A/N: So I was meant to update A Fallen God. I really did mean to. But one thing led to another…and, well, this appeared. I had to write it – I was in the perfect mood to start it. I will get straight back to AFG after this, but for now enjoy. If you like angst and the likes of course. xD If you can't stand Rumishipping in any way, shape or form then I suggest you turn back now. Although I'm a complete Rocketshipper I had to try my hand at this. xD Another warning in advance: this fic prolly teeters in the territory of being horribly OOC, but it had to be done this way. I'm sorry if this annoys you. :( With thanks to oovwee for beta-ing this! :D

Warning: This fic contains bad language, pretty graphic description of injury, and themes such as child abuse/abuse in general. Also, it has a little bit of Rumishipping, like I mentioned before. Character death, too. If you do not like those sorts of things, then turn away now. I don't want flaming; I already know how sick this is, okay? I don't care. I wrote it because I was in a particularly depressed mood. Yes, I'm messed up. The end.

Disclaimer: I don't own Pokémon. If I did, I'd have my own twisted way and it wouldn't be a kiddie's show anymore. xD

Twisted

Each day they got up and battled. They had no choice.

Each day they lost. They were hated; the world was against them.

Each day he would cry silently over his quickly dissipating innocence, but would swiftly cease to remember once he joined body and soul with the woman he loved more than anything.

They were misfits, seen as lesser mortals. But they had each other.

Until the day Hell tore them apart.

Chained. Bound by the wrists. Hanging limply. Defeated. The boy kept his eyes trained to the floor, his long hair falling into his face. Tears left a hot, sticky trail behind them; a whimper escaped his frantically wobbling lips, ripping his parched throat in two.

No one heard him.

Blood poured from his mouth, smothering his teeth in a metallic coating; he spat the overflow out weakly, letting it dribble down his chin. Deliberate incisions adorned his small, unclothed body, carved in with an almost loving viciousness. He could barely keep his puffy eyes open; they were merely slits of glassy emeralds: haunted, dead, unseeing.

How long he had hung there, lifelessly, he did not know. They had told him that if he refused to learn things – simple things, like holding a knife correctly – then they would have to "teach" him their way, until the lesson "sank in" for the rest of his life. That way, they had explained gently, he would not forget.

He could not forget.

Does every boy my age learn this way? the five-year-old wondered dismally, feeling several more tears welling up in his beautiful eyes. Did every other mansion like his herald a darker secret? Did everywhere else hide a torture chamber in its heart, where naughty little boys were punished?

Hurt?

Destroyed?

He watched the stillness of the unmoving Growlithe – his precious baby Growlithe – with a horrified fascination that pierced his innocent and trusting soul. Its stomach was wrenched open, its guts spilling out onto the cold concrete floor, marking its presence with the price of its own blood. Its own life. It had tried to defend him, tried so hard, but it was still young, a pup with no experience. It had protected its little master's honour for only a few minutes before it was overpowered; its life cut tragically short by the unforgiving blade of the malicious knife.

The boy's life ended soon after.

His wrists were wet; blood gushed from the careless slashes caused by the manacles. He let out another sob, squeezing his eyes shut tight even though it hurt him to do so. The tears that the poor boy did not want to shed came hard and fast; he cried openly for his misfortune and the loss of his faithful pet.

He was young, but already his juvenile, maimed heart cried out for freedom, ached for the release of his soul to the angels who watched over him.

The door at the top of the winding staircase creaked open. Light spilled down, chasing away the shadowy devil which haunted the boy, illuminating his face in an ethereal glow. Instinctively he kept his eyes closed, fearful of damaging them. He had not seen the sun in so long…

It was the heavenly aroma of food that alerted his indifferent senses, and he sniffed the damp air hopefully. Perhaps they would see fit to feed him now…

Soft footsteps, and his mother appeared at the bottom of the stairs holding a candle aloft, squinting to adjust to the dark. The sight of her son dangling there motionlessly did not affect her in the slightest; she placed the burning candle and the tray of food onto the blood-soaked floor and cautiously picked her way over to him, where she lovingly raised his scabbed chin so she could look into his sightless eyes.

"I'm heah now, dahlin'," she said quietly, her hazel eyes drinking in his warped appearance with sick satisfaction. "Have yuh learnt yuh lesson yet?"

The boy could only nod mutely, too weak to do anything else. Obedience was the only key to survival. He kept all of his feelings locked away inside him, where they could not be found.

This was the only sanity he had.

His mother smiled a cold, calculated smile of achievement.

His will was broken.

They were triumphant.

"Good boy," she said, tenderly wiping the sweat and blood from his disfigured face. "Ah knew yuh'd come round eventually. Ah've brought her along tuh see yuh. Ah hope you don't mahnd too much, deah."

Another silent nod; the woman gestured to something hidden from view. The figure stepped forward daintily. Her sapphire eyes drank in the sight of the hurt boy with hardly a flicker of any emotion. She held a whip in her small hands, running her fingers down it affectionately. She could be no older than he was, but already she had been brainwashed.

She was one of them now.

The boy raised his dull eyes to politely acknowledge her presence; she gave him a sickly sweet smile in return, her long red curls bouncing as she did so.

"This is Jessibelle, deah," his mother hastened to explain, running a tender hand through his dirty lavender hair, disdainfully rubbing away a patch of congealed blood. "She's agreed tuh be yuh wahfe in the future. Isn't that nahce, honey?"

A third nod and her son modestly lowered his gaze, a slight blush marring his cheeks. The woman glanced across at the child beside her.

She was ready.

"Yuh don't mahnd if lil' Jessibelle here practices bein' yuh wahfe, do yuh?" she asked him, feeling somewhat annoyed when he did not look at her while she spoke.

His head ached drearily. His blood was now mingling with the Growlithe's. Why couldn't his life end here – with freezing blood pumping empty air to his still heart? He did not want to live, did not want his parents to continue punishing him. Was it truly his fault that he couldn't remember which fork to use at the dinner table, or if he played the wrong note on the piano? Were these punishments just? Deserved?

He did not answer; a spark of insolence shot through his injured body.

Sensing the change in his aura, his mother said, "if yuh let her, Ah'll see that yuh father replaces yuh Growlithe. Would yuh lahke that?"

At once the boy's resolve faded as he grinned brightly, his once pearly white teeth stained red from his gums. His voice was hoarse when he spoke; he craved, begged, for water.

He was given none.

"Alright, Mother. Can Ah have the one Ah saw before, please?"

"Of course," she said briskly, already turning away, leaving her son in his prison. To the young girl she added, "he's all yuh's, honey. Yuh can feed him once yuh done."

"Thank you, ma'am," she answered, nodding humbly. She smiled, cat-like, at the boy, who recoiled in fear at the sight of the whip as it was drawn towards him.

He was truly defeated.

At the top of the stairs the mother paused, her hands resting on the metal knob. The horrified screams of her son rang around, the crack of the horsewhip smashing again and again and again against his delicate skin.

Ripping.

Tearing.

Destroying.

She closed her eyes for a moment. Listened to the agonised shrieks, the incoherent begs for mercy. Pushed the door open. Banished any thoughts of him from her mind.

Far below, the demon of a child wielding the whip stopped her attacks for a moment to give the boy a disapproving look.

"It's not propah to slump lahke that," she said, cracking the whip once more against his unprotected flesh. He screamed. Screamed…

Screaming, James Morgan awoke, sweat diluting the blood which engulfed his entire being like a curse.

He was chained. Bound by the wrists. Hanging limply. Defeated.

Swearing loudly, he attempted to pull himself free from the wall. His wrist snapped loudly, echoing with his screams of pain.

Alone.

His sobs ceased for a moment as he looked around his filthy surroundings. In almost the same spot lay his second Growlithe. His Growly.

The same. Everything was the same. The same method of killing; its stomach wrenched open, its guts splashing freely over the floor, its eyes staring but not seeing. The same reason for its death: it had tried to protect him. Protect him from the sadistic parents who had mentally scarred him for eternity.

It had suffered the same fate as its predecessor.

This, however, was not the cause of the heartbroken moan which tore from his throat.

She was slumped against the wall, blood trickling steadily from a gouge on her head. Her eyes were closed, her pale skin bruised and battered, punctured at various stages along her neck.

The cat – his loyal companion, his bemused confidante – was limply beside her, his ears drooping, his little limbs twisted at lopsided angles.

Dead.

Terror contaminated his being, choking out all sense of reason. He began to yank the chains on his wrists urgently, desperate to reach the woman, his lover. Nothing happened: he was still bound to the wall, his blood a steady river that slid with ease from his body, sweat and blood plastered his long hair to his face.

What have those bastards done?

He forced his breathing to settle, ordered himself to think rationally, a sinking feeling of inevitable doom corroding his stomach away like acid.

They didn't intend to let him escape alive, not this time. The slaughter of his innocent friends was proof of that.

Their deaths were his warning.

Panic threatened to overwhelm him once more. He could not stay here! There was no way he'd let them destroy him like they had his friends. He was in no doubt: they had died saving him. Each of them: Growly, Meowth, Jessie…

Now he stood alone.

Far above, the distant creak of the door. At once his body was tense.

This time he was ready.

Light spilled down, snapping at the heels of the shadows as they hid, illuminating his face eerily. Despite this, he kept his eyes wide open, waiting for his visitor. How long had he been down there? An hour? Two? Days?

It was the imperceptible, elegant footfalls that gave her away – he would recognise that sound anywhere.

Fucking whore.

Jessibelle, the bitch he despised more than anything, lingered only for a moment before entering the prison, adjusting her expression to one of false sympathy.

"How are yuh, mah deah?"

He glared with contempt, defiantly keeping his mouth clamped tightly shut, biting his tongue hard in order to prevent himself from throwing obscenities at her which she would punish him for.

She clucked. "It's not polahte tuh ignore a question, James deah."

He could not contain himself: "Go to Hell." His voice sounded awful; harsh and cracked.

Almost as soon as he'd finished his sentence the whip slashed through the air in a well practised motion, hitting its target cleanly. He gave a howl of pain as it made contact, his naked body numbing as she repeatedly smashed it against him.

"Would yuh lahke to repeat that?" she said in a dangerously sweet voice as he hung limply, head bowed.

The last strand of fight in his severed will snapped.

He had nothing left to give.

All he wished for now was to be embraced by the Other Place, where his Jessie – his fiery, feisty Jessie whom he had loved for oh so long – would be waiting to quell his fears with arms open wide.

Just like it always had been.

He waited for the blow which would seal his fate.

It did not come.

Jessibelle's eyes softened as she skimmed his body.

Her ways were twisted. She was twisted.

And therefore, her love (for that was what she felt for the unruly young man before her, no matter what anyone said) had to be twisted too.

Yes, she loved him. The only way she could show it was through hurting him.

He knew that she was still there, could hear her soft breathing. He kept his eyes closed, the image of Jessie fresh in his mind, protecting him from harm. He clung onto it as though it was his beacon in a storm.

It was all he had left.

Slowly, cautiously, Jessibelle held out a hand, resting it faintly on his caved-in cheek. He glared ferociously at her, but could not pull away.

Or perhaps it was would not.

He hated her. Hated her more than anything. But the chains that kept him bound to the wall kept him bound to her, too. And she was a part of him. Deep down in some dark crevice of his disturbed mind, he knew he would never break free.

Perhaps that was why he'd loved Jessie so much; she had reminded him of something terrible, yet at the same time, something soothingly familiar.

"Are yuh calmin' down now?" she spoke quietly and comfortingly, her fingers lingering on his pale, sweaty skin. His eyes were overly-bright, his breathing even now. He had the oddly trusting air of a Togepi, which he conveyed through those beautiful gems.

She wasn't the only woman who had fallen for them.

"Look," she said softly. "Ah have tuh go now. Yuh mother and father need tuh see me – there are arrangements for the weddin' tuh make. Ah'll be back later tuh feed yuh."

With a quick glance behind, as though fearing someone was about to walk in, she bent in and pressed her lips to his split ones.

It wasn't like the many he'd shared with Jessie: deep and passionate, fiery and dangerous, the kind that had always left the two of them stealing illicit hours wherever they were while the cat covered their tracks. It did nothing to stir his tortured heart.

But it held meaning.

Love.

A distance above them was the sound of a slamming door. At once Jessibelle pulled away and turned her back on her broken fiancé.

"The weddin' is scheduled for Monday," she said, without looking back. "Ah'm in no doubt that yuh will marry me, James."

She took the candle with her, plunging him into complete darkness.

The inner spark of life spluttered and died, too.

His path was clear now; unwittingly, Jessibelle had shown him the way with that kiss.

On Monday he would marry her. He would have to indulge in a night of passion with her but, ultimately, they would set him free.

Well, they'd set his body free.

He would take action and release his soul.

Somehow, the notion of death did not scare him.

He could not live with his parents.

He could not live at all without Jessie.

He would find her, and they would live peacefully wherever they went after death. His parents would be left cursing; their twisted little ploy would fail.

For now though, he hung there, bleeding profusely, his wrecked limbs throbbing maliciously, reminding him that he still lived.

In a week he would grasp some sharp object and drag it across his tender veins, would watch the blood stain the new cream carpet.

And he would laugh.

All three of them, in their own twisted ways, thought they had defeated him by eradicating his spirit.

They were wrong.

Stupid.

Shallow-minded.

James Morgan, the weak child they had twisted all those years ago, who had clung desperately to Jessie because she had reminded him of her, of a time that was both wonderful and terrible at the same time, would be the victor.

Triumphant.

Triumphant.

A/N: So, there you have it. Personally, I don't think it was really Rumishippy, although I did have a go at it. :D; And I meant to repeat parts; it was intended. :D And there were meant to be questions left unanswered. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it. Critical criticism welcome.