[ORIGINAL] Drabbles of "Elle" (part 3)
Title: Drabbles of "Elle"
Part: Three
Characters: Elle; Twitch
Warnings: Disturbing content, blood... y'know.
Drabbles of “Elle”
Part Three
He used to be known as the boy named “Elle.”
Or, that’s what they called him, anyway. “Elle,” with two “E’s,” and two “L’s,” and four letters. It was his name, they said.
Sometimes people would get it mixed up with a girl’s name. “Ellie,” they would call him. “Ellie,” with two “E’s” and two “L’s” and one “I” and five letters and that was a girl’s name. But they didn’t care; they called him that anyway. Said it was because he looked so much like a girl, with his slim hips and his blond hair and his soft cheeks.
He hated it.
He didn’t know why he was given this name, or why other people would use it, or why he should like it so much. He didn’t know why they could not choose their own names, why they had to use the name that they were given, the name given to them y everyone else, he didn’t know why-why-why.
That was what he wanted to know. He knew the “how,” it was simple. They gave it to him. He had to accept it, there was no other choice. He knew the “what.” It was the name that they gave him, be it “Elle” or “Ellie.” It didn’t matter because he hated them both. He knew the “when,” even. It had been almost fifteen years ago, from what he could remember. He was a small boy, a small puppet-doll-puppet-person-boy-man-child-thing.
His first memory was: “You are Elle.”
His first words were, “Yes Master. I am Elle.”
He hated it.
His first murder had been days-months-weeks-hours-minutes-seconds-years later. He had not known the truth. Who he was, where he was. Why, why, why? It was something that they had taught him. Live, kill, hurt, pain, survive. Protect what you will. Quiet, quiet. Sneak up on him in his sleep, meal, rest, when he was hurt, starved, in pain, unaware. Pull it out. Quietly, quietly. Shing! but don’t make a noise, now. Don’t let anyone know.
When you pull it out for the last time, don’t let the blood spill on the floor. That beautiful, expensive, rug-wood-stone floor. Don’t waste the blood, now. Don’t spill it, don’t leave anything behind, make sure that you disappear completely. Quickly, quickly.
If there was a guard, kill him. If there is a son, debase him, murder him. If there is a daughter, mother, wife, mistress: rape her, kill her, maim her. Make her suffer. Do not let her survive.
Less than ten years old and he had committed the largest crime of the time. He had slaughtered them all, with the ease and precision that Master and Mistress and everyone-who-had-taught-me had drilled into him until it was instinct.
Less than ten years old and he had been bathed in blood and had been laughing and crying and screaming and smiling.
Less than ten years old and he had developed a twitch in his eye and in his lip, making it go “tick tick,” and gave away things, desires, urges.
He changed his name and told everyone he met that he was called, “Twitch.”
The next day he was “Elle.” He was Elle and looking for his Master, Mistress, family, loved ones. For everyone-who-had-taught-me.
He was Elle and looking for answers that only Twitch had. He was Elle and being called names tha the had never heard before. Who was “Twitch”? Why do I not remember? Who, what, where? How? And always, always, “why.”
The only question that neither Twitch or Elle knew the answer, that they could never find an answer for, no matter how long they looked, was “Why.”
The ever present, ever looming, “Why.”
-- End Three --