[fic] Brutality
Julia was beautiful. He couldn’t deny it, even if he wanted to.
Equipped with a brilliant smile and a wicked sense of humor, Eli had never been able to believe she’d chosen him, despite his black nail polish and reputation as a freak. She was the manic pixie dream girl trope come to life, flighty and irresistible, and he was the local leper, smart-mouthed and too caustic for his own good.
Most girls avoided him like the plague. They were convinced he was preoccupied with death; that one day, he’d go on a killing spree or cut his own wrists or have some kind of psychotic break. Even the smattering of friends he’d managed to seduce through grudging respect of his bravado, wit, and quirky self-confidence regarded him as some kind of sociopath.
Julia, though, she thought it was cool that he made a lot of noise, just so he wouldn’t fade into the background. She liked that he refused to stand down, that he wouldn’t be oppressed by what she called normative social influence.
Eli wasn’t sure about all that, but he wasn’t going to argue when she made him sound like a young, rebellious god, like this deity of discord and anarchy. Like he was way cooler than some weird loner kid.
He’d fallen for her the first time he saw her, like a scene out of a comic book.
And that was the problem. The love they shared was two parts graphic novel fantasy, one part reality.
She always flaked out on their dates. To save stray kittens from starvation, to organize rallies against cheerleader cruelty, or to watch the newest, wickedest underground bands. That’s what they argued about, the day she died. He was jealous. He thought she wasn’t taking their relationship seriously.
Afterwards, he’d realized with the kind of clarity that came with being totally numb that she had taken them seriously. As much as she knew how.
She’d only been fifteen. It wasn’t fair.
Clare was Julia’s polar opposite. Good. Selfless. God-fearing. Sweet. Not Eli’s type at all.
But for some reason, she was captivating. Maybe it was narcissism- she was everything he’d never been, even as a too-serious child. Innocent.
He wanted to taint her, to kiss her until her lips were bruised red, until she looked fucked open, ruined. Until she was completely, utterly his.
And he wanted to protect her.
Call it chivalry or sexism, he didn’t fucking care. As long as she was always, always safe.
The way Julia wasn’t. Rotting, worm-meat; evidence that his ‘preoccupation with death’ had solidified into horrifying reality.
Eli wouldn’t let that happen to Clare. Not ever.
When she agreed to go to the dance with Fitz, he maybe, possibly snapped. That asshole was going to touch her, defile her.
Eli was a firm believer in an eye-for-an-eye, even if the whole fucking world went blind. It was only natural that he had trouble- admitting when he’d gone too far.
Pride had been his deadliest sin for a long time. He was sarcastic, calculating, a bastard. But that thing with the punch and Fitz, yeah. He could admit that had been a mistake. Not because he felt bad about seeing the big bully puke his guts all over the polished gym floor, but because he’d known. Clare didn’t trust him to be the bigger man, so he hadn’t even tried. He played into her expectations, manipulated her into taking part in his plan. He wasn’t sure if she was more pissed over his taking the low road, or over him taking advantage of her like that. He wasn’t sure if she’d even noticed the latter, but man, the girl was smart. She’d figure it out. And he regretted it, like crazy.
Which didn’t make finding the words to apologize any easier. He was in the hallway, music blaring in his ears, trying his damndest to think of a way to say sorry that wouldn’t sound pathetic or annihilate his chances with the only girl who’d managed to seem worth it since Julia when- well, she appeared. Dressed all in white, like the angels she had so much faith in.
Eli wouldn’t, couldn’t stand down. It was something Julia loved about him. It was something Clare despised.
It was something he only rethought when he saw the silver edge of the knife, painted in moonlight and shadows and so incredibly out of place in the halls of Degrassi.
The girls at his old school had it wrong. Eli had never given death much thought- until the night Julia disappeared from his life. Dressing in black, driving a hearse; it was all a way to stand out in a sea of pastels and neon colors. After the accident, though, it had been the only thing on his mind.
And he wasn’t scared; not of dying. Maybe he even deserved it.
What frightened the hell out of him was Clare. He’d made an oath to protect her, to keep her safe from harm. Sure, he managed to get her out of Fitz’s line of fire, but if she saw him die, she’d be devastated. Psychologically broken.
There was nothing he could do to stop it. No honeyed words, no act of contrition would be good enough. Clare was going to watch him bleed out on the fucking floor, and Eli was helpless.
He couldn’t even make her close her eyes.
Eli had no fear of dying.
Giving the girl he liked PTSD was an entirely different kind of terrifying. When he’d imagined wrecking her, it had involved sheets and scented candles, not spilled intestines and last words.
He couldn’t look away from Fitz, like staring down a rabid animal. Clare was breathing hard, panting, near crying only a few feet away.
Eli would beg, plead, he would do anything to save her from seeing this.
When the knife impacted, his body jerked like it had been sliced clean through.
Seeing it there, shining in the wall, was something like redemption.
Maybe it wasn’t just about keeping Clare pure. He was happy- no, ecstatic to be alive, whole. Because Julia was beautiful, but she was dead, and if this had taught him anything, it was that she was wrong.
Sometimes, Eli needed to learn to back the fuck down.
And he swore, from now on, if it was for Clare, he would.
---
Equipped with a brilliant smile and a wicked sense of humor, Eli had never been able to believe she’d chosen him, despite his black nail polish and reputation as a freak. She was the manic pixie dream girl trope come to life, flighty and irresistible, and he was the local leper, smart-mouthed and too caustic for his own good.
Most girls avoided him like the plague. They were convinced he was preoccupied with death; that one day, he’d go on a killing spree or cut his own wrists or have some kind of psychotic break. Even the smattering of friends he’d managed to seduce through grudging respect of his bravado, wit, and quirky self-confidence regarded him as some kind of sociopath.
Julia, though, she thought it was cool that he made a lot of noise, just so he wouldn’t fade into the background. She liked that he refused to stand down, that he wouldn’t be oppressed by what she called normative social influence.
Eli wasn’t sure about all that, but he wasn’t going to argue when she made him sound like a young, rebellious god, like this deity of discord and anarchy. Like he was way cooler than some weird loner kid.
He’d fallen for her the first time he saw her, like a scene out of a comic book.
And that was the problem. The love they shared was two parts graphic novel fantasy, one part reality.
She always flaked out on their dates. To save stray kittens from starvation, to organize rallies against cheerleader cruelty, or to watch the newest, wickedest underground bands. That’s what they argued about, the day she died. He was jealous. He thought she wasn’t taking their relationship seriously.
Afterwards, he’d realized with the kind of clarity that came with being totally numb that she had taken them seriously. As much as she knew how.
She’d only been fifteen. It wasn’t fair.
Clare was Julia’s polar opposite. Good. Selfless. God-fearing. Sweet. Not Eli’s type at all.
But for some reason, she was captivating. Maybe it was narcissism- she was everything he’d never been, even as a too-serious child. Innocent.
He wanted to taint her, to kiss her until her lips were bruised red, until she looked fucked open, ruined. Until she was completely, utterly his.
And he wanted to protect her.
Call it chivalry or sexism, he didn’t fucking care. As long as she was always, always safe.
The way Julia wasn’t. Rotting, worm-meat; evidence that his ‘preoccupation with death’ had solidified into horrifying reality.
Eli wouldn’t let that happen to Clare. Not ever.
When she agreed to go to the dance with Fitz, he maybe, possibly snapped. That asshole was going to touch her, defile her.
Eli was a firm believer in an eye-for-an-eye, even if the whole fucking world went blind. It was only natural that he had trouble- admitting when he’d gone too far.
Pride had been his deadliest sin for a long time. He was sarcastic, calculating, a bastard. But that thing with the punch and Fitz, yeah. He could admit that had been a mistake. Not because he felt bad about seeing the big bully puke his guts all over the polished gym floor, but because he’d known. Clare didn’t trust him to be the bigger man, so he hadn’t even tried. He played into her expectations, manipulated her into taking part in his plan. He wasn’t sure if she was more pissed over his taking the low road, or over him taking advantage of her like that. He wasn’t sure if she’d even noticed the latter, but man, the girl was smart. She’d figure it out. And he regretted it, like crazy.
Which didn’t make finding the words to apologize any easier. He was in the hallway, music blaring in his ears, trying his damndest to think of a way to say sorry that wouldn’t sound pathetic or annihilate his chances with the only girl who’d managed to seem worth it since Julia when- well, she appeared. Dressed all in white, like the angels she had so much faith in.
Eli wouldn’t, couldn’t stand down. It was something Julia loved about him. It was something Clare despised.
It was something he only rethought when he saw the silver edge of the knife, painted in moonlight and shadows and so incredibly out of place in the halls of Degrassi.
The girls at his old school had it wrong. Eli had never given death much thought- until the night Julia disappeared from his life. Dressing in black, driving a hearse; it was all a way to stand out in a sea of pastels and neon colors. After the accident, though, it had been the only thing on his mind.
And he wasn’t scared; not of dying. Maybe he even deserved it.
What frightened the hell out of him was Clare. He’d made an oath to protect her, to keep her safe from harm. Sure, he managed to get her out of Fitz’s line of fire, but if she saw him die, she’d be devastated. Psychologically broken.
There was nothing he could do to stop it. No honeyed words, no act of contrition would be good enough. Clare was going to watch him bleed out on the fucking floor, and Eli was helpless.
He couldn’t even make her close her eyes.
Eli had no fear of dying.
Giving the girl he liked PTSD was an entirely different kind of terrifying. When he’d imagined wrecking her, it had involved sheets and scented candles, not spilled intestines and last words.
He couldn’t look away from Fitz, like staring down a rabid animal. Clare was breathing hard, panting, near crying only a few feet away.
Eli would beg, plead, he would do anything to save her from seeing this.
When the knife impacted, his body jerked like it had been sliced clean through.
Seeing it there, shining in the wall, was something like redemption.
Maybe it wasn’t just about keeping Clare pure. He was happy- no, ecstatic to be alive, whole. Because Julia was beautiful, but she was dead, and if this had taught him anything, it was that she was wrong.
Sometimes, Eli needed to learn to back the fuck down.
And he swore, from now on, if it was for Clare, he would.
---