, and I want to rip the bandage off my arm and scratch until it bleeds again.
I can't help but chuckle at that. "Driving" me crazy? I've been crazy for a long time. Sometimes I wonder if I was ever sane, though I guess I must have been, at some point. No one is born crazy, are they? Well, maybe they are. Maybe I really never was sane. It would make sense. Sense. Like anything about me made sense.
Oh, the damn itching! I look down at the bandage, and it takes all my self-control to stop myself from ripping it off right then and there. Again, I have to chuckle. Aren't I a funny guy? If I had any self-control, I wouldn't have the cuts in the first place. And I wouldn't be sitting here on the floor of this ridiculously opulent bathroom in one of Quatre's many estates, about to do it again.
Yeah, do it again. That's right. I'm in this itchy predicament because I sliced my arm open myself, on purpose, with the razor blade I am once again holding in my hand. I stare at the blade, fascinated by its sharpness. I study every facet of the edge, moving it back and forth to see how the overhead light glints off the stainless steel. I let out a sigh, my heart constricting in my chest. How did I ever get so fucked up?
My left hand absently rubs over the bandage on my right-upper arm, in a vain attempt to banish the itch. Underneath the gauze and adhesive are four deep slashes, maybe two inches long, and two days old. They are the result of that blade running through my skin, parting it easily and cleanly with a hiss of pain. It had been so fascinating to watch the blood well up, forming dark red beads where the blade had cut deepest. How comforting the chill that ran down my spine when I brought my lips to the cuts and licked that blood away, tasting it on my lips. My blood. My blood that I had spilled.
The cuts were deep, deep enough that they probably should have had stitches. But how to explain them to Quatre's medical officer? No, I had just bandaged them up myself, like I always did, using the first aid kit I'd found under the bathroom counter. They would scar horribly, new bright pink skin filling in the gaping slits, but I am no stranger to scars.
No, no stranger to scars. I look down from the razor blade to look at my body. I'm clad only in boxers. It's the middle of the night, after all. I should be in my room, sleeping. But instead I'm sitting on the bathroom floor, surveying the roadmap of scars that is my skin. They begin on my skinny thighs. Angry red lines that stand out boldly against the pale skin. Some long, some short, some thin lines, others wide and gaping, where the skin had been so efficiently parted that it had been unable to knit itself back together, forced instead to fill in the slit. Like the new ones on my arm. Dozens of scars, covering both thighs, disappearing up under the line of my boxer legs. Some were years old, and fairly faded, others had been there for only a few weeks.
My gaze travels upward, to my arms. Again, dozens of lines marred the pale skin. I examine each forearm, running a finger along the lines. For some reason, the scars here seem to fade faster than those on my thighs, and though most are not as old, some of the oldest are barely visible. Finally my eyes move up to where the scars are the worst. My upper arms. The left one was completely covered in long, horizontal lines. Most were thick, where the cuts had gaped from being so deep. Again I trace a finger along the lines, marveling at how sensitive they feel, even the older ones. My left upper arm is not nearly so covered, but the white bandage there was proof that that would not remain true for long.
I sigh and lean back against the cupboard, the handle digging into my back, but I don't move. I bring the blade up and look at it again. Why? Why? WHY??? The question swirls in my brain, and remains unanswered, as usual. All I know is the need I feel to see my blood flow, to taste in on my lips, to feel that hiss of pain. I bring my left arm up and gaze at the marred skin. Gently, I lay the edge of the blade against the forearm, tantalizingly close to my wrist. I press down, and feel the blade begin to sink into my flesh. I begin to draw the blade down, closing my eyes and relishing the small sparks of aching pain. The blade travels slowly, agonizingly, for maybe two inches, and then I stop. I open my eyes and look down. Blood is beading along the cut, thick and dark red. I bring my arm to my mouth and lick the wound, savouring the salty taste. I sit like that for awhile, my eyes transfixed on the cut, licking it as the precious red beads form. But all too soon they taper off and then stop altogether, leaving only the shining red slit that has begun to sting and ache.
I am about to bring the blade to my skin again when suddenly there is a knock on the bathroom door, bringing me out of my transfixed state with a start.
"Duo? Is that you in there? Are you okay? It's four in the morning!" Quatre's voice, laden with concern, travels through the door.
Shit.
TBC...
Once again, this fic deals with very mature and possibly disturbing themes. Please DO NOT READ if you can't handle it.
Author: Amanda 02
Title: Scar Tissue
Warnings: lots of angst, depression, dark, disturbing, self-injury, blood,
language, slight shounen ai, kind've AU (This starts six months after the TV
series ended. Endless Waltz doesn't happen.)
Pairings: 3+4/4+3, maybe a hint of 1+2?
Disclaimer: If I owned GW, I'd be a much happier person, but I'm not, so
obviously I don't own them. *sob* Suing is pointless, as I have little to no money! (And I'd much rather spend it on more anime anyway.)
/blah/ = emphasis or thoughts.
Chapter 1
My scars itch.
Okay, so they're not exactly scars. They're at that awkward in-between stage. No longer new wounds, but not completely healed, either. My head knows that the itching means they're healing, that the skin so violently sliced open is trying to knit itself back together. But it's driving me crazy, and I want to rip the bandage off my arm and scratch until it bleeds again.
I can't help but chuckle at that. "Driving" me crazy? I've been crazy for a long time. Sometimes I wonder if I was ever sane, though I guess I must have been, at some point. No one is born crazy, are they? Well, maybe they are. Maybe I really never was sane. It would make sense. Sense. Like anything about me made sense.
Oh, the damn itching! I look down at the bandage, and it takes all my self-control to stop myself from ripping it off right then and there. Again, I have to chuckle. Aren't I a funny guy? If I had any self-control, I wouldn't have the cuts in the first place. And I wouldn't be sitting here on the floor of this ridiculously opulent bathroom in one of Quatre's many estates, about to do it again.
Yeah, do it again. That's right. I'm in this itchy predicament because I sliced my arm open myself, on purpose, with the razor blade I am once again holding in my hand. I stare at the blade, fascinated by its sharpness. I study every facet of the edge, moving it back and forth to see how the overhead light glints off the stainless steel. I let out a sigh, my heart constricting in my chest. How did I ever get so fucked up?
My left hand absently rubs over the bandage on my right-upper arm, in a vain attempt to banish the itch. Underneath the gauze and adhesive are four deep slashes, maybe two inches long, and two days old. They are the result of that blade running through my skin, parting it easily and cleanly with a hiss of pain. It had been so fascinating to watch the blood well up, forming dark red beads where the blade had cut deepest. How comforting the chill that ran down my spine when I brought my lips to the cuts and licked that blood away, tasting it on my lips. My blood. My blood that I had spilled.
The cuts were deep, deep enough that they probably should have had stitches. But how to explain them to Quatre's medical officer? No, I had just bandaged them up myself, like I always did, using the first aid kit I'd found under the bathroom counter. They would scar horribly, new bright pink skin filling in the gaping slits, but I am no stranger to scars.
No, no stranger to scars. I look down from the razor blade to look at my body. I'm clad only in boxers. It's the middle of the night, after all. I should be in my room, sleeping. But instead I'm sitting on the bathroom floor, surveying the roadmap of scars that is my skin. They begin on my skinny thighs. Angry red lines that stand out boldly against the pale skin. Some long, some short, some thin lines, others wide and gaping, where the skin had been so efficiently parted that it had been unable to knit itself back together, forced instead to fill in the slit. Like the new ones on my arm. Dozens of scars, covering both thighs, disappearing up under the line of my boxer legs. Some were years old, and fairly faded, others had been there for only a few weeks.
My gaze travels upward, to my arms. Again, dozens of lines marred the pale skin. I examine each forearm, running a finger along the lines. For some reason, the scars here seem to fade faster than those on my thighs, and though most are not as old, some of the oldest are barely visible. Finally my eyes move up to where the scars are the worst. My upper arms. The left one was completely covered in long, horizontal lines. Most were thick, where the cuts had gaped from being so deep. Again I trace a finger along the lines, marveling at how sensitive they feel, even the older ones. My left upper arm is not nearly so covered, but the white bandage there was proof that that would not remain true for long.
I sigh and lean back against the cupboard, the handle digging into my back, but I don't move. I bring the blade up and look at it again. Why? Why? WHY??? The question swirls in my brain, and remains unanswered, as usual. All I know is the need I feel to see my blood flow, to taste in on my lips, to feel that hiss of pain. I bring my left arm up and gaze at the marred skin. Gently, I lay the edge of the blade against the forearm, tantalizingly close to my wrist. I press down, and feel the blade begin to sink into my flesh. I begin to draw the blade down, closing my eyes and relishing the small sparks of aching pain. The blade travels slowly, agonizingly, for maybe two inches, and then I stop. I open my eyes and look down. Blood is beading along the cut, thick and dark red. I bring my arm to my mouth and lick the wound, savouring the salty taste. I sit like that for awhile, my eyes transfixed on the cut, licking it as the precious red beads form. But all too soon they taper off and then stop altogether, leaving only the shining red slit that has begun to sting and ache.
I am about to bring the blade to my skin again when suddenly there is a knock on the bathroom door, bringing me out of my transfixed state with a start.
"Duo? Is that you in there? Are you okay? It's four in the morning!" Quatre's voice, laden with concern, travels through the door.
Shit.
TBC...